#ANYHOW CATCH ME HERE

[justafewberries]

wondering if the development of capitol technology naturally led to the erasing of the victors’ scars post-games because “we can”, or did the capitol develop it specifically for that purpose?

perhaps there was a cultural shift in the capitol between the primitive games and the 74th games. Did the citizens initially relish in seeing the pain they caused the tributes? Surely they must have, when they’re fed the idea the districts are the reason they suffered, so they must cause suffering, too. Maybe they went so far as to take pleasure from seeing a mutilated victor. A child who has become René Girard’s scapegoat.

but perhaps as time went on and generations separated the dark days from the present, the citizens of the capitol begin to develop a distaste for the savagery of the games. In the movies, Seneca’s interview with Caeser Flickerman is telling:

“But it’s been the way we’ve been able to heal. First it was a reminder of the rebellion… It was a price the districts had to pay. But I think it has grown from that. I think it’s uh- something that knits us all together.”

The capitol citizens have moved past having to justify the games. They’re tradition now. They’re ingrained in the culture. In the normalization, perhaps people began to feel disgusted with the reality of the arena and the scars on the victors were “ugly” and blatant proof of the violence.

Maybe the capitol covers the scars not because they can, but because the citizens are so distant from the reality of war that to keep the positive reception of the people, the capitol must erase the scars.

still I wonder what came first? The technology, or the necessity?

[washichan]

Yall think that whether Dante get the 8 ball in or not, he's gonna score a race and a diner later? Because boi I hope so.

[todayisafridaynight]

@ father time can we run it back to june so i can make a joke really quick

[cherry-lala]

The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick 

Genre: Southern Gothic, Angst, Supernatural Thriller, Romance Word Count: 15.7k+ Summary: In a sweltering Mississippi town, a woman's nights are divided between a juke joint's soulful music and the intoxicating presence of a mysterious man named Remmick. As her heart wrestles with fear and desire, shadows lengthen, revealing truths darker than the forgotten woods. In the heart of the Deep South, whispers of love dance with danger, leaving a trail of secrets that curl like smoke in the night.

Content Warnings: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied violence, betrayal, character death, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, brief sexual content, references to alcoholism and domestic conflict. Let me know if I missed any! A/N: My first story on here! Also I’m not from the 1930’s so don’t beat me up for not knowing too much about life in that time.I couldn’t stop thinking about this gorgeous man since I watched the movie. Wanted to jump through the screen to get to him anywayssss likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated. 

The heat clings to my skin like a second husband, just as unwanted as the first. Even with the sun long gone, the air hangs thick enough to drown in, pressing against my lungs as I ease the screen door open. The hinges whine—traitors announcing my escape attempt—and before I can slip out, his voice lashes at my back, mean as a belt strap. "I ain't done talkin' to you, girl." His fingers dig into my arm, yanking me back inside. The dim yellow light from our single lamp casts his face in a shadow, but I don’t need to see his expression. I've memorized every twist his mouth makes when he's like this—cruel at the corners, loose in the middle.

"You been done," I whisper, the words scraping my throat like gravel. My tears stay locked behind my eyes, prisoners I refuse to release. "Said all you needed to say half a bottle ago." Frank's breath hits my face, sour with corn liquor and hate. His pupils are wide, unfocused—black holes pulling at the edges of his irises. The hand not gripping my arm rises slow and wavering, a promise of pain that has become as routine as sunrise. But tonight, the whiskey’s got him too good. His arm drops mid-swing, its weight too much. For the first time in three years of marriage, I don't flinch. He notices. Even drunk, he notices. "The hell's gotten into you?" His words slur together, a muddy river of accusation. "Think you better'n me now? That it?" "Just tired, Frank." My voice stays steady as still water. "That's all." The truth is, I stopped being afraid a month ago. Fear requires hope—the desperate belief that things might change if you're just careful enough, quiet enough, good enough. I buried my hope the last time he put my head through the wall, right next to where the plaster still shows the shape of my skull. I look around our little house—a wedding gift from his daddy that's become my prison. Two rooms of misery, decorated in things Frank broke and I tried to fix. The table with three good legs and one made from an old fence post. The chair with stuffing coming out like dirty snow. The wallpaper peels in long strips, curling away from the walls like they're trying to escape too.

