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cherryheairt · 2 days ago

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Last Time (I Seen the Sun)

req: HI! could you do a remmick imagine but instead of him coming for Sammie's voice he comes for his sister because he feels a soul tie to her almost like soulmates

Remmick x f!black!reader

Everything about looks left to imagination, but obv is Sammie's twin sister lol

This really ran away from me.

wc: 10.3k

cw: remmick, religious disbelief, ultimatum, (don't like dont read), thirsting after sketch men, f!r is an adult, dark!remmick? kinda but not crazy? you'll see

You avoided Sammie's knowing eyes as the Juke started to come to life.

Bo was busying himself setting up the bar while Grace steadily worked at the sign that would be the finishing touch on the old mill.

Annie was flittering between the back of house and the trucks outside to get a head start on the cooking for the night: prepping vegetables and mixing the seasonings that would later garnish the heavenly plates of catfish that you remembered oh-so-fondly from your childhood. That was, before Smoke and Stack left for Chicago to find their way in the world. You didn't see much of her after that, especially not after the loss of Smoke and her went through years back. You don't think either truly recovered from it—or if anyone could.

Delta Slim was at the little stage in the back, humming to himself and smoothing aged hands over the second hand piano like meeting an old friend again.

Your cousins were who-knows-where, counting beer and cash and whispering to each other about complicated things you'd rather not stress yourself about. You had a good hunch that a lot of their new money was come by in less than favorable ways, and sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.

You sat in your sunday best, feeling slightly out of place although tonight you knew you'd have to be the center of attention. At least you had Sammie, still. Your pillar when things got rough, especially at home. You were both the eldest of your parent's children, deemed the caretakers and the legacy followers. Sammie more so than you, who was expected to follow in father's footsteps and become the next town Preacher. Though, you weren't let off lightly and allowed to slack off. All of the young Clarksdale girls looked up to you for example, and all of the older women expected you to be the epitome of a perfect and pure young lady since you were nothing but a babe.

Still, although your father forbade it outside of the Church choir, you and Sammie found time in your late nights to practice. After everyone had gone to sleep for the night, the small Church was a secluded paradise where everything else seemed to fade away. Good things could only last so long until they were ripped from under your feet.

The betrayal to your parents was eating away at your stomach. The image of your father's dark eyes glaring at you as you followed Sammie outside of the Church and into the twins’ car haunted you every time you blinked. The frown that tugged at your mother's face tugged at your own unconsciously.

“You're not gonna throw up all o'er the stage, now, are you?” Slim asked, noticing your expression and knuckles tightening against your guitar's neck.

“No, sir.” You managed, swallowing back bile and reminding yourself that the bitter taste on your tongue was just your mind playing tricks on you.

“Good. ‘Cause I'm not the one that'd clean it up.” Even if it was your first day with Slim, you could tell he had a good heart. A good soul. Checking on you subtly while he was busy tuning the piano.

You smiled weakly in response, brushing your tongue over your teeth in some attempt at grounding yourself.

‘You keep dancing with the devil, girl, one day he'll follow you home.’ Your mother's warnings were a gentler version of your father's preaching. You'd be wise to listen to your parents, yes, but then you'd also be stuck in the outskirts of Clarksdale your entire life, being reduced to the Preacher's sister and the wife of some faceless man.

You'd never played in front of a crowd before, not like Slim had. Not without the rest of the Church singing with you. Even then, your voice was hidden beneath the masses and your tone muted and dull with the repetitive hymns.

Smoke and Stack were practically throwing you to the wolves with tonight's opening performance. One mistake, and it could affect their business as well as any future you could have possibly gotten a chance at. Just one chance, that's all you needed. Prove to everyone, and yourself, that you weren't just blowing smoke up your ass about your talent.

A drink appeared in front of your eyes, and you looked up to see your brother holding out one of the twins’ Irish brewed beers.

“The people are gettin’ antsy.” Sammie spoke up casually, walking up from a conversation with one of said people from the faceless crowd. It was all too much and yet nothing compared to your dreams.

You took it, wetting your lips with a slight peak of tongue before popping open the bottle, clinking necks with Sammie's own and taking a hearty gulp. Cringing at the bitter toffee flavour and tracing your fingertip over the narrow rim in favor of taking another.

“You need me to go solo?” He asked after a beat of silence. He could, he really could. Sammie had a certain talent of captivating people, getting lost in his music and transcending the Earth. You stayed grounded in times he was up in the clouds, all too aware of everything to be carefree.

“Nah.” You assured, nudging his knee with your own. “I can do this.”

He smiled, and let his gaze follow the mingling crowd and the individuals making it up. A particular lady caught his eye—perhaps a bit too old for him to be biting at her heels, but who were you to judge your brother's whims?—and he never took them off of her for more than a few seconds as she weaved around men and women like a dove.

And even with a million things racing through your mind, you could always make room for a bit of teasing. Especially with Sammie, the only one who would tolerate it. “That's the woman from the station, ain't she?”

Sammie's brows lifted to his forehead like he'd been caught in a scandal. “Could be. There's a lotta folks from the station here.”

“Right.” You hummed. “Her husband didn't join her, what a pity to dance alone.”

Before Sammie could stammer out some urged reply, the elephant in the room caught both of your attention. A woman, skin pale and cheeks rosy, striding through people like no one m's business.

“Is that. . .?” Sammie trailed, sounding nervous at the implication.

“Stack's girl.” You narrowed your eyes, shocked but not entirely disappointed at Mary's appearance. From Mary and Stack's encounter at the station, you had figured she wanted nothing to do with him or his new joint. Nothing to do with her past at all. You'd never met her up front, but heard of her from murmurs throughout the town about her white husband saving her from the prejudice her mama went through. She was furious, and understandably so with how he handled their ‘break-up’ years prior. Marrying her off like some broodmare and calling it protection. You couldn't personally understand her tribulations, but they were certainly an underlying fear of yours. Being hidden behind a man was the last thing you wanted, and as much as you loved your brother you would sure as hell work your ass off to be on the center of your own stage.

“I wouldn't let ‘er hear you say that.” Sammie huffed, dusting himself off and moving to approach her, likely to convince the woman to leave before the twins caught wind of her arrival. You snickered as you watched her get defensive immediately, shouldering past him on her way to the bar where Grace was pouring drinks. It only took a minute of them sitting down and speaking in hushed tones for Stack to catch sight like a hawk watching his skies and all the prey within his sight, swooping down and taking Mary aside to deal with their matters alone. Sammie shuffled his way back to you, looking more like a scolded child than he had been when you left the church with your father’s scornful stare on your necks.

Patting his shoulders, you welcomed him back without a peep, despite the effort it took.

It was Smoke who approached you, leaving Annie's side from the stockrooms to urge you up on your feet.

“It's gon’ be dawn before the two of you stop draggin’ your feet.” He started, exasperated though you could tell it wasn't stemming from you and Sammie. You didn't pry, just stood up and straightened your shoulders, trying your best to appear collected.

Shaking your hands out, you rested them atop the strings of your old guitar—a double gift from the twins, of course—and felt Sam move to do the same beside you. You met his eyes, noticing how his nerves began to wash away even when eyes turned to the two of you. People surrounded you from all sides as you stepped from the stage and onto the leveled floor of the mill. Stack and Smoke stood at opposite pillars, wearing eager and somber expressions respectively. Annie stopped serving plates and fixed her attention on the two of you like her customers did, an expecting look on her serious face. Slim was still up on the stage, allowing you your own time to shine before he touched the piano.

A strum, then another.

Sammie plucked at his guitar, silencing the room until it was nothing but your music and quiet leftovers murmurs.

“Something I've been wanting to tell ya.” He reverberated, deep voice pulling the crowd in. “For a long time.”

Your head bobbed in time with your foot as you kept time, backing him up with chords.

“It might hurt ya, hope you don't mind. Well, I was just a boy, ‘bout eight years old. Threw me a bible, on that Mississippi road.”

Finally, you joined him, voices harmonizing with his vibrato baritone and your own melodic one. “See, I love ya papa, you did all you could. They say the truth hurts. So I lied to you.”

“Yes, I lied to you. I love the blues.”

The hums filled the room, and soon the crowd started dancing and flowing like water all around you, breaking off into pairs or trios, or simply dancing all alone like no one watched. Grace brought Bo out from the back, enticing her husband to dance with her with large grins on their faces. Mary and Stack two-stepped under the warm lights and for one night they could finally be together after years apart, laughter breaking through music and stomps. Annie glided through the dancefloor with Smoke close behind, never distant for too long and always making some kind of contact as they swayed to their own rhythm.

“Somebody take me in your arms tonight,” The Juke grew impossibly hot, sweat beaded on your brow and exposed neck and chest but you kept on. It was exhilarating to be surrounded by so much movement and familiarity, a place where no one could stop you or hold you back.

For the first night of your life, you felt alive.

Alive in a way you never could back home.

Alive in a way the church could never make you feel within those caging walls.

For once, the blood rushing through your veins and heart pumping against your chest like it was trying to escape wasn't because of fear or frustration, but jubilation and acceptance.

The Juke continued to grow in heat and noise as bodies mingled and danced, feet stomped, and voices sang to their heart's desire. It felt like raging fire burning through around you and throughout the old floorboards. Your body was weightless, floating from your spot and rising up to the stars when your eyes closed to revel in the novel feeling.

Sammie’s back was against yours as you hummed and sang in tandem, grounding you and bringing you back to earth.

“So preach on, speak your words.”

For a moment, a mere millisecond in that Juke, you swore you saw a glimpse of the impossible. Dancers dressed in large ornate gowns dancing like they'd burn a hole through the floor from their passion alone, guitarists striking foreign chords with shining, sharp instruments and dressed in tight, glossy clothing, and twirling women who weaved gracefully around people like they didn't need to see their surroundings to understand it. Within the same moment they were gone, replaced by the same people you'd seen all night. You blamed it on the strange beer although you'd only taken one sip, ignoring the tightening feeling in your stomach from your mother's words. They weren't true, devils and spiritual communicators were simply traditionalists’ way of coping with the things not yet understood. Your music was life, never death. You'd stand by that belief ‘til the day you died.

“I love the blues.”

Looking around the Juke Joint, experiencing the best night of your life thus far, you knew for absolute certain that you'd never let yourself be trapped in that small, forgotten corner of Mississippi.

You went upstairs to take a small breather when Sammie went off with the train station woman, letting the cool night's air wash over you before you went back down to dance again.

A smile tugged at your lips as you sat at the opened upstairs docking dock door, the vulnerable position not bothering you but instead freeing you. Your legs swung from the second floor, crossing at the ankles while you wrapped a borrowed silky shawl around your shoulders. From your view you could see cars parked in the dirt and gravel, and all the stars blanketing them. It was hard to see in the near pitch-black, but the Juke's entrance light illuminated at least thirty feet out, slowly fading into dark the further from the joint you watched.

It was only a few minutes of your solitude before it was interrupted. Not directly, but the shadows of distant figures gradually growing as the light cast onto them caught your full attention. Grasping your hands around the edges of the old wood, you carefully leaned to catch a better look.

It was three people, all dressed fairly fine and modestly and striding up to the door where Cornbread was guarding dutifully. They seemed to carry an easy air of confidence and self-assurance, though any white person walking around in Clarksdale and surely any other town in the South was the same. They all were carbon copies of each other: cocky, predictable, prejudiced, and spiteful even as the laws progressed in favor of you. If anything, it made some even angrier at the very idea of black folk being equal to them. In their eyes, there was nothing worse.

Were they here for trouble?

“. . .don't mind us coming in, right?” The center man asked Cornbread. “We hungry as dogs.” The other man and woman laughed at his quip, trying to ease the obvious tension and apprehension that they created just by approaching.

They each carried different instruments leisurely either strapped to their backs or held under their arms. A banjo, a violin, and a guitar. Not an odd choice, but definitely a calculated one. Easy to travel with and even easier to claim as stolen.

The twins’ voices carried from the doorway as the conversation went on. You only heard bits and pieces when Cornbread spoke to them, but now it was clearer.

“I don't think so.” Smoke said firmly, set in his decision to not bring any trouble to his joint. Especially on opening night, which would make or break the business for the rest of its time. Folks saw that white people were welcomed and pushing themselves into their sole weekend escape and they'd never see the walls of the place ever again.

“We just wanna sing.” The woman pressed on, using her best sweet-girl voice. Nothing like that would ever work on Smoke, who quite possibly the most loyal man in the entire town and was not quiet about that fact.

“We came all this way,” the center man added. “It'd be a damn shame to go all the way back home without gettin’ a few dances in.”

Stack hummed, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “Yeah, a shame.” Though no one made any move to let them in.

“Got money to spend and hungry bellies.” He offered, pandering to the twins directly, like three people's cash would make a large effect on the place's funding. Though, who knew, people like him seemed to have wealth growing from their backyards.

You didn't hear what exactly was said next by the people inside, making you lean slightly more and scooch your thighs off the edge just slightly more. You flinched when a stray splinter found it's way digging into your fingertip, immediately taking it to your mouth to attempt to pry it when you couldn't see it in the shadows of the second floor. Still picking at it, the bead of blood on your tongue turned metallic quick and the taste was all-too unpleasant, you'd have to return to your abandoned beer to wash the taste out before your next song.

When you turned your eyes back to the doorway, your heart dropped to your ass when the banjo-carrying man was staring right at you. Instinctively, you curled your legs up towards your body and away from the open air. Even if he couldn't reach from the ground, it just felt necessary.

You heard Sammie from behind the twins. “Stack, y'all alright?” In his deep drawl, always worried for family before anything else.

The man smiled, breaking eye contact with you and looking to Sammie instead. “You must be the voice I heard from out here.” He put a pondering finger to his bottom lip, subconsciously dragging it slightly down. “Is she part of that lovely duet we heard?” The finger moved slowly up to you, where all eyes that could see from the doorway glanced up. Smoke squinted, shifting on his feet with growing annoyance. He ignored the man's question.

“Like we said, you guys can find any other place to play. Jus’ not here.”

The man waved his hands, shaking his head along with them. “I think we got off on the wrong start, here. Let me introduce myself.” He placed a gentle hand to his chest, where the strap tightened against his white shirt. “My name's Remmick. This here is Bert and Joan.” Like the movement was rehearsed, the three of them whipped up their instruments into position, wasting no time to be interrupted as they started singing.

“Oh, I picked poor robin clean.”

If you weren't already creeped out by their insistence and synchronization, you definitely were now. The song was good, great even, you'd admit, but the lyrics rubbed you the wrong way right off the bat.

“Picked his head, ‘n picked his feet. Would'a picked his body but it wasn't fit to eat.”

A hunting song, a gambling song. Not a party song, like they apparently thought would be appropriate to sing after they heard the blue's being played.

Slowly, while they still played and swayed to their own music, you stood to your feet and held onto the doorframe while listening. Remmick's gaze met your own again, and his pearly teeth shone in the lamp's light even more, flaunting sharp canines and perfectly straight teeth. Despite yourself you refused to shrink back again and instead held his gaze, watching his grin tick upwards even more when you did.

It's fine, you assured yourself. He couldn't get up here or even past the doorway. Soon he and his little ragtag group of singers would be back on their way home and out of your sight.

Finally, when their eerie song had been interrupted after the joint owners had enough, Smoke asked a low question that you couldn't quite catch behind his cigarette.

Remmick suddenly seemed shocked, and his silver tongue stuttered over his words. “Sir. We believe in equality, and—and music.” You could put two and two together, and wondered the same thing for a moment. The twins did mention something about buying the joint from an old white man, and who knows what strategies they employ these days now that the Klan was technically outlawed. No one ever stopped, really, just had to get creative.

More words from Smoke and Stack, before eventually Remmick seemed to reluctantly get the idea. Not before getting a good last word in though, when he chuckled and rubbed the top of his wrist. “Oh, I get it.” Earning a solemn nod from Joan beside him, who seemed almost offended at the implication. “This ‘cause we. . .?”

Silence was his answer, and it said everything it needed to.

“Right.” He hummed thoughtfully, resting his hands over his banjo. “So, how'd she get in?” You could only assume Mary was standing somewhere behind Sammie and the twins, and the question made you snort before covering it, hoping no one heard it amongst the immediate defense.

He had a point, even if it was not asked for. The only reason Mary got in was her past with the twins and Annie. Still, family to the twins was famly to you.

“. . .family—” Came from Annie, solidifying your thoughts. Smoke quickly hushed the rising voices behind him, firmly stating his position one was time.

“So y’all sayin’ we aren't welcome?” Remmick asked, almost pouting.

“Y'all have a nice night.” Smoke smiled, waving him and the others off finally.

“We can take a hint,” sighed Remmick.

“We'll get out of yer hair.” He moved the banjo over his back again, turning to walk off. “But we'll walk real slow. . .just in case yall change your mind.” And he stayed true to his words, walking away at a snail’s pace and turning his head slightly. You watched him walk on looking like a kicked pup before deciding that he wouldn't be dumb enough to linger around a Juke filled with people plenty fit enough to dispel them if they tried anything, disappearing into the juke and rushing down the stairs to meet your brother.

The moment you touched down on the last step, it was Stack that met you instead of Sammie like you'd expected. He was leaning on an old banister, watching Mary walk away from him and back to the entrance where Cornbread was.

“What's up with those guys?” You asked in a huff, mind still lingering on the intense stare Remmick had set on you while fixing your shawl tighter against your shoulders.

He shrugged, unbothered by them like you'd expect from Stack. If you wanted concern, you'd go to Smoke for answers. “You ready to get up again?”

“I was gon’ look for Sammie.” You sniffed. It was odd that he disappeared so quickly.

He smiled like he knew something you didn't. “Sammie's fine, got busy with something else. I'm asking about you,” this earned him a raised brow and an unimpressed face.

“Yeah. I'll be up in a beat. Gon’ go make water.” You brushed past him to where Mary had disappeared to. Why had he let her go outside so soon after the three's departure? They couldn't have gotten far.

He scrunched his nose up briefly. “Don't gotta tell me that, just hurry back.”

You snorted, the words reminding you of a much younger Stack—the boy he was before Stack even existed. You didn't forget to grab a beer on your way to the exit, popping the top off and taking a breathless few gulps to steady your mind. The old bottle was probably long gone by now, anyway, discarded near the stage and making a sticky mess.

You felt like a creep following after Mary's footsteps, but the curiosity struck you deep.

“I'll be right back in.” You patted Cornbread's shoulder on your way past him, loosely holding the bottle by its neck and letting the coolness of it spread to your palm. It was hot tonight, as always, and the mix of bodies and movement didn't help. You just hoped you didn't look a sweaty mess in front of the whole joint when you went on stage again.

Your steps were hesitant and slow as you walked straight, staying in the light and approaching a small half-wall made of old concrete brick. You were sure you saw Mary in that fine dress of hers, just before seeing her disappear behind the overgrowth of the forest.

“Mary?” You called out, stretching up on your toes to catch a further glimpse.

No reply.

“Looking for someone?”

You flinched away from the voice behind you. Facing him, you clenched your hand tight the bottle, glancing between him and the door over his shoulder.

It wasn't too far. One smash over the head and you could run back to your cousins for safety.

“Where's Mary?” You asked. Bert and Joan were gone, too, and though that made it easier for you to run it made you worried for Mary. Would you be leaving her out here alone with them, when it was so easy to disappear into the thick of the woods.

He smiled, teeth showing past his pale pink lips with no worries in the world. “Mary?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. “I'm afraid I don't know any Mary's.”

“You know,” you grit, taking a careful and miniscule step back. “She just went past. The white girl in pink, hard to miss.”

“Hard to miss, indeed.” He muttered. “You, on the other hand, are much more worthy of remembering. Got a name to go with those mesmerizin’ chords of yours?”

A lie would be easy, though perhaps useless. If he went asking around he'd never find you anyway. No one knew your name or did you much kindness without the mention of the twins. Beyond your little community, your name wasn't remembered.

In one short, small breath, you introduced yourself.

“Suits you. I'd reckon everyone from here to Jackson is raving about the little starlet from their home.”

You didn't bother replying, he seemed perfectly happy to talk and talk and talk his way into and out of anything, completely ignoring your tense figure and defensive stance.

“I ain't heard a voice quite like yours in. . .” He stops to think, looking to the stars like they might have an answer somewhere up there in the vast darkness. He trails his eyes right back down, and somehow it feels like they glow from the moonshine. “Well, I think it's safe to say never.”

What did he want from you? What could you possibly give him besides good word to come into the joint. Unless it wasn't stemming from his want to get inside anymore, and simply a want for something else. If that was true, you feared you might not get to go back inside. “Thank you,” you managed to choke out, furrowing your brows as you looked through your dark lashes up to him.

Appease, appease, appease. That's what every woman was taught to do. Not that it always worked, but sometimes it was better than immediate offense.

He inched closer, walking right past your shoulder and parallel to you, looking sideways like inviting you to follow. “Why don't we have a seat? I'm sure your feet are killin’ you in those shoes.”

You glanced down at them, shifting slightly. Maybe, but no foot pinching from old shoes were as bad as the things a man is capable of.

Did he change accents? Just for a moment, his r's rolled off his tongue differently. Whatever it was, a slip of tongue or genuine effort to hide something, you'd never heard anything quite like it.

You could run now. Run and get Smoke or Stack or even Cornbread as unarmed as he might be. But then Mary would still be out here alone. And he hadn't threatened you yet, just gave you an eerie feeling. Listening to your gut was the smart thing to do, but something compelled you to sit with this strange man.

