dippindaz

[dippindaz]

Hiiii, I love your hc, could you do some Eddie x reader where Wayne (Eddie’s uncle) meets the reader for the first time???

Thank you!! I had a bit of a challenge with this one, but I hope you enjoy, Anon! :)

Warnings: Lots of nerves and awkwardness, Wayne is a tad abrasive,

The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you followed Eddie up the path to the trailer, your heart hammering louder than the sound of your steps. You could see the flicker of a TV through the curtained window, and your grip on the Tupperware of cookies was starting to leave little indents in the plastic.

“You okay?” Eddie asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

He stopped walking.

You didn’t, not in time—nearly bumped into his back. He turned and looked at you with a crooked smile and that look—the one that said he knew you way too well to buy the act.

“You’re freaking out,” he said softly.

“I mean, a little, yeah,” you admitted, exhaling hard. “I just—what if he hates me?”

Eddie blinked. “Wayne? Hate you? Babe, you’d have to, like… kick over his coffee or insult Merle Haggard to make that happen.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“He’s a man of simple rules.”

You gave him a flat look, and he softened immediately. His teasing grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He reached for your free hand, threading his fingers through yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice dipping low in that way that made your stomach flip, “He's gonna like you. You’re smart, you’re sweet, you’re way too good for me—and you bake cookies. That’s like four out of five .”

“What’s the fifth?”

Eddie smirked. “Tolerating my shit.”

"So, I'm five for five," You laughed, and even though the nerves were still curling in your gut, it helped. He helped. Eddie always made things feel lighter. Tolerable.

“I just… I want him to think I’m good enough,” you mumbled after a beat.

Eddie tugged your hand until you were a little closer, resting your forehead against his. “You already are,” he said quietly.

For a moment, you stayed like that. His hand in yours, foreheads resting against each other, and his arm around your waist. The world felt quieter like this—like the cicadas had lowered their volume just for you, like even the looming front door didn’t matter as much.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of your hand, grounding you, and you let your eyes flutter shut, focusing only on the warm press of his body against yours and the way his breath ghosted over your cheek.

“C’mon. Let’s go face the beast.” He said, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You mean your very tired, overworked, probably-watching-M*A*S*H uncle?”

“That's the one.”

With one last breath, you nodded, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before leading you up the steps to the front door. The metal creaked under your feet, and the familiar click of the knob turning sounded louder than it should have. Eddie pushed the door open with his usual easy swagger, but you could feel the tension in the way his fingers held yours just a little tighter.

The scent of coffee, old wood, and faint cigarette smoke met you first. The living room was dimly lit by the glow of the TV in the corner, casting shifting patterns across the cluttered furniture. And there, in his usual spot in the worn recliner, sat Wayne Munson.

Wayne wasn’t exactly the easiest man to read. His face carried a permanent expression of quiet exhaustion—the kind born from long nights, loud radios, and too much coffee—but Eddie swore that was just his neutral setting.

Still, as you stepped into the small trailer, clutching a plastic Tupperware full of homemade cookies like it was a shield, you couldn’t help but feel like you were under some kind of silent interrogation.

“Wayne, this is… uh—this is her,” Eddie said, scratching at the back of his neck. His voice had that usual edge of casual bravado, but there was something a little off.

You’d heard that tone before—half-joking, half-deflecting, like he was trying to disguise nerves as charm. But it was the way his fingers twitched near his thigh, like they wanted to drum against something but didn’t, that gave him away.

You looked back at Wayne, stepping forward with a tight smile, extending the cookies like a peace offering. “Hi, Mr. Munson. I, um… I brought these. For you. If you like chocolate chip. If not, I can—"

Wayne took the Tupperware from your hands with a slow, unbothered nod. “Chocolate chip’s fine.” He looked at you, not unkindly, just measuring. “And call me Wayne. You can sit, if you want. No need to stand like you’re waitin’ for a bus.”

You moved toward the couch, but not before catching the way Eddie mouthed you’re doing great behind Wayne’s back. Your heart was still pounding, though. Meeting your boyfriend’s family—even just one person—felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded.

Wayne sat down across from you with a creak of the old recliner, popping open the cookie container without ceremony. “So,” he said, cookie halfway to his mouth, “you the one who convinced my boy here to stop sneakin' beer into his guitar case?”

Eddie choked on air. “Dude—!”

You looked between them, unsure if this was a joke or some kind of test. “I, uh… I didn’t know he did that.”

Wayne just smirked, finally taking a bite. “Well. Someone got him to clean up, at least. Hasn’t smelled like a Metallica concert in two weeks.”

Eddie ran a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Wayne—"

“Language.”

“You’re literally a war vet—!”

Wayne gave him a look, and Eddie shut his mouth like a switch had been flipped. You bit back a laugh, nerves giving way to something warm and strange in your chest.

There was a pause. Not really awkward. Just a moment of Wayne watching you, eyes a little softer now.

“He talks about you a lot,” Wayne said suddenly. “Thought he was makin’ you up at first. Like Bigfoot.”

You flushed. “Oh.”

Eddie groaned. “Uncle Wayne—"

Wayne kept talking. “But you’re real. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs, but real.”

“I’m just… I didn’t wanna make a bad impression,” you admitted, hands fidgeting in your lap.

Wayne leaned back in his recliner, folding his arms. “You showed up with cookies. You call me ‘sir’ and you didn’t run screaming when you saw the mess this place is in.” A beat. “You’re alright.”

Eddie let out a quiet sigh of relief next to you, and you reached over to squeeze his hand under the table. Wayne saw it. Didn’t comment. Just helped himself to another cookie and turned on the tiny TV in the corner.

“Dinner’s in the fridge if you two want somethin’. Fried chicken. Leftovers from last night.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Wayne didn’t look over, just muttered, “Don’t mention it.”

And somehow, that made you feel like you’d passed whatever unspoken test had been laid out in that tiny, cluttered trailer.

Taglist: @ajokeformur-ray @Cardinarose @ali-r3n @cowboylikemunson @mayo-nouns-blog @hiimjulie @joemamahehepoopoo @invadergir45 @quinny921 @ironmusictrash @highest-elf @syriouslysyri @luv444lay @spooneyes @liils-lu @clockworkvelvet-blog @princesssunderworld @lemonysweetheart @fi-chanwrites @vikki729255 @cassiecasluciluce @universallyneckhoagieshark @tiinkerbell @DeeSparticus @avengersz-biotch

[dippindaz]

How to write hospital scenes 

From someone who’s definitely been in too many and would very much like a refund...ツ

⊹ Waiting rooms are emotional purgatory. They’re too bright, too quiet, and weirdly timeless. Fluorescent lights buzzing, TVs playing muted news no one watches, coffee that tastes like burnt stress. People aren’t relaxing in there, they’re just existing, awkwardly pretending their phones are interesting while dissociating at 40% battery.

⊹ Everyone talks in a whisper, but not because it’s respectful, no, it just feels wrong to speak normally. Like the walls might be listening, like if you talk too loud, something worse might happen, even the loud people get quiet in hospitals.

⊹ Overnight stays are hell. hospital chairs? medieval torture devices with upholstery. even if someone’s trying to nap next to a patient, they’re not sleeping. They’re half-listening to the symphony of beeping machines, nurse shoes squeaking, the occasional cough, and distant Code Something crackling over the intercom. it’s anxiety with a blanket.

⊹ The smell is unforgettable, like it’s not just antiseptic. it’s plastic and cafeteria meatloaf and sweat and fear and the smell of a place where people are very much not okay. the first time your character walks in, it’ll hit them like a wall. later, they might not even notice, or maybe it’s the only thing they can smell for days after.

⊹ Talking to doctors is a weird performance. You're trying to be calm, they’re trying to be calm. But no one is calm, your character wants to ask 47 questions and not sound desperate. The doctor explains things like they’re narrating a science video, and when they leave, someone will immediately go “wait... we forgot to ask” every. single. time.

⊹ Monitors beep constantly. half the time, it’s nothing. A wire got loose, someone rolled over. But the second it is something, the vibe shifts fast. Nurses appear like ghosts, machines start going off, and everyone starts moving. And your character? they might freeze, or panic, or forget they have lungs. Go with whatever makes sense for them, but make it visceral.

⊹ Time goes full funhouse mirror. Ten minutes waiting for test results feels like a year. A full hour stretches into eternity, meanwhile, three hours can pass without anyone realizing it. You can use this in your pacing, make it drag when the waiting is unbearable.

⊹ Hospital cafeteria food: Garbage. It’s either offensively bland or stupidly overpriced. The grilled cheese is six dollars and tastes like regret, and someone will 100% cry into a cold sandwich at 3am, because grief doesn’t care where you are.

⊹ People start fixating on tiny, random things. They can’t control the big stuff, so their brain zeroes in on a sock slipping off, a crooked IV pole, the repetitive drip-drip-drip of medication. Let them obsess over something small, it’s how the brain copes with being completely powerless...

[dippindaz]

[dippindaz]

I love this concept

What wonderful little fluff 🥹

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

Remmick x fem!reader

2k words | Pure fluff

Summary: (AU - Remmick survived the juke joint.) It’s 1964 and you’re an artist who decides to draw the handsome stranger who keeps turning up at your door every night.

Tags: yearning; soft and sweet; lingering gazes; touching scars; 1960s music; puppy!Remmick; touch starved!Remmick

A/N: I wanted to borrow an idea I’ve seen used with Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3. I love love love the idea of an artist drawing the face of a vampire who hasn’t seen their reflection in God knows how long.

“Hold still,” you ordered, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“This ain’t gonna hurt, is it?” Remmick said playfully.

“It will if you keep moving,” you shot back, only half joking. “Eyes on that horizon, boy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes lightly. He tilted his chin in the direction of wherever horizon meant. Although his tone was sarcastic, a grin curled at the ends of his lips.

The night air was crisp. It was the beginning transition of spring into summer where the days warmed the skin like an embrace from a loved one but the nights remained cool like a reminder of their absence. The town had eased into sleep around you.

You thought the best thing about living out in the middle of nowhere was that there was no light pollution. Despite the dark, the sky was alight with hues of deep purple and blue like an ocean dotted with pinpricks of multicolored stars. In school, they taught you the names of each and every constellation that rotated with the seasons.

You found him right under Polaris. You had been awake after losing track of time. You were locked into your paintings so intensely, you didn’t see the sky turn. The ashtray was loaded with burnt out cigarettes, remnants of smoke curling in the warm glow of the single lamp glowing on the end table. You kept the window open to air out the smell, the soft trickles of a sad guitar playing through your stereo speakers filtering through the pane.

He stood at the end of the dirt path that served as your driveway, hands in pockets, curious, as if he were contemplating going up and installing himself into your life. You weren’t going to get a say in when or how.

You turned down the record as he got closer.

“There’s no need to do that,” he said, hands stretching out in the open air, “I came up here to ask what you was playin’ is all.” His blue eyes pleaded innocent.

“Lonnie Johnson,” you stated, an edge to your words.

He hummed low in his throat. “She sure knows how to play.”

“He,” you corrected, “Lonnie’s a dude.”

“H-He,” the stranger repeated, “He sure knows how to play.” A beat of silence strung between you awkwardly. He shuffled his feet underneath himself. “You wouldn’t mind if I sat and listened, wouldja?”

You chuckled to yourself. A strange white man asking you if you minded if he sat and listened to your records in the dead of night? Your eyes took a precautionary glance over where the trees met the boarder of your land for any sign of unsavory movement.

“You alone?” you asked finally. He nodded his head. You pursed your lips, weighing your decision in your mind. You turned on your heel, away from the window. You crossed to your record player, moved the needle to the beginning track, and turned the sound up a little louder.

You met the eyes of the stranger’s once more. His features reflected his gratitude. He leaned against the strong post of the porch landing and closed his eyes, taking in the music.

You shook your head. What a weird man.

He kept finding his way to your home every night after sundown.

“Whatcha got spinnin’ tonight?” he’d ask you without fail. You’d tell him anything from Etta James to Freddie King and he’d happily sit his ass down on your porch no matter who poured through those speakers.

Some nights he came with some 45s he thought you would like.

“The guy on guitar has to be one of my favorites from this decade,” he said, pushing the small disc into your hands. To be honest, you thought his music tastes were a little too old. Nothing he gave you was dated past the forties. But still, you admired the gesture. In return, you gave him a more modern musical education, opening his ears to the sounds of the 60s. He was floored the first time he heard Hendrix.

“Find a new favorite guitar player, did ya?” you teased.

It was nice having him to share your nights with. He didn’t make too much of a fuss; didn’t ask for anything to eat or drink, despite your offerings. He was perfectly content listening to your music and asking questions about your art. He praised the paintings, kept saying they belonged in the Louvre rather than hidden in this small town. You shooed away his compliments like water off a duck’s back but you couldn’t stop the blush creeping into your cheeks.