My reflection catches in the cracked mirror above the wash basin—a woman I barely recognize anymore. My eyes have gone flat, my cheekbones sharp beneath skin that used to glow. Twenty-five years old and fading like a dress left too long in the sun. Frank stumbles backward, catching himself on the edge of our bed. The springs screech under his weight. "Where you think you're goin' anyhow?" "Just for some air." I keep my voice gentle, like you'd talk to a spooked horse. "Be back before you know it." His eyes narrow, suspicion fighting through the drunken haze. "You meetin' somebody?" I shake my head, moving slowly around the room, gathering my shawl, and checking my hair. Every movement measured, nothing to trigger him. "Just need to breathe, Frank. That's all." "You breathe right here," he mutters, but his words are losing their fight, drowning in whiskey and fatigue. "Right here where I can see you." I don't answer. Instead, I watch him struggle against sleep, his body betraying him in small surrenders—head nodding, shoulders slumping, breath deepening. Five minutes pass, then ten. His chin drops to his chest. I slip my dancing shoes from their hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under our bed. Frank hates them—says they make me look loose, wanton. What he means is they make me look like someone who might leave him.

He's not wrong.

The shoes feel like rebellion in my hands. I've polished them in secret, mended the scuffs, kept them alive like hope. Can't put them on yet—the sound would wake him—but soon. Soon they'll carry me where I need to go. Frank snores suddenly, a thunderclap of noise that makes me freeze. But he doesn't stir, just slumps further onto the bed, one arm dangling toward the floor. I move toward the door again; shoes clutched to my chest like something precious. The night outside calls to me with cricket songs and possibilities. Through the dirty window, I can see the path that leads toward the woods, toward Smoke and Stack's place where the music will already be starting. Where for a few hours, I can remember what it feels like to be something other than Frank's wife, Frank's disappointment, Frank's punching bag. The screen door sighs as I ease it open. The night air touches my face like a blessing. Behind me, Frank sleeps the sleep of the wicked and the drunk. Ahead of me, there's music waiting. And tonight, just tonight, that music is stronger than my fear.

The juke joint grows from the Mississippi dirt like something half-remembered, half-dreamed. Even from the edge of the trees, I can feel its heartbeat—the thump of feet on wooden boards, the wail of Sammie's guitar cutting through the night air, voices rising and falling in waves of joy so thick you could swim in them. My shoes dangle from my fingers, still clean. No point in dirtying them on the path. What matters is what happens inside, where the real world stops at the door and something else begins. Light spills from the cracks between weathered boards, turning the surrounding pine trees into sentinels guarding this secret. I slip my shoes on, leaning on the passenger side of one of the few vehicles in-front of the juke-joint, already swaying to the rhythm bleeding through the walls. Smoke and Stack bought this place with money from God knows where coming back from Chicago. Made it sturdy enough to hold our dreams, hidden enough to keep them safe. White folks pretend not to know it exists, and we pretend to believe them. That mutual fiction buys us this—one place where we don't have to fold ourselves small. I push open the door and step into liquid heat. Bodies press and sway, dark skin gleaming with sweat under the glow of kerosene lamps hung from rough-hewn rafters. The floor bears witness to many nights of stomping feet, marked with scuffs that tell stories words never could. The air tastes like freedom—sharp with moonshine, sweet with perfume, salty with honest work washed away in honest pleasure. At the far end, Sammie hunches over his guitar, eyes closed, fingers dancing across strings worn smooth from years of playing. He doesn't need to see what he's doing; the music lives in his hands. Each note tears something loose inside anyone who hears it—something we keep chained up during daylight hours.

Annie throws her head back in laughter, her full hips wrapped in a dress the color of plums. She grabs Pearline's slender wrist, pulling her into the heart of the dancing crowd. Pearline resists for only a second before surrendering, her graceful movements a perfect counterpoint to Annie's rare wild abandon. "Come on now," Annie shouts over the music. "Your husband ain't here to see you, and the Lord ain't lookin' tonight!" Pearline's lips curve into that secret smile she saves for these moments when she can set aside the proper church woman and become something truer. In the corner, Delta Slim nurses a bottle like it contains memories instead of liquor. His eyes, bloodshot but sharp, track everything without seeming to. His fingers tap against the bottleneck, keeping time with Sammie's playing. An old soul who's seen too much to be fooled by anything. "Slim!" Cornbread's deep voice booms as he passes, carrying drinks that overflow slightly with each step. "You gonna play tonight or just drink the profits?" "Might do both if you keep askin'," Slim drawls, but there's no heat in it. Just the familiar rhythm of old friends. I step fully into the room and something shifts. Not everyone notices—most keep dancing, talking, drinking—but enough heads turn my way that I feel it. A ripple through the crowd, making space. Recognition.