Reluctantly, you sat at the half-wall a few feet away from him, noticing his smirk as you did. He didn't close the gap, which you were grateful for. Still, your back was rod-straight and body faced forward while your head faced him. Your hands stayed on both ends of the shawl, bringing the bottle to sit on your lap, slightly out of his sight although it never left either of your minds.

“How's that cut?” He asked.

“Cut?” You didn't catch on.

Remmick nodded towards your hand that wasn't holding the bottleneck. “Saw you got cut by that old wood upstairs. Nasty thing, to get wood out in the dark.”

His words were so casual that it was almost like catching up with an old friend. On his part, at least. You didn't move your hand to inspect it again, not taking your attention off his figure. “Just a splinter, I'm fine.”

He seemed satisfied with that, glancing to your hand and then right back up. No blood, no problem. The simple fact that he noticed your quiet exclamation of pain was astonishing. You didn't quite recall being so loud that even the cicadas didn't drown you out, but some people just had that sixth sense.

“Where'd Mary go?” You start, breaking the silence.

His shoulders moved like he sighed, though you couldn't hear the exhale. “Joan said something about her asking ‘bout a song.”

“A song?”

He hummed, “they're a real talent, aren't they? Singing in harmony like that. I'm new to their little night act, haven't quite found my place yet.” His eyes never left your face. Didn't oogle or stare at your legs or chest, and somehow that wasn't any better. His gaze felt like it looked straight into your soul and past flesh and bone. All-knowing and omnipotent, anticipating your every action.

“I'm sure you know about that.”

“Why d'you say that?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes at the implication. You weren't out of place in your music, and certainly not new to playing with Sammie. There was no comparison.

Remmick leaned back, tucking his ankle over his knee and resting his hands on the top leg casually. “You ‘n that boy.” He said sagely. “Your brother, I assume?”

It was best not to answer that, wasn't it?

“He's good. Real good. Sings from the soul and holds a room.”

“He's a real talent.” You nodded.

“Are you?” He tilted his head again.

“Am I talented?” He's the one who said that by the entrance. “Isn't that vain to admit? I enjoy it, that's enough.”

“But you're good. You know it, too. Nothin’ wrong with a little pride.”

There was, in the eyes of the ‘Lord’. Pride, the acknowledgement of your own accomplishments and the want to gain more; to be more than a humble servant to the Lord. You were greedy, prideful, envious—a sinner. Maybe you knew, deep down, that your father's preachings were true and simply didn't want to believe for the fact that you were digging yourself a path straight to hell for your actions. If you were to sin, you'd do it without regret.

Heaven knows how much your mother's fate might condemn you more than the devil would.

“That depends on who you ask.”

“It does,” he breaths through his nose, amused. “If you ask me, I say to make the most of life while we're still livin’ it.”

The words left you sitting in silence for a while. A few moments, a few minutes, it didn't matter. You shrugged, laxing your shoulders slightly. The night cooled down significantly, leaving little heat on the earth under your feet. Remmick didn't seem to mind the chill, simply throwing his head back and enjoying the earthy scent it carried. Music was playing from the joint, still, loud and lively. A woman's voice rang loud and clear, and stomps vibrated the ground so strongly that you felt them from outside.

“I'm good.” You finally said. “But I think Sammie's better. He makes the room feel like it's got no walls, like something otherworldly. . .it comes like breathing to him.”

“On the contrary,” Remmick says. “You make it feel alive.”

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips and make your cheeks burn, running a nail over the rim of the bottle to distract yourself from his stare.

Playfully, he raises his hands in the air. “On my momma's grave, I wouldn't lie to you, darlin’.”

“Mmhm,” you chuckled quietly. “I'm sure.”

“If there's one way to describe it, it's like seeing spirits from the other side dancing and singing right by your side.” He really believed what he was telling you, and that almost made it worse. You denied the same feeling a hundred times before, playing it off as the spiritual remnants and heavy aura of the Church. Tonight, it was just the mix of dancing bodies and heat.

Your throat felt tight again, and you chewed at your cheek thoughtfully. “I don't believe in that stuff. It's just a feeling, a fleeting moment when adrenaline influences you like liquor. ‘S a nice thought, but that's all it is—a thought.”

“A thought,” he nodded, taking in your words and looking at the lively building. “No one in there can appreciate your gift. One night of fun is all they're after.”

“Escape isn't a bad thing.” You mused. “Everyone in there is coming from their dead-end jobs or screaming kids. One night is nothing compared to the week's labour. If I can play just for a few hours a night to make them forget the day, then it'll be worth it. Don't need it to be appreciated.”

His lip quirked up in a small smirk, one that you interrupted as his relation to them.

“What do you do during the week, mister?” You asked. “What toils your body so and makes your soul yearn for song?”

The upturn falls faster than it rose and suddenly Remmick was downcast. It takes a while for him to answer, and his tone sounds reminiscent when he finally does. “I was a farmer.”

“Was?” You ask tentatively.

“Was.” He confirmed. “It was hard. Long, hot days. Restless nights.”

“What was your solace?”

“Well,” he smiled, almost bashfully. “I didn't have anyone to come home to. No wife or kids. The thought of all of it paying off one day to give them a good life was my solace. I suppose my hope woke me up every morning and gave me sweet dreams every night.”

“What made you quit?” Your hands played with the hem of your dress rather than the bottle, indulging yourself in conversation.

“Someone took it from me.”

“Oh,” you hummed. He didn't explain, and you didn't ask further.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Your escape. What're you running from?”

“I'm not running from anything.” You defended quickly. “Can't I just have dreams?”

“Every dream comes from somewhere.” He shrugged. “No escape, then. What about. . .destiny?”

Again, you shook your head. “I don't believe in whatever faith you're tryin’ to sell me.”

“Not a preacher.” He assured. “Just a man, humbled by life. You don't believe in destiny, either?”

“I believe that our choices are the only thing that leads us down the road. No predetermined fate that gets set for us before we're even born. What's the point of living if it's all drawn out for us?”

“I can't argue with that, lass.”

A faint, almost drowned-out screech led your attention to the forest behind you. “Mary?” You murmured, standing and wildly looking around the pitch-black to see movement.

“What's wrong?” Remmick asked, unmoved.

“You—you didn't hear that?” All the progress you had made with Remmick felt like it dissipated into the air. She went off with two strangers and you'd just sat conversing casually with the third.

That's when he did stand. Taller than you, broader, with not a worry on his face. “I didn't hear anythin’. You feelin alright?” The hand that reached out to you was slapped away, and he had the nerve to look shocked.

“Don't touch me.” You panted briefly, head fogging with fear and regret. Get Smoke and Stack, then find Mary with them and their guns. You should've done it the moment you saw her disappear into the bramble.

Hands up, Remmick nodded firmly. “I won't do anything. Thought we was just having a nice chat. Guess I was mistaken.”

Stiffly, you nodded. “Excuse me.” You turned heel to slide away from the half-wall and towards the Juke Joint, glass gripped in your hand like a vice ready to be wielded. If you had to, you would. He didn't make any move towards you and it almost felt like a home run.

You got halfway before he spoke again. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Almost there. You could see Cornbread in the door, but he was turned around and clearly talking to someone that you couldn't see.

In a flash, you were physically halted. Flinching, you looked up to see Remmick right in front of you with a light touch on your shoulders. Too light, unrestraining but imposing. There was no way he could've sprinted in front of you like that in the split of a second, not unless he wasn't human.

Your name came softly from his lips. Familiar and tender in a way you'd never heard before. Frozen, you didn't move a muscle in his grasp nor take your eyes off his. You weren't mistaken when you saw his eyes flash for the first time in that doorway. Everything about him seemed more menacing, from his teeth to the browns of his eyes glowing unnaturally red even when faced away from the light.

“I believe it's rude to ignore a question.” He clicked his tongue like you were nothing more than a disobedient child. His smile was cool and lazy, trusting that you weren't getting out of his hold.

“Let me go.” Your voice shook despite yourself. Your resolve wavered and stomach twisted with fear, and he soaked it up like fine liquor.

“That's alright, maybe you didn't hear me the first time, hm?” He purred out. “I asked: do you believe in soulmates?”

“I need to get back inside.” To Sammie. To safety. You were stupid to indulge in this man's whims despite your gut feeling.

“What's in there that's not out here, lass?” He twisted, waving one hand towards the decrepit building and keeping the other on you. “They're not gonna make you famous. They won't remember your face come morning, and certainly can't appreciate that gift you got.”

Remmick almost sounded angry for you. Like he was the one getting stubbed.

“I never said I wanted to be famous. Just wanted to sing, that's it.”

“Oh, baby.” He tutted, teeth flashing behind his pink lips. “I know exactly what you want. Maybe even more than you.”

The world was still. Has the cicadas and crickets been silent all night, or were you just noticing now, when your heartbeat replaced all other sounds? Without another prolonging moment, you swung your hand up and broke the half-empty bottle over his head.

He didn't stumble, but his eyes widened after the initial hit and let you go. Blood poured from his temple and over his ear, dripping in rivers down the side of his face and to his neck.

He laughed.

Remmick laughed, and you ran.

It felt like you carried a thousand pounds on your shoulders as you did, but you didn't stop or look back until you got to the door.

“Whoa there, little lady.” Cornbread soothed as you ran right into his chest and wrapped your arms around him in heaving breaths of terror.

“Close the door!” You shouted, relief unpalpable.

Bemused, he did as you commanded and called behind you both for either of the twins.

It was Smoke who came for you, Annie trailing behind him. With wet eyes you started to sob out incoherent explanations. “They got Mary, Smoke. I don't know what they are but they ain't human. She followed them and I heard her scream. God, Smoke, I think they killed her.” You panted out, clutching your stomach as bile rose to your throat.

Annie reached out for you first, her warmth a welcoming comfort despite the heat overwhelming your body already. “Calm down, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack like that.” She rubbed your back up and down, firm and slow.

“Who got her?” Smoke asked, hand reaching for the gun in his jacket.

“The guys you sent away. I saw Mary and Stack talkin’ and followed her outside. Those two led her into the forest and one of them stopped me before I could get to her.”

Smoke shared a glance with Annie, narrowing his eyes at your words. “You said they ain't human?”

You shook your head quickly. “The man—Remmick—he came in front of me from twenty feet away in the blink of an eye. His teeth are sharp, and he didn't even flinch when the glass got stuck in his head. His eyes were red and glowing.”

Annie tensed. Smoke, on the other hand, seemed to relax even just slightly. “You sayin’ those three are some kind of demon?”

“Something!” You exclaimed, exasperated. “I don't know what, but they got her. We need to help her.”

Smoke resolved to a simple nod and beckoned across the room for Stack to come down from the rafters. “We'll find her.” He leaned above you, muttering something in Annie's ear that you couldn't make out. Annie's hold on you tightened and began leading you to the back rooms.

A light knock sounded on the wooden door. Everyone in the entrance froze, eyeing the door carefully.

Cornbread, who had been a silent observer this entire time, waited for permission from Smoke to move before he slowly cracked open the door. Smoke pointed his gun right at the door, head-level, waiting for an opportunity.

There, right as rain, stood a perfectly intact Mary.

“What's everybody standin’ around for?” She smiled, and it seemed all too familiar to you. “You gon’ let me in, Cornbread?”

“Of‐of course, Mary.” He stammered out, opening the door wider for the young lady to be let in.

“Mary?” You whispered out, clinging to Annie's arm tighter. “But. . .”

“You feelin’ okay?” She tilted her head slightly, brown eyes lit with concern for you. You flinched when she felt a hand out to your forehead, and she slowly withdrew it back to her hip. “You're not looking too hot.”

Smoke kissed his teeth, putting his gun away just as fast as it got brought out. Cornbread closed the door again and the tension was thicker than the previous fear. “You been drinkin'?” Your name came from his mouth like a curse, which surprised you. He'd never turned his anger to you, or been angry at all, really. “Get back to the stockroom, I think you're done for the night.” He turned away, steps long and heavy as he met Stack half-way across the room. They shared a small muted few words before Stack nodded and went to Mary's side, discreetly glancing at you as he did. If you saw guilt in his dark eyes, it was gone a moment later. Mary grinned as he approached, their own conversation out of range for you as Annie led you to the kitchen's backroom.

“Annie, you gotta believe me.” You pleaded as she left you to sit on a crate. It wasn't a moment later that she brought you a glass of lukewarm water. She leaned on the crate next to you, folding her hands over her chest and simply observing.

“I believe that you saw something that scared the life out of you” She said, voice soothing and slow. “You're sure it wasn't just the light or the liquor?”

She was asking, but not in the condescending way you thought she might. Annie was cautious, always wary of her surroundings and looking out for the people she loved. She had been spiritual since the day you met her when you were both younger, and though you didn't believe her words of warning before and hoodoo bags of protection, you sure as hell did now.

Annie was trying to figure out what she was dealing with and how big of a threat it might be.

“I haven't drank anything, just a half-bottle of beer.” You persisted. “I walked away from him and he was right in front of me like a ghost. Hell, Annie, I smashed that bottle right over his head and he didn't even flinch. What kinda man doesn't react to blood seeping down his face?”

She pursed her lips, glancing to the open doorway and to the dancing people. They didn't have a clue in the world. You wished you could say the same and live in blissful ignorance again.

“You said you heard Mary scream. That she went off with those people?”

“Yes! It wasn't some jumpy screech, she was terrified, like they were hunting her down.” How was she alive, if Joan and Bert were indeed the same thing Remmick was? She couldn't have outrun or outfought them any more than you did.

She took your words in carefully, considering her options and opting to straighten up. “Finish that and stay right here. I'll be right back.” With that, she was off before you could get another peep out. It was easiest to guess she'd be right by Smoke's side, telling him her genuine concerns and getting brushed off when he insisted stuff like that simply wasn't real.

You weren't gonna wait around for her to come back with bad news.

The only way to find out what really happened was from the source. Or rather, victim of the source. You weren't crazy. Nor drunk or disillusioned by the night and it's tricks. You crept out from the room right behind Annie, merging with the crowd to slip back out of sight and towards where Mary and Stack last were. Near the entrance, parallel to the door you'd so desperately ran to, was one of the now-closed store rooms.

Gingerly, you twisted the knob open and called for her. “Mary?” The lighting wasn't too dim, a single oil lamp lighting the entirety of the area from the doorway and allowing you to see her straddling Stack on the floor. For a minute, you thought you had walked in on something you weren't supposed to, but the stillness of Mary's shoulders made you stiffen.

She slowly rose from her leaned-over positioning, face no longer buried into his neck. It's then that you saw the blood pouring from the side of it, watching him writhe in pain and bring his hand up to stop the bleeding. Your jagged breath caught in your throat as you took a step back to get help.

The music was too loud. The floor buzzed with the vibrations. The people were too densely packed to move through. Cornbread was missing from the door. You had to get Mary off Stack and stop the bleeding, and then simply hope that someone will come running in when they hear the commotion.

You ran up to her, reaching for her arm to tug her lithe body from Stack's, only to barely graze her skin with your nails when she jumped up. While he still twitched and gasped for air, Stack tried his best to look down at you and shake his head. The world spun around you as you got pinned to the floor, Mary's frame now hovering on top of your hips to hold you down. Blood dripped down her face and onto yours as she leaned over you, and you clawed at her face to get her off.

After a few moments of struggle Mary caught your wrists and held them tight. Blood and skin caught beneath your nails and you could taste the bile in your throat rising from the metallic scent that plagued you. She giggled airily at your plight and sighed. “You weren't s'posed to see that.” The words didn't sound like their own, wrong and dark out of her mouth. "I wanted to charm you the traditional way, but this works too."

Stack stopped moving by your feet.

“He'll be okay.” She reassured in a soft coo. “Little Mary just couldn't live on without Elias. Sweet, isn't it?”

“Mary. . .” You swallowed, willing all of this to be a dream. Stack was dead. Your cousin was dead right at your feet and Mary killed him. The woman he loved and thought loved him, too. His blood was on your face. You were next. No one would come to help you in this dinky little storage room. You'll die and then she'll kill your brother next. Smoke, Annie, Grace and Bo—every soul who just wanted one night of bliss wouldn't even make it to their own beds.

For once, you missed those cold church pews that made your ass sore and legs fall asleep. If you had to die, at least you were free for just one night.

Her grin only widened, stretching unnaturally wide and showing red-stained teeth. “We won't hurt ya’. You, or anyone else in here.”

Your hands trembled as you whispered, “I thought you cared for him. For all of us.”

Mary sneered, smile downturned like the flick of a switch. Claws dug into your arms as she seethed. “I do. You have no—” She paused, righting herself back up out of your face and loosened her harsh grip on you. “You don't understand yet, that's okay. We'll show you, won't we?”

“What happened to you? What'd they do to you?” You asked. Your limbs felt hot with pain but the fear of worse had your adrenaline pumping faster than a greyhound's.

Mary looked behind her to Stack, eyes tender despite the massacre she was looking at. “Nothing that you won't understand. But, honey, you need to make a choice real fast before he wakes up.”

“Wakes up?” You scoffed. “You fucking killed him!” She should have never been let in, and you should've never gone after her. The crazy bitch deserved to be alone.

She squeezed your wrists warningly. “I could go out there right now. I could tear a hundred necks right off without being stopped. But I'm bein’ generous tonight. You can come with us outside or let them all die—and then get dragged outside anyway. I don't particularly mind either way.”

You sucked in a breath. “Go with you where?”

“Not her, hon’.” She laughed.

“You?” Remmick.

“You're a smart girl, aren't ya? Smarter than most.” She, he, purred. “And I'll bet you're clever enough to make the right choice.”

The right choice. There wasn't a good choice for you, but instead the lesser of two unknowns. Why Remmick wanted just you to follow him without question was something you wouldn't know until you were in his clutches. Would he kill you, or perhaps do something much worse? There was no buffer or protection, no Sammie to look to when your father scolded you and no cousins to hide behind when grown men started growing bold. Just you and the devil staring into each other's soul. The devil who stole Mary's face and corrupted her soul.

Your mother was right, and you were foolish to think yourself above old wive's tales. Every one of them was rooted in truth, after all.

“If I come, no one else gets hurt?”

“Not a soul.” She grinned. You wouldn't forget the bloodthirsty glint in her eyes for as long as you lived.

“And if you're lying? If I walk out there and you choose to kill ‘em all anyway?”

“Cross my heart, sweet thing.” She sighed. “You just gotta take a leap of faith. Trust me, and you'll get trust in return.”

There was no reason you wanted them to trust you, for the same reason a wolf doesn't need to trust that a deer is faking its limp. It just doesn't matter in the end when the prey is dead in its maw anyway.

“Okay.” You said, relishing in the release of your limbs and the pressure of her body finally getting off of you. You slowly stood up, warily watching Mary dust herself off and hum.

“You can get up now, baby.” She laughed.

When Stack's deep laugh reverberated throughout the small room, you nearly fainted. Was it all a prank, or were you dead alongside your older cousin? Whatever they, or he, did to Mary and Stack, he'd surely do to you.

“Took you long enough to convince ‘er.” He said, wiping blood off of his neck and standing up as if nothing happened. But it was there, and it was real. A gruesome bite into the dark skin of his neck that had stopped bleeding the moment his heart did.

“Stack?” You sobbed out in disbelief.

He smiled, a more genuine and soft one than he had before. “I'm alright. Better than I've ever felt.” He placed his hands atop your trembling shoulders sympathetically. “You ready to say your ‘goodbyes’?”

Mouth agape, you slowly shook your head. How could you ever be ready to leave your family?

His jaw ticked. “Me neither.” But he guided you out anyway. He found a small, out of place looking scarf to cover his neck up, motioning for Mary to leave the Juke through the open entrance while he did. She rubbed your back as she passed, striding out of the building like she hadn't just upturned your entire life.

Stack headed to Smoke immediately, finding him huddled with Annie and whispering out of earshot from everybody else. You made way to Sammie, feeling your stomach churn with every step. He was just stepping off the stage from his second performance, sweat making his forehead gleam in the light and eyes shine twice as bright.

“Where've you been?” He exclaimed when you approached, boyishly smiling as he adjusted his guitar around his back. “We were supposed to play together, flake.”

You wished more than anything to tell him the truth, to beg him for forgiveness and never leave his side. “Wasn't feelin’ too great.” You said instead. “Stack's gon’ take me home so I can get some sleep. Heard you, though. You don't need me to share the spotlight.”

He shook his head with a playful scoff. “Don't be so dramatic, course I need you to play. That's what we promised, right? Two-man band.”

Born twins, just like your cousins. Always together, always having each-other's back when shit got to be too much at home. You had no clue what you'd do without your other half.

“Two-man band.” You agreed, blinking away tears from your waterline. You tugged Sammie into a tight hug, laughing when he patted your back in confused consolation.

“You sure you're okay to go home?” He asked quieter. “It's not long before we're all drivin’ back anyway.”

“I'm sure. Joint's too loud to get any sleep and my head's poundin’.”

He pulled away, inspecting you with a scrutiny that matched your mother's. He always had her face and kind eyes. “I can come with.” He said. “Make sure you're okay?”

“No.” You denied quickly. “No, I'm okay. Just a headache. ‘Sides, I think someone would burn a hole right through me if I took the showman away.”