One evening, you decided you were gonna join him out on your porch. Armed with your drawing pad and a tin of charcoal sticks, you rocked yourself gently on your porch swing with your big toe. You had tucked yourself into an oversized crochet blanket, preserving your warmth as you waited for the sky to dim. You had the radio on instead of playing a record to save yourself from having to leave your seat. The tinny voices crackled over the sounds of the crickets singing.

“Evenin’ Remmick,” you called when you saw him crest your driveway. He told you his name some nights ago and you kept it on your tongue whenever he was near. You just liked the way his face lit up like Christmas whenever you said it.

“You waitin’ for me?” he asked, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Sure looks like it,” you replied. He crossed over to your place on the swing but leaned against the post of the porch landing instead. “You ain’t gonna sit by me?”

Remmick jolted like he touched an electric fence. “I didn’t know you were offerin’.”

You scooched over to make room for him and patted the empty space. “I don’t bite,” you winked. A smile tugged at his lips as if he were keeping down a really good joke.

The swing groaned under his weight. Your heart flip-flopped at the proximity of him. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, grown too shaggy. His face was pocked with unkempt whiskers and a white scar cracked the left side of his cheek. You wanted to trace that scar with the tips of your fingers.

His blue eyes watched you carefully. Watched for any indication that his nearness was offensive somehow. He kept himself small, not daring to brush your skin. He moved as if you were on fire and he was trying very hard not to get burned.

“You’re gonna be my muse,” you declared.

“That’s the first time I’ve been called that,” Remmick smirked, “What do I gotta do?”

You picked up a charcoal stick and told him to face forward, keep his eyes on the dirt path ahead. The charcoal scratched the surface of the paper, debris crumbling onto your lap.

Santana crooned over the speakers on your radio lying on the kitchen counter inside. Remmick shifted under the weight of your presence.

“I think I like your music better,” he mumbled.

You breathed out a small laugh without looking up. “You’re too kind. Your taste isn’t too bad either. You just got an ol’ soul.”

Remmick pursed his lips. “You could say that.”

“Did you grow up here?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No,” he sighed sadly, “You?”

“Nope. I moved out here a few years ago.”

“How come?”

“Just wanted a change. The city was too loud.” Your eyebrows knit together in concentration. Remmick took this moment to steal a look at you.

Your eyes flicked up at him through your eyelashes. The tips of your ears turned crimson. “Eyes forward, Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy?” he tossed the name around his mouth like a shiny token. You bit your lip to keep from saying much else.

You twisted the length of your charcoal stick to match the angle of his nose before copying it onto your page. His shoulders slowly began to relax. His hands brushed down his thighs, right where your knee almost touched him. He curled his fingers as if to check that they were still operational.

“Can I look yet?” he asked tenderly. His pinkie stretch precariously, bridging the gap between you two. You could feel his nail ghosting on your bare skin. Your heart leapt into your throat, the lightest of touches already turning your nerves into an inferno.

“Just gotta work on the shading,” you replied meekly. He nodded, correcting his head. His finger never dropped. He began to soothingly stroke your knee back and forth, keeping time with the new song that played. It tickled you.

It was harder to concentrate now. From the briefest of looks, you noticed his jaw clenching and unclenching, chewing on words he almost felt ready to say. And what would those words be? What could he possibly say to make your heart race any faster?

To ease it along, you pushed your knee further into his touch. Remmick inhaled sharply in response. He closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to melt.

“Okay,” you said after a while, “I think I’m done.” You pressed the pad of paper to your chest before revealing it slowly to him. He cradled the pad in his calloused hands like it was a newborn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, “This is me?” He asked the question like he wasn’t sure what he looked like.

“It’s a rough sketch,” you admitted, “If I gave it more time, I could clean up the lines and be more precise with the shadows.”

“When did I-?” he wondered under his breath. His fingers brushed the hair curled around his ears to the hair on his chin, trailing all the way to the scar that marked him. His brow furrowed as if remembering the fresh wound marring his face and the blood and pain that came with it. He covered it fully with his hand, ashamed to have you look upon it any longer.

“How’d you get that?” you asked tentatively.

His eyes tore reluctantly from his portrait. “I, uh…” he paused, “The war.” He locked back onto the sketch, studying it as if he hadn’t seen his own face in centuries.

“Is… Is everything okay?” you whispered. You gently pressed yourself into his side.

“Yes,” he murmured. He straightened his back and finally met your gaze again. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

“Y’know, you can tell me if you hate it,” you chuckled, trying to make it light. “Don’t gotta spare my feelings.”

“No, I love this! I love—,” he started. “You did an amazin’ job.”

“You can keep it,” you said. Your hands met his and you lightly pushed the drawing pad against his chest. You leaned into his space, your touch lingering on his. Your thumb rubbed the side of his hand, returning the gentleness he showed you. Remmick’s lips parted slightly, exhaling a shallow breath.

“Thank you,” he spoke. His voice frayed like he hated that he broke the silence. You smiled softly at him. Your fingers reached and stroked the angry crevasse on his cheek.

He looked so fragile being held. His eyelids fluttered as he bathed in the warmth of your hand. He winced like it hurt but his head leaned into you instinctively. A soft trembling sound slipped past his lips.

“You are a wonderful muse,” you said. You leaned in and planted a delicate kiss on that scar. He dipped his head slipping past your ear before nuzzling in the crook of your neck. You gathered him into your arms, wrapping the blanket around his broad shoulders. Your fingers stroked the relaxed curls of his dark hair. His arms lifted with difficulty, still unsure if he was allowed this much, and rested around your waist. When you didn’t fight him, he pulled you in closer. You began to hum along to the song that wept from the radio.

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was the steady rocking of the porch swing on the light breeze and the feathery trail of kisses tied with promises of everlasting happiness.

[dippindaz]

Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader

Series Masterlist Here

5.5k words

Expect Disturbing Themes

Clarification: Dissociative identity disorder is referred to as "multiple personality disorder" in this story because that's what it was called in the 60s.

Chapter 3: Reassessment Pending

📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated February, 1962)

Patient Name: [REDACTED] Alias: “Lady Reverie” Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961 Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s

Diagnosis:

Primary: Schizophrenia, undifferentiated type —Patient shows significant markers consistent with Dissociative Identity Disorder or trauma-linked disassociation. Consider reassignment of primary diagnosis.

Secondary: Histrionic Personality Traits

Tertiary (provisional): Catatonia/dissociative fugue

|

|

Suggested Treatment Plan:

Daily antipsychotics

Sedative regimen for nighttime restlessness

Hydrotherapy sessions to ease muscular strain and induce calm Observed counterproductive response during recent session. Patient demonstrates dissociative retreat; coordinated muscular response in altered state. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and full diagnostic reassessment under psychiatric lens.

Temporary isolation recommended for patient and staff safety

|

Noted by —Dr. Oliver Thredson, M.D., Psychiatric Consultant

Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden

They sat beneath the cracked window at the end of the east hallway, just out of view from the nurses’ station. It wasn’t much—peeling paint, the sharp stink of bleach that never quite faded—but it was quiet. It was theirs.

Kit’s knees were pulled up, arms draped over them. He’d stopped pacing five minutes ago, but the tension hadn’t left his shoulders. Grace was perched beside him on the bench, picking at the fraying hem of her sleeve.

They’d talked about it before—mostly in whispers, mostly late, mostly when the weight of the place pressed in so tight it felt like it might crack bone. But Kit had always shut it down. Said he couldn’t run. That he had to prove the truth. That they’d listen, eventually.

But the silence from the outside world had been louder lately. Longer. And today, he couldn’t bring himself to pretend.

So when Grace leaned in, voice low and sharp with urgency, and said, “We need to get out of here,”

He didn't respond

“You’re not gonna say no this time?” she asked.

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’m not sayin’ yes either. Just… not no.”

“You’re not gonna shoot me down again?”

His voice was lower than hers. “Not yet.”

Grace turned to look at him fully now, brows drawn. “So, what changed?”

Kit didn’t answer. Not directly. The hallway hummed with the low, steady buzz of the overhead lights.

She exhaled. “You’re starting to see it. They’re not lettin’ you out. No matter how many times you say you didn’t do it. This place wasn’t built for truth.”

He shifted slightly. “I know.”

Grace leaned in a little, voice sharper. “So, we plan. We move. But we don’t take dead weight.”

He didn’t react.

“You know what I mean.”

Kit’s eyes flicked to her. “Say it.”

“Pepper can’t keep up. And your little shadow—” Grace gave him a pointed look. “The bendy ghost girl? She’ll slow us down.” Grace shook her head. “She’s barely here, Kit. You said it yourself—sometimes she just checks out. You want to risk all of us on someone who might just walk into a spotlight?”

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered.

Grace raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

He sat back, dragging a hand through his hair. He looked at her, jaw ticking. “She’s not just some risk. She’s holdin’ on for someone else and I know what that feels like.”

Grace leaned back again, crossing her arms. “And Pepper?” she asked.

Kit hesitated. “Pepper doesn’t deserve what they do to her in here. She’s smart in her own way. And loyal.” He paused, glancing up at the narrow window. Light flickered across the broken glass. “I’m not leavin’ without ‘em.”

Grace leaned back, folding her arms. “So, what—you gonna drag her and Pepper through a hole in the fence hoping for a miracle?”

“No,” Kit said. “I’m gonna plan one.”

Grace scoffed, rolling her eyes and leaning hard into the bench back. “Jesus, Kit. You can’t save everyone.”

“I’m not tryin’ to save everyone,” he said. His voice was steady, almost too. “Just them.”

Grace looked over, searching his face. “You don’t even know her.”

“I know her as well as you.” He calmly countered.

Grace’s lips pressed together. Her jaw clenched, something sour flickering behind her eyes. She turned her gaze back down the hallway. “You always take in strays, or is this a new thing?”

Kit finally turned his head toward her, offering a faint smile. “Only ones that deserve better.”

Grace let out a slow breath, arms still crossed tight. “And what if she cracks right in the middle of it all? What if she slips? You willing to bet your life on that?”

Kit looked at her. “Already am.”

That quieted her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a metal cart clattered against tile.

Finally, Grace stood. Her voice lost some of its bite. “Then I guess you better hope you’re right.”

Kit didn’t watch her go. He just stayed where he was, sitting on the floor, eyes fixated on the tile.

The dining hall was loud in that hollow kind of way—forks scraping trays, murmurs echoing off stone walls. You took your usual seat near the far end. Kit was nowhere in sight yet. That was fine. You weren’t sure you wanted to talk anyway.

Pepper was across the room, as usual, kicking her legs back and forth under the table.

You were halfway through your congealed potatoes when you felt it—someone watching you. Not the usual kind of stare, either. Not Arden’s clinical cataloging, or Jude’s righteous weighing. This one was… deliberate. Curious.

You didn’t look right away. Just kept eating.

But eventually, your eyes lifted—and met hers.

A woman across the table, maybe a few seats down. Brown hair, soft features, but her gaze was sharp. Too focused for someone just passing time.

She didn’t smile. Just gave a nod, like she’d seen something she meant to remember. Then she went back to eating.

Instinctively, you looked at Pepper, who happened to meet your gaze. You gave her a small smile and she grinned like she just got to pet a dog.

You kept your head down after that. Spoon to tray. Bite, swallow. Count the creaks in the walls. Pretend you hadn’t felt that look settle over you like a second skin.

A few minutes passed. Then—

The scrape of a chair.

You looked up, and there he was.

Kit slid into the seat beside you, wincing as he moved. His lip was split. One cheek already purpling. Dried blood crusted at the edge of his nose. He didn’t say anything right away. Just exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him somewhere between wherever he came from and here.

You stared at him.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just picked up his fork with a bruised hand and started picking at whatever passed for food tonight.

“Got a little loud in the common room,” he said after a minute, quiet. Like it was something that just happened, something normal.

You suppose it was.

Then, finally he looked at you. “You okay?”

You were quiet for a moment longer, looking into those familiar deep brown eyes.

“Are you?”

Kit blinked at your question, like maybe he hadn’t expected it. Then gave a half-shrug that made him wince. “Been worse,” he said.

You didn’t press.

You both picked at your food in silence for a moment, the quiet between you less sharp than before. Like the worst of the day had already passed, and this—bruises, quiet questions, a seat beside someone who wasn’t cruel—was what was left.

Your gaze drifted, just for a second.

Across the dining hall, that woman watched from her place at the end of a long table. Not staring. Not obvious. Just one glance too many. Her eyes sharp, calculating. Not cruel, exactly—just interested in a way that made your skin prickle.