When his face scrunched up in confusion, you nodded to the train station woman yet again, snickering when he noticed her intense stare on the back of his head.

“Stack's got me.” You offered. “You enjoy the rest of the night, okay?”

“Okay. I'll see you at church.” He said lightly.

“I love you. Be good, Sammie.”

He scoffed and lightly shoved your hands away. “Don't gotta tell me that. Love you, too.”

When he turned and went to the awaiting woman's vicinity, you finally let your face fall. Stack's hand was brought down onto your shoulder, a firm reminder of your promise.

“I know.” You grit out. But one look on his face, and you knew he felt the exact same way.

“I know.” He repeated. You stiffened your lip and looked forward.

The fresh air hit you like a warm embrace.

Remmick's knowing smirk welcomed you like a hyena finding a sick fawn. You could only feel like the prey in the fables, the ones that never quite learned their lessons about avoiding sharp teeth. No matter how much you cheered the little rabbit on, it always got too cocky and couldn't outsmart the fox.

Your hand was taken first. Remmick pulled it to his hand and placed a feather-light kiss upon your knuckles. No matter how much your mind screamed at you to pull away and run again, you were frozen in place. Nothing could save you out here in the open field. He didn't mind the tenseness of your arm nor the rigidity in the way that you stared up at him. “Smart girl.” He greeted with a satisfied grin. “You don't have to worry that pretty little head about a thing no more. I'll take care of you.”

“I don't want this.” You bit. “I don't want to be like you.”

Even as regret and fear slithered its way into your very soul, you couldn't help feel no disgust toward the affection he granted you. He hadn't stared untowardly, hadn't immediately forced himself upon you when you walked out the door, hadn't even threatened your life or your body.

He uprooted your life, though. And you couldn't forgive that.

He hummed thoughtfully. “You can't see it yet. But you will, dove, you will. You'll feel it just as I do.” He nodded towards the very happy couple off to the side. “Just as they do.”

Stack held Mary by her shoulders lovingly, and she snuggled her head into his shoulder with a content smile.

“Y'think I'm gon’ be like them?” You hissed. “I don't know what you did, but they aren't themselves no more.”

Remmick chuckled at your supposed petulance. “I just showed them what they could have. An eternity together. All I ask of you is a little cooperation and an open mind.”

“You're a damned fool if you think I'm kissing your feet and calling you a savior.”

He only laughs again, more genuine and less antagonistic. “I'd sure hope not. We're equals, ain't we? That's what soulmates are for.”

“You keep saying that.” You glanced to Mary and Stack, who were listening with thinly veiled amusement at your insistence. “That type of thing doesn't exist. M'not a child you can tell tall tales to and expect me believe them.”

“I agree.” He shrugs. “You're smart. You did what you had to do to save your brother. A hard choice, but you'll thank me for it later.”

“Thank you—!” You fumed, appalled at his quip and mention of your family. “It was either watch his throat be ripped out or walk into a snake pit!”

He wet his lips briefly, pink tongue just showing a sliver before disappearing back behind his teeth. Hands in his pockets, he stepped forward just a bit. It wasn't meant to be threatening, but it was all the same and he had to know it. Wordlessly, Mary and Stack left to his car to presumably wait for you.

“Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I had to do. Didn't get much of one, really, when the sun was risin’ and I had to hide away from my own folks and never see ‘em again. I know how you feel, really, I do.”

Your eyes were wet all over again, unable to be concealed even in the face of the devil. Or, especially in the face of the devil.

“So why'd you do this to me?” You whispered.

“Because,” he matched your low and even tone. “I wasn't meant to die a human. N’ neither are you. Once you wake up, you'll understand exactly what I'm feeling right now just lookin’ at you. When I heard your voice, that sweet, honey-like song you sang in there, I knew it was you I've been waiting for all these years. Every single moment I've spent wandering aimlessly has been worth the mind-numbin’ loneliness that's kept me company. That's why I had to show you, to save you from mortality.”

“Do I get a choice?”

Remmick smiled bittersweetly, eyes more human-looking than they'd been all night.

“‘Fraid not, mo chroí. Don't you worry that pretty little head o’ yours, it'll be over before you know it.”

was very tempted to write a small epilogue timeskip of her and remmick visiting Sammie's bar years later and showing mc/reader's happiness in her new life with her soulmate but it already went over 10k words and I'm alr doubting this will do well lmaoo

man idk the exact order of events that happened this means i need to go rewatch Sinners about 4 more times in cinema. also idk who manned the bar, Bo or Grace? or Annie? But she did the food so ughhh I just went with Grace.

Sammie's pretty ooc but I imagine he's a lot different with a sibling than the cousins he hadn't seen in years. Different levels of comfort bring out different sides from all of us.

it's so frustrating i genuinely could not find clips of smoke and stack speaking during remmick's intro scene its all just the ‘sir, we believe in equality’ clip so the dialog is horrible on the twin's side. i cant wait for the movie to stream!

this one-shot is my longest single fic yet. she's a mammoth, of course

#remmick #remmick x reader #sinners x reader #sinners fandom #fanfic #fanfiction #sinners fanfiction #sinners 2025

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lucydixon · 2 days ago

Text

Sweet on you

GIF by @jst2guyz

Summary: You and Erik are friends who seem, to everyone around you, including the Campbell family, to have a deeper relationship than either of you is willing to admit. When you express wanting your nipples pierced one afternoon, Erik jumps at the chance to offer his services.

Warning: NSFW, Needles, Piercing, Hand Stuff, Unprotected P in V

You and Erik had been somewhere between friends and maybe more since high school. You didn’t kiss and weren’t sleeping together, not in that way at least. You’d spent plenty of nights sharing his bed, and you'd woken up in his arms too many times to count after a late night at the Campbell family home.

From the outside, the two of you looked like a couple. You teased one another relentlessly, exchanging flirty banter and hanging off of eachother constantly.

Even his family wasn’t sure where you stood.

Neither of you had ever had a serious relationship that had lasted all that far beyond the introduction to the other. Every partner either of you had ever had was unsettled by how close to eachother you were, and they always wound up asking you to choose.

You’d never not chosen each other.

There was tension, sure.

More times than either of you could count, you’d gotten a little bit too close, and found yourselves inches away from locking lips, or allowed your casual touching to venture beyond the line of friendship, your fingertips would brush over his stomach when he was walking around the house shirtless, his running over your exposed collarbones or the curve of your waist whenever he had access to either.

But, anytime things got a little too real, the two of you laughed it off.

“How bad did it hurt when you got your nipples pierced?” You asked Eric absently, chewing on the end of your pencil while you sketched in the margins of your notebook, legs draped over his lap while he played videogames on a Sunday afternoon.

“Not as bad as it hurt to pierce my dick.” He scoffed without tearing his eyes away from the TV.

“Think I could take it?” You asked, genuinely waiting to know what he thought.

Nobody knew you better than he did.

“Probably,” He shrugged “There’s no way it’ll hurt worse than getting your ribs inked did. Why? You want me to pinch them so you can find out?”

A lazy smirk crept across his face and you kicked him lightly.

“No, I don’t want you to pinch them.” You rolled your eyes “Asshole.”

“I just don’t know if I wanna deal with the healing time.”

“That’s the worst part.” He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “I think you could handle it though, you’re tough.”

“I think I’m gonna do it.” You muttered, nodding decisively to yourself after a moment. “Tomorrow.”

“Tommorow?” He raised a brow, looking away from his game finally.

“Before I chicken out.” You shrugged, “Is Janey working tomorrow?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoah!” He exclaimed, tossing the controller aside to look at you like you’d lost your mind “You’ve got an expert piercer right here and you want Janey to do it?”

“If you wanted to see my tits, you could’ve just asked.” You told him, biting back a smirk when his cheeks noticeably warmed.

“C’mon, sweets” he groaned, trying to play it off “I could really use the scratch. You let me do it and that’s fifty bucks in my pocket.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. He’d been calling you that for ages. Neither of you were sure when it had started or where it had come from, but you never asked him to stop so he never did.

“Yeah, okay.” You conceded, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fine.”

“Alright, sweets,” Erik started getting set up the following evening after he'd finished with all of his clients for the day, and waved you over to the piercing chair “strip.”

“You could at least buy me dinner first” You gave him a light shove, shrugging off your coat while he chuckled under his breath.

You pulled your shirt over your head and draped it over the back of the chair, then made yourself comfortable. You’d purposefully not worn a bra so that you didn’t have anything rubbing up against your fresh piercings.

When Erik turned to face you, he wasn’t sure why your bare chest had caught him so off guard.

He’d seen them in tanktops and sports bras, but to see your tits in all their glory without a stitch of fabric covering them was something else entirely.

His eyes raked over the soft swell of your breasts and the little, pink buds adorning them.

They were perfect and looked like they’d fit beautifully in the palm of his hands.

He’d be lying if he said that he’d never thought about it.

Erik felt his breath hitch in his throat, but covered it up with a cough, trying not to look like he was ogling you despite that very much being the case.

The fact that you were just sitting there comfortably, making no attempt to hide them from him, even for a moment, made his dick twitch in his pants.

He rolled his stool closer to the piercing chair so that it would hide the bulge slowly growing from your view, determined not to ruin this.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he offered to do it.

Maybe he did just want to see your tits.

“Do you want them vetical or horizontal?” He asked you, swallowing hard.

“That’s a thing?” You asked, looking amused “People get verical nipple piercings?”

“Some people.” Erik shrugged “I take that as a no on the vertical?”

“Correct”

“Okay, I’m gonna mark them out with a pen” He muttered, grabbing one off of his station before hesitating. “I’m gonna have to like, touch you.”

“Oh, really?” You smirked softly “Here I was thinking you could pierce my nipples without touching me at all.”

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes “Laugh it up sweets, I’m about to cop a feel, so you’d better savour it.”

“Oh, I will.” You scoffed, but still, you shuddered when he reached out and touched you gently.

The side of his hand rested on your breast, fingers carefully pinching the little pink bud while he placed a dot on either side, ducking down to make sure it was even.

He was close enough that you could feel his breath fanning over your chest and you couldn’t deny the way it made you feel.

He moved onto the other side, just as diligent and shockingly professional about the whole thing while you watched, breathing shakily.

Your cocky, teasing stare was was long gone, replaced by a soft look and lightly parted lips.

You wondered if he could feel your heart racing in your chest.

Erik was far too busy fighting the urge to engulf your nipples with his mouth to notice anything.

He was trying so, so hard to pretend that you were just any other customer. As if it would keep the nerves settling in his chest from getting any worse.

He wasn’t sure that the two of you had ever been in such an intimate position.

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. Not when he was just doing his job.

But it was you.

Even though he was talking you thorough the whole process, you still jolted when he came near you with the clamp.

“Easy, sweets.” He warned, looking up at you teasingly as he clicked the clamps “don’t get all squirmy on me now. You’re gonna fuck it up.”

“I’m not getting squirmy.” You defended, huffing softly “just do it.”

“I’m trying!” He chuckled, slowly fastening the clamp so he could grab a clean needle. “Don’t look while the needle’s going through it.”

“Yeah, okay.” You grumbled, looking up at the ceiling.

“Do you want me to count?” Erik asked, lining the tip of the needle up with the marks he’d made. “Or just do it?”

“Just do it-” Your sentence ended in a gasp when you felt the needle pierce the bundle of nerves

“Fuck Erik!” You whimpered, fighting the urge to look “That fucking hurt!”

“Of course it did, it’s a needle.” He rolled his eyes “Want me to kiss it better?”

“Shut up.” You huffed, able to hear the smirk in his voice.

He put the bar through it and started on the other one right away.

You made the same gasping sound when the needle went in, but this time, you didn’t complain.

“There.” He undid the clamp and sat back, admiring his work, acutely aware hat he probably wasn’t going to ever get to stare at your tits so blatantly ever again. So, he was taking full advantage. “Done.”

You looked down and inspected the little metal bars through your nipples before beaming at him.

“What do you think?” You asked, looking back down at them “Cute, right?”

“Very.” Erik scoffed, biting back a remark about just how good they looked.

He tossed his gloves into the bin under the table, and you immediately reached for your bag before even putting your top back on.

“Nah, you don’t have to pay.” Erik waved you off and you faltered, staring at him.

“I thought you needed the money?” You frowned, brows pulling together slightly.

“I said it’s fine.” He insisted, very clearly avoiding eye contact.

“You fucker!” You gasped, “You did just want to see my tits!”

He made a huffing sound and you knew that you were right.

“Erik Campbell, you sly dog.” You teased, reaching out to grab his chin and force him to look at you “I told you yesterday. You could’ve just asked.”

“Stop,” he groaned, trying the pull away.

“No, way!” You exclaimed, tightening your grip and looking far too amused. “tell me the truth. Was this all some ploy to cop a feel?”

You didn’t seem weirded out, which was throwing him off a bit.

Did you want this as much as he did?

His breathing shifted, a little ragged as he considered the possibility.

“What if it was?” His voice didn’t waver, his gaze suddenly sharp instead of embarrassed, darting down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

Now it was your cheeks heating up.

You swallowed hard.

“Then I’d tell you again,” you breathed, leaning forward slightly in your seat, “You don’t need a ploy, Campbell. Don’t need tricks or excuses. You could’ve just asked.”

“And what?” He scoffed softly, resting his hand over your knee, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “You’d have flashed me?”

“I’d have let you do a whole lot more than look.”

“Yeah?” he couldn’t help the gleam of disbelief in his eyes, hiding behind the blatant hunger.

“Mhmm.” You hummed, releasing his chin to let your hand trail down his neck and rest on his shoulder.

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” He muttered, breathing deeply as you kept getting closer and closer “You’ve been teasing me for years, sweets.”

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t tease me too, Campbell.” You nuzzled his cheek with your nose once you got close enough.

“I’m not the one walking around in short little skirts.” Erik’s fingers inched up your leg “You think I don’t notice when you rub up against me in the morning? The way you squirm whenever you’re sitting in my lap? That little smirk when you act like you can’t feel me getting hard?”

“What about you, huh?” you all but purred, “I’m not the one who only sleeps in their underwear. Don’t think I can’t feel you rubbing right back in the mornings, Erik. You’re just as bad as I am. The way you hold my waist when we’re at concerts or on the train? That’s a little more than friendly, don’t you think?”

“We’ve always been a little more than friendly, sweets.” he hummed, raking his nails over the skin just below the hem of your skirt “You know that as well as I do.”

“What’s a little more then?”

You yelped when Erik pulled you off the table and into his lap suddenly, grabbing onto his hair.

You could feel his bulge pressed up against your scantily clad clit, arching your body into him slightly as a whimper slipped past your lips.

“Watch the piercings.” he pulled back slightly to growl at you, hands resting on your ass, over your skirt. “That’s some of my best work right there.”

“You watch them.” you huffed, tilting his head back with the grip you had on his hair.

Your bottom lip was jutting out in a soft pout and he’d never wanted to kiss you so badly in his life.

So he did.

Your lips collided roughly, slotting together and immediately moving at a near frantic pace.

Years of tension bubbled up to the surface and you were really struggling not to press your upper body flush against his. His hands kneaded the plump flesh of your backside roughly and you moaned into his mouth. You could feel your panties soaking right through and were sure that you were so wet that you’d soak through his jeans if he didn’t take them off very soon.

Your hips rocked into his and he couldn’t help but groan.

You swallowed the sound happily, hands trailing down his shoulders to tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours while you continued to grind yourself up against him, getting yourself more and more worked up.

Erik happily shrugged off his t-shirt, tossing it across the room before grabbing the bottom of your thighs and standing.

You whined when he set you down, but the sound turned into a gasp when he spun you around and pulled you back into his lap.

Your back pressed up against his bare chest as he hooked your legs over his knees and spread you wide open.

You could feel the cool air against your soaked panties and let your head fall back on his shoulder, giving him great access to the side of your throat.

His mouth was on you, hot and wet, sloppily pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck while you squirmed in his lap, making little needy, breathless sounds.

“You know how long I’ve been wanting to touch you like this, sweets?” he muttered into your throat, hands running up and down the insides of your thighs, coming so close, yet still too far from your aching core.

“How long?” you panted, about ready to let your own hand fall between your legs to get some relief.

“Since the day I met you.” he growled, finally caressing the drenched fabric acting as the sole barrier to your burning heat. “God, you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to touch me like this for just as long.” You whined “please, Erik.”

Your pleading almost had his cumming in his pants but he squeezed his eyes shut and goaned loudly into the back of your shoulder.

Just as you were opening your mouth to start really begging, he suddenly pulled your panties to the side and ran his finger along your slit.

You jolted, hips bucking into his hand involuntarily as you hissed.

“This what you want, sweets?” he breathed, struggling to keep his composure. There was a slight vulnerability in his tone.

He needed you to say it.

Needed you to tell him that this was okay and that it wouldn’t ruin things because he just couldn’t lose you and if stopping then and there was it took to make sure he didn’t, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat.

“Yes,” You gasped, breathy and desperate, “Oh god, please. Yes, Erik, yes! I want this.”

That was all he needed.

The sound that tore its way out of your throat when his finger sunk into your drenched hole was other worldly and send a shudder up his spine.

Your entire body melted into his, and he was sure that if he wasn’t already sitting down, his knees would have buckled.

“Promise me I’m gonna see you tomorrow.” It was a demand, really, but he needed to hear it.

“I promise.” You panted, crying out when he worked a second finger into you “Fuck- of course you will. You’ll see me tomorrow and every day after that.”

“Think you can get rid of me, Campbell?” You rocked your hips into his hand, moaning lowly

“you’re stuck with me, baby” you were practically fucking yourself on his fingers, only vaguely aware of the words coming out of your mouth in between desperate whines and mewls. “Always have been, always will be”

A shaky breath fell from his lips and for a moment, he was glad that you couldn’t see him.

“You’re mine, sweets.” he muttered into your ear, his breath fanned over the sensitive skin and you shuddered. Your movements slowed and your breath caught in your throat “Aren’t you?”

“Course I am, Erik.” you breathed, leaning further into him, “now, are we gonna keep talking, or are you gonna take your pants off?”

A soft growl left his throat and in an instant, you were being tossed back onto the chair while he stood abruptly, fumbling with his belt buckle.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his clear eagerness, but the laughter died in your throat when he finally got his pants down around his knees and pulled you to the edge of the chair, prying your legs open roughly so he could line himself up with your cunt.

“Last chance to turn back,” He breathed, running the head of his cock through your folds.

You could feel the cool metal of his piercing nudging your clit and throught you might come undone then and there.

You forced yourself to look up at him instead of letting your eyes roll back inside your head.

“Fuck that.” You panted, desperate to feel him inside of you.

After one last deep, shaky breath, Erik teased your entrance with the head of his cock, easing it into you painfully slowly in long, but shallow thrusts.

That piercing of his dragging along your walls was damn near eupphoric.

He’d only made it to the halfway point, exercising an impressive amount of restraint despite the urge to slam into you, before you started gasping and groaning, already teetering over the edge.

“You already gonna cum for me, sweets?” He cooed teasingly, albiet shakily “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

All you could do was nod, screwing your eyes shut in complete bliss.

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good.” He groaned, letting his head fall back while he quickened his shallow thrusts, timing them in between your little desperate pants. “So goddamn tight.”

You were so wet hat lewd squelching sounds filled the air, background music to the symphony of sounds pouring out of your mouths.

As soon as he felt your walls fluttering around him, Eric sunk into you until he bottommed out.

You gasped, but didn’t have time to adjust before he was pounding your poor cunt, fucking you hard and fast through your orgasm.

“Holy shit,” He panted, slamming himself home over and over while you convulsed around him, your cunt squeezing him so tightly that he couldn’t have stoped his own release even if he’d wanted to.

You could feel the hot ropes of cum painting your insides and clenched around him, milking his balls of all you could while he sloppily thrust into you, slowing to a stop.

For the third time, he picked you up and sat himself on the piercing table, keeping himself buried deep inside your still pulsating cunt while you both caught your breath, still be careful with the fresh piercings.

“Does this mean you’re gonna clean these piercings for me every day till they heal?” You sighed contently after awhile, brushing your fingers over his chest.

“Gonna have to hang out with me extra if I’m gonna do it twice a day, every day.” he breathed, smiling softly, and blinking at you tiredly “You sure you can commit to that?”

“I’m pretty sure I can live with that.”

“Then yeah.”

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

#Erik Campbell #Final destination Bloodlines #Final Destination 6 #FD Bloodlines #Erik Campbell Headcanons #Erik Campbell x reader #richard harmon #Erik Campbell smut

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biggianteggplant · 2 days ago

Text

The Other Woman.

Miya Atsumu x Reader

You were his manager. Professional, poised, and always in control. Atsumu Miya was your client, a star athlete with a magnetic charm that drew everyone in—including you.

It started innocently: late-night strategy meetings, shared laughter over coffee, and the occasional lingering glance. You knew he was married, that he had a family waiting for him at home. But the lines blurred, and before you knew it, you were entangled in a web of secrecy and desire.

He would come to you after games, his presence filling your apartment like a storm. In those moments, you felt alive, cherished, and wanted. But as dawn approached, reality would set in. He would leave, returning to the life he had built with someone else, leaving you alone with the weight of your choices.

You tried to end it, to reclaim your dignity and peace. But Atsumu had a way of pulling you back in, with sweet words and empty promises. He would say he needed you, that you were the only one who truly understood him. And you believed him, every time.

You ended it.

Or at least, you tried to.

You stood across from Atsumu in the privacy of his hotel room, your hands trembling as you said, “This can’t keep happening. You have a wife. A kid.”

He didn’t flinch.

He leaned back on the bed you’d shared too many times, arms crossed, lips curled into that same boyish smirk he used on the court.

“And? You knew that from the start.”

You swallowed hard.

“I thought I could handle it,” you confessed. “But it’s eating me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t look at myself in the mirror.”

His eyes darkened.

“So what? You’re just gonna walk away?” “Just like that?”

You nodded slowly, afraid, but firm.

“I have to.”

And that’s when his voice changed. Cold. Calculated.

“Don’t forget whose contract you're under.” “Don’t forget I can take you down with a single press statement.”

You stared at him. The air in the room turned thick. Suffocating.

“You wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what I’d do. You really think they’ll believe the woman who slept her way into my inner circle? They’ll eat you alive.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

“Because you’re mine,” he said. “You don’t get to walk away from this unless I say so.”

He stood, took your face in his hands.

“You knew the rules, pretty girl,” he murmured. “You knew I was never gonna come home to you. But you let me in anyway.”

And when he kissed you, you let him.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you felt owned.

After that night, you stopped trying to end it.

You went numb.

You smiled in press conferences, clapped during interviews, and handed him water during practice like nothing had happened.

But every time his hand brushed yours, you remembered how dirty you felt. How your love had been reduced to a secret. A threat.

You watched his wife post photos on social media—laughing, glowing, holding their child in matching outfits—and you sat alone in your kitchen, eating nothing, drinking wine, replaying his voice saying,

“You don’t get to leave.”

You stopped wearing bright colors.

Stopped painting your nails. Stopped meeting your friends. Because the other woman doesn’t get to have a life.

She waits. She hides. She folds herself smaller and smaller until she fits inside the silence between someone else’s happiness.

You weren’t living—you were surviving. Moving through days like a ghost, haunted by a love that was never yours to begin with.

You read every comment under his family’s posts. “Perfect couple!” “Power duo!” “Lucky wife, lucky man.”

And you would break down in the shower—biting your hand to muffle the sobs because your neighbors were starting to notice.

You kept a folder in your phone. Screenshots of his texts.

“You’re the only one who understands me.” “I can’t breathe without you.” “I’ll fix this. Just… not now.”

You’d read them when the guilt threatened to tear your ribs open. As if those empty words could patch the holes.

One night, he called. You hesitated before answering. You were curled up in bed, mascara streaked, trying to convince yourself to block him.

“Hey,” he said, like everything was normal. “Are you still there?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Mhm.”

A pause. Then his voice softened—just enough to slice through you.

“Good.”

Because it didn’t matter how broken you were. As long as you were still his.

Still reachable.

Still there.

That night, you woke up from a dream where he kissed you in public.

And it hurt more than any nightmare.

Because you knew it would never happen.

There’s a unique kind of pain in waiting for someone who never chooses you.

And you—God—you waited.

You told yourself this was temporary. That he just needed time. That he loved you in ways he couldn’t show. That it wasn’t your fault.

“He needs me.” “He can’t leave his family right now.” “It’s not just sex. I mean something to him.”

But you were lying.

And slowly, the lies started to taste like blood in your mouth.

You saw him at a charity event with his wife—her hand tucked into his elbow like she belonged there. She smiled up at him with the kind of trust you used to dream about. And he smiled back, like he hadn’t kissed you in the hallway of his hotel room just hours before.

Your legs nearly gave out.

You went home that night and stared into the mirror for so long you forgot who you were looking at. You didn’t see a woman anymore. You saw a ghost. A shell of someone who used to laugh, dream, and believe she was worthy of love.

You started keeping wine in your drawer at work.

You stopped responding to your mother’s messages.

You flinched when his name popped up on your screen.

“You okay, baby?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the message for hours. He never followed up.

Because he never had to.

You were addicted. Not to him—but to the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only behind closed doors.

You wanted to believe you mattered.

But deep down, you knew.

You were just a convenience. A placeholder. A hidden ache in his otherwise polished life.

And now, the ache was yours to carry.

Alone.

You were gone long before they found your body.

The first thing that disappeared was your laugh. Then your appetite. Then your voice during meetings.

Then… you.

You stopped showing up to practice. On Monday, no one noticed. Tuesday, someone muttered a joke: “Guess she finally got sick of Atsumu’s attitude.”

By Wednesday, worry began to ripple through the team.

By Thursday, silence turned heavy.

And by Friday morning, the captain demanded someone check on you. Just in case.

They didn't know the real reason you stopped coming in.

They didn’t see the messages. The threats.

“You think I won't say you came onto me first?” “I’ll ruin you. You’re nothing without this job.” “Don’t be stupid. You knew what this was.”

He was scared. You were a liability now. And that made him dangerous.

And you?

You were tired.

You lit a candle that night—your favorite scent, the one that reminded you of soft rain and second chances. But the room still felt like a cage.

The rope had been hidden in your closet for a week.

You chose the scarf instead.

The blue one. The one Atsumu said looked “pretty, but desperate.” You laughed it off back then. But now it seemed fitting.

You moved the chair quietly.

No music. No sound.

You didn’t cry this time.

Not when you tied the knot. Not when you stood on the chair. Not even when your fingers trembled so badly you had to redo the loop twice.

There was only stillness. And the letter on the floor.

You looked around one last time—not because you wanted to stay, but to remember.

The framed photo of you and the team. The leftover instant noodles. The dent in the wall from when you threw your phone at it after he said “you’re just a phase.”

You whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

Then you stepped off the chair.

The scarf pulled tight.

Your body twisted. Your toes grazed the floor—but not enough.

And finally, finally, everything went dark.

They found you the next morning. She was cold. Gone.

There was no blood. No noise. Just a body and a letter, folded in two.

Someone screamed.

Another dropped to their knees.

And Atsumu?

He was in the gym. Laughing at something on his phone. Until someone came in, pale-faced, clutching the crumpled letter.

They didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

THE LETTER

I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to say it in a way that can ever make it okay,

but I am. Truly.

I never meant for any of this to happen.

I never meant to hurt anyone—

especially not you.

You’re kind.

You’re gentle.

You didn’t deserve this.

Neither did your children.

I was selfish.

I let myself believe he loved me.

Maybe he did, in some quiet, hidden way—

but he always went home to you.

That should’ve told me everything.

But I stayed.

I stayed because I wanted to be loved.

Even if it wasn’t mine to have.

And now I can’t look in the mirror.

I can’t sleep at night.

I see your smile in my dreams,

and your kids’ laughter,

and I feel like a monster.

He said I’d ruin him if I told the truth.

But the truth is—

he ruined me by making me live a lie.

I don’t expect you to forgive me.

I wouldn’t either.

But please know I never hated you.

I envied you.

You had the life I prayed for in the dark.

If you ever think of me,

don’t call me names.

Don’t teach your children to hate me.

Just tell them I was someone who made a terrible mistake—

and couldn’t find a way out.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t hate yourself.

It was never your fault.

Goodbye.

That day, practice was canceled.

Your name was never announced publicly.

Atsumu didn’t show up for a week.

When he returned, no one looked him in the eye.

Not because they knew the truth—but because they could feel it.

There was blood on his hands.

And he couldn’t wash it off.

Atsumu had never heard silence like this before.

Not in the locker room. Not on the court. Not even in his own mind.

It was the kind of silence that follows a scream no one heard.

It started slowly.

Fans noticed your absence first.

“Where’s the manager?” “She used to be in every game day post.” “Hope she’s okay, she hasn’t posted anything in weeks…”

But when your name vanished from the staff credits, and the team’s social media suddenly went dark, the speculations began.

Reddit threads. TikToks. Anonymous tips.

People guessed you were sick. That maybe you were fired. That maybe—just maybe—something worse happened.

And then the whispers turned to roars.

By the second week, #WhereIsShe was trending on Twitter.

That’s when the team’s PR team knew they couldn’t keep it quiet anymore.

A short, sterile statement was released.

“It is with great sadness that we confirm the passing of one of our staff members. We ask for privacy during this time. We are mourning alongside her loved ones.”

They didn’t mention your name.

They didn’t say how you died.

They didn’t say what they knew.

They never said it was suicide. And they sure as hell didn’t say it was because of him.

But the fans… some of them knew.

Screenshots surfaced—Atsumu liking your old photos. A blurry image of the two of you too close behind a gym door. Cryptic tweets that you had posted and deleted weeks before it happened:

“Secrets rot everything.” “Being someone’s second choice is worse than being no one at all.” “I hope I was more than just a mistake.”

And still, he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

That he used you? That he gaslit you? That he made you beg for affection in private only to treat you like a stranger in public?

There was no press conference for that kind of grief.

He tried to return to the court.

But every time he stood on it, he saw you.

Standing at the sidelines with your clipboard. Grinning when he made a clean serve. Holding back a smile when he winked at you behind his water bottle.

Now he just sees empty space.

And in the locker room, someone had taped a photo of you on the inside of your old locker.

No one knew who put it there.

But no one dared take it down.

He started drinking more. Staying later. Talking less.

The fans noticed.

The team noticed.

But no one said your name.

Even when he had nightmares where you appeared—your feet dangling, that scarf tightening around your throat, your eyes wide with a question that could never be answered—he still couldn’t say your name.

Because saying it meant facing what he did.

Weeks passed.

Months.

Atsumu stood on the balcony of his expensive condo one night, phone in hand, staring at an old photo of you he’d saved secretly. The one where you were laughing at something he said. Candid. Pure.

Real.

He typed:

“I’m sorry.”

Then deleted it.

Because where would he send it? What inbox would receive an apology from a man like him?

You were gone. And he was still here.

Living. Winning. Rotting.

And still— your name was never mentioned.

But every time someone asked him, “Do you ever think about her?”

He’d lie.

Because the truth was unbearable.

The truth was: He thought about you every single day.

And it never stopped hurting.

hey my loves! i was out of the city for a bit, i stayed with my friend and her aunt, met some new people, partied (with dogs, yes), drank a little, lived a lot. it was amazing. so here’s an atsumu angst i wrote on the ride home, because of course i did. HEHDHAHDHASH

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writeriguess · 14 hours ago

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HI HI HI! Can you make a Katsuki x fem reader where he gets really hurt and reader finds him from the alley, barely conscious, and reader is a nurse and somehow drags him to her apartment and manages to nurse him back to health? Bonus points if Katsuki is so out of it that he says something really sexual and dirty to reader and doesn't even realise 🤭

Mending What's Broken

The alley reeked of blood and smoke.

You were just getting off your overnight shift at the hospital, your nurse’s scrubs stained with the usual exhaustion and faint antiseptic smell. A shortcut through the backstreets had never felt so necessary… until you saw the collapsed figure slumped between two overflowing dumpsters.

Your heart dropped.

“Shit—Katsuki?” you breathed, kneeling by the ruined body of none other than Bakugou Katsuki, Pro Hero Dynamight.

His black and orange hero suit was shredded, revealing battered skin underneath. One eye was swollen shut, blood leaking from his temple, and his chest rose in shallow, labored breaths. His right arm hung at an unnatural angle.

You didn't have time to think. Instinct—years of medical training and some unspoken, deep-rooted concern—kicked in.

“Hey—Katsuki. Katsuki, can you hear me?”

A low groan, like a wounded animal, rumbled from his throat.

You glanced around—no civilians. No heroes. You were on your own.

“God, you’re heavy,” you muttered under your breath as you struggled to get him upright, bracing his arm over your shoulder. He leaned on you, semi-conscious, blood smearing your scrubs, his breath hot against your neck.

Somehow, you dragged him the four blocks to your apartment, adrenaline and desperation giving you strength you didn't know you had.

He passed out on your couch the moment you laid him down.

You worked quickly, cutting away the remains of his suit with shears, cleaning his wounds with practiced care. His body was a mess—bruised ribs, deep gashes, at least one fracture, and minor burns. He was lucky to be alive.

After over an hour of stitching, wrapping, disinfecting, and stabilizing, you finally sat back, breathless and sweaty.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” you whispered, brushing damp bangs from his forehead. “Trying to be a one-man army again?”

A low groan escaped his lips, and his head turned slightly toward you.

“Katsuki?”

His lips parted. “...Fuck... mmm... boobs…”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

His voice was thick, dazed, and slow. “Soft... big… can I… fuck, yeah—bury my face in them…”

You blinked. Hard.

This man was hallucinating about your chest. While bleeding out on your couch.

“Katsuki,” you snapped, tapping his cheek lightly.

“Mmm… wanna… motorboat the hell outta you…” he mumbled, face relaxing into a crooked smile. “So soft…”

You froze.

Your face was burning so hard it could’ve melted the ice pack in your hand. This wasn’t just some babble—he was fantasizing, very clearly, and very audibly.

You cleared your throat, flustered beyond measure. “Okay. Yep. Definitely a concussion.”

The next morning, he woke up groaning.

“What the hell—where the fuck am I?”

“On my couch,” you said, arms crossed. “Bleeding all over my throw pillows.”

He blinked up at you, his expression groggy, then scowled. “Wait… shit. You found me?”

“Dragged your sorry ass four blocks,” you said coolly. “Stitched you back together. Heard you mutter something about boobs.”

Katsuki paled. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” you teased, arching an eyebrow. “Real classy stuff. Something about wanting to motorboat me?”

He gawked at you in horror, then groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Fuck. Kill me now.”

“Nope. Already did the hard part—keeping you alive.”

“…Shit,” he muttered, peeking through his fingers. “So… you’re not mad?”

“I’m flattered, honestly,” you smirked. “But maybe next time, try not to bleed out before confessing your dirty fantasies.”

He groaned again, muttering under his breath. You caught the word fuck and mortified.

You just smiled.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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yelenasbraid · 3 days ago

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JOE BURROW — the cure to your poison

summary — he will do anything to get her back

warnings — fem!reader, angst, fluff, sub!joe, smut

note — it’s long. oops 😀 also it’s part two of this fic

tags — @ebsmind @willowsnook @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @softburrow @joecoolburrow @joeyburrrow @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @irishmanwhore @hotburreaux @sportyphile @wickedfun9 @burrowdarling @jburrgf @blairsworld22

IT WAS LATE when she heard her phone buzz. Three days passed since the gala and she cursed herself for thinking about Joe. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to think about his laugh or his muscles. Or how she knew exactly what was underneath his clothes.

Maybe a tad bigger, but still there.

She picked up her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the darkness of her bedroom. It was a text. From Joe.

‘Hey, can we talk?’

Joe only had her number for professional purposes. He rarely ever texted her. So her heart dropped to her feet. Her stomach churned. Her whole body froze.

He wanted to talk.

‘About what?’

A reply came nearly instantly. ‘You know what about.’

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She sat up, her heart racing inside of her chest. She didn’t want to talk about it, but at the same time, she did. The time spent apart, throwing hateful or confused gazes at one another, got old. She wanted connection, and the girl inside of her wanted to know if he wanted it too.

‘Fine.’ She replied, following with her apartment address.

Silence followed. Her blood roared in her ears. Her nerves dented the walls of her stomach. She placed her phone on the nightstand before she stood up.

She needed to at least put a bra on.

She brushed her hair, brushed her teeth. The routine. The things she did when she expected sex. She didn’t expect it this time, but the routine was comforting. Natural. A good luck charm.

It wasn’t long before a knock sounded at her apartment door. Her heart jumped, eyes screwed in on her shut bedroom door. She opened it, padding out to the entrance door.

“Hey,” he breathed as she opened the door. He was comfortable. Sweats hung on his hips, a t-shirt hung around his shoulders. Golden retriever.

“Hi,”

“Can I come in?” he asked. He was nervous. His eyes scanned her features, the bags under her eyes and the shorts she sported. Her arms were crossed over her chest; she never liked being woken up.

“Yeah,” she murmured. The air around them thickened as he walked in, sensing the tension. The door shut behind them, lock clicking in place. Silence stood with them, hanging around their necks. It wasn’t the lack of words that choked them, it was the abundance of them.

“I don’t wanna be long,” he started, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I just…want to clear the air,”

“Clear the air about what?” she was still defensive. Still sure he was going to compare her to someone else.

“About what happened that night, the night we…stopped seeing each other,” he admitted. He shouldn’t have been that caught up in it all, but he was. Paige was a cover up, a raggedy blanket to attempt to soothe his weary soul. She didn’t do it for him. Not like Y/N did.

“I don’t think there’s anything we need to clear,” she sighed, “everything was said then,”

“I know I know, but I just…” he ran a hand through his damp curls, fingers shaky. He didn’t know how to formulate the words. He didn’t know how form a sentence.

“I just wanted to apologize,”

“For what? Comparing me to another girl?” she could feel her anger flare, the sheer volume of her irritation filling her chest. She didn’t want it to get that far, but every word he said was a scar reopening.

“I don’t want to argue,” he exhaled, the weight of this conversation bearing down on him, “I just wanted to apologize,”

“That’s not enough,” she scoffed, “an apology? That’s all? I mean, yeah, thanks, but that’s not going to fix it,”

“I know that,” his voice is raising, magma slowly building in his stomach, “but I don’t know what else you want from me,”

“I want you to want me!” she shouted, her eyes burning with the the familiar sting of tears. It was sudden, the air of the room sucked out with a single phrase. This wasn’t the first time he’d made her cry, it wasn’t the first time he’d punched her in the chest.

“I do want you!” he shouted back, his eyes pleading with her. The blue depths of his eyes threatened to pull her in, a black hole that she’d try to claw her way out of but inevitably be destroyed in.

“Then why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me stand there like a fucking moron?” she shouted back, her eyes staring into the wide blue eyes of the man in front of her. His pupils dilated, pulsing as he watched her. The answer to her question was simple.

He was stupid. Moronic. Selfish.

“Because I was a kid,” he breathed, “I wanted more than I could, and I didn’t realize that everything I needed was right in front of me,”

Her arms loosened. Her chest heaved. The words he spoke was a balm, seeping into the scars he’d caused. The sincerity behind them was easy to believe. Joe wasn’t one to beg for things. He wasn’t one to be vulnerable. She wanted to believe him on that sole fact, but time had changed them, hadn’t it? She’d become more closed off. He’d grabbed ahold of the fame.

His lifeline shifted.

“And what was right in front of you?” she asked, a charge. She wanted him to say it. She wanted him to own it. The room they were in became thick, the air sucked from their lungs. She watched Joe, watched as he stepped forwards.

“You,” he breathed. His blue eyes flickered, focusing on her features. It was a simple answer. No hesitation. He’d been missing her this whole time. She’d been his missing piece. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, the tightness in his body choking him.

“Let me fix it,” he whispered, desperation laced between every syllable. His body was close to hers now, his haunting scent wafting over her senses. His presence pushed her back, guiding her into her bedroom, the door flicking shut behind them. Her body remembered how he felt. How he kissed her and how he’d touched her.

But it didn’t matter then. It was just for fun.

“How can you fix it?” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“Let me show you,” he whispered, kneeling down in front of her. Her world tipped, her heart skipping a beat. His eyes were round, his body relaxed. He wasn’t trying to dominate her, to take control. His hands reached out, brushing down the curve of her thighs.

“Joe,” she warned, even if her body was electrified. The charge in the air zipped down her spine, her fingers curling at her sides. The flutter in her stomach was familiar, it was foreign all at the same time.

“Sh,” he hushed, his fingers looping under the hem of her cotton shorts, “please,”

She watched him, her eyes capturing his blown expression. His breath fanned against her skin, growing goosebumps across her skin. His fingers didn’t budge, just stayed warm against the skin of her hips.

He was asking permission.

“Okay,” she whispered. In that moment, the room exploded. His fingers tugged the shorts off of her hips. She stepped out of them. Her legs laid bare for him, soft and perfumed. His head dipped, kissing her inner thighs. The sensation caused her to inhale sharply. The plush of his lips against the skin of her thighs made her body tense.

Joe’s heart raced. His eyes never left hers, even as his fingers peeled her panties from her hips. He peeled them down her body, the slick of her pussy sticking to the crotch of her panties. His cock jumped in his sweats. He eyes fluttered, the scent of her arousal making him hold back a moan.

It was so familiar. The scent of home. Of her.

“Can I?” he asked her. He could practically taste her, the scent of her staining his nervous system. His brain lit up, memories swarming back into his brains. Her sounds. Her quivers. Everything.

“Yes,” she breathed, and the second she gave him permission, his mouth was on her. She gasped, stumbling with the sheer force of her pleasure. Her back hit the wall of her bedroom, one of her hands tangled in his beautiful, blonde curls.

His tongue attached to her cunt, the bitter taste of her arousal making him moan. His fingers dug into her thighs, keeping her against the wall and him from stumbling. Her moans and her breaths were a melody, a sensual song that he wanted to play on repeat. He wanted to wake up to it every morning.

Her eyes fluttered, her mouth hanging open with silent moans. Her free hand braced against the wall, her back arched off of the wall. The ache he stirred, the way her pussy fluttered around his tongue, it clouded her mind. Her body squirmed over him, her body moved on its own as she remembered just how he felt.

“Am I doing good?” he asked her, and she peaked down at him. Submissive. She’s never seen him like this before. Joe always took control. His hands were always demanding and starving for control.

Not now.

She moved her hand from his hair, tracing his jawline. His heart skipped a beat, his lungs squeezed with anticipation. Blood drained from his body, all collecting in his already rock hard cock.