You looked away.

Kit didn’t seem to notice her.

Then he said, “Grace said they watch the south wing less after lights out.”

His voice was low. Careful.

You didn’t look up.

“She said she thinks the back stairwell might still lead somewhere. I dunno,” he exhaled. “We only talked about it a couple times. Quiet-like.”

You kept your eyes on your tray. Your hands were still, but your jaw tightened.

Kit didn’t push. But his voice stayed steady, quiet.

“I know you tried before,” he went on, “and I get it. Maybe it’s stupid t' think there’s a way outta this place. Maybe it’s all locked tighter than hell.”

A pause.

“But I ain’t like most people here. And you’re not either.” That made you glance at him. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t playing. Just tired and serious and looking right at you.

“You ever think you’d try again?” he asked. There was no heat behind it. No challenge. Just a flicker of something small and scared—hopeful in a way that hurt to look at.

You dropped your spoon, opting to let your hands sit in your lap. You could feel his eyes on you but you didn’t dare look at him. It would be stupid to entertain the idea. Life at Briarcliff was bad enough without being known as a failed escapee.

“You think a lot.” You respond.

Kit let out a short breath—half laugh, half sigh. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Too much, probably.”

You risked a glance at him. His jaw was still tight, but there was something soft in his face now. That quiet stubbornness you’d started to recognize. The same look he had when he talked about being innocent. Like he still believed it mattered.

“I know it’s dumb,” he said after a second, voice low again. “Just… talkin’ about it makes it feel a little less like a cage.”

You didn’t answer.

The truth was, you’d thought about it more since the tree. Since the dirt. Since he asked.

You hadn’t meant to. But your brain never listened much to you anyway.

Kit sat back, shoulders sagging a little. He didn’t seem mad that you hadn’t said more. Just tired. Like the day had been long even before it started.

Then, softer: “You ever think maybe we weren’t supposed to end up here? That God made a mistake?”

That made your throat go tight.

Because yes—sometimes, in the dead quiet of the hallway, or in dreams too scattered to cling to, you did think that. You just didn’t let yourself say it out loud anymore.

“Yeah.”

Kit looks at you, his eyebrows lifting like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. He was quiet for a minute, letting the agreement linger. He glanced around the room before leaning a bit closer.

“How’d you end up here?” His voice was soft, like he was talking to hurt animal that might bolt.

Your hands twitched in your lap.

The instinct to deflect was strong. You could feel the shape of it rising in your throat—something dry to push him back. But you didn’t say it.

Not yet.

Instead, your eyes dropped to your tray. The mashed potatoes had gone stiff at the edges. Everything smelled like bleach, bread, and something faintly metallic. You breathed through your nose.

“A man brought me,” you murmured. “not here… a place in Florida.”

You paused, before adding, “Said he was doing what was best.”

Kit didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded slowly, like he wasn’t going to press. Like he already knew that “what was best” never meant what it was supposed to.

You picked at a crust of bread. “Didn’t tell the others. One day I was just… gone.”

Kit was still quiet. His hand hovered like he might reach for yours, but didn’t. Maybe he was smart enough to know you weren’t ready for that.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. Not the empty kind. Not pity, either. Just soft. Real. Like it mattered that someone said it out loud.

Somewhere across the room, trays clattered and Sister Jude’s voice snapped at someone for dawdling. But here, in this little stretch of space between you and Kit, things felt still.

“You ever miss it?” he asked. “The life before?”

You looked down again. Let your fingers graze the edge of the tray. Thought about tents. Applause. Laughing under stage lights. Holding Pepper’s hand. Spending time with your friends. Your loved ones.

“Every day.”

The spell broke with the screech of chairs. Voices rising. Orders barked like gunshots.

You and Kit stood when the others did, trays in hand, swallowed again by the current of routine. You didn’t speak as you dropped your trays off or as the line snaked down toward the nurse’s station. The air smelled like rust and rubbing alcohol.

Final medication.

The cart wheels squeaked. One by one, pills were dropped into waiting palms. Paper cups of water followed. You held your hand out, watched the familiar white-and-green capsule fall into it. A swallow. A nod. Move along.

You were ushered back to your hall under the watchful eyes of orderlies. Doors creaked open, one by one. Some patients murmured prayers. Others hummed or scratched their arms or laughed too loud at nothing at all.

Lights flickered overhead. Then dimmed.

Your room was as cold as ever. Cinder block walls and a stiff wool blanket. A cross.

You sat on the edge of the bed a while before lying down, the mattress groaning beneath you. No footsteps echoed in the hall. No voices. Just the building breathing.

And in that low, slow dark, your mind drifted—just a little—to the sound of applause, the warmth of sawdust, your names. But tonight, there was something different. Something outside of the show. The pressure of Kit’s eyes watching you like he saw something, even if he didn’t know what it meant yet.

Your eyes were closed, but you weren’t asleep. Not yet. And when you did slip under, it didn’t feel like sleep. More like a fall.

You were backstage again.

The canvas walls of the tent rippled with wind. The hum of a generator somewhere. Shadows swaying like dancers behind silk. Someone was calling your name—too far away to hear clearly. A muffled voice under water.

You looked down and realized you were in costume. Sequins down your arms. Stage paint smudged across your jaw. You didn’t remember putting it on. Didn’t remember getting here.

The crowd was gone.

But the show was still going.

Someone was crying.

You turned a corner and the lights snapped brighter—harsh and golden—and you saw her. Pepper, curled into herself near the crates of props, rocking. Her hands fluttered like birds trapped in a cage. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

You tried to move toward her.

But your feet didn’t obey.

You looked down and saw sawdust burying you up to the ankles, then the knees. You were sinking. Slow, inevitable.

Your voice wouldn’t come.

The tent spun.

And suddenly you weren’t you anymore—you were her, the one who just smiled and waved, bent into shapes without feeling. You were the pretty painted ghost everyone came to see. The part of you that kept you alive. The part that didn’t notice.

Pepper’s eyes found you.

And she looked afraid.

Not at the world. Not at the noise or the lights or the dark.

At you.

You tried to move. To scream. To be real again.

But you just stood there, painted. Hollow.

When you jerked awake, your throat hurt like you'd been trying to yell. A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead, your breaths were in short bursts.

The moonlight hadn’t moved.

You blinked the ceiling into focus and told yourself, Stay here. Stay real. Just stay.

The morning bell didn’t ring so much as shriek. Metal and sudden, splitting the fog in your head like a blade.

You blinked hard at the ceiling. For a second, you weren’t sure where you were.

Then you saw the pale dingy walls. Heard the never-ending drip of a sink or drain.

You exhaled slow through your nose. The dream still clung like spider silk—light, but sticky. Your jaw ached from clenching in your sleep.

There was a knock. Three sharp raps, no pause.

You sat up, back cracking as you moved. The door opened before you could answer.

Nurse Rita stepped in with her usual forced smile and a paper cup balanced on a tray.

"Rise and shine," she said, like it was funny. She didn’t look at you when she held out the pills. Just waited. Expecting.

You took the cup. Swallowed the pills dry. They always tasted bitter, like something turning to ash at the back of your throat.

Nurse Rita supervised as you brushed your teeth and performed your morning inspection, though she was always laid back. When she finished, she nodded, checked her clipboard, and left without another word.

Your dream still whispered at the edge of your mind, but you shoved it down. Folded it up like a costume and put it away.

Breakfast was the same.

Muted voices. Spoons scraping trays. Overhead lights were far too bright, buzzing like angry insects.

You were seated at your usual spot—off to the side, near the wall. Far enough from the crowd that you could pretend there was peace in the quiet.

Pepper was already eating across the room, focused on her food. You watched her for a minute, just to be sure. She looked okay this morning. Calm.

Kit walked in a minute later, the bruise from yesterday now fully darkened on his cheek. He caught your eye as he sat, then looked away, like maybe he hadn’t meant to. Like maybe it was too early for whatever went on between the two of you.

You didn’t blame him. You’d be tired of you too.

You went back to your oatmeal. It was lukewarm and tasted like cardboard

Kit didn’t say anything. He simply sat beside you silence. You were used to silence. But now it felt... odd. You kept waiting for him to say something. Anything. Even to complain about the food like he always did.

He didn't.

The breakfast room buzzed around you—clinks of trays, the scrape of chairs, muttered prayers. Sister Jude’s heels echoed sharp across tile. Someone laughed too loud near the end of the table. It was all distant, like the hum of a radio left on in another room.

You chewed a few bites without tasting them. Kit hardly touched his food.

No conversation. Not a single word. Hardly even a glance after the first one. And somehow, it didn't feel like a mercy. It felt more like a punishment.

Eventually, the clatter of trays signaled the end. You stood when everyone else did. Kit followed behind, not close enough to crowd but not far enough to lose.

The clang of metal trays echoed down the hall as the staff ushered you and a group of others into a sterile, brightly lit room. The space was sparse, the tables bare except for a few sheets of paper, some unsharpened pencils, and the quiet hum of machines in the background. Occupational therapy had become a rhythm you couldn’t escape—repetitive tasks that felt more like a reminder of everything you couldn’t escape than any sort of healing.

Today’s task was no different. Sorting through papers, copying down words from a chalkboard, and making neat rows of perfect circles in a coloring book. The motions were automatic, a mindless chore to fill the hours. But your thoughts were far away. Your hands moved with the precision you had long since perfected, but they didn’t feel like yours. You were only there in body.

The time passed in a haze. You could hear the quiet scrape of pencils around you, the occasional grunt from another patient. The task was simple, but its weight felt heavier with every passing minute.

You’d just finished the last row of circles—neat, empty loops that meant nothing—when a shadow passed over your table.

“Come on.”

The voice belonged to one of the orderlies. Tall, broad, face unreadable. You didn’t ask where. You never did.

Your chair scraped the floor as you stood. A few patients glanced up. Most didn’t. This kind of thing happened all the time.

The hallway felt colder than before. The lights buzzed above, flickering like they were struggling to stay awake.

At the corner where the hall split, another figure was waiting.

Dr. Thredson.

He smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mind if I join?” he said, already falling into step beside the orderly.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t need you to.

“I’ve been curious to observe how you respond to hydrotherapy,” he continued lightly, like he was making conversation. “Your… condition presents a rather unique opportunity for study.”

The word observe stuck in your ribs.

Your stomach turned.

He was talking to the orderly now, not to you. “I’ll just watch today,” he said. “No interference, of course. Purely clinical.”

You knew what that meant. You’d been in enough rooms like this. Words like “observe” and “clinical” were just masks for things people didn’t want to admit to doing.

No one asked if you agreed. There was no paper to sign. No chance to say no.

So you kept walking.

Quiet.

Resigned.

And the doors to hydrotherapy loomed closer.

The hydrotherapy room was colder than you remembered. Tiles gleamed too white beneath the humming lights, and the walls held that same soupy chemical smell that clung to the back of your throat.

The orderly’s grip was light, but firm—guiding you forward like he had somewhere to be, but no urgency to get there. You didn’t resist. You never did.

“That’ll be all, thank you.” Thredson’s voice cut in before anything else could happen. Smooth. Polite. But final.

The orderly paused, his hand still lightly on your arm. He glanced between the two of you, uncertain. “Do you want restraints?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Dr. Arden says—” the orderly began.

“I’m not Dr. Arden,” Thredson replied, cool and level.

Something passed between the two men. Not quite a challenge, not quite respect. Just a mutual understanding that Thredson had made his decision. The orderly let go of your arm and exited without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

The room felt bigger after that. Emptier.

Thredson stepped toward you, the echo of his shoes soft but measured against the tile. He didn’t speak right away, just set a hand on your shoulder to make you turn. Then it slid down to your back, his fingers finding the first button of your gown.

Click.

“I know this may be uncomfortable,” he said gently, voice smooth as warm milk. “But I’d like to ensure everything is done safely. I’ve found these moments can be… informative.”

Click.

The sound was soft, but it echoed in your chest like a joint popping out of place.

“You’re very brave,” he said. Another button, slow. “It’s not easy, letting someone see you when you’re vulnerable. But this will help us understand each other better.”

Click.

The sound was sharp in the quiet, each release like a bone cracking in your ear. You tried not to flinch, but your skin had already started to crawl.

“You’re doing well,” Thredson said softly. Like he meant it. Like this was kindness.

Click.

Each button undone felt like a small surrender. His hands weren’t rough, but they weren’t detached either. There was no urgency, no fumbling. But no warmth either. Just that quiet, liminal rhythm—unhurried, deliberate.

Click.

He didn’t look at you. Not really. He was watching the movement, the process. Like he was observing how the pieces came apart. Not in lust. Not in kindness. Like a man studying a mechanism. A soft thing he wanted to understand by splitting it open.