“Get on the bed,” she hummed. The simplicity of the command, the softness of her voice, it sent ripples through his ocean of desire. He stood, his erection evident in the grey sweats he sported. He did as he was told, positioning himself on the bed.

Back against the headboard. His hands fisting the sheets.

She followed. She tore her shirt off, leaving her in a maroon, satin bra. She grabbed her discarded panties, a matching maroon color. Her breasts wiggled in their cups as she straddled his hips. She peeled his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor.

“Hands above your head,” she continued. Joe’s eyes widened, but held did as he was told. His biceps bulged as he did so, and using the fabric of her panties, she tied his wrists to the headboard. His breath hitched, the warmth of her arousal meeting the skin of his wrist. He shuddered, squirming under her.

“Y/N-”

“Sh,” she pressed a manicured finger to his lips, her eyes meeting his. The air between them was hot, thick with a lust that’s fermented like a fine wine. It was potent, alcoholic. Joe wanted her injected into his DNA, he wanted her to be apart of him.

She dragged her finger down his chin, down his throat, and down his chest. Her finger traced the underside of one of his pecs, making him flinch. Her face stayed inches from his, teasing him. He didn’t get to kiss her on his own terms. He’d have to earn the privilege of kissing her.

“Gonna be a good boy for me?” she hummed, her lips brushing over his jaw. Her fingers looped around to her back, unclamping her bra. She slid it off of her shoulders, flinging it to the floor.

His heart slammed against his chest, his ribcage vibrating with every beat of his heart. The way her finger traced under his pec, how her lips softly met his neck, his hips arched in response.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his breath ragged and uneven. Her lips trailed down his chest, delicately pressing kisses to his hot skin. She was in control here, she held the reins in her hands. Her hands slid down his sides, resting on his hips.

“I’m gonna prove to you I’m better,” she promised, her lips meeting the meat of his pec, “I know I’m better, but you have to believe it,”

Her words, a silky promise on the waves of need, sent blood straight to his cock. He felt it twitch in his sweats, the ache pulsing deep within his body. He fought his body, tensing as her tongue flicked over his nipple.

“Fuckin’ hell, Y/N,” he groaned, his hands straining in his hold. She’d managed to tie him tight, and even though he could get out if he really tried, he didn’t want to. Seeing the possession of her vengeance, how it took root in her brain and spread through her nerves, it was sexy.

Her tongue swirled around his nipple, his chest heaving as he swallowed the moans that threatened to spill. His skin prickled, tingles of his pleasure reaching down to his toes. She moved to kiss down his chest, her lips kissing a trail down to his v-line.

He met her eyes, the depth of them magnetizing. He had no choice but to draw in, to lose himself in whatever she had swirling in that beautiful mind of hers. His body remembered her touch, that the pads of her fingers held fire and her tongue held the flood. Her fingers peeled off his sweats, the bulge in his boxers growing with each passing second. His stomach fluttered, his throat closed with the threat of a noise he hadn’t made. Ever.

A whimper.

She kissed under his belly button, purposely teasing him. He was rock hard, probably aching so much it hurt, but she’d let it ride. Her fingers were dainty, they were torches as they peeled the waistband of his boxers back.

“What are you doing?” Joe grunted, his hands straining against the restraints. His muscles bulged, his abs constricted and she felt saliva collect in her mouth.

“Teasing you,” she answered simply, slowly freeing him from his boxers, “though I think you’d classify this as torture,”

It was torture. His body was tied up in knots, her fingers tying him tighter. His cock twitched as he felt the cool air of her bedroom kiss his skin, the heat of her breath added in didn’t help him.

He gritted his teeth. He bit it back. He couldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“Come on, Joey,” she hummed, her eyes dark with control. Dominance flared in her body, rippling through her blood stream. Her heart danced in her chest, her lungs leading her in her arousing state of mind.

The second he made a sound she’d lose it.

The silence was deafening. His cock was painfully hard, pre-cum slipping down his red, sensitive tip. His teeth were gritted together, his eyes avoiding hers.

But his own desire betrayed him. A small, quiet whimper left his throat. It echoed in the room, but once he started he couldn’t stop. His mind crumbled, his body slumping against the plush mattress. She consumed him, controlled him like a puppet master. Her eyes were home, where he’d find himself pleasured and safe.

“There you go,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked down to his cock, salivating at the sight of him. He was thick, his tip pulsing with the arousal that leaked from his slit. It laid against his stomach, throbbing with need.

But his eyes. They were blown with an ache that she spun herself. His lips were parted with small breaths, his head spinning. She was in control; she had him on a leash and he wasn’t complaining.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his hips arching towards her body. The throbs in his cock made his muscles shake, it made his world spin. It was nearly painful; he needed her.

“Tell me,” she whispered, collecting saliva in her mouth, “what do you want?”

She lets her saliva drip from her lips, dripping down onto the sensitive and swollen tip of his cock. His hips bucked, a gasp leaving his lips. It was fire to his veins, his nerves the underbrush to her flame.

“God,” he groaned, taking deep and ragged breaths. His words were tangled, clawing at his throat as he attempted to shove them down. But the way she was looking at him, the way her body glowed in the light, he couldn’t help himself.

“Touch me,” he whimpered, his words barely audible over the sound of his breathing, “please,”

And she did.

She grabbed ahold of him with her hand, the heat of his skin making her shudder. Her hand stroked, slowly, drawing out gasps and moans from Joe. She squeezed, the tiniest bit, flexing her wrist as she touched him. Her other hand raked down his thigh, reveling in the shivers she drew from his nerves.

“Fuck,” he cursed, squirming underneath her touch, “Y/N,”

She didn’t answer his moans. She dipped her head, licking around the underside of the head of his cock. He tasted bitter, salty with arousal, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was whimpering, that he was squirming underneath her touch.

With how she was making him feel, he wasn’t going to last long.

“Don’t cum until I tell you,” she hummed, her hand wringing him in a faster pattern, squeezing ever so slightly at his tip. It left a burning sensation in his body, an ache that he fought so hard to keep under control.

She stroked him, feeling him twitch in her hands. He was so sensitive, so hard for her, and she wanted him to feel it. She wanted him to drown in the aches she drew, and based off of the look on his face, she was.

“I-I can’t,” he whined. The walls around his heart crumbled, allowing her to have full control. Joe didn’t often find himself in this position, but it was different with her. He’d willingly let himself be under her.

She removed her hand. He choked back a moan.

His cock twitched, his tip pooling with pre-cum. He sat on the edge of the knife, his body twitching. It was torture.

She moved up his body, her face right above his. His eyes, round with submission, blinked up at her. Soft, gentle whimpers fell from his lips as the throbbing in his body only intensified. He couldn’t even think straight.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she whispered, tracing his jaw with her fingers, “my pretty boy,”

The possession, the way she said it, he whined. His cock jumped, making his toes curl. He needed her.

“Please,” he whispered, his chest heaving with his breaths, “please, let me cum,”

She smirked, dipping her head, tasting his skin. Having this power, this control, it was an addiction she didn’t know existed. His skin was sweet, twinged with the flavor of his sweat. She settled her hips down on his, her sopping pussy meeting his shaft.

“You wanna cum, pretty boy?” she whispered in his ear, her teeth grazing his skin.

“Please,” he begged. His eyes closed, his lips parted. His body craved hers, his skin crawling with the promise of what was to come. His arms tugged at the fabric of her panties, his fingers flexing in their hold.

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” she whispered. She lost the point now, the revenge she was supposed to be getting. Now, it was all lust. It was a cigarette that once she got a drag of, she’d always come back.

Her face hovered over his, their breaths mingling together. One of her hands reached between them, aligning his cock with her entrance. Her touch sent electricity through his body, eliciting a gasp from his pink lips.

She pushed him inside of her, her hips sitting back on his cock. A gasp left her lips, her hand planting on one of his pecs, squeezing. The girth, the way he pulsed inside of her, it threatened to split her in two. Her walls, gummy and sensitive, were alive as she took him to the hilt.

Joe felt numb and alive all at the same time. His eyes watered, the intensity of her pussy around his cock building the ache deep within him. He clenched his hands into fists as he held himself back, whimpers breathing through clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” she breathed, her lips inches from his. He wanted to kiss her, his lips tingling for just a single taste.

He hadn’t earned it. Yet.

“Y/N,” he moaned, whiny and silky. Her hips scooped against his, the burn of their friction making Joe’s jaw slack and his back arch. His stomach fluttered, letting go of the restrain he had on his vocal cords.

The sweet, plushy spot within her pulsed, and with every drag of his cock, her mind was higher in the clouds. Her hands gripped his pecs, her fingers leaving pretty little indents in the muscle. Her thighs hugged his hips, strong and soft. Her movements were slow, but they were deep, meant to tear Joe apart piece by piece.

And it was working.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” she whispered, her lips ghosting over his jaw. His breath hitched, his hips bucking up into hers. The sudden friction, the bolt of electricity that ran down his veins, caused a whimper to fall from his lips.

He could only nod.

“Meet my pace,” she whispered in his ear, and it was like a dam breaking. His hips snap, fucking up into her like it was all he could ever need. His moans filled the room, mingling with hers to create a sweet cocktail. She moved with him, the heat of their skin adding to the pleasure.

She was losing it.

She moaned, her hands going to cup his jaw, roaming down to his shoulders. The sounds of skin hitting skin, wet and sticky, filled the room. Their bodies were soaked, a mixture of arousal and sweat slicking their skin.

“There ya go,” she breathed into his ear, the side of her head rested against his, “good boy,”

That about did him over. Praise. Confirmation.

“S-say that again,” he rasped, his hips still bucking into hers. He felt the knife of his orgasm, the way it stabbed him, threatening to bleed him dry. His eyes squeezed shut, his muscles taut, working with her and her pace.

She smirked at his words.

“You’re my good boy,” she hummed, moaning in his ear. She felt the growing sensitivity of her coming orgasm. Her self control, the desire to be in this position of control all the way through, it slipped. Her moans filled the room, her hips stuttering as she neared that edge.

One of her hands reached up, ripping her panties from his wrists. His reaction was instant; hands on her hips, guiding her movements, slamming his hips into her so hard and so fast they both saw stars. She moaned, throwing her head back, tits bouncing with every movement.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned, “fuck fuck fuck,”

Her lips hovered over his, and he couldn’t take it. He kissed her. She let him. The taste of his kiss was sweet, seasoned with a primal desire to share in the passion she was giving him. His hand danced up her spine, splaying across her lower back.

One final thrust, one final hip swivel, and they came undone. His cum warmed her walls, her body convulsed around his. Her gasp filled his mouth, but he kept kissing her. He kept his lips firmly attached to hers, sucking at her skin.

She pulled herself off, feeling the dam break, squirting all over his lower abdomen. Between that and her orgasm, she was a shaking and slick mess.

Joe finally pulled from her lips, soft, shaky breaths leaving his lips. His curls were sweaty, slick and damp. He pressed her forehead to hers, their hearts slamming against their ribcage. But he lived in the moment. He drank in the peace after the intensity.

She kissed him again, slow. Sensual. She slid her tongue along his bottom lip, dipping it into his mouth. He sighed into her kiss, pouring out his heart into her lips. His hands ran up and down her sides, smoothing over her blown nerves.

“Y/N,” he groaned as he pulled away, peeling open his bleary blue eyes. No words formed, even if his mind was running a thousand miles an hour.

He had so much to say.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, “I’m sorry for being an ass, for…for leaving you like that,”

The sincerity in his words made her heart soar. She kept her body close, letting their skin mix, letting their passion mingle. She ran her hand through his sweaty, knotted curls, kissing his cheek.

“I forgive you,” she whispered, “but you have to tell me something,”

“What?” he asked. Her eyes were barely open, a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction painted in her eyes.

“Why did you run?” she asked. He had no reason to hide from her. He didn’t want to.

“I was scared,” he admitted, “I…I thought that if I pushed you away I could push away my own feelings,”

“But why would you want to do that?” she asked. A valid question. One she’d been asking for years.

“Because look at you,” he breathed, “poised to perfection, a fucking goddess. I don’t compare to you,”

His words shocked her. Her eyes flickered, her heart skipping a beat in her chest. His words were raw, unshielded and unguarded. His eyes were wide, brow creased as he sat in the ecstasy of his pleasure and his feelings.

“Joe-”

“No, please, hear me out,” he interrupted, adjusting himself on the bed. His hands cupped her face, eyes boring into hers. She was beautiful, always was and always will be. Her skin was soft, warm under his touch.

“I was selfish,” he admitted, shaking his head, “you’re everything to me. You did more for me than Paige did, than anyone did. You…God, Y/N,” he breathed, unable to form the intense weight of his emotions into words.

She understood. She could read him like a book.

She leaned in, capturing his lips in a slow, tender kiss. He whined, his hand cupping the back of her head. He wanted her to feel the weight of his feelings, the way his heart beat for her. He slowly laid her down on the bed, his body pressing against hers.

“Can we do this again?” he asked, pulling from her lips, “I don’t want it to be a friends with benefits,”

“So like, dating?” she asked. Her heart raced, hope filling the cavity of her chest. Her head buzzed, thrumming with more.

“Yes,” he nodded, sweaty curls bouncing, “yes, I want everything. I want more. If you’ll have me,”

She answered with a kiss. Hungry. Desperate. Her arms looped around his neck, legs hooked around his waist as she pulled him closer to her body. Warm skin to warm skin, connected at the most intimate level, she felt at home.

“I’ll have you,” she whispered, “I’ll have all of you,”

Joe’s chest relaxed. He released a breath, his hands roaming her body. She fit against him perfectly, the piece to finish his puzzle. She was his muse, his reason for living. She was the cure to his curse, the poison he nearly killed himself with.

And he was never letting go.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fan fic

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science-hoes · 1 day ago

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wine night thots??? hmm how about any of the boys eating their, uh you know favorite meal *wink* *wink*

Ah yes Charlie Reid, Pope Cody, Jack Abbot, and Michael Robinavitch are fine dining connoisseurs!! They only eat at five star restaurants!!

Charlie eats you out like it’s a daily ritual, especially before he leaves for work in the mornings. It wakes him up better than any amount of caffeine. You’ll root your fingers in his greying curls, grinding against his skilled tongue. His hands pin your hips down so he can get just the angle he wants to hear you scream his name. “Gonna wake up the neighbors, sweetheart.” He rolls your clit in between his lips, vibrations shooting to your core when he chuckles at your desperate whines. “Hush, now, I’m gonna let you come. Won’t leave my baby girl frustrated all day.” When your orgasm approaches, he expertly draws it out with a few more skilled flicks of his tongue, moaning as your slick dribbled down his chin. He makes you kiss it clean for him before he gets out of bed to shower.

Pope is probably the least experienced when it comes to eating pussy. He hasn’t had much opportunity to do it, so he’s certainly no expert. But when he goes down on you the first time, he wants to make it perfect for you. “Does it feel good when I do this?” His tongue is long and rough against your folds, and he can’t get enough of your juices. You taste like heaven, and he could die happily right there between your thighs. When you guide him to suck on your clit, that’s when he starts to have fun. The desperate slurping sounds from his mouth fill the room, and fuck, he’s a fast learner. When you come on his mouth for the first time, he drinks it all up, swallowing like it’s his final meal. “Can I do it again? You just taste so good.” And how are you supposed to say no to that?

Jack is a certified pussy eater. He’ll take care of you anytime, anywhere. At home in bed, in the on call room at work, in the backseat of his truck. He loves to have your plush thighs constrict his neck like a boa snake as he devours you. It’s his favorite way to relieve stress after a grueling night shift. “Mmmm, I needed this.” You’ll scream his name over and over, it’s like a symphony to his ears. And he isn’t gonna stop until you come twice on his mouth before you move to any other activities. “Come on, baby doll, give me one more.” When you come for the second time, he’s greedily licking up every last drop, mouth glistening with your juices in the early morning light. And if he’s feeling mischievous, he’ll try for a third and a fourth time, just to see what your limits are.

Robby thinks about the taste of your pussy while he’s at work, even when he shouldn’t be, like when he’s elbows deep in a gunshot victim with you at his side. Most nights, when you get home, he’ll snatch your scrub bottoms down, push you onto the couch, and start teasing you through your panties with his tongue. “Been thinkin’ about this all day, kid. You drive me crazy.” When you eventually get rid of your panties, he dives in like a man possessed. His beard adds a wonderful scratch to your most sensitive areas, his nose brushing perfectly against your clit, and if he has those old man glasses on, they’re fogging up from your heat. “Gonna squirt for me today? Did you drink enough water?” And truly, that was your only motivation to stay hydrated. To see Robby’s beard drenched with your cum and juices after he licks and fingers you into squirting all over his face.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #jack abbot #dr robby #doctor robby #shawn hatosy #noah wyle #animal kingdom #pope Cody #pope Cody x reader #Andrew pope Cody #Charlie Reid #charlie reid x reader #Chicago pd #Michael Robinavitch x reader #Jack abbot x reader

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nightingale-prompts · 2 days ago

Text

The Devil's Drink-DCxDP prompt

Eldritch Coffee Shop AU part 3 (I guess)

First | Previous |

"Hey there, Sailor."

Jason already knew when he passed those aged mahogany doors that he'd be waiting. Always at that bar when the kids were sleeping. This place— it was like it shifted to what you needed at the time.

Coffee and cakes during the day. A speakeasy during the evening for food, drink, and dancing. But right now, when the graveyard shift takes on a new meaning, the age of this place starts to show. It's somber and quiet. The regulars talked low amongst themselves or sat alone at the booths or bar—contemplating where the time went at the bottom of their gin and tonic.

The band played jazz, slow and smooth. The trumpet dragged it's notes like a dead body across the floor. Made you wanna just close your eyes and sigh like a man bearly keeping it together because he knows that once he leaves the bar, life will be waiting to give him a reason to come back.

That barman. He had a sort of dry smile. He took a long drag from his cigarette, his red eyes focused on Jason and his every moment. Hungry—like was wanted something.

His uniform was slightly undone after a long night. His sleeves—cuffed and his forehead arm tattoos on full display. The ink went from elafent thin lines to thick black. Chains etched into his skin and skeletal bones that matched what was underneath the skin.

They sure liked their graveyard aesthetic around here.

"Need a drink don't you, Rev?" He said, the rich gravely voice said between puffs of smoke.

Jason took a seat at the extended bar that stood perpendicular from the barista station, or just a turn from it. Even now you can smell the coffee grounds mixed with the scent of cigars in the air.

"I'm surprised you're busy right now," Jason said tilting his head to the patrons still here.

"Are you? In a city like this even the dead don't sleep. Can't empty this place unless it's closed. You should know that. You don't own the Iceberg lounge for nothing." The bartender said holding his cigarette between his sharp black-painted fingers.

"No, I meant with your kids and everything." Jason said showing his cards as well.

The barkeeper grunted.

"Not like they need their big brother putting them to bed and it's not like I a have a partner waiting up." He said putting a glass on the bar and pouring a viscous, translucent green or blue liquid that swirls with light.

He mixed the drink with ice, strange leaves, and unknown berries before pouring it into a glass with one smooth motion.

"No shot?" Jason quiped.

The bartender leaned down until his cheek brushed Jason's and whispered in his ear.

"I think a bit of extra flair is needed. Too much of the raw stuff might ruin your palette. Can't have you like the straight whisky drinkers over there that can't tell a beer from a cider. Plus, I wanna water down your drinks so you stay longer." He pulled away and Jason got a good look at those sharp white fangs he had for teeth. More wolf then vampire thought.

Whatever he was Jason knew he was human. He knew that Jason was a revenant so perhaps he was too. He probably just committed to the death thing in a completely different way.

Did that mean he was from the League of Assassins? It was possible but would Raz allow someone to sell his treasured Lazarus water? Besides Raz had never considered drinking it like this. Jason had tasted it upon his resurrection and it was awful the grossest thing he ever ingested. Not like the stuff served here. Pure, potent, and delicious.

Jason took a drink. Just under the foamy head was a tangy-sweet taste with an oddly comforting chill, like mint and citrus with a hint of spice. Then there was a deep acidic bite like a wolf had his jaws at his throat. Exactly what Jason wanted.

The wolf looked at him, waiting for judgment.

"It's good. "Jason said, "What is it called?"

"Ordering it again?" The man asked a smug grin on his face.

"I might."

"The Elixir. Simple isn't it. No stupid puns at least." He said.

"I like that puns. They are cute." Jason said lowly while taking another drink.

"That's how those little troglodites get you." He sighed.

"You let them thought."

"No comment."

Jason laughed.

"So what else do you have?" Jason asked.

"It's a secret menu. Can't tell you or—you know. Not secret." The Bartender cooed while taking a glass left by a patron and putting it in the sink.

"How else am I gonna know what to order? Jason coaxed.

"Come back and I'll serve you a new one."

"An excuse to see me or get more of my money?"

"Money for sure. I love money."

Their conversation piddled away for a pit until they listened to music in silence.

"Well you should get going Rev. I got a group of old bones sweeping in soon."

"Can I at least get a name?" Asking a bit too needy.

"Dan. Don't get me mixed up with the other ones." He said.

"Don't think I could," Jason said opening the door to the stairs. The cool of graveyard slowly wafting towards him.

"Also. You sound better when you aren't stumbling over your words Rev. It's cuter when you do, Rev." Dan said with a predatory glint in his eyes.