Click.

By the time the last button gave, your breath had gone shallow.

His fingers were cold against your shoulders as they guided the gown down, until it dropped and pooled at your feet.

“Step forward,” he said quietly, guiding you toward the steel tank.

You obeyed, bare feet against tile, and moved where he guided. The tank waited ahead, full of still, icy water that reflected the overhead light. The rim of the tub was unforgiving beneath your palms as you climbed in. The moment your skin touched the water, it felt like needles—your lungs clamped down.

You lowered yourself in with the control of someone performing for a silent crowd. Not grace—discipline.

The chill bit deeper with each inch. It felt like punishment. It always did. As if the ice itself was a reprimand for whatever they thought you’d done wrong.

Behind you, Thredson remained quiet. Watching.

You tried not to see him. Not to hear the quiet drag of fabric or the subtle sound of pen to clipboard. You tried to stay inside your body, grounded in the sharp bite of the cold.

But it was hard.

Your mind slipped to the left. Then the right. Before it fell upside down without your permission. It was reflex now, an old routine. Your body remembered how it always went.

Cold. Breathe. Stillness. Disappear.

The sting of the water blurred, softened, turned distant. Your fingers tingled. Your breathing slowed.

And then—Warmth.

Not here. Not now. The cold metal tank melted into sun-warmed boards beneath your bare feet. The sharp tang of bleach faded, replaced by sawdust and cotton candy. A gentle breeze lifted the canvas flap of the tent. You were behind it, tucked in the narrow strip of space between the stage and the costume trunks, where the shadows were soft and safe.

Your arms moved without thought—slow, liquid gestures, a stretch of your spine, the curve of your body folding in on itself like a dancer mid-prayer. You’d done this before every show. A ritual, almost. The space was cramped, but familiar. Yours. The sound of the crowd on the other side of the curtain was muffled, but close. You could hear the music warming up. Elsa’s voice rising like a tide.

And just ahead of you—

“Twiiiiirly!”

Pepper’s voice rang out like a bell, shrill with delight. She barreled into view around the trunk, nearly tripping over her own feet. You caught her automatically, the both of you laughing as she gripped your hands and spun in a loose, clumsy circle.

“Are you ready? Are you ready?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement. “Gonna fly this time, I know it!”

You smiled. For real. That rare kind that lived in the cheeks and not just the mouth. “I always fly,” you said softly.

“Not like today,” Pepper whispered back, suddenly very serious, like she was letting you in on a secret.

And you believed her.

The drums picked up. The crowd began to cheer.

You stepped forward, out from behind the curtain—

The sharp, metallic buzz of the hydrotherapy timer split the quiet like a scream. You flinched.

Your eyes opened, blinking against the harsh fluorescents overhead. The cold rushed in all at once—into your bones, your lungs, your fingers. That familiar ache in your wrists, your spine. You were still in the tank. Still submerged in water.

Your hands had risen halfway above the water, curled into loose, strange shapes—like you were in motion, mid-performance, like your body didn’t get the memo the show was over.

Then you remembered.

He was here.

The realization dropped heavy into your stomach. You didn’t look to find him. You didn’t want to know what he’d seen.

You just let your hands fall back into the water. Slowly. Gently. Like if you moved quiet enough, you could still pretend this hadn’t happened. The timer still echoed in your ears, but the rest of the world was catching up now. Water dripping onto tile. The hum of overhead lights. Footsteps behind you.

Then: the soft rustle of cloth.

“Interesting,” Thredson murmured.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. The water clung to your skin like a veil, heavy and thin all at once.

There was the sound of a clipboard being retrieved. A scribble of pen against paper.

“I’ll have this noted,” he said, and then more softly—almost as if to himself, “Response consistent with dissociative patterns… coordinated movement in altered state...”

His voice was clinical again. Detached. Like he hadn’t seen anything at all. Like you were a case study. A subject in a paper. A broken clock worth examining.

“Get her dressed,” he told the returning orderly. “She can rejoin the schedule.”

He stepped outside the door, letting it fall shut behind him.

He didn’t linger.

The moment the door closed behind him, he let the practiced mask of disinterest fall—just a hairline fracture at the edges. A small quirk at the corner of his lips. He moved down the corridor with quiet purpose, shoes silent on the tile, eyes trained ahead, though he wasn’t seeing the hallway. He was seeing her—the way she floated, almost unconscious, yet unmistakably moving.

It wasn’t aimless. It was patterned. Remembered. Conditioned.

Arden would call it a side effect of psychosis. Jude would call it a performance, possibly possession. But Oliver knew better. He always knew better.

This wasn’t madness. This was preservation. A system, not a symptom.

The others didn’t look close enough. They missed the precision in her fingers. The way her expression didn’t contort in pain like the others did in that water—it went blank. Structured. Familiar. She’d been taught to disappear. He could see it. It wasn’t schizophrenia. It was strategy. A subconscious thing. Muscle memory.

He turned the corner toward the staff room and slid his notes from his coat pocket. The pages were still damp from the humidity in the hydrotherapy chamber. Still, his pen glided easily across the top sheet as he wrote:

"Reverie" Observed episode during hydrotherapy: dissociative state marked by motor coordination, repetitive limb motion. Behavior consistent with trauma-based dissociation. Previous diagnosis in question—MID? Hydro & restraints unnecessary. Continued observation required.

He paused. Tapped the pen once. Then wrote:

Patient responds better when not touched abruptly. Eye contact not always required. Trust-building may prove effective.

He didn’t mean it kindly.

Trust-building was a means. A wedge. A way in. She didn’t need to scream or cling to him to reveal herself. She’d already shown more than enough. Enough for him to know she didn’t belong with the others. She wasn’t violent. She wasn’t unpredictable. She was just… severed.

But he could fix that. Piece her back together.

Not everyone breaks cleanly. Some bend. Some fold themselves small and stay quiet until someone notices.

And he noticed.

A nurse passed him on the way to the records office and said something—he didn’t catch it. He only nodded, polite, already thinking about her next session. About how to position his questions. About what her dreams might sound like if she ever trusted him enough to speak them aloud.

Or if he could make her speak them.

Oliver smiled faintly to himself. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Just the ghost of satisfaction.

They wouldn’t understand her here. But he would. He already did.

The file room was cramped and dim, all beige cabinets and the dry, sour smell of paper left too long in recycled air. Oliver’s footsteps echoed soft against the tile, his shoes polished to mirror shine despite the grime of the asylum around him.

A young nurse at the desk looked up from a crossword puzzle. “Can I help you, Doctor—?”

“Thredson,” he said, already offering a tight smile and his ID badge. “I need access to patient archives.”

She glanced at the clock, nodded, and unlocked the gate.

He moved like he’d done this before. Maybe he had. A different time, a different place.

It didn’t take long to find her file. He opened the folder and scanned quickly. Arden’s notes were extensive, scrawled in that impatient, slanted handwriting. Words like uncooperative, fugue response, delirium-prone leapt out like accusations.

Oliver clicked his pen open.

On the diagnostics page. Skimmed the words Schizophrenia (paranoid type) and frowned. The label fit poorly. It had always fit poorly. Arden wasn't a helpful doctor.

That was okay. Because now, he was here. He would help her.

In the margin beneath Arden's diagnosis, he began to write in smaller script:

Patient shows significant markers consistent with Multiple Personality Disorder or trauma-linked disassociation. Consider reassignment of primary diagnosis.

He paused. Tapped the pen once against the page. Then underlined the phrase reassignment of primary diagnosis.

He flipped to the treatment page, where HYDROTHERAPY — Tuesday/Thursday. 30 minutes. Mandatory restraints was written, he drew a clean black line straight through it.

Below, in his steadier script:

Observed counterproductive response during recent session. Patient demonstrates dissociative retreat; coordinated muscular response in altered state. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and full diagnostic reassessment under psychiatric lens.

It wasn't subtle. But it also wasn't bold, not an overhaul—but it was the first stone dislodged.

He returned the file to its drawer, pushed it closed with the heel of his hand, and stood still for a long second. The quiet was deep here. Close.

Oliver’s fingers trailed across the labels until he pulled open a drawer with a soft screech and flipped through the alphabetized tabs until her name appeared.

Pepper.

The folder was thin—too thin for someone who had been in Briarcliff this long. A few notes from intake. Scattered behavior reports. One short page of “progress observations,” mostly written in disinterested shorthand by a nurse who no longer worked here.

Oliver clicked his pen.

Schedule patient for psychological evaluation. Unusual behavioral alignment with Subject ███. Possible mnemonic triggers or environmental tethering.

His handwriting was neat, deliberate. Clinical. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that would raise a brow if Sister Jude or Dr. Arden happened upon it.

But he didn’t need the Pinhead’s evaluation. Not really.

He didn’t care to study a lack of intelligence.

He closed the folder carefully and slid it back into place.

And smiled, just slightly, to himself.

He looked down the endless stretch of cabinets—hundreds of lives distilled to folders and assumptions. Oh, how little the people who filled them actually knew. And oh, how easily they let someone else rewrite the words.

He turned, left the records room, and shut the door gently behind him.

[dippindaz]

To my "Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers" readers(And anyone else):

Would y'all be interested in essentially the story of your life before the Asylum?

So essentially a multi-part Jimmy x Reader(With a disassociation disorder) that will, unfortunately have an angsty ending.

I've been thinking a lot about the reader's life and time before and during the circus for the story of things during Briarcliff and it makes me wanna write the story 🙈

Let me know if you're interested :))))

[dippindaz]

“Alright darlin what size pussy you wear”

[dippindaz]

I yearn for Kit Walker nsfw headcanons 😞😞🙏🙏🙏

I am happy to oblige!! We love Kit in this house 🙂‍↕️I haven't done NSFW HCs in such a long time this was SO fun! I have these separated by pre and post-Asylum. I hope you enjoy, lovely Anon!

MDNI

Warnings: NSFW content, biting, some dom/sub dynamics, AFAB reader, choking(if you really squint), ngl, Idk what else to put here

Pre-Asylum Kit

Kit’s the type who doesn’t rush. So, in the beginning, he takes his time learning your body—your tells, your limits, your preferences. He treats intimacy like something sacred. Every kiss feels like a question he’s asking with his whole soul.

And once he knows you and your body? He’s a different man. Those calloused hands know exactly how to worship your body. After a long day. He’ll back you up against a wall and kiss you until you're breathless, grinding his hips into yours and muttering about how he’s been thinking about you all day.

But no matter what stage of the relationship you’re at, he’s a very tactile lover. Even outside of the bedroom, he’s constantly touching—his hand on your lower back, brushing your fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear. During sex, it translates. Thumbs on your hips, his hands cradling your face when he’s inside you, whispering, “I got you.”

When he gets worked up, Kit’s voice gets lower, thicker—like honey drizzled slow. He calls you “baby,” “darlin’,” or just groans your name like it’s the only word he knows. It’s not rare for him to whisper how beautiful you are, over and over again, between heated kisses and breathy moans.

He’s a little possessive in bed—not in a toxic way, but in a way that says “you’re mine, and I’m going to prove it.” He will not stop until he knows you’re satisfied. Also, expect to be marked with love bites in places only the two of you know about.

Kit is especially affectionate in the mornings—lazy kisses, strong arms pulling you closer under the sheets. If he wakes up hard (and he often does), he’ll start slow, letting you stay half-asleep while he kisses down your neck and rocks into you with whispered praise. “Good morning, baby…” has never sounded sexier.

He’d never want to get you in trouble, but the idea of someone almost catching you drives him wild. He’s taken you in his truck, in the woods behind the gas station, even in the barn while someone was just outside. There’s something about the risk—the way you try to keep quiet while he keeps pushing—that has him obsessed.

Kit enjoys every position, but he loves having you on top, watching you ride him while his hands roam your body. He’s second favorite would be taking you from behind. Bending you over the kitchen counter or pushing your chest against a wall. It always ends up with his arm wrapped around your chest while he whispers sweet and filthy things into your neck.

After sex, Kit’s a talker. Not dirty—just real. He murmurs about how beautiful you are, how lucky he feels, how he can’t wait to build a life with you. Sometimes, he talks about the future: a house, a garden, kids maybe, if you want them. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart and dreams spun between his words.

Post-Asylum Kit

Gentle, almost hesitant at first. After everything he’s been through, Kit has to re-learn what it feels like to touch and be touched without fear. The first few times are quiet, a little shaky. He holds you like you’re fragile—like he might break you, or worse, like he’s the one who might shatter. You guide him back to himself with slow, safe touches and soft encouragement.