Like a switch was turned in his brain Jason felt his tongue tie in his mouth as he babbled a goodnight and left as quietly as possible.

He's the devil. Clearly, he was a demon.

But Jason would come back. Like a call in the night he would seek out the devil's drink.

#this ship is your god now #should i make a secret menu drink list?#badblood ship #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #jason x dan #jason todd #dark danny #dan phantom

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asiatic-apple · 2 days ago

Note

Hiiii & congrats on the followers! Can I please request from the fluff #15, Zayne x reader with no gender preference? Your awesome for doing this btw!

Thank you so much, anon ❤️ This is my first time writing for zayne, so I hope I did him justice

Requests are open for my follower celebration

Sweet jealousy

Zayne x gender neutral reader

Prompt: having pet names for each other that no one else is allowed to use

Content: fluff, use of “darling” as a pet name for you, use of “sweetie” as a pet name for zayne, jealous zayne

The quaint dessert shop tucked away in Linkon’s historic district smells like heaven and promises an impending sugar crash. This place is your guilty pleasure, and today you’re sharing your little hideaway with your favorite doctor.

The familiar pastel walls, the hum of soft jazz through tinny speakers, and extravagant display cases lined with glossy domes of mousse and tarts all come together to give the place a dreamy vibe.

Zayne doesn’t care much about aesthetics, though. All he cares about is being with you in this moment of sugary indulgence.

He follows your lead, one hand tucked casually into his coat pocket, the other brushing against yours as you step up to the counter to order for both of you.

After a short internal debate over chocolate lava cake or strawberry macarons—Zayne thinks you look most adorable when you’re indecisive about sweets—you settle on a box of macarons to share.

There’s not much that can distract Zayne from the promise of dessert. But his mood instantly sours when the cheerful waiter behind the counter smiles at you and says, “Good choice, darling. I’ll get that right out for you.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

He’s quiet while you both grab a seat by the window. And his mouth presses into a thin line when your desserts arrive. He thanks every god above that there’s no more annoying pet names from the waiter this time—but that does little to improve his mood.

You’re used to comfortable silence, especially around Zayne. But this is anything but comfortable.

He picks at his macarons with all the enthusiasm of a man eating military rations. You barely have the heart to watch when he takes one bite and chews it with a look so emotionless it’s like he’s eating cardboard.

You let the silence stretch a little longer, enjoying the soft clink of spoons and the buzz of conversation around you. His blank stare at his plate turns into a glare so harsh, it’s like the macarons personally offended him.

It’s impossible not to stifle a laugh.

“Is it really that bad?” you ask with an amused grin. “You’re looking at it like it’s laced with carrots.”

Zayne doesn’t look up. “It’s alright.” His answer is noncommittal at best. At worst, it’s an insult to your taste in dessert shops.

You tilt your head at him, waiting for further explanation that doesn’t come. Perhaps he wants you to coax it out of him. That’s fine; you like playing games with him.

In your sweetest voice, you ask, “Should I guess what’s bothering you, Doctor Zayne?”

At least your playful tone makes his lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. “You can try.”

“Okay,” you reply, tapping your chin in contemplation. “You’re mad I didn’t pick the lava cake.”

He exhales, slow and measured. “No.”

“You wanted me to feed you.”

You lift one of the macarons on your plate and gently bring it to Zayne’s mouth. Even when he’s too busy pouting over something unknown, he can’t stay mad for too long when he’s in your presence.

He parts his lips in acquiescence and chews on the macaron, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth when he glances back at the waiter busying himself around the store.

Zayne's deepening frown doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Just like you weren’t oblivious to the way he’d tensed by your side when the waiter called you that special name.

“Hmm,” you pretend to think some more, “are you upset he called me darling?”

His expression doesn’t change much, but his shoulders drop in that barely-there way that says bingo, you caught him.

You can’t stop yourself from chuckling this time. Jealousy suits Zayne well, even when he tries to be subtle about it. “I can’t believe it,” you tease him. “You’re mad over something so simple?”

“I’m not mad,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “I’m…mildly perturbed.”

“Sweetie, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. He probably calls all his customers cute pet names when he greets them.”

Zayne huffs. Like a child. You’d be surprised by the act if it weren’t for how comically serious he looks while doing it.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he asks softer now—almost a mumble for someone who’s usually so well-spoken and precise with his words.

When you look at him in confusion, he continues, “That elderly woman in the park two days ago. The flower seller we passed on the way to our date last weekend.”

You lean forward, elbow on the table, grinning. The memories are clear in your mind, but you’re not sure what the pattern is between them. “Go on,” you coo.

“They all called you darling,” he says simply. “I don’t care if it’s a daily occurrence for them. That name is already taken.”

You let out a soft laugh and reach across the table to intertwine your fingers with his. To anyone else, they’d think the famously stoic Doctor Zayne is being uncharacteristically petulant about this issue.

But you know better.

This is just the new side of him that brazenly wants you all to himself—openly and unapologetically. Greed, he once called it. Apparently, the good doctor is a glutton for more than just sugary treats.

The faint smirk tugging at his lips now confirms it. He just wanted some more of your attention after what the waiter said. And you’re happy to provide it to reassure him that you’re only his darling when it counts.

“You know,” you say with a gentle squeeze of his hand, “we could always slap a trademark symbol on it. Get the legal department involved.”

That seems to perk him up a little. His smirk grows into that full, charming grin you know and love. “I like that idea, Darling,” he replies. “We can sue for infringement. At minimum.”

“Well then,” you say, rising to your feet and offering him your hand, “maybe we should find somewhere else to enjoy dessert. If we’re filing a complaint, it’d be a conflict of interest to stay here.”

💕tag list: @heartyluv

If you want to be added to my tag list for a certain character (or for everything I write) feel free to comment here, DM me, or send an ask!

Creds: macaron banners by @/sweetmelodygraphics

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rafesteddy · 14 hours ago

Note

dilf!rafe and milf!reader eats every time i love them sm 😭 lowkey i wanna know how winnie and jackson even started dating with rafe being so protective? x

thank you for your ask 🤭🤭 sorry it went a little long I just liked this idea so much 🥹💕 this does not need to be read with the rest of the DILF!rafe AU

+18 -> 𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯 | A sweet homecoming is cut short when a note hidden in the laundry stirs up more than just worry.

c/w: pet names, coarse language, violence between rafe + jj, threats, angst, mild sexual content/marital romance <- no smut, references weed

cameron kids= Max (18), Winnie (17), Rory + Poppy (4)

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝓪𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮…

“Sorry I took longer than usual,” your laundry lady puffs, adjusting her grip on the tote in her arms, overflowing and stacked high with warm cotton and the faintest trace of lavender clinging to it. “Your kids got real creative with their pockets again.”

You laugh and step forward to help. “Wouldn’t be laundry day without a little chaos.” You pass her a folded bill, and with a knowing smirk, laid out your palm as she hands over the goods: a smaller pouch with a knotted drawstring, contents half-full. “This one’s got the treasures,” she says, and you can hear the teasing in her voice.

You smile and sigh as she walks back to her car, peeking inside the pouch at the little bag of treasures. A crumpled drawing, two tiny dinosaur toys, a handful of Pretty Pretty Princess plastic jewelry—definitely the twins’ handiwork.

Then came the other stuff… The kind of stuff that made you wince as you look into the grab-bag of “future conversations to have”. A puck of Zyn, two spliffs, a hefty tab for The Island Club restaurant paid for using Max’s emergency credit card… Lovely. And, a box of matches from Nude Beach Strip Club… You groan and roll out your neck, pleading quietly for your husband, somewhere far away on a business trip to help you with your son.

And then, right at the bottom, caught beneath a single balled-up sock was a tube of cherry Summer Fridays and next to it—folded twice and tucked in tight—was a note.

You pluck it out of the bag and examine it closer, looking over your shoulder before looking at it again. It’s small, soft at the corners, handled too many times.

Your heart starts to race a little quicker as you weigh the obvious. To peek or not to peek. Is it an option? It shouldn’t be. You’re not a snoop. You never have been. You respected Winnie’s space, but it’s right here in your hand…

You set it on the counter, picking it back up again before setting it back down. Don’t… “Rafe!” You yelp as a pair of arms wrap tight around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You giggle softly as your husband buries his handsome face in your neck, grinning against your skin.

“Just as pretty as I left you, baby,” he mumbles those eight words he always does when he comes home, making your heart swell, and your home feel that much warmer. His chest is solid; scent, familiar and comforting—and just like that, your whole body eases.

“I missed you,” you whisper as you turn. “You scared the shit out of me–” He shuts you up with a kiss–deep and familiar–the kind of kiss that lets you know that he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Missed you more,” he says against your lips as his fingers curl at your waist, pulling you closer.

You nuzzle your nose against his, arching your back to press your chest into his, close, not close enough. “You’re home early.”

“Couldn’t stand another night away,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Had to see my girl.”

“Charmer,” you hum, earning a smile from him.

“Been thinkin’ about comin’ home to you since I left. It’s the least I can be,” he whispers. “Wanted to make it back for Max’s first game,” Rafe says, still close enough that his words warm your soft lips. “Senior year. Had to show up.”

Your arms didn’t move, still resting around his neck, fingers brushing the back of his hair without thinking. He looked over your shoulder, into the quiet house. “Where’s everybody?” His lip pouts slightly, unable to fight his disappointment at not getting his usual welcome home from the twins.

“They’re at Sarah’s,” you murmur. “Max and Winnie left early. Pep rally.”

“No shit?” He smiles–really smiles. The kind that creeps across his face and sends chills down your spine straight to your core. “So we’re alone?”

“We’re alone,” you whisper as you tilt closer for a kiss, catching his lusty chuckle between your lips, swirling your greedy tongue with his.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans at the taste of you, kissing you again, slower this time as his hands slide under the hem of your shirt, slow and possessive. He backs you into the counter so fast you grip the granite, gasping against his lips, hands landing directly on top of that thing you hadn’t quite stopped thinking about–the note. Shit. Without thinking, you pull back a little and hold it up between two fingers

“Wha-What’s that?” He asks as his blue eyes squint to get a better look at the evidence.

“Found it in the laundry. Buried beneath a few treasures from the twins, some questionable items I plan to ignore ‘til Monday from Max, and a tube of lip gloss.”

“Max’s wearing lip gloss these days?”

“Winnie’s, baby,” you chuckle as you shake your head, looking at the note between your fingers, waiting for him to suggest what you wanted to do from the moment you saw it. Rafe steps closer, backing you into the counter again, dismissing it all, more concerned with finishing what you started than dealing with that. His palm settles on your hip, warm and heavy.

“The note, Rafe,” you whisper against his lips.

“The what?” He asks, playing dumb as he does when he just wants to get you out of your head.

“Did you write it for me, baby?” He mumbles between kisses.

“No–No. I didn’t write it–”

“Then it doesn’t matter, pretty. I’m sure it’s nothin’.”

“I think it’s Winnie’s,” you whisper before his teeth sink into your bottom lip, Rafe sucking off nice and slow. “From… From a boy–”

“Our, Win?” He asks. “Nah. Nah, baby. It’s probably just from Cassie or Gabbie. It’s not from a boy. Now, let me make you forget all about, well, everything…”

“Rafe–”

“Shh…” He smiles against your lips as his fingers toy with the button of your pants, popping it open. You huff out a sigh and nod, trying to get out of your own head as you rip yourself out of your shirt, making him groan at the sight of you. “That’s my girl,” he praises, kissing you deep and needy, pulling a moan from your lips.

Rafe works open the buttons of his dress shirt, his hungry eyes devouring every inch of bare skin. He licks his lips as you slide his leather belt through the clasp, splaying the zipper and in that moment, you watch his fingers start to fumble.

He kisses you again, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue. Kissing you with a purpose, making you fight for a breath. The swagger that he had a moment before, fleeting fast.

“Fuck,” he grunts and he fists your hair in his hand, forcing your eyes on his. “Baby…”

“Mhmm…” You whisper meekly, knowing where he’s going to take this as you watch his Adam’s Apple bob and his nostrils flare with frustration.

“A boy?” He asks, deadpanned. Your features soften, mimicking his as you give him a silent ‘yes’ and a little nod. Rafe lets out a deep, tired groan, pushing out the air in his lungs.

“You’re right… It’s probably just Cass or Gabs. It’s nothing,” you assure as you play with the hair at the back of his neck.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he laughs and rolls his eyes, looking away.

“What?” You ask sheepishly.

“Don’t act like you didn’t wanna open now,” he teases. “C’mon. Open it, pretty. I won’t even shame you for it, aight?”

“You do it,” you whisper as you pass it to him.

He snorts under his breath. “Whatever makes you feel better, baby.” Rafe plucks it off your fingers, opening it quickly, hoping to get this squared away so you could sneak in a little quickie before kickoff.

He smiles at you before looking down at the open note in his hands, and at that moment, everything shifts. His brows furrow, that playful look fading from his eyes as he scans the page, jaw ticking.

“Let me see,” you say quietly as you grab the top of the page, pulling it down slightly and before you can see, he picks you off your feet, setting you down on the counter. Rafe turns around, his eyes burning into the lined paper, leaning back into the counter between your legs like he needed to be close–needed to feel you there while he read whatever this was.

You slide your arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. Your eyes drop to the paper in-hand, stomach flipping as you see the handwriting on the page. Not all bubbly letters. Not all soft loops or sparkly hearts. Red ink. Scratchy and uneven; heavy-handed, the kind of pen you dig out of the bottom of your backpack. A little messy. A little sweet. It reminded you of Rafe’s handwriting in college.

And just like that, you knew. Someone has a crush…

Rafe doesn’t speak… Not even a breath. He folds the note carefully and places it down on the counter like it might detonate.

You watch the light leave his eyes as he reads—watch his chest stop rising for a beat, like he forgot how to breathe.

Then, without a word, he turns and steps back into your space, slow and heavy, chest to chest, resting his heavy head on your shoulder. He leans in there and stays–trying to forget. You wrap your arms around him, kissing him on the cheek, tender and warm.

“Welcome home, baby.”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓶𝓮…

The stadium lights buzz overhead, flooding the field. It’s cool out—not cold—that kind of crisp air that smells like fall. The bleachers are packed: a sea of red and white, all cheering on the boys for the first game of the season.

You’re on your feet with Poppy balanced in front of you, both of your arms wrapped around her tummy to keep her steady as she yells with everything she’s got. “Kick it, Max!” She screeches at the cornerback as he takes a drink of water.

You smile and kiss her head, squeezing her a little tighter. “You tell him, baby.”

Down by your feet, Rory’s sitting on the bleacher with a full bag of popcorn in his lap, shoving handfuls into his mouth like someone’s about to take it away if he doesn’t hurry. Only half the kernels actually make it past his blue ICEE-stained lips.

Winnie’s out there too, right in front, her silver pom-poms catching the lights. She screams and smiles at the crowd, ponytail bouncing with each movement. “She looks beautiful,” you whisper.

“She looks like her mom,” Rafe murmurs back, phone out proudly, thumb tapping the shutter over and over.

You glance at him. He’s smiling—just a little—that half-smile that pulls only one corner of his mouth; the one he gets when he doesn’t want to admit he’s soft.

He lowers his phone to show you the picture, but something shifts in her smile—just enough to catch both your eyes—still warm, but softer now, a little shy.

You watch as a blonde shuffles by, helmet off, jersey clinging to him. His cheeks are flushed already as he walks toward the physical trainer, saying something to your daughter in passing, just a few words but you can tell they made an impact.

Rafe’s brows pinch together and his head turns to you but his eyes never look away from Winnie. “Did you see that?” He asks as the boy turns around, showing off the name across his back, before turning over his shoulder, shooting Winnie a wink.

Then—like a horror movie cue meant just for Rafe—a voice booms from the stands: “Let’s go, Jackson! C’mon, buddy. Quick hands. Quick hands.”

Rafe freezes and turns toward the sound slowly, like something in his bones already knows what’s coming. And just like that—a man’s eyes find Rafe’s from a few rows away, standing tall in a ball cap and a faded Maybank Charter sweatshirt, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

You feel it before Rafe says a word. The heat. The history. Neither of them says a word, but they know.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓶𝓮…

You and Rafe wait by the truck, tucked just under the tall stadium light near the edge of the lot. Your fingers are laced with his, your head resting against his shoulder, the silence between you weighing heavy.

Across the lot, you can see JJ leaning against his Bronco—arms folded, blue eyes fixed on the school doors like he can will his kid to appear. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fidget. Just waits, tense and unreadable.

The doors finally swing open. Max is the first one out—loud and laughing, helmet swinging from one hand, his duffle bag slung over the other.

“Ayy!” He shouts across the lot to Kelce’s son, flashing that grin that still looks ten years old when he forgets to play it cool. “I’ll catch you at Lane’s,” he adds carefully, like he’s practiced keeping it vague. Like you both know what it really means.

Max strolls over, all long legs and that familiar, easy charm. “Good game, baby,” you say softly. He hugs you then turns to Rafe and pulls him into a quick, shoulder-clapping hug.

“Missed you, bud. Proud of you,” Rafe murmurs, voice low and tight.

“Missed you, old man,” Max teases, then winks. “Thanks, Dad.” He corrects himself, like it was an honest slip, as Rafe sucks his teeth.

“You see the Florida scout out there?” Rafe starts, but Max’s focus is already gone. Coco Thornton’s sleek convertible pulls up in the lot, music low, windows down.

“Later!” He calls, jogging off before either of you can say another word, hucking his bag in the back as he goes.

You hold your breath as the door opens again, and there’s Jackson. He glances around the lot, catching the eye of Kelce’s son too.

“You comin’ out tonight or what?” Tripp shouts, his tone knowing—already bracing for a lie.

“I’ll think about it,” Jackson smiles, lifting a hand to wave him off.

JJ steps forward the second Jackson’s close, pulling him into a hug—no hesitation, no words. Just a hand around the back of his neck and a brief, grounding embrace.

Rafe’s fingers tighten around yours as the door pushes open one more time—and Winnie steps out. Still in her cheer skirt, with a cozy crewneck pulled over the top. Her ponytail’s been let down, long hair spilling over her shoulders, catching in the night breeze. The definition of a teenage boy’s dream.

Jackson’s mid-sentence with JJ when he sees her—and everything about him shifts. He doesn’t even finish his thought before walking away from his dad, drawn to your daughter like a magnet.

He leans in, saying something just for her. Whatever it is makes her laugh, soft and shy, as she brushes a loose curl behind her ear. She steps closer, and they hug—quick, careful, like they know there are eyes on them. Maybe they planned for that. Or maybe they just felt it in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Jackson stays close—tall enough to glance down at Winnie like she’s the only thing he sees. Rafe goes rigid beside you.

She tugs his sleeve and leads Jackson toward you, cheeks dewy, eyes flicking between you and Rafe. “Dad, Mom—this is Jackson,” she says, showing him off like she’s proud. Her eyes sparkle from yours to JJ’s son’s.

Rafe says nothing at first. Jackson breaks the silence, extending his hand. “Sir.”

Rafe shakes it—firm and tight. Not aggressive. But the overprotectiveness radiates from every pore. Winnie glances between them and clears her throat, trying to break the tension and save Jackson from being swallowed whole. “We were thinking of grabbing pie at Shell’s.”

“—Baby, why’re you going to the Cut?” Rafe cuts in fast. So fast it catches all three of you off guard. It’s not sharp, but it lands heavy. There’s weight in it. Concern, disapproval, and a tension simmering just below the surface.

“I just… I wanted pie. And nothing else is open around here,” she mumbles, playing with the hem of her skirt. Embarrassment colors her cheeks. “Is that okay?” She asks again, quieter now—more unsure than you’ve heard her in a long time. She doesn’t usually ask. She’s never had to.

You reach for her wrist before Rafe can say a word. “Hey. It’s okay,” you tell her with a soft smile. “Go on. Have fun.”

Rafe leans forward and kisses the top of her head—but his eyes never leave Jackson.

Jackson glances over his shoulder at JJ, who’s already climbing into the driver’s seat, disinterested in introductions. “Be home by curfew,” he calls out instead, stopping them mid-step.

Jackson bites his lip, the same embarrassment Winnie had now written across his own face. His dad clearly doesn’t plan to stick around.

“Sorry about that,” Jackson whispers to Winnie.

She lifts her eyes, gives him this soft kind of smile like she’s brushing it off even if she means it. Says, “It’s okay,” almost under her breath. Then she reaches into her bag, not really rushing, just kind of feeling around until her hand closes on the keys. Pulls them out like it’s nothing, like this is all easy.

“Whoa… Wait a minute,” Jackson says, eyes wide as she tosses him the keys. He catches them mid-air, blinking like he can’t believe his luck. “You’re lettin’ me drive this, Win?”

He’s grinning ear to ear—innocent, but clearly thrilled—as Winnie giggles.

“Mhmm…”

“Damn, Cameron,” he laughs, running a hand over his boyish smile as he heads toward the driver’s side of her vintage Phantom Coup. The one she and Rafe rebuilt together. Their daddy-daughter project. Her baby.

And now some boy is sliding behind the wheel? Unthinkable. Rafe’s eyes never leave the taillights as they roll out of the lot, disappearing into the dark.

You exhale slowly, a sigh of relief tangled in quiet frustration. Of course JJ couldn’t muster an introduction. But that history—that wound—was never going to be easy to look past.

“You ready to get outta here?” You ask Rafe softly. “Rafe!” He jerks away, charging at JJ just as JJ slams his car door, storming toward him as well. “Rafe. Hey, baby—” But it’s useless.

They collide chest to chest, forehead to forehead like they’ve done this before. Like this is unfinished business. Their voices are low and vicious, barely restrained, overlapping and fast, too sharp to miss in the crowd of parents filtering out. Words hissed through clenched teeth.

“After tonight, your son doesn’t come near my daughter. Not once. Not ever. You understand me?”

JJ lets out a dry, cruel laugh, nasty enough to boil blood, and shoves Rafe hard. You lunge forward, grabbing for Rafe’s arm but it’s too late. He shoves back, twice as hard, sending JJ stumbling.

“You think I’m not already worried?” JJ barks, chest heaving. “I am. About your daughter.”

Rafe freezes for half a beat—just barely stunned. His mouth opens. “She’s Winnie,” he cuts. “She’s head cheerleader, straight-A student, never breaks curfew. She’s a fucking angel, and don’t you ever talk about her like that again.”

JJ laughs again, and it’s meaner this time. “Don’t know her.”

That floors Rafe harder than the shove. He just stares, because JJ doesn’t know her. Doesn’t know the girl who helps her brother with math on Sunday nights. Who leaves the bathroom door open just to keep chatting with you every night before bed. Who’s good, better than either of you probably deserve.

All JJ sees is a pretty girl in the passenger seat. A threat. A risk. The daughter of the same guy who knocked up his girlfriend the first semester of college and lived to act proud about it. The girl who could derail everything JJ’s worked for—everything Jackson’s earned—in one impulsive night.

“I should be the one worried,” JJ snaps. “She’s a pretty distraction with your blood in her veins, Rafe. And we both know how much damage that can do.”

Rafe’s whole face changes. He steps forward, murder in his eyes. You shove both hands into his chest, trying to anchor him. “Baby… Stop.” But he shakes his head. His jaw clenched so tight it clicks. You spin to JJ, holding Rafe back, pleading with JJ. “She’s a good kid. Careful. Kind. Smart. She’s not reckless.”

JJ doesn’t say anything. But he swallows hard—like it hurts just to hear you defend her.

“And your son… He’s lovely. He really is. I can tell. Okay? Okay?”

You feel eyes now—parents slowing, watching, but no one’s stepping in. It’s still just you between two men who’ve hated each other since the moment they learned the other existed.

You turn back to Rafe, twisting your fingers into his shirt. “Rafe. Look at me.” His chest is rising fast; heartbeat slamming against your hands. “She’s gonna be okay,” you whisper. “She’s alright.”

“If anything happens to her,” he says, low and lethal, “I’m blaming you. You hear me? Your son—”

“Your daughter—”

“Don’t say a fuckin’ word about her—”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m so pissed, Rafe?” JJ roars, stepping in like he might actually swing. “You think this is a dream come true for me? This is a goddamn nightmare.” JJ’s fist curls and for one breathless second, you’re sure he’s going to throw it.

But he doesn’t. He stops himself. Barely. “Oh, what?” Rafe sneers. “You gonna pull back now? Scared to get hit? God, I’d love to knock your teeth in—”

“Enough,” you bark, grabbing Rafe’s wrist with both hands, digging your nails in just to sting.

They stare each other down one more beat, both of them vibrating with rage, before finally peeling away—slow, bitter, like they had to be ripped apart.

Rafe reaches the SUV first. He rips the door open and throws himself inside so hard the whole thing rocks on its tires. The door slams shut like a gunshot.

You spin just in time to see two little heads jolt upright in the backseat. Rory blinks awake, popcorn spilled across his lap. Poppy stirs, murmurs something, then curls back into her blanket.

Rafe grips the wheel, breathing hard like he just ran a marathon. Like if he doesn’t keep both hands on it, he might kill someone. He can’t yell. Not with the twins in the backseat. So he squeezes the wheel instead until his knuckles ghost bone-white and the leather creaks beneath his hands.

His eyes stay fixed on the road. You can feel the storm still building, right there beside you. He’s seething. You can hear him—just under his breath. The muttering; low, venomous pieces of unfinished sentences slipping through clenched teeth.

“Maybank… thinkin’ he’s slick… I don’t know her… He’s worried about her? Our girl? Fucking bitch… Should’ve dropped him when I had the chance…”

In his mind he’s still in the parking lot. Still chest to chest with JJ. You reach across the console and lay your hand gently over his. Your thumb brushes along the ridges of his knuckles. At first, he doesn’t move but then—slowly—his grip eases. His fingers soften beneath yours like he’s thawing out.

“Baby,” you whisper, barely above the hum of the tires on the road. “You gotta breathe. Please.” Still no answer. You turn toward him, your voice steadier now. “She’s good. Okay? She’s careful. She’s smart. She’s gonna be fine.”

He loosens into the leather; his head heavy on the headrest, chest rising with a long, ragged breath.

Then he says it, low and bitter. “Anyone but him.”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽…

Your arms are folded tight across your chest. You don’t even realize how hard you’re holding yourself until your shoulders start to ache.

You’ve been standing at the window too long. It’s quiet. Not peaceful, though—more like the kind of silence that settles after something breaks.

And then, right on time, headlights sweep the drive. You exhale slowly as the vintage Phantom Coup eases to a stop—five minutes early.

Winnie steps out from the driver’s side, smiling to herself, biting her lip like she’s trying to hold onto something sweet. She practically floats, still caught in the afterglow of their goodbye. That first-love kind of dreamy.

Your heart skips—not out of fear for her—but because you know who’s still downstairs. Rafe hasn’t moved from the couch. The game flickers on the screen—some match he claimed he had to see, even though he hasn’t cared about baseball in years.

You ease down the stairs, quiet as you can, fingertips skimming the wall. When you reach the bottom, you hang back—just outside the doorway. Out of sight, but close enough to see everything.

The door creaks open. Winnie slips inside, careful not to let it slam. She pauses when she sees him.

Rafe’s still where you left him—elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the door. The game still plays, ignored completely.

“Hey, Daddy,” she says barely above a whisper.

His gaze lifts. Something in him loosens. “Hey, baby.”

She inches closer, unsure. “I’m back before curfew.”

“I know.” His voice is calm. “I’ve been watching the clock.”

Her eyes flick toward the screen. “You stayed up?”

“First game I’ve tried to watch in fifteen years.”

“Was it good?”

“Didn’t see a single inning.”

That pulls a breathy laugh from her. “I was kinda expecting a lecture.”

“I had one loaded,” he admits, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But seems like you didn’t need it.” He leans back a little, eyes still on her. “You told us where you were going. You came home when you said. You haven’t given me a reason not to trust you.”

She lifts a shoulder, smiling just enough to soften the moment. “Not yet,” she teases gently.

He shoots her a look, one brow arched like he’s fighting back a grin. “You’re really getting cocky now, Win.”

He says it with a tired grin, but she just gives a small shake of her head. Her smile doesn’t last. She sinks onto the edge of the coffee table, quiet and slow, like she’s not sure whether to sit or stand. Her arms come up around her middle, loose and unsure, more comfort than habit.

After a beat, she glances up. “You didn’t like him,” she says. It’s not sharp. Just soft. Like she already knows, but needs to hear why.

Rafe exhales through his nose, slow and steady. “I don’t know him.”

“I do,” she murmurs. “Or, I think I’m starting to.”

He nods once, slow, his gaze not leaving hers. “He makes you happy?” She nods, barely. Rafe draws in a deep breath. “Alright.”

She blinks. “So, that’s it? Alright?” Her laugh is quiet, uncertain.

He leans forward again, elbows to knees, and shakes his head with that tired, familiar laugh. “No. Not just ‘alright.’” His voice drops low. “Winnie, I’m proud of you. I hope you know that. How smart you are. How kind. How hard you work. I see it all.”

She stares at him, eyes glassing up. Holding her breath.

“That trust,” he continues, “it’s not about anyone else. It’s about you. That good heart of yours—it’s always been there.” He glances at her hand, then back to her face. “But until there’s a ring on that little finger, I’m staying alert. That’s my job. To catch what you might not.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just gives a small nod.

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” she whispers.

“And if he hurts you—”

“I know,” she cuts in, fast. She breathes a laugh. “You’ll kill him, right?”

He exhales hard through his nose and almost smiles, like he’s proud that that’s what she expects of him. “Yeah. But you already knew that.”

She digs into her bag and pulls out a small paper box, grease spots bleeding at the corner.

“I brought you pie,” she says, hopeful. “Your favorite.”

Rafe narrows his eyes. “Peach?”

“Still warm.”

“You trying to bribe me with dessert?”

She shrugs, grin creeping in. “Worked before.”

That does it. His expression breaks, shattering the last of the tension between the two of them. “Thanks, kid,” he mutters, pretending to be grumpy as he takes the box. “Bringin’ home boys and peach pie. Givin’ me whiplash.”

She adjusts her bag and turns to leave, glancing over her shoulder. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, princess.”

You’re still tucked in the hall, still pressed to the wall, watching the whole thing unfold like a secret. You thought you’d seen every version of him—but this? This aching, quiet softness he saves just for her? It unravels something in you.

You step out before she sees you, just quietly slip down the hall like you were never standing there.

The bathroom door shuts with a soft click. You wait. A few muffled footsteps overhead, then nothing. Stillness settles in again, the kind that makes a house feel too big.

The light from the living room is soft. Rafe’s still where you left him—leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His hands are just resting there, empty. Like all the weight in him finally dropped.

You don’t ask. Just cross the room and settle into his lap. Curl into his chest like it’s instinct. His arms come around you easy, without hesitation.

You run your fingers along the edge of his jaw, slow. He leans into it, lets his eyes close.

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly. Not pressing, just asking.

He lets out a breath. Doesn’t answer right away.

“I think so,” he says after a while. “If it was someone else, I’d probably be losing it right now.”

You smile a little, just enough. “But it’s her.”

He nods, almost to himself. “Yeah. It’s her. And she’s… I mean, she’s got it. Smarter than me. Kinder than most. She’s steady.” His strong arms shift, holding you a little tighter now. “She sure as shit didn’t get that from me,” he says. “That’s all you.”

You shake your head softly as tears threaten to spill. Rafe pulls you closer, presses a kiss to your temple. “If I’m not fallin’ apart right now, it’s ‘cause I trust what kind of woman raised her.”

You kiss him slow and soft, full of gratitude and every unspoken thing swelling in your chest since the moment he called her baby.

His eyes land on the little paper box still sitting on the edge of the table. He grabs it and flips it open. The scent hits instantly—peach and cinnamon; sugar and butter.

He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “She really came in here with a peace offering, huh?”

You smile, snuggling into him. “She came prepared,” you murmur. “Knew you’d need somethin’ sweet.”

“Already got that right here,” Rafe mumbles, giving you a cheeky wink before grabbing a plastic fork, digging in. “Here,” he says, holding up a bite. “C’mon. You know the drill. First bite’s yours.”

You lean in, let him feed it to you, and take your time with the bite. It’s warm, familiar. When you look back up, he’s already staring—quiet and steady, like he’s still trying to believe you’re really his. Like somehow, you keep surprising him just by being here. Like this whole thing, this life with you, this moment together is nothing he deserves.

“Peach was never my favorite,” he says quietly.

“No way…”

He shakes his head, eyes still on you. “Not really. Just got used to it.”

“So you’ve just been eating it all these years? Why?” You whisper.

“Because you love it,” he says simply. “And I love you. I’d sit here and eat pie I don’t like for the rest of my life if it means sittin’ with you like this at the end of the day.”

You giggle blissfully as he glides the fork along his tongue.

“You’re everything, y’know that?” He murmurs. “Never been more proud of anything than I am to be your husband. To get this right.”

“I feel the same way—” you whisper and just like your kiss from earlier in the day he steals the words right off your tongue. And when he pulls back, his voice is softer than you’ve heard it all night. “Love comin’ home to you.”

new tag list 🏷️

#⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ daddy #rafe #rafe cameron #dad rafe #dilf!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #dilf!rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#rafe blurb #rafe one shot #older rafe cameron #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe fluff #rafe cameron fluff #outer banks #obx #rafe x reader

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fic-girlie · 17 hours ago

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Can I request one for reader asking Joel for a baby? Like, sheepishly, timidly asking him, uncertain how he's gonna react after all he's been through? (Hopefully he says yes??)

Where it begins

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: You ask Joel for a baby—and together, you begin again in quiet, tender hope. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, family talk, soft smut, trying for a baby

It had been on your mind for weeks now—quiet, persistent, a whisper tucked into the edges of your days. Not loud, not urgent. Just… there. The thought of a child. Of his child. It settled into moments when you least expected it: the way your eyes lingered on him across the table, how your chest ached watching him cradle Benji with that rare gentleness only Joel could carry, the quiet stretch of mornings where you stayed curled against him just a little longer. You weren’t even sure when the wanting had started. Maybe it had always been there, buried under gratitude and survival, waiting for a moment like this—when life had finally grown soft enough to let it bloom. But asking? Saying it out loud? That was something else entirely. Because Joel had lived through too much loss, and love didn’t come easy to him, not even now. You weren’t afraid of him. But you were afraid of the weight your question might carry.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows across the wooden walls of your home. It was late—later than you usually stayed up—and Joel had already kicked off his boots, sunk into the old couch with the same quiet sigh he always gave when his body finally gave in for the night. One arm rested along the back of the cushions, the other slung lazily over his stomach, his eyes soft and half-lidded from the firelight and fatigue. You’d already joined him once, curling beside him, your fingers brushing idly over the worn fabric of his shirt, taking comfort in his warmth, his presence. He hadn’t said much. Just kissed the top of your head and let the silence sit between you like a familiar friend. Joel didn’t need to speak to make you feel safe. He never had. But that didn’t make the words burning at the back of your throat any easier to say.

You stayed like that for a long time, heart thudding quietly against his side. You weren’t even sure what was stopping you. You weren’t scared of Joel. Not really. But this—this was different. This was a question that carried weight. That might change the shape of everything between you. You didn’t want to ask like you were testing him, or like it would break you if he said no. You just wanted to ask because… you needed to know. Needed to say it out loud and see how it landed. You traced the stitching on his flannel shirt with the tip of your finger, trying to calm the jittery flutter in your stomach, and your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost unsure.

“Joel?” you said, just barely above a whisper.

“Mhm?” His voice rumbled low in his chest, lazy and gentle. You could feel it against your cheek.

You sat up just slightly, just enough to look at him—really look at him. He turned his head to meet your gaze, eyes soft, brows raised just a little like he could already sense there was something on your mind. Something real.

You hesitated.

And then, without letting yourself overthink it again, you said it.

“Have you ever thought about having another kid?”

The words hung there between you, trembling, delicate. You felt them leave your mouth like a confession, felt the weight of them fill the silence like smoke. Joel didn’t answer right away, and your stomach twisted, your heart suddenly thudding against your ribs with a frantic kind of guilt. You started to backpedal before he could even open his mouth.

“I mean—not that we have to. Or that I’m saying we should. I just— I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I didn’t want to keep it from you, but if it’s too much or—”

“Hey,” he said, quiet but firm. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and calloused, grounding you instantly. “Slow down.”

You blinked at him, your breath hitching. He looked at you like he always did when something mattered. Like he was trying to see every part of what you weren’t saying.

“You’re not upset?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not upset.”

You watched the way his jaw worked as he looked at you—how his eyes darted away, just for a second, before they came back. You could see the past moving behind his eyes. Not like a wall. Not anymore. But like a scar. Something that lived with him, always. Sarah. The years of loss and rage and ruin. The life he never thought he’d get again. And now this—this life with you in Jackson, where the snow fell quiet and soft outside the windows, and he could take off his boots at night without thinking of where he’d run next.

“I ain’t thought about it in a long time,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance again. Wasn’t even sure I should.”

You waited, breath caught in your chest.

“But then you came along,” he added, quieter now. “And every damn day since, I’ve started thinkin’ more and more about what it means to stay. To build somethin’. Not just survive it.”

Your eyes welled before you could stop them. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You’re sure?” you whispered, still not quite trusting your voice. “After everything… you’d want that again?”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours, and let out a shaky breath.

“I’d want it with you,” he said, soft and certain. “Only with you.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and your hands found his. He pulled you into his lap without a word, cradling you like you were something fragile and precious. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped around each other in the quiet. His hands settled over your lower back like he was memorizing the weight of this decision, the gravity of your body against his.

“You’d be a good dad again,” you whispered against his neck.

His arms tightened.

“I’d try like hell,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “I’d give that baby every part of me I didn’t know I still had.”

And somehow, you knew he meant it.

You knew you’d never have to ask again.

——

Joel didn’t say anything else that night—not right away. He didn’t need to. You saw the answer in the way his arms folded around you, in the way his chest rose and fell a little deeper as you tucked yourself against him again, the silence wrapping around you both like something sacred. When you woke the next morning, he was already making breakfast. One hand on the skillet, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’d spent all night thinking. And when he looked up and caught your sleepy gaze from the doorway, he said, “We’ll talk about it. Tonight. After dinner.”

He didn’t run from it. That alone told you everything.

You didn’t plan it—not exactly. That wasn’t Joel’s way, and it wasn’t yours either. Life out here wasn’t about calendars and ovulation charts. It was snowstorms and ration counts, shared patrols and quiet meals. It was real. And when it came to something this tender—this monumental—it felt right to let it begin slowly. Organically. Joel had said yes without ever needing to say the word. In the days that followed, it lived in the way he touched you, his hands lingering longer at your hips when you passed behind him in the kitchen. The way he pressed soft kisses into your neck at night, his body warm and solid behind yours in bed, the weight of him so grounding it made you ache. The way he looked at you like he was letting himself hope—really hope—for the first time in years.

The first time you tried, it didn’t feel like trying at all.

It happened late one evening, the two of you curled in bed after a long day. Snow had fallen heavy outside, and you’d spent the better part of the afternoon helping Maria with sorting winter clothes for the kids in town. Joel had returned from patrol smelling like pine and cold air, his cheeks pink from the wind. You’d kissed him when he walked in, and he’d murmured something about the way your hands felt warm against his skin.

Now, you lay facing him beneath the heavy quilt, your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. His eyes were already on you, soft and unreadable in the amber flicker of the bedside lamp. There was something there in his gaze you hadn’t seen before—not nerves, not exactly. But something like reverence. Like he already understood what this could mean, and it was already making him a little undone.

You kissed him first.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The kind of kiss that made time feel like it didn’t exist, the kind that deepened by degrees until you were both breathless, his hands cupping your jaw, your thighs parting beneath the slide of his body. You felt his restraint first—the almost hesitant care he used, like he didn’t want to push too far, like he didn’t want to break this moment before it had even begun.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rasped, his lips brushing your cheekbone.

You nodded, tugging gently at his shirt until he took the hint and shed it, baring the warm, solid plane of his chest to the cool air. Your palms pressed there like you were holding something holy.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay. Are you?”

He kissed you then—not just an answer, but a promise.

Joel made love to you like he was memorizing the shape of this new future. He was unhurried, reverent, his hands everywhere—your hips, your back, the curve of your waist like he could anchor you both with nothing more than his touch. He whispered things he didn’t usually say, soft gruff words like “so beautiful,” and “I’ve got you,” and “you’re mine, sweetheart.” And when he finally pressed into you, he held your face in both hands and kept his eyes on you, chest heaving like he could barely breathe around the weight of it.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep, slow, and overwhelming in a way that had nothing to do with speed or heat. You felt the full truth of it in every thrust, every sound he let slip when your nails dug into his shoulders, every broken gasp when you whispered, “It’s okay, Joel. I want this too.”

Afterward, he didn’t roll away or pull back. He stayed right there, wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair and his arm strong across your belly. You both lay in silence, breathing the same air, your limbs tangled beneath the blankets. His heartbeat felt steady against your spine, slower than usual. Peaceful.

“You think it’ll happen right away?” you asked softly.

He exhaled a short laugh, low and warm. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” A pause. “But I want it to. With you.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “Me too.”

And so it began.

You didn’t talk about it constantly. You didn’t need to. It wove itself quietly into the rhythm of your life. Joel would sometimes wrap a protective hand over your stomach as you drifted off to sleep, or press an absent kiss to the inside of your wrist after dinner, like the act of trying had opened something in him he couldn’t quite put into words. There were nights where you reached for each other out of nothing but need—hot, slow, breathless—and nights where he buried his face in your neck and moved inside you with aching gentleness, like he was holding something fragile between you both. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it was tears. But it was always real.

One morning, after a late start, you stood in the doorway watching Joel tie his boots before patrol. He looked up, caught the small smile on your lips, and raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

You shrugged, heart full. “Just like seeing you.”

He huffed, rose from the bench, and walked over to kiss you, rough palm cupping your jaw.

“Get used to it, darlin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

And neither was this dream.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #joelmiller #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom

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pandapetals · 2 days ago

Note

hi sweetheart! I was wondering if I could request a Jackson!Joel x reader oneshot where like reader is having like an endometriosis flare up but she hasn’t told Joel yet and when they’re trying to have sex it’s just too painful for her so she has no choice but to tell him it hurts and what’s going on??

srry if that’s weird it’s a little personal/specific to me but yeah I love your writing (feel free to say no though)💓💓

Quiet Hurt

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: soft joel, discomfort, and later comfort, fluff, established relationship, kissing

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Thank you for the request. No, it’s not weird at all. I hope I did your request justice!