Once the shakiness fades, it turns into something raw and emotional for Kit. His touch is reverent—like he's not sure he deserves you, but he worships every inch anyway. The deprivation in Briarcliff made him intensely focused on physical connection. With you, he's endlessly patient, but there's always this underlying hunger, like he’s making up for lost time.

You think he was touchy before Briarcliff? Now, you'll be lucky if he ever let's you out of his line of sight. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Kit has a primal fear of losing you.

He adores when you praise him—whether it’s gasping his name, clinging to him, or telling him how good he makes you feel. It breaks something in him, in the best way. He wants to please you like his life depends on it, because deep down, he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves happiness.

On top of the praise, he needs you say your his like he needs air to breathe. There are moments where he holds you too tightly—grinding into you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies. His voice breaks when he says, “Say you’re mine. Say it again.” He needs that power, that certainty—because nothing else feels real.

Kit uses sex not just for pleasure, but for closeness. After Briarcliff, every time he’s with you, it’s an act of reclaiming something. He touches you like he’s proving he’s still human. He’s deeply focused on your pleasure—not out of guilt, but out of reverence. He wants to make you feel cherished, not just wanted.

He makes love like he’s trying to erase the past—but sometimes, in a certain mood—he fucks like he’s trying to punish it. Those nights are different. No foreplay, no teasing. Just raw, desperate need. He growls your name into your skin, leaves handprints on your throat, bite marks on your collarbone, fingerprints on your hips and he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking beneath him, blissed out and breathless.

When it ends, he’ll hold you tighter than ever—face buried in your chest, asking softly if you’re okay, if he was too rough, if you still see him the same. Expect long, grounding baths, soft touches, and whispered confessions of how much he needs you—body and soul.

[dippindaz]

Heyyy! I saw your headcanons for black!reader and Eddie Munson and I was hoping you could do some for Latina!reader as well? Tysm if you do! 🖤❤️💕🫶🏻

@eddiemunsonsbabygirl

Of course I can!!! I hope you enjoy it <3 sorry these are a bit short

Warnings: mentions of racism, mentions of Eddie mispronounces Spanish words a lot, AFAB reader

Eddie was immediately intrigued when he saw you at school or a party—you had this confident, don’t-mess-with-me energy that lowkey intimidated him (and he loved it).

He tried to flirt by calling you “mi amor,” but butchered the pronunciation. You rolled your eyes.

You joked, “Stick to English, gringo,” and he melted—instantly obsessed.

You introduce him to Spanish rock, cumbia, reggaetón, and he’s genuinely impressed by how badass and diverse Latin music is.

You make him playlists with a mix of Iron Maiden and Selena—he doesn’t understand the lyrics, but he starts humming “Como La Flor” anyway.

You tease him in Spanish constantly. He doesn’t understand most of it but catches on when you say stuff like “pobrecito” while patting his head.

Your protective nature makes his heart squeeze. You’re tough, but when you show him softness, he treats it like sacred gold.

He lives for your everything—Straight hair? Loves it. Curly hair? Loves it. Dark skin? Loves it. Light skin? Loves it. Tanned skin? Loves it. Nails done up or natural? Loves it. Doesn't matter what, as long as you and it's yours, he's obsessed.

When you finally bring him home, your abuelita calls him “flaco” and feeds him until he can’t move.

He’s shocked by how loud and affectionate your family is—but he loves it. He never really had that warmth before.

He tries to impress your dad by saying something in Spanish. It’s a disaster.

He also tries dancing at one of the family get-togethers. He's so off-beat your tías can't stop laughing. But he get's some points for effort.

You join his D&D campaign as a bard or rogue with a bilingual character—your spells are half in Spanish, and it kills at the table.

He starts calling you “mi reina del calabozo” (my dungeon queen) and acts like it’s the smoothest thing ever.

If you draw your D&D character Eddie will hang it on the Hellfire Club wall.

He goes full metalhead rage if anyone dares make a racist comment. He will get arrested suspended for throwing hands, no hesitation.

He writes songs inspired by you, adding Spanish words even if they’re just badly pronounced pet names.

If you're ever sad or homesick for your culture or family, he’ll take you on drives blasting your favorite music, letting you cry, vent, or just feel.

Taglist: @ajokeformur-ray @Cardinarose @ali-r3n @cowboylikemunson @mayo-nouns-blog @hiimjulie @joemamahehepoopoo @invadergir45 @quinny921 @ironmusictrash @highest-elf @syriouslysyri @luv444lay @spooneyes @liils-lu @clockworkvelvet-blog @princesssunderworld @lemonysweetheart @fi-chanwrites @vikki729255 @cassiecasluciluce

[dippindaz]

I bet Tate likes being pegged until he cries!

-🍰

⋆.𐙚 ̊ submissive tate x fem reader

no one gets me like you guys get me send more i BEG, and yes i absolutely agree he LOVES to be pegged

MDNI 18+

TATE LANGDON gasped softly as you gently worked a second finger into him, your other hand held his head down into the pillows, it wasn't like he could asphyxiate anyway. your pillow case was damp from his previous whimpers and whines, "shh, baby" you command softly, scissoring your fingers inside his tight channel, your fingernails gently scraping against his prostate, his whole body jerked at the sensation. tate cursed aloud, biting his bottom lip with his teeth, he could feel his skin start to split where his canines dug in, he could feel his cold, dead blood blood rise from beneath the surface. he let out a sharp cry and you ruthlessly curled your fingers just slightly upwards, pressing against his prostate for a beat before slipping your fingers back out, you wiped the excess lube on his back, the substance shining in the flickering lights of the candle on your bedside table.

you trailed your finger up his side, feeling the sheen of sweat that accumulated over his body, you gently pinch and twist one of his nipples, just to hear him whine and sexy upwards away from your touch, even if his chest leaned towards it, he was always so indecisive. your other hand worked its way to tate's throbbing cock, spilling pre-cum onto your sheets like a faucet, you wrapped your hand around him, but you didn't move. tate whimpered and whinged, trying to rock his hips, your removed your free hand from his side and used it to hold down his hips, just in the curve between his spine and his plush ass. "i didn't tell you to move", you squeezed his length once and removed your hand from him, reaching over to grab the almost empty lube bottle resting beside the melting candle.

tate's wet eyes followed your hand, his breath hitching slightly as he heard the familiar sound of the lube cap coming undone, you squeezed a good amount onto your fingers, you didn't warm it up before spreading it over the silicone dick attached around your waist. there was a beat of silence before you pushed tate further up the bed and hooked his knees up, forcing his ass up towards you. "you gonna be good for mommy?" you didn't let him answer the questions before forcing his head back down into the pillow, your fingers tenting in his hair tightly, you guided your length to line up with tate's entrance, still slick from your previous stretching, you pressed a kiss to one of his ass cheeks, playfully biting for a moment before pulling away.

the strap sank into him with a delicious wet sound, tate moaned at the cold, full feeling of it sinking into him, you had a hand wrapped around his stomach, you could feel the tip of it push against his abdomen. tate's whine came out long and needy, his walls pulsing around your invading cock, you didn't give him much time to adjust before you shifted your hips, you slid out until just the very tip remained inside of him, a moan formed on tate's lips simultaneously. you shoved back in with full force, it took a few thrusts for you to find his prostate, but when you did, tate's whole body shook, you could feel the spasms erupt down his spike, down his thighs and down those gorgeous legs of his. tate whimpered at every thrust, his words came out messy and unintelligibly - they all mixed together in one long whine.

the hand you had wrapped around his stomach gently dragged its way back from to tate's leaking cock, your fingernail stacked lightly against his weeping slit for a moment before you wrapped your hand around his thick length, your hand moved in time with your thrusts. and finally you saw it, the deep inhalation that caused him to arch deeper and then the unmissable sound of his whine mixed with a sob of pleasure, you righted your grip in his hair, pulling his head up, you could see fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he cried and whimpered and whined for his mommy to let him cum. you considered his request, your hips were getting tired from the movement and you yourself hadn't came yet, and so you readjusted your angle, hitting his prostate dead on with the blunt end of the silicone cock and you squeezed tate's cock harder with your other hand, the tears came faster and his noises became louder, the coil in tate's stomach grew and grew until it snapped with a loud cry and his cum spurting out from his cock.

this request healed something in me, thank you anaon.

[dippindaz]

He’s just soooo hot

@astoldbyaja just had to make sure you saw this 👀

[dippindaz]

Relationship HCs

Still unsure of how I wanna write the Sinners characters so forgive me if these are a bit choppy, I'm working on it!

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, and very slight arson, brief mention of sexual talk(Stack), mentions of crime, brief mention of a gun(Smoke), mention of stalking(Remmick obvi), manipulation(Remmick), control(Remmick), kinda gaslighting(Also Remmick, damn this guy's a catch), AFAB reader in mind though it's mostly gender neutral, I think that's it

Characters: Smoke, Stack, and Remmick

Elijah "Smoke" Moore

His life has been full of corruption, backdoor deals, and distrust in the system. That's just how it is for men like him. Smoke reads people like newspapers, and you earn his trust slowly. If you're "not from around here," he watches you like a hawk at first.

On the other hand, Smoke doesn’t "date"—he courts. Expect slow-burn tension built through lingering glances, quiet walks through town at dusk, and handwritten notes left tucked in a book. It’s old-fashioned in the most soul-stirring way.

He doesn’t open up quickly. Early on, he watches you more than he speaks to you—measuring your words, your reactions, your soul. But once Smoke trusts you, his emotional depth is staggering. He doesn’t say "I love you" often, but when he does, it lands like scripture.

He isn’t the type to grandstand. He protects you with subtleties—walking on the side closest to traffic, checking the locks twice, noticing when your mood shifts even if you don’t say a word. He’s like a steady hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd. And he'd kill for you without a second thought. But you’d never know—his threats are silent. Just a hard stare, a slow stand, a calm "We done here?"

Smoke doesn’t announce his anger. He doesn’t rant, or threaten. He watches. Measures. Files it away. If someone hurts you—really hurts you—he doesn’t need to raise his voice. He’ll simply make sure that person’s luck runs out. Even if that's simply pulling out his pistol.

Smoke likes smalls rituals. Consistency. Getting up at the same time, making the bed, making coffee, sitting down to eat. He’ll invite you to share those rituals, not to control you, but because sharing sacred things is how he shows love.

You'll never have to guess what he wants. Despite not being a talker, Smoke isn’t a game player. But you will need to read between silences. In return, you get loyalty and devotion that feels elemental.

He's not PDA-heavy, but behind closed doors? Smoke’s hands say everything his mouth doesn’t. He holds you like he’s grounding himself. It's deliberate, reverent. Like he's memorizing every part of you.

Elias "Stack" Moore

Stack falls fast and hard—if he's into you, everyone knows. He’ll drag you into a whirlwind of chaotic plans, late-night drives, half-baked schemes, and sweet nothings mumbled against your neck at 3AM.

If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, he’s ready to throw down. You're his, and though he’d never cage you, he makes damn sure you feel claimed—in the best, most delicious way.

He can sweet-talk you into anything—an argument, a kiss, a stupid adventure. But beneath the charisma is someone who feels everything too much, all the time. You’ll be the calm in his storm, but Stack needs someone who isn’t afraid to stand up to him, too.

He’s the kind of guy who says "I love you" mid-fight, throws his jacket over a puddle for you, and would absolutely get you anything you ask for, even if it's mentioned in passing.

A stolen locket. A nice coat he bought for you. A flower plucked from the cemetery fence. He shows love like a fox bringing gifts to your doorstep—part concerning, part suspicious, but still all sweet.

Physical affection is constant with Stack. Arms slung over your shoulders, kisses on your temple mid-sentence, rough hands tangled in your hair. Stack loves hard, and he needs to feel close to you to function.

He uses every possible term of endearment for you—"doll," "sugar," "honeybee," "sweetheart," "babygirl," "pretty thing." He’ll call you "trouble" with a grin and whisper sexual things under his breath in front of others just to see you blush.

You spend most nights at the Juke joint together. He thrives in low-lights with the blues playing and whiskey flowing. He’ll take your hand and twirl you through a crowd like you’re the only person alive. He might get into a fight. He'll likely win. He’ll definitely make it look like it was for you—even if it wasn’t.

Stack takes things personally. You cry? He’s already on his way to break somebody’s jaw. He doesn’t think first. He reacts. Wildly, passionately. His love is loud, so his vengeance is louder.

Stack's temper is a match waiting for a strike. But with you? He softens. Even during the fights you may have, he'll barely raise his voice, if at all.

He is feral about making sure you’re taken care of. He grew up knowing pain and hunger, and you’ll never feel it if he can help it. Even if it means going back to a life of crime.