The ache had been simmering under your skin all day, sharp, twisting jabs low in your belly that came and went. You’d gritted your teeth through patrol, through splitting firewood, through conversations you barely remembered having. There was always something else to do — someone needing a hand, supplies to sort, a fence to mend. Distractions, if nothing else. And you clung to them, pretending you didn’t notice the way your steps grew shorter, your breath catching now and then when a fierce stab of pain found its mark.

By the time you made it back home, the light was starting to slip behind the mountains, the last of it spilling into the house in streaks of burnt orange. Joel was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he tended to something on the stove. The scent of garlic and onions hung in the air.

You tried to slip past him unnoticed, but his eyes flicked up the second you crossed the threshold. Just a small glance, like he’d been keeping tabs on the clock and you without making a show of it.

“You’re late,” he murmured, turning back to the pan, but you caught the way his gaze lingered for a second too long, the slight downturn of his mouth.

“Lost track of time,” you said, aiming for a casual tone.

Joel didn’t press, but as you passed, his hand brushed your lower back. A simple touch, maybe to guide you out of his way or maybe to check, to feel the tension he already suspected was there. His thumb made the smallest, absent circle against your spine before he let go.

You should’ve known better than to think you could fool him.

Joel wasn’t the type to miss much. Not when it came to you. He’d always been like that — catching the little things, the tells you tried to bury. The way your jaw clenched when you thought no one was looking, the slight hitch in your step you prayed would go unnoticed.

Still, you kept your chin up and crossed the kitchen like nothing was wrong.

The heat from the stove clung to the air. The scent of seared meat and spices should’ve made your stomach rumble, but the gnawing ache low in your gut left no room for hunger. You moved beside him anyway, wordlessly picking up a knife to slice what little produce they’d salvaged that week.

You could feel his eyes flick to you now and then — the quiet, assessing kind of glance. He didn’t say a word about the way your shoulders stayed too tight, or how you winced when you bent to grab a dish from the lower shelf. He just let you have your silence.

It was easier this way, pretending you were fine. You’d always hated the way weakness felt in your mouth, like a word you didn’t know how to say. Joel had been through enough, carried enough. He didn’t need to be looking after you, too.

Don’t be a burden.

The words were old and familiar, stitched into your bones by years of surviving in a world that didn’t make space for softness. Joel might’ve made room for you in his life, in his bed, in the quiet spaces between patrols, but you still struggled to believe you belonged there.

You swallowed the pain, set your jaw, and focused on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board. If you just kept moving, kept working, you could outpace it. Or at least pretend you could.

After dinner, you kept up the act.

You cleared the plates while Joel wiped down the counter, the two of you moving around each other in that easy, familiar way. The house was quiet except for the scrape of cutlery and the soft crackle of the fire in the living room. You told yourself the worst of it was passing — that if you just stayed upright a little longer, kept busy a little longer, it’d dull to something manageable.

But every time you twisted at the waist or reached too far, the sharp, gnawing ache in your lower belly reminded you otherwise.

You caught Joel watching you a couple of times, his brow furrowed like he was trying to work out a problem without all the pieces. He didn’t say anything, though. Just handed you a dish towel and let the quiet settle between you.

When the last of the dishes were done and the kitchen lights dimmed, you mumbled something about getting cleaned up and headed upstairs, your legs feeling heavier with each step.

The bathroom was small and a little drafty; the old pipes groaned when you turned on the water. You stripped out of your clothes with stiff fingers, wincing when you bent to untie your boots.

You splashed water on your face, let the shower run until the room filled with steam, and stepped under the stream, hoping maybe the heat would do what it always promised and ease the worst of it.

It helped—a little.

When you finally padded into the bedroom, you pulled on your softest sleep shirt and a pair of worn cotton shorts, the fabric loose enough not to press against the tender ache in your belly. Joel was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shirt, his silhouette broad and familiar in the low light.

You paused in the doorway, watching him for a beat.

God, you didn’t deserve him.

The thought came uninvited, sharp in your chest.

Not when you came with this mess of a body, with pain you didn’t always have a name for, with nights like this where everything felt too fragile. You knew he wouldn’t say it, but you wondered if he ever got tired of it — of you.

Joel looked up, catching you hovering there.

“C’mere,” he said, voice soft.

You hesitated, then crossed the room, slipping under the blankets beside him. His hand found your thigh under the covers, fingers rough and warm against your skin. It should’ve felt good. It did, but the pain was still there, a low, steady throb that made your stomach tighten.

Joel leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. His touch was unhurried, patient in that way he got sometimes, like he had all the time in the world to savor you. His hand skimmed up beneath your shirt, thumb tracing slow circles along your side, and it sent a shiver throughout your body.

God, you wanted him. Wanted to lose yourself in him and the weight of his body. The scrape of his stubble and how he said your name when you came apart. But the ache in your belly hadn’t let up, and you could already feel your body tensing against itself.

You swallowed hard, forced a small smile, and let your hand trail over his chest.

Maybe it would be fine. Maybe if you just—

The next brush of his hand made you flinch.

It was small, barely a twitch, but Joel felt it. You knew he did by the way he stilled, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brow drawn.

“Hey,” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”

You opened your mouth to deflect, but the words caught in your throat, a lump of frustration and shame you couldn’t swallow down this time. So you did what you always did — pretended.

You grabbed his hand, guiding it back to your thigh like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flinched beneath his touch. You leaned in, kissed him harder than you meant to, rough and insistent, hoping the pressure of it would drown out everything else.

For a second, Joel kissed you back, but there was hesitation there, something cautious in the way his lips moved against yours.

You felt it — that subtle pulling away, the slight stiffening of his shoulders beneath your palms.

Don’t stop. Don’t ask.

You shifted your weight, hoping to find a position that didn’t feel like a blade twisting in your gut. But the movement sent a sharp, white-hot stab of pain through your lower pelvic area, and you couldn’t help it — a soft, involuntary gasp punched out of you as your body tensed.

Joel’s hand on your leg stilled. His brow furrowed. “Sweetheart,” his voice low as worry bleed into it. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard, tried to look away, but his hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I’m fine,” you started, the lie brittle in your throat.

His gaze softened in that way it did sometimes when he saw right through you, past every wall you thought you’d managed to keep standing.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

The ache in your belly pulsed, and something inside you cracked under the weight of it. The pain, the exhaustion, the constant pretending. You felt your face crumple before you could stop it, eyes stinging hot.

“I—” your voice broke, and you hated the way it sounded, thin and raw. “It’s my flare up… it’s—” you gestured weakly toward your lower abdomen. “Been hurting. All day.”

Joel’s hand slid down, resting over your belly like he could draw the pain out through his palm.

“How bad?” His voice was low as his jaw ticked, tension gathering there like a storm cloud.

You hesitated, ashamed of the truth. “Bad.”

His brow furrowed deeper, and the guilt hit him fast and sharp. His grip tightened for a second before he eased it, careful not to hurt you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, and it wasn’t anger or disappointment — just this quiet, aching thing that made your throat close up. “You been carryin’ this around all damn day?”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “Didn’t wanna… ruin anything. Didn’t wanna be a burden.”

“Jesus, baby…” Joel let out a rough exhale, leaning his forehead against yours. His hand stroked your hair, thumb smoothing down your temple. “You ain’t a burden. Not ever. You hear me?”

You nodded, blinking fast against the heat in your eyes.

“I should’ve seen it,” he muttered, his voice thick with something heavier than guilt — a kind of helpless fury at himself. “Should’ve known somethin’ was wrong. You’re too good at hidin’ when you’re hurt.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “Didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, darlin’.” He kissed your temple, then the corner of your mouth, soft and careful this time. “Alright. Let’s get you comfortable. I’ll get somethin’ warm for your stomach. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ ‘til you’re feelin’ better, you understand?”

His tone left no room for argument, all gruff tenderness and protective grit, and some part of you, knotted up so long it had forgotten how to loosen, finally let go.

You leaned into him, letting your head drop to his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Joel pressed another kiss to your hair before easing you back against the pillows.

“Hang on, baby,” he murmured, his hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze before he stood. “Gonna fix you up.”

You let your eyes close for a second, the ache in your belly a steady, dull throb now that you weren’t trying to push past it. The familiar sound of Joel’s footsteps moving through the house was a small comfort in itself.

He was gone maybe a minute, though it felt longer in the way pain stretches time. When he came back, his arms were full — a small basin of steaming water, one of the soft old rags from the linen drawer, and the battered canteen he kept by the bed.

“Didn’t know if you wanted tea,” he muttered, almost sheepish, holding up the canteen. “It’s warm water. Figured it’s better than nothin’.”

Your throat tightened. God, this man.

“That’s perfect,” you managed.

He set the basin down on the nightstand, dipping the cloth into the hot water. Steam curled up between his fingers, and he shook it out, testing the heat against his wrist like he was handling something precious.

“Lift your shirt for me, sweetheart,” Joel said, voice soft, coaxing.

You did, the cool air brushing your skin as you bared your stomach. Joel’s brow furrowed when he saw the tension there, the way your muscles stayed tight, trying to guard against the pain. He laid the warm cloth over your lower belly, his hand lingering to press it into place.

“Better?”

The heat sank into your skin, dulling the sharpest edges of the ache. You let out a slow, shaky breath. “Yeah… yeah, it helps.”

Joel settled beside you, one arm sliding under your shoulders to pull you against his chest. He kept his hand on the cloth, his thumb absently stroking your side in slow, steady passes.

“Should’ve told me sooner,” he murmured, guilt still thick in his voice. “Ain’t gotta carry this on your own.”

You buried your face against his throat, breathing him in.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, gruff but gentle. “You don’t ever owe me sorry for hurtin’. Not a damn thing to be sorry for.”

His hand moved to brush the hair from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. He kissed your temple, like he was reminding you of something you kept forgetting.

You sighed, the warmth from the cloth and the steady, quiet presence of him easing something loose inside you.

“Love you,” you murmured, so soft you weren’t sure if he caught it.

Joel’s hand squeezed your side as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #tlou #joel tlou #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel miller pedro pascal #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller drabble

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mushroomflood · 2 days ago

Note

How much do you love or like knuckles now? What program and brushes you use for your drawings?? 😯Last thing, what do you think about knuxouge relationship?? you think they are like... love birds? might have kids?? have good day or night! 💗

First off, I use Procreate. I draw with a free brush set called Jingsketch Basics, I primarily use the brushes Flat Square and Round Render!

I love Knuckles more than words can express. Also, I like a few different Knuckles ships, one of my favs being Knuxouge! They are so cutie. Here’s a little comic I made of them as proof of that :)

They have their little will they won’t they relationship <3 Speaking of ‘will they’s, kids:

If they could have kids, considering they’re different species and Knuckles is the last of his kind, it’s a no for now. Not in either of their plans, at least early on in their relationship.

#knuckles the echidna #knuckles wachowski #rouge the bat #rouge sonic #knuckles fanart #rouge fanart #knuxouge #knuckles x rouge

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fenya-scribbles · 3 days ago

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Network: @staynotes Pairing: Changbin x fem!bfs!Reader

Other Characters: none

Summary: Chanbin gets insecure and you’re showing him just how beautiful he truly is.

Genre: fluff, smut, best friends to lovers

Content warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexually explicit content, oral (m receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (don’t be stupid), multiple orgasms

Word Count: 2,195

A/N: I did not plan for this to happen but @skzdreamer13 sent me some extremely inspiring art :3

The first time you noticed it, you brushed it off. Your best friend, sitting on his couch and scrolling on his phone, was furrowing his brows. He usually didn’t read comments, didn’t go for that kind of validation. He was secure in himself, always had been. That was your bestie, your Binnie - and, hopelessly, your long time crush. So when you caught him scrolling and frowning, you took note. But you didn’t say anything. At least not at first.

But it happened again. Backstage. He’d practically begged you to join him on tour, and how could you resist those eyes when he pouted at you like that? You couldn’t and now you were here, sitting on a couch in a green room, iced americano in hand, watching Changbin scrolling again. Frowning again. It was then that you started paying closer attention.

Subsequently, you started to notice other things. He wore hoodies, even when it wasn’t all that cold. He didn’t ask you to join him at the gym, even though that had been one of his arguments for why you should come with. “We can work out in so many different countries together!”, he’d said. But now he always disappeared before you even woke up, and when you did he’d hit you with the “sorry, I already did my training”. He didn’t take selfies with you anymore, avoided the camera more often than not and worst of all - he seemed to smile less.

And you knew him, really knew him, so you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying. After weeks of watching the situation worsen, you decided to do something about it. All of them had returned to the hotel after the show - a show in which Changbin had made it a point to stay in long sleeved tops despite the heat. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you knocked on his door. To your relief, he didn’t take long to open up. “Y/Nnie”, he said, visibly surprised, “what are you doing here?” You took a deep breath. “I came to talk, Binnie”, you replied, “can we talk? Please?"

He hesitated only for a second, but you noticed. Then he stepped aside, letting you come into his room. It was a bit bigger than yours, with a large window front that overlooked the city. And you would’ve gasped about it and tried to see what landmarks were visible from here, but that’s not why you’d come. So you sat down on his bed, right by the headrest, and tapped the empty spot beside you. “Come sit”, you said with a soft smile.

He raised his eyebrows, but obeyed. “What is this about?”, he asked, “You’re worrying me, bunny.” The nickname went straight to your heart, as it always did, but you pushed your feelings aside. “Actually, you’re worrying me”, you said. “I am?” He seemed genuinely confused. It was kind of endearing, but also kind of sad. “Yes. You’re not going to the gym with me anymore. You’re not showing your arms on camera anymore. You look so uncomfortable when you have to wear a tank top on stage. Please be honest with me. You’ve been reading comments again, haven’t you?”

Your words hung in the air, along with a heavy silence. He looked at you, then looked at his hands, then at the ceiling. Eventually, he spoke with a low voice. “You noticed that, huh?” You turned more towards him. “Of course I did, Binnie.” I love you. But you didn’t say it. This was not about your feelings, it was about his. “What’s going on, Bin?” He sighed, and you braced yourself for what he was about to say.

“Do you think I look fine?” He could barely look at you, ears red, hands fidgeting. It was so unlike him, and you had to fight the urge to pull him into a hug. “What do you mean, fine? You look incredible! You’re so strong and handsome, what are you talking about?” His eyes met yours, and for a second you swore there was something more going on behind them, but it was gone before you could name it. “But, like”, he said, “I don’t exactly look like the average k-pop idol.” You blinked. Twice. “What?” This time you couldn’t stop yourself, your hands cupping his face on instinct, forcing him to look at you.

“See Changbin, you are quite literally the hottest man I know”, you said, throwing all caution out the window. There was no way you’d let your best friend - the man you were secretly in love with - sit here and feel insecure about his fucking looks. Not when he looked good enough to eat every hour of every damn day. What you hadn’t realised, was that cupping his face like that, being on his hotel bed with him, talking about his insanely good looks - all of it went straight to your core. And on top of everything, he gave you those eyes. Big, beautiful, dangerously deep eyes that made you want to kiss him right then and there.

But you didn’t. You forced yourself to focus, forced yourself to ignore the heat pooling between your legs or the alarming spike in your heart rate. You forced yourself to focus on him - on Changbin, your best friend, your Binnie. “Don’t listen to those comments, Bin”, you said, hands still cupping his face, “you look amazing. Everything about you is perfect as it is.” He looked like he had literal stars in his eyes when he sheepishly replied: “You really think so?” You nodded, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “You think I’m hot?” A small grin spread across his face, and your heart did a somersault.

You could feel yourself blush, but there was no turning back now. “I do”, you said, miraculously holding eye contact. “You don’t think I’m too short or too thick?” “You’re perfect, Bin.” And before he could say another word, you leaned in, lips crashing into his. He froze for a second, but before you could even try and worry about your sudden boldness, he melted into you, arms wrapping around your body. Instincts took over, the kiss deepened, and soon enough the both of you were a tangled, panting mess, hands exploring and undressing each other.

Eventually, you found yourself straddling Changbin, both of you only in your underwear, and his hard cock pressing against you through the fabric. You wanted him so badly, wanted to take all of him for as long as he’d let you, but you had other plans. “Binnie”, you said, barely more than a whisper, rough and breathless against his throat, “you’re perfect to me. Let me show you.” Slowly your lips travelled down his throat to his collar bones. Gently, you interlaced your fingers with his and pressed his hand into the pillow beside his head, making him effectively present his impressive biceps to you.

You proceeded to kiss his shoulder, his biceps, all of his arm, every inch of his skin. “You have the sexiest arms I’ve ever seen”, you whispered against his soft skin, hips softly, lazily grinding against him. Changbin’s breath hitched with every other kiss you placed on him. You continued back towards his chest, untangling your fingers from his, so you could use both your hands to squeeze his pecs as you covered them in kisses - and bruises. “Your chest is heaven”, you panted, “you’re so perfect.” Changbin was gasping, moaning, watching - he just laid there, pretty and flushed, letting you worship him.

“Look at this perfect belly”, you murmured against his six pack, hands running up and down his torso, as if you were mapping out every inch of him. You had to slide down a bit, no longer able to grind against his impressive erection, but you didn’t leave him alone for long. Your hands found his waistband and pulled down his boxers, that were quickly discarded. “Holy shit, Binnie”, you gasped as you took in the sheer size of him. That pulled an adorable breathless chuckle from him. Like the rest your best friend’s gorgeous body, his cock was fucking thick. And it looked so good, veiny and heavy and delicious.

Changbin let out an ungodly moan as you slowly took him into your mouth, inch by inch, as much as you physically could. “Fuck”, he gasped, low and raspy, hands quickly making their way into your hair, as you started to bob your head. “Ah…bunny…fuck you feel so good…”, Changbin moaned, sending shocks to your neglected cunt, and it took all your restraint to not just let him fuck you - but you weren’t done with him yet. So instead you wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, gently cupping his balls with the other, and sped up your movements.

“Ngh…bunny…pls”, your best friend gasped, “I’m not gonna last….fuck…if you…fuck, bunny..” He was rambling, moaning, panting, and you knew exactly what he was trying to say. For just a moment you let him slip out of your mouth. “It’s okay, Binnie”, you said, hand stroking his cock now, “you can come for me. Give me all of you.” And then you were back on him, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and in a matter of seconds he was borderline screaming your name as he spilled his hot cum down your throat.

Slowly, you let him slip out of you - and the picture before you was divine. Your best friend, the love of your life, lying on his hotel bed, panting, sweat soaked, looking like one of Hyunjin’s beautiful paintings. “It’s okay”, you said, pressing soft kisses against his thighs, “you’re okay. You’re so handsome like this.” You ran your hands over his legs, softly massaging his muscular thighs, worshipping every inch of his skin.

Slowly, you let yourself wander upward, placing kisses and a few hickeys all over his skin, and by the time you dropped down on the bed beside him, brushing the hair that stuck to his forehead away, you were almost a bit surprised to find him hard again. “You’re so insatiable”, you giggled against his shoulder. He let out a short laugh, more like a huff, and turned to his side. “Will you let me…uhm…” His cheeks were red, so beautifully red, and you couldn’t help but grin. “What do you wanna do, handsome?” But you already felt him pressing against your thighs, strong hands grabbing your hips.

“Please let me feel you, bunny”, he whispered, head buried in the crook of your neck. “I’m all yours, Binnie”, you whispered back, “always have been.” And just like that he shifted both of you, with you landing on your back and him between your legs. He was quick to rid you of your bra and panties, and then, almost cautiously, he ran his fingers through your slick folds. “Damn, bunny”, he gasped, “you’re so wet. All this for me?” “Mhm”, you nodded, pressing your hips up against his hand. “Please Binnie”, you whined, “need you…want to feel you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, lining himself up and slowly pushing into you. The stretch was formidable, bordering on painful, but he felt so good inside you. Like he was made for you - and you were made for him. “Fuck”, he rasped, “so tight…ahh…feels so good” As soon has he bottomed out, his lips were on yours again, swallowing your moans has he slowly started thrusting. He fucked you with his forehead pressed against yours, rutting into you with not only precision, but devotion. “Bunny…ngh….”, he moaned, eyes locked to yours, “you’re mine now. Gonna fill you up, yes? Make this pussy mine.” “Please...yes…please, Binnie”, you begged in return, desperate and high pitched.

Changbin didn’t let up, he didn’t slow down, not until he had you shaking, clenching around him, moaning his name like it was the only word you knew - and it very well might have been with the way your orgasm rushed over you. And then, when you were about to beg him to stop, when you thought you might not be able to take anymore, his thrusts suddenly became erratic, frantic, primal and he somehow managed to push you over the edge again, taking you with him as he spilled is cum deep inside you for the second time.

He stayed like that for a moment, buried deep inside you and panting, before he eventually slowly pulled out and collapsed beside you on the bed. For a long time, neither of you moved or spoke, both of you trying to catch your breath. Then his hand found yours, fingers interlacing, softly squeezing. After what felt like forever, he slipped out of bed, only to return with a warm, wet towel. Gently, he cleaned you up while showering you with kisses all over your sensitive skin. He threw the towel unceremoniously into the hotel bathroom and climbed back into bed with you.

Eventually, you were curled up in his arms, almost asleep, breath already slow and even, when you heard him whisper: “Thank you, bunny. I love you.”

Fenya’s Masterlist Taglist @lov3rachan

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