Remmick

At first, he waits. Watches. Learns what you like, what you dislike before you ever know his name. Then, Remmick woos like a gentleman—pulls out your chair, quotes poetry, knows exactly when to laugh, when to lean in, when to say your name like it means everything. But it’s never just romance—it’s strategy. Your reactions are data. Your affection is leverage. At least, that's how it started.

Everyone else is expendable, usable. But you? You’re different. Once you’re his, he doesn’t let go. He might test you, manipulate you, but it always comes with that unsettling devotion. You’re not part of his plan. You are the plan.

He'll act like some upper class man in most scenarios, folks trust easier that way. But when it comes down to it, he fights like someone who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Because truthfully, he did. That duality is part of his draw—and his danger.

With enough motivation, he can find anyone. And if they hurt you or insult you, you won’t hear a word about it after the fact. You’ll just see a headline the next day about a new missing person. And his only comment? "I warned 'em."

Whether you have money or not means nothing to Remmick, he doesn't want that. He wants your loyalty. Not the easy kind. The kind forged through shared secrets and dangerous truths. If he has your trust and you have his, he’ll kill the whole town for you. Burn the world for you.

He's possessive, but not always openly. You won’t always see it. But you’ll feel it when someone else touches your hand too long. That cold silence. The next day, the person is gone. "They had debts," "Shame, really."

Remmick doesn’t control in obvious ways—he guides. He convinces. Suddenly you’re wearing what he likes, avoiding who he hates, echoing things he’s said. But he frames it like care. And maybe to some extent, he believes that's what it is.

He doesn’t believe in second chances. Betrayal is met with ruin. But if you wrong him—hurt him, lie to him—he can’t let go. Not really. He might punish, withdraw, twist the knife—but he won’t walk away. You’ve been branded into his soul, and he hates that as much as he craves it.

Someone talks bad about you? They’re scared shitless later that night. Touches you without permission? Their business burns down. Hurts you? They vanish. He doesn’t just get even—he erases.

He trusts almost no one. Most people he keeps close are pawns and usually not even people. But you? You’re the one person he doesn’t use, even if he manipulates the world around you. He’d kill for you. He’d die for you. And though he'd never let it happen, he expects the same devotion.

You’ll never get the full story (At least not while you're human). Not until it’s too late. You’ll know pieces: his banjo, the letter in a foreign language he hides, the night he came home covered in blood with calm eyes. You’re not sure if he’s trying to protect you—or protect himself from what you might think.

[dippindaz]

⋆.𐙚 ̊ the evan's and an oopsie

ft. tate langdonㆍkit walkerㆍkyle spencerㆍjames patrick marchㆍkai andersonㆍpeter maximoff

⸝⸝ ⟢ TATE LANGDON

tate freaks out when you tell him your pregnant, the last time he got someone pregnant, that didn't exactly end well, of course he doesn't tell you this, but his worst fear is that you'll die during childbirth because of his own selfish actions, he hopes that the baby is normal

he'd be clueless, but if you asked him to do something, he'd do it, he'd call you crazy for your cravings and refuse to give you foot rubs because, "feet are gross", he'll happily offer back rubs though

of course, he wasn't able to be there for the birth, but he'd be on the phone with you, unless you had a home birth, he likely wouldn't be attached to the kid at first, if the baby turns out to be 'normal', he'd probably end killing it during one of his psychotic episodes, tate langdon was not made for fatherhood, if the baby came back as a ghost, he'd probably avoid both it and you, basically, it wouldn't end well, at all

⸝⸝ ⟢ KIT WALKER

he'd be the happiest man alive when you told him you were pregnant, he wasn't actively trying to get you pregnant, but he definitely pulled out too late a little too many times or conveniently forgot a condom

the best baby daddy in existence award goes to kit walker, he'd read a hundred books on how to look after you, what foods are ideas for you and the baby, how to help your pains, he'd make sure you moisturise your belly and his hand would be on you 24/7, he'd take care of you like nobody's business

as i mentioned above, best baby daddy ever, he'd probably want to marry you if you weren't already married, kit would be there for your whole labour, letting you break the fuck out of his hand, he definitely cried when he first held his baby, he would love your kid/s to bits, you and them are the most important people in his life and he'd risk everything and anything for his family

⸝⸝ ⟢ KYLE SPENCER

kyle would freak out for a while, of course this deal out would be entirely internal, but he'd freak the hell out, he was only 19 and was a frat boy, how the hell was he supposed to be a good dad? but he was more concerned on making sure you were okay, he definitely missed a few classes, he'd come around to it though, he would have stepped up regardless, he'd discuss it all over with you, were you going to confuse your education, would he need to get a job, etc etc, he just wants to be there for you

he'd be as clueless as tate, but he would also read up like kit, once he calmed down from his freak out, he actually enjoyed your pregnancy, the soft glow you had to you, he liked to laugh at your cravings, he held your hair when you had morning sickness, and he would hands down fight anyone who said anything even remotely negative about you, he'd probably end up leaving his fraternity to focus on you and his studies

basically exactly like kit, he would be really upset that he had to contour his studies and perhaps pick up a job to help support you and the baby, but he would adore your child and he'd likely asked to get married, when he wasn't in class or at his job, he would be with you and the baby, as the kid got older, he would try his hardest to be there for them, emotionally, physically, in every sense, his biggest fear is turning out like his own father, he'd definitely be thankful if you were able to get a job, giving him less work hours and more time to spend with his kid

⸝⸝ ⟢ JAMES PATRICK MARCH

james is nothing if not careful, if you were pregnant, he wanted you to be, he wouldn't say anything explicitly saying that he planned it, but there would be little hints, but he'd be happy and kiss your temple and say something in that stupid accent of his

he'd get the hotel staff to make sure you have everything you could ever need or want, your weird cravings would appear in front of you the moment you said the words, james wouldn't be super doting like kit or kyle, but he'd definitely give you back rubs and mostly just spend time with you

james would never even think about hitting your children, he would use much more effective discipline methods, but even then, your children are unlikely to misbehave considering james brought them up to be well-mannered and respectful, he would probably shed a tear or two when he got to hold his baby, he'd make sure you have an at-home birth with the best equipment money could buy, the midwives would likely speak with an upper-class accent, he'd treat you like a queen, and your children would likely have old, posh names, james would want to marry you, even if he may not have any actual legal documentation, he'd ask you to change your last name to be the same as his

⸝⸝ ⟢ KAI ANDERSON

similarly to james, he wouldn't have an accident with anyone he wouldn't want pregnant, but with you, he wouldn't be even try to install any birth control protocols, he wants his messiah baby and he will have it, he would be ecstatic when he found out you were pregnant, however, he would grumble for a while if you found out it was a girl

he'd be.. better during your pregnancy definitely not loving, but he'd make sure you're well-fed and that you're eating the right foods, not over-working yourself, he would be doting under the guise of making sure his messiah is healthy and well-bread

he would shed some tears at the birth, not out of love, but accomplishment, he has his heir now, one that he can train right from birth, your child would likely follow a strict routine, have the best education they could, be taught manipulation methods before they could even speak, kai would threaten to hit them sometimes, never to their face, but he'd use the child as a way to manipulate you, he'd make sure that they were well-fed and had proper manners, he'd make them go the gym with him since they were able to leave the house

⸝⸝ ⟢ PETER MAXIMOFF

peter would think you're pranking him, he'd laugh and roll his eyes, saying something like "nice one, babe" before you shoved two more pregnancy tests into his hand with a dead serious face, his smile would drop very, very quickly, he'd panic for a while, probably consider running off, but then he thought about his own father and decided against it eventually, he'd wearily say he supported whatever you chose to do

he'd make fun of your pregnancy cravings, he'd hold your hair when you throw up, basically a goofier version of kit, he wouldn't want marriage, not until you guys were a bit older and he'd matured a lot, he'd act surprisingly grown-up, of course he was still peter, he was silly and goofy and a bit too immature, but he's tried to be the baby daddy that his own mother didn't have

he would cry his eyes out when you gave birth, he definitely whispered a promise about being the daddy he never had, he'd be silly with them but it would also force him to grow up a lot, he became a lot more emotionally mature, and you ere able to depend on him for things you weren't able to before, he'd have heart to hearts with them, teach them their manners, but he'd also encourage food fights and he'd speed around with them, basically he'd become the perfect balance between his silly, goofy self and the more mature peter he learnt to be

yes, i know, i didn't include all the evan characters i write for but that's like a lot of characters and icba to write that much so here take this

[dippindaz]

A smutty Stack blurb for you all. I hope you enjoy

MDNI

Warnings: AFAB reader, edging, lots of dirty talk, medium dom/sub, P in V, riding, Oral(F receiving), fingering, he makes you beg (just a little), very very slight choking, AFAB reader

NSFW under the cut

You shouldn’t have teased him.

You knew better. Wearing that damn silk slip under your coat, brushing past him all evening like your hips didn’t know what they were doing. Eyes full of heat and lips full of secrets every time you said, “Need anything, Stack?”

You meant to get under his skin. But now, you're spread out in his office chair, legs parted, lips parted, and his mouth right between your thighs—breath hot and heavy, his tongue unforgiving.

Only he hasn't let you come.

Not yet.

His fingers are slick with your arousal, dragging slow and precise between your folds. His breath ghosts up your belly as he chuckles low and rough, cocky like he’s the one holding the cards. Which he is.

“You been drippin’ for me all damn day, baby,” he mutters, biting into the inside of your thigh, just hard enough to make your legs twitch. “Thought I ain't notice? That little act you pulled? Teasin’ me with that mouth and then walkin’ ‘round like a prize I ain’t already won?”

You try to grind down on his fingers, but he pulls back—hand gripping your hip to still you.

“Nope. Not like that.”

“Stack—” you gasp, voice cracked and desperate.

“You gonna ask,” he says smoothly, dragging a single finger over your clit, featherlight, like it’s nothing. “Real pretty. Real polite. You wanna come, you beg for it.”

Your stomach coils tight, aching for more friction, more anything.

“Yes,” you breathe, “please, I wanna come, I—”

He’s already moving.

Stack pushes back from the chair, standing over you, belt undone, slacks already open. His cock is hard and thick, flushed and leaking—and you whimper.

He grabs you and pulls you up, paying no mind to the tremble in your knees. He sinks back into the chair. The air smells like leather, sex, and the remnants of his whiskey.

“Then come sit on it, sweetheart,” he purrs, voice like velvet soaked in bourbon. “Y’wanna come so bad, ride it. Lemme see you work for it.”

Your breath catches.

The moment you sink down on him, you feel everything. Stretching. Burning. Perfect.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, gripping your waist like he owns you. “Takin’ all of me like that? This pussy was made for me. Squeezin’ like she knows it.”

You grind your hips slowly, and he throws his head back with a growl.

“Oh, you gon' work for it now, dollface?” He catches your chin in his hand, eyes sharp and wolfish. “Make me proud. Show me how much you want it.”

You ride him like it’s salvation. Like your whole body is made to give him this—the wet slap of your skin against his echoing against the office walls, your moans tangled with his praises and filth.

“That’s it… that’s my girl. So needy, so damn good for me. Drippin’ all over my cock—look at this mess you makin’. That pussy got no shame, huh?”

You sob out something close to Stack’s name, but it’s broken. Ruined.

“You gonna come now, sugar?” he taunts, voice dropping to a gravel-dragging growl. “Gonna soak me while you cry for it?”

You nod, trembling. His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to make sure you feel it.

“Do it, babygirl. Come for me. Let me feel that sweet lil' cunt milk me like she means it.”

Your orgasm hits like lightening—sharp and shattering. You cry out as your body locks up around him, your thighs quaking, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Stack rides it out, hips thrusting up slow and deep, chasing his own end.

When he comes, he growls your name—low and primal—his hands pulling you down onto him, burying himself to the hilt.

After, there’s just the sound of your ragged breaths, your body draped against his chest, his thumb lazily stroking your bare spine.

“Y’keep teasin' me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your temple, voice like a promise and a threat, “and I’m never lettin’ you outta this chair again.”

[dippindaz]

girlhood is a spectrum

[dippindaz]

I hate when a tiny stupid thing pushes you over the edge and makes you freak the fuck out because it makes you look like a completely irrational tar pit of a human being. Like no I promise this is warranted just maybe not about that specifically I swear I'm well adjusted. Come closer stick your fingers in my cage

[dippindaz]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEEAAASSEEE I’m literally begging atp but could you possibly write a Remmick x Arab reader fic? Our representation is literally either us being villains or just orientalist 😭

The reader doesn’t have to be from any specific country but if you made her Jordanian that would be awesome omg

when I was watching Sinners and seeing that rocky road to Dublin scene for the first time it made me realize how similar traditional Irish dancing is to Dabke esp with everyone being in a circle in that scene

As for the fic itself maybe some fluff and cultural exchange? I’m no historian but I’m pretty sure the Arab community in Mississippi during the 1930’s was basically zero to none so maybe the two meet and bond over being far from home or not exactly having a community of their own people in the Delta? I don’t want this to sound cringe but could you maybe make the reader shy or wary of him at first but then she realizes “oh this guy just looks creepy he’s not all bad ig” and then they slowly grow fond of each other (I’m just a total sap ok don’t come at me)

PLS THIS IS LITERALLY MY SECOND REQUEST EVER ON TUMBLR AND THE FIRST PERSON NEVER RESPONDED AND STILL POSTS 😭💔💔💔

obviously if you don’t wanna write it or not comfortable I won’t force you to! Just trying to read a fic with a reader like me 😭😭😭 anyways have a good day/night! 🤓

Omg I would love to!! We definitely more Arab representation in media. Also I’m a sap too, don’t you worry ❤️❤️ I love your idea, I think it’s so cute. I apologize in advance if Remmick is OOC, I'm not used to a slow-burn fluff with him just yet and I'm not sure how I feel about how it turned out. I also apologize in advance if any of the Arabic words, foods, etc. are out of place or wouldn't generally be used in Jordan at the time, I tried my best while still getting this out as swiftly as I could for you! I hope you enjoy and that it wasn't executed too terribly :)

Warnings: Poorly typed southern accent, mentions of microaggressions, mention of death(reader's mom), Random non-canon Remmick backstory for the sake of it, it's really just fluff

The bell above the store door chimed soft and slow. Just as you were heading to lock it. You paused, shoulders slumped from the weight of a long day.

Outside, the evening clung thick with heat and the buzz of cicadas. The sun had just dipped below the tree line, and the world was bleeding gold at the edges.

He stepped inside like he owned the dark.

Tall. Sharp-featured. Pale in a way that wasn’t sickly, just... untouched. Like sunlight had never once laid a finger on him. He wore a white shirt, one of his suspenders just hanging off his pants, like he had been in a rush. Or hadn't planned to stop anywhere.

But it was his eyes that made you freeze. Not cruel. Just... still. Quiet, in a way that didn’t quite fit.

"Just in time," he said, voice low and brushed with a Southern drawl—soft and drawn out, like molasses sliding off a spoon. Not the kind of accent that came from growing up with it. More like he’d borrowed it.

You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t tell if it was nerves or sense tightening your throat. He looked like the kind of man small towns whispered about. And your baba always said not to trust men who walked alone after dark.

"We’re about to close," you said carefully. Your voice carried the curl of an accent, softened over time but still there. You didn’t hide it, but you didn’t offer it either.

He smiled, crooked and faint. "Only a minute. Jus' need a few things."

You watched him move down the aisle, slow and deliberate. He didn’t touch anything at first, like he was careful not to disturb the air. Like he knew how people looked at him.

Eventually, he returned with a small handful of goods—flour, matches, a tin of coffee, and... tea. Most Americans you met didn't care for the stuff.

"You’re not from around here," you said before you could stop yourself. The words just slipped out.

He chuckled low in his throat. "Reckon that makes two of us."

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. But really, you didn't know what you were expecting.

"My family’s from Jordan," you said after a beat. You weren’t sure why you were telling him. Maybe it was just nice to talk to someone who didn't give you that look. The kind that said 'you don't belong.'

He gave a slow nod. His expression didn’t soften, exactly—but it shifted. Not pity. Understanding.

"Long road from home, darlin'," he said. Then, almost like an afterthought: "Ireland. Long time ago."

"I figured you were Southern," you said, squinting a little.

He smirked. "Learned t' sound like it."

There was a whole story tucked behind those words that he wasn’t planning to tell.

Silence settled again, but this one felt different. Not strained—just still.

You handed over the paper bag of goods, and when his hand brushed yours, you nearly flinched. Cold. Too cold for someone who’d been walking around in Delta heat.

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure why.

He nodded his thanks and turned to leave. Paused, like he might say something more. Then he stepped out into the dusk like he belonged to it.

The second time he came in, it was raining. Not the polite kind of Southern rain that tapped on windows and kissed your shoulders. No—this was the angry kind, the kind that flooded ditches, turned roads into rivers, and made the world shine with broken moonlight.

You were sweeping near the door, already aching to go home, when the bell chimed again.

He had a coat on this time—fraying at the edges. But he still had those same eyes. He was damp, but not soaked. It was like the storm had parted to let him through.

You didn’t jump this time.

"You again," you murmured, quieter than you meant to.

"Me again," he said with a slight tilt of his head. "Storm like this, figured your shelves might be feelin’ lonelier than usual."

"Hard to be lonelier than usual," you said.

He smiled. And this time, it didn’t unsettle you. Not really. He still had a habit of watching you without blinking, and it still made your skin warm in a way you didn’t quite understand. But it didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

Tonight, he only brought one thing to the counter: a small tin of cardamom.

You stared at it when he set it down. "You know what this is?"

"Nah," he said. “But smells familiar.”

Your fingers brushed the edge of the tin. "We use it in coffee. Arabic-style. Stronger than most folks drink around here. My mother used to make it back home."

He nodded slowly. "Ya miss it."

It wasn’t a question. You looked up at him, and the sound of the rain filled the space between you. The only answer you had was a small shrug.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t ask about Jordan.

Didn’t ask about your accent.

Didn’t ask why you always looked like you were waiting for something to go wrong.

He just let the silence be. And somehow, that meant more than anything else.

"Do you—" you started, then faltered. The words caught in your throat, but he was watching you, patient.

You tried again. "Do you ever miss where you’re from?"

Remmick’s gaze shifted—not away from you, but through you, like he was looking back in time. Somewhere far.

"Been a long time," he said finally. "But yeah. Sometimes. Smell o' peat smoke. Dances n' music..."

Your breath caught. You didn’t know why it made your chest ache. But it did.

You glanced at the clock. Technically closed ten minutes ago. If your uncle walked in now and found you lingering with a strange man after hours, he’d tan your hide with a wooden spoon.

Still, your hand reached for a tin of coffee from the shelf behind you.

"There is a kettle in the back," you said, like it wasn’t the strangest offer you’d ever made. “If you want to try it."

He blinked—slowly, once. "Ya sure?"

"No," you admitted, half a smile curling at your mouth. "But I’m doing it anyway."

The kettle hissed and spat on the portable burner in the back of the store, heat curling the faint scent of cardamom into the room. You moved through the motions with care—more nerves than ritual—measuring the coffee grounds and spices into the long-handled rakweh you kept tucked behind the tea tins.

You never used it at work. Just kept it there like a stone from home in your pocket.

Tonight, it felt like it had been waiting for this moment.

Remmick lingered near the wall. Not quite looming, but still. Always still.

He didn’t touch anything. Just watched you with that strange, quiet patience—like if he stayed still long enough, he wouldn’t spook you.

You weren’t sure if it was working.

"Have you had Arabic coffee before?" you asked, not looking up.

"No, ma’am," he said, voice low and rough around the edges. "Smelled it—years back. Lil' café in Marseille. Ain't go inside though."

"You should’ve," you said. You risked a glance. "Would’ve changed your life."

His smile was small but sincere. “Might be changin’ it now.”

You blinked, eyes darting away again, heart suddenly a little too loud in your chest.

The coffee began to froth at the edges. You caught it just in time, taking the rakweh off the flame and pouring the thick, dark liquid into two mismatched cups. Yours was chipped blue porcelain. His was plain white, with age lines in the glaze like veins.

You handed him his cup carefully. His fingers brushed yours again—still cold. But this time, it didn’t startle you.

He took a small sip, eyes fixed on you over the rim. The seconds stretched. Then he gave a low, contented hum. "Well now… ain't that somethin'."

You smiled, tension bleeding out of your shoulders. "You say that like you're surprised."

"I am," he said, taking another sip. "Most things… they lose their flavor after bit. But this—" He paused, savoring the taste. "This sticks to the bones."

You weren’t sure what he meant by that. But something about it hit deep anyway.

You wrapped both hands around your own cup, grounding yourself in the warmth.

"My mother used to say the bitterness teaches you patience," you murmured. "You can’t drink it fast. You have to sit with it."

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense to him. "Sounds like a wise woman."

"She was," you said, then corrected softly, "Is."

A beat passed.

"She still back in Jordan?"

You shook your head. "No. She passed a few years ago. Before we came here."

You didn’t usually say that out loud. Not with people from town. But somehow, with him, it didn’t feel like giving anything away. It just felt… safe.

"I’m real sorry," he said. Quiet. Sincere. Mot like someone who’d been taught what to say. Like someone who knew.

You nodded, eyes on the steam curling from your cup. "It’s alright. Some days I still forget she’s gone."

He let out a breath, like he’d been holding it. "I know that kind’a forgettin'."

You looked up.

There was something in the way he said it—too deep, too worn. Like someone who’d had more time than he knew what to do with.

Your gaze lingered longer than you meant to.

He didn’t look away.

"You been here long?" he asked, breaking the silence without breaking the calm.

"Couple years." You took another sip. "Still feels like we’re visiting, though. Like one morning, we’ll wake up back in Madaba. And all this will be a dream."

"That’s the thing 'bout time," he said, swirling the coffee in his cup. "It runs forward… but memory walks backward."

You blinked. "That’s oddly poetic."

He gave a half-smile. "Got my moments."

You let out a quiet laugh, finally easing into your seat.

He watched you with that same stillness—but now, it didn’t feel like study. It felt like interest. Honest-to-God interest.

A silence settled again. This one was warm. Present.

You shifted slightly. "You can stay a few more minutes," you murmured. "If you want. Until the rain lets up."

He didn’t move right away. Just lifted his cup in a small toast.

"I’d like that."

As the rain lightened and the night pressed close against the store windows, neither of you seemed in any rush to move. The coffee had gone cool in your hands, but neither of you noticed.

When Remmick finally stood to leave, he thanked you in that same low drawl—gentle, like the words weren’t meant to startle the quiet between you. He tipped his head as he reached the door, like he wasn’t quite sure how to say goodbye.

You told yourself it was just a cup of coffee.

Just a storm.

Just a stranger who didn’t feel so strange anymore.

But when he left, the back room felt emptier than it had a few hours ago.

After that night, you saw him more often.

Always just before closing. Always with something in hand—a half-wrinkled list, a vague request, an excuse that never sounded that convincing. Some nights it was salt and canned peaches. Other times, just a tin of tobacco he never seemed to use. Once, he asked if you sold fabric dye. You didn’t.

You pretended not to notice how he always looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. Pretended not to notice how his eyes shifted color in certain lights.

Pretended not to feel the way your chest tightened when the bell above the door rang at dusk.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Just the novelty of being seen for once—as more than an accent, more than a curiosity in a town that still hadn’t learned how to pronounce your name.

Still, he listened.

He never asked too much at once. But he remembered things. The kind of man who would bring back a small jar of dried mint from a shop in another town because he "figured you might be runnin’ low."

The kind who said little—but meant all of it.

And you?

You found yourself waiting.

Not in a daydreaming, hopeful kind of way—but in that quiet, practical way you waited for something good that, maybe… just maybe, wouldn’t go bad.

The bell above the door chimed—just as the last sliver of sunlight dipped below the trees.

You didn’t even flinch this time. Just glanced up from where you were wiping down the counter, already knowing it would be him.

Neither of you said anything at first. His silhouette was familiar now.

He smelled like cedar smoke and fresh rain, and the tension you didn’t know you’d been carrying all day started to slip from your shoulders.

"Evenin'," he said, a little softer than usual.

"You’re late," you teased, folding the rag in your hands.

He smirked. "Y'clock runs fast."

You moved toward the counter, trying to ignore the flicker of nerves behind your ribs. Not fear—not anymore, not with him. Just… anticipation.

You reached beneath the counter and brought out a small metal tin wrapped in a faded cloth.

He looked at it, then at you. "What’s this?"

"They’re called ma’amoul," you said, setting the tin between you. "Date cookies. We make them for—yaʿni... weddings, Eid... sometimes just when we miss home."

His brow knit slightly. "You made these?"

You nodded, a little more shyly than you'd meant to. "Teta—my grandmother—used to say the filling had to be sweet enough to make people smile, but not so sweet it made their teeth ache."

You gave a small shrug. "I don’t know if I got it right."

You didn’t meet his eyes as you untied the cloth. The lid gave a soft click as you opened it. Inside, the cookies were golden and dusted with powdered sugar, each one marked with the imprint of a carved mold. Not perfect—but careful.

"I thought…" You hesitated. "You're always telling me about where you've been, I thought you might like to try something from where I've been."

He didn’t reach for one. Not right away.

Instead, he just stared. Too long. Long enough to make you shift where you stood.

You glanced up—and saw it.

Not hunger.

Not amusement.

Just—surprise. Raw, quiet surprise. Like no one had done something kind for him in a very long time.

His mouth parted slightly, but whatever words had formed caught behind his teeth.

You looked away, flustered. "You don’t have to eat them. I just—"

"No," he said quickly—too quick. "No. I—"

He stopped again, exhaled slow, steady. When he looked at you, something behind his eyes had cracked open, just a little.

"Mighty kind of you," he said. "More’n kind."

You blinked. "It’s just cookies."

He shook his head. "Ain't just anythin'. Not when given like this."

He reached out, careful, picking one up like it might fall apart in his hands. Brought it to his mouth. Took a bite.

His eyes fluttered shut.

You waited, nerves coiled tight again.

Then he swallowed, slow and deliberate. "Ya got it right, darlin'," he murmured. "Exactly right."

You smiled then. Soft. Crooked. This time, you didn’t bother to hide it.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full.

He kept the tin close, fingers resting lightly on the edge, like it meant more than he knew how to say. Like it was proof of something he’d been waiting a long time to be offered.

"Thank you," he said again.

This time, the words weren’t smooth or polished.

They were real.

You nodded once, unsure what to say, and he didn’t press.

He stayed a little longer after that. Not because he asked to—but because you didn’t ask him to leave.

The store had been closed for over an hour now. The windows fogged from the rain, the floor swept clean, and the air was warm with the scent of cloves and lemon soap.

Remmick sat by the back shelf, unusually still—even for him. His coat hung neatly on the hook by the door, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

You weren't usually good with silence.

But tonight felt easy.

You poured two small glasses of tea, steeped dark with mint, and passed one to him. He took it gently, fingers brushing yours—this time with no hesitation, no flinch.

He sat with the cup for a long while, watching the steam rise.

"You said somethin' last time," he said at last, voice low. "When ya laughed. You looked at me and said a word like… 'ya za—zalam'?"

You blinked, then smiled. "ya zalameh," You corrected. "It just means 'man.' Like—'dude'. Casual."

He nodded, slow. "You said it like it meant more."

You shrugged. "Only for people who earn it."

That sat between you for a long beat.

He traced his thumb along the rim of the glass.

"Teach me somethin' else," he said after a moment. "A word that matters t'you."

You tilted your head, thoughtful.

Then, softly: "Ghorbeh."

He looked at you, waiting.

"It means... estrangement. Or exile. But not just about distance. It’s also the feeling. Of being far from home, even when you’re standing still. That kind of loneliness."

His gaze didn’t leave yours. "Y'carry that close."

"I live in it," you said, honest and unguarded.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, once. Thoughtfully. Like the word had landed hard somewhere in him.

Then he repeated it, slowly: "Ghorbeh."

His accent twisted it a little, but you didn’t mind. It still sounded safe in his voice. Strange, maybe, but safe.

He looked down into his tea, voice quieter than usual.

"Reckon I been in that place a long while," he said. "Walkin' around in it."

You looked at him—really looked. Not just at his too-pale skin or his strange stillness, but at the ache underneath all that.

The kind of ache you recognized like a scar.

So you said, simply:

"Well... maybe we can live there together."

He looked up at that. And for the first time, there was a real warmth behind those cold blue eyes—soft and bright, like something fragile finally waking up.

It wasn’t a grand shift, what came after that night.

No declarations.

No sudden changes.

Just a quiet unfolding—like something had finally been named between you, even if neither of you said it out loud.

He started showing up earlier.

Still after sundown, but closer now. With the last trace of dusk still clinging to the windows, painting the store in a dim gold.

Sometimes he’d sit behind the counter with you, shoulder just barely brushing yours, the two of you sinking into silences that didn’t feel empty.

Other times he came with little offerings in his pockets—odd things, quiet things.

An old matchbook from a jazz club in New Orleans.

A tin of ribbons, the colors faded but still close to the embroidery on your thobes.

A cracked piece of sea glass, blue as river ice.

"Found it, long time ago," he said once, turning it over in his palm. "Somewhere colder."

You never asked how old any of it really was. And he never offered.

But something in you knew the answers were older than they ought to be.

One night, the wind turned sharp—the kind that came off the river and bit through your coat no matter how many layers you wore. Remmick was late.

You were locking up when he appeared beside you, near soundless as always.

You didn’t flinch.

Just exhaled, your breath fogging between you. "You scared me the first time you did that."

His mouth curved. "Y'didn’t run."

"Didn’t mean I wasn’t thinkin’ about it."

You tried to make it light, but your arms had wrapped tight around yourself, hands gripping your elbows. You’d left your coat inside—too stubborn or too rushed to go back—and now your fingertips were stiff, aching.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He didn’t say anything. Just shrugged out of his own coat in one smooth motion and held it out to you.

It was heavier than you expected—warm from where it had rested against him, and smelling of cedar smoke, rain, and something older beneath it all. Something hard to name.

You hesitated. "You’ll freeze."

He gave a small shake of his head, like it barely mattered. "Don’t feel it much."

You didn’t ask what he meant by that. Not really. Just slipped into the coat. It swallowed you whole, hanging off your shoulders like it was meant to protect you.

He stepped close to adjust the collar without asking, fingers brushing your jaw for the briefest second.

You didn’t pull away.

"I'll walk you back," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

And that made your heart flutter.

The two of you moved quietly through the backstreets, past shuttered storefronts and sagging porches. The wind tugged at the trees like it wanted to uproot something, but under his coat, you stayed warm.

You caught the scent of him again—familiar now—and it made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

There was nothing to say that wouldn’t make the moment smaller.

At one point, the wind rose sudden and sharp, and instinctively, you stepped a little closer. His arm brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

When you reached your door, you started to slip out of the coat.

"Keep it," he said, soft.

"I’ll bring it back."

He looked at you a moment. Long. Steady. "Ain’t no rush."

The porch light flickered above you, casting the angles of his face in amber and shadow. His eyes looked silver in the low light—but warmer than you’d ever seen them.

You opened your mouth. Thought maybe you’d say thank you. Or maybe something else entirely.

But the words never made it out.

So instead, you stepped inside.

His coat still wrapped around you like a secret.

And for a while after the door shut behind you, you just stood there, back pressed to the wood, breathing him in.

The store was quiet tonight, lit only by the low glow of the front lantern and the soft hum of the radio, some slow, warbling tune drifting lazily through the room.

You were behind the counter, half-reading, half-waiting—not that you’d ever admit it out loud.

He showed up later than normal. But you expected it tonight. You'd noticed the pattern, every two days he showed up late.

You looked up. "Hey."

Remmick gave a small nod, hands in his pant pockets, his posture loose. "Didn’t think I’d catch ya tonight."

You shrugged, trying for lightness. "Didn’t think I’d see you again after I held your coat hostage."

A flicker of amusement touched his face. "Wouldn’t’ve blamed you."

"I brought it this time," you said.

You bent to pull it out from beneath the counter—folded neatly, soft, still faintly carrying your scent. You’d thought about washing it. You hadn’t.

Some part of you knew he’d notice.

You held it out to him.

He stepped closer to take it. His hand brushed yours in the exchange.

And you didn’t let go—not right away.

Your fingers lingered. Just a second. Just long enough.

Long enough to remember the cold of his skin.

Long enough that his eyes lifted to yours—startled, soft, and waiting.

You swallowed. "Thank you. For lending it to me."

"I would again," he said, voice low and a little rough. "If y'ever needed."

He held the coat now in both hands, looking down at it like it meant more than he could say.

Then, quieter than breath: "Smells like you."

Your gaze jerked up—unsure if you’d heard right.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look embarrassed. He looked... reverent.

His thumb brushed slowly over the collar, as if committing it to memory. Then he slipped it on.

The moment stretched.

Outside, the world went on—crickets, rustling trees, the low sigh of night air.

But inside, it was just the two of you.

And the steady, silent thrum of something blooming.

You reached out, smoothing a wrinkle along the sleeve, barely touching him.

"There," you murmured. "Good as new."

"It ain't," His voice rasped. "Better than, now."

Your eyes met his. You hadn’t meant to linger.

The coat had been returned, words exchanged. That should’ve been the end of it.

But neither of you moved.

You leaned a little against the counter, watching him—not for any reason you’d admit. Just because it felt natural now.

After a long beat, you asked, "Do you ever get used to it?"

His head tipped slightly, that familiar quiet curiosity returning. "Used t' what?"

You hesitated. "Being... somewhere that doesn’t feel like it fits. Like you’re wearin’ someone else’s skin... in someone else’s place."

His eyes, those pale frostbitten blues, softened—not pitying. Just knowing.

"No," he said. "Y'don’t get used to it. Y'jus' learn to carry it quieter, darlin'."

That made your chest ache in that deep, familiar way.

You dropped your gaze to the counter, tracing a shallow groove in the wood with your fingertip.

"Sometimes I still think in Arabic before I speak," you murmured. "Even simple words. I try to say 'tea' or 'home' or 'enough' in English, and it comes out wrong. Like the meaning left with the sound."

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened, the way he always did—still as dusk, but never distant.

"I used to think we’d only stay here a little while. My father always talked like we had one foot back in Amman. But now it’s been years."

You drew a slow breath. "The town forgets that. Every time someone mutters 'foreigner' like I won't catch it, I remember. And I still find myself keeping quiet, just so they don’t hear my mother tongue and decide what I am from that alone."

A silence stretched between you. Delicate. Not heavy—but full.

Then, his voice, low and slow:

"I used t' speak Irish. Gaelic. My mama used to sing all sorts o' songs in it. I c'n still hear her voice, even when I ain't remember what the words mean."

You looked up at him. The lantern light softened the angles of his face, made the hollows more human.

"She passed when I was a boy," he continued. "Daddy went mean soon after. Drank 'til there wasn't nothin' left but bitterness. Left soon as I could. Figured I’d be lonely on my own terms."

You frowned, quiet. "You were alone?"

"Been alone longer than I could ya."

He didn't flinch when he said it—but something in the words bent. Not regret. Just the weight of years worn smooth by time.

Then, gently, you said:

"You don't feel like a stranger to me."

That made him still. Not the usual stillness—this was sharper. His hands flexed. His eyes found yours, searching, waiting for the catch. The retraction. But you didn’t take it back.

You just offered it—steady as breath. A candle cupped between hands.

"I don't know why," you admitted, voice softer than the low hum of the radio. "But when you're here… I don't feel so far from home."

He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough. Close enough for you to see the faint ridges of a long-healed scar along his jaw, the slight curl of his hair near the nape of his neck.

"Ion know what I am to you," he said, voice roughened with honesty. "But when I walk outta this place… I carry y'with me."

You didn't breathe for a moment.

His words sank into you like warmth into cold hands—slow, aching, real.

No charm behind them. No coaxing. Just truth, laid bare.

Then came the silence—the kind you don’t want to break.

The kind that holds too much.

You didn’t pull away. He didn’t step back.

You just stood there, close enough to feel the chill of him meeting the heat of the room, his hand brushing yours where it rested on the counter.

It was barely contact. But the air shifted—like a hush moving through cotton fields.

Soft. Expectant.

You looked up.

He didn’t look away.

There was something in his face that startled you—not hunger, not longing.

Hope.

Like he didn’t quite believe you were real.

But he wanted to.

Your voice came small. "You can."

He blinked. "What?"

"You can... take me with you." You felt the heat crawl up your neck even as the words left you. "If you want."

The silence stretched—just one breath too long to feel safe.

And then—slowly, like it hurt to move too fast—Remmick lifted a hand.

It hovered, uncertain, near your cheek.

He waited. A breath. Another.

And when you didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, he let his palm settle against your skin.

Cool. Careful.

His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone—gentle as rain.

You leaned into it, just barely.

But that was all he needed.

He bent his head down—slowly, reverently—like the moment might break if rushed.

And when his lips met yours, it wasn’t fire.

It was familiar.

Like something remembered.

Like something sacred.

His mouth was cool. Yours, warm. And where they met—it felt like balance.

He didn’t press. Didn’t claim.

He kissed like a man afraid to take too much. Like this was something he’d never thought he’d be allowed to hold again.

You felt his breath tremble.

His hand cradled your face like something breakable. The other remained on the counter next to yours.

When he finally pulled away—just barely—his forehead stayed against yours. Eyes still closed.

You whispered, "Was that okay?"

A breathless sound slipped from him—something between a laugh and a prayer.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Yeah."

And you stayed like that.

No need to rush forward. No need to speak.

Just the warmth between you. The quiet.

The relief of being known and not turned away.

Outside, the crickets sang.

And inside—something ancient, aching, and beautiful finally, finally softened.