Smoke spots me from behind the rough-plank bar. His nod is almost imperceptible, but I catch it—permission, welcome, understanding. His forearms glisten with sweat as he pours another drink, muscles tensed like he's always ready for trouble. Because he is. Stack appears beside him, leaning in to say something in his twin's ear. Unlike Smoke, whose energy coils tight, Stack moves with a gambler's grace, all smooth edges, and calculated risks. His eyes find me in the crowd, lingering a beat too long, concern flashing before he masks it with a lazy smile. My feet carry me to the center of the floor without conscious thought. The wooden boards warm beneath my soles, greeting me like an old friend. I close my eyes, letting Sammie's guitar and voice pull me under, drowning in sound. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget—how to move without fear, how to speak without words. My hips sway, shoulders rolling in time with the stomps. Each stomp of my feet sends the day's hurt into the ground. Each twist of my wrist unravels another knot of rage. My dress—faded cotton sewn and resewn until it's more memory than fabric—clings to me as I spin, catching sweat and starlight.

"She needs this," Smoke mutters to Stack, thinking I can't hear over the music. He takes a long pull from his bottle, eyes never leaving me. "Let her be." But Stack keeps watching, the way he watched when we were kids, and I climbed too high in the cypress trees. Like he's waiting to catch me if I fall. I don't plan to fall. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm rising, lifting, breaking free from gravity itself. Mary appears beside me, her red dress a flame against the darkness. She moves with the confidence of youth and beauty, all long limbs and laughter. "Girl, you gonna burn a hole in the floor!" she shouts, spinning close enough that her breath warms my ear. I don't answer. Can't answer. Words belong to the day world, the world of men like Frank who use them as weapons. Here, my body speaks a better truth. The music climbs higher, faster. Sammie's fingers blur across the strings, coaxing sounds that shouldn't be possible from wood and wire. The crowd claps in rhythm, feet stomping, voices joining in wordless chorus. The walls of the juke joint seem to expand with our joy, swelling to contain what can't be contained. My head tilts back, eyes finding the rough ceiling without seeing it. My spirit has already soared through those boards, up past the pines, into a night sky scattered with stars that know my real name. Sweat tracks down my spine, between my breasts, and along my temples. My heartbeat syncs with the drums until I can't tell which is which. At this moment, Frank doesn't exist. The bruises hidden beneath my clothes don't exist. All that exists is movement, music, and the miraculous feeling of being fully, completely alive in a body that, for these few precious hours, belongs only.

The music fades behind me, each step into the woods stealing another note until all that's left is memory. My body still hums with the ghost of rhythm, but the air around me has changed—gone still in a way that doesn't feel right. Mississippi nights are never quiet, not really. There are always cicadas arguing with crickets, frogs calling from hidden places, leaves whispering to each other. But tonight, the woods swallow sound like they're holding their breath. Waiting for something. My fingers tighten around my shawl, pulling it closer though the heat hasn't broken. It's not cold I'm feeling. It's something else. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in silver blades, slicing the path into sections of light and dark. I step carefully, avoiding roots that curl up from the earth like arthritic fingers. The juke-joint has disappeared behind me; its warmth and noise sealed away by the wall of pines. Ahead lies home—Frank snoring in a drunken stupor, walls pressing in, air thick with resentment. Between here and there is only this stretch of woods, this moment of in-between. My dancing shoes pinch now, reminding me they weren't made for walking. But I don't take them off. They're the last piece of the night I'm clinging to, proof that for a few hours, I was someone else. Someone free.

A twig snaps.

I freeze every muscle tense as piano wire. That sound came from behind me, off to the left where the trees grow thicker. Not an animal—too deliberate, too singular. My heart drums against my ribs, no longer keeping Sammie's rhythm but a faster, frightened beat of its own. "Who's there?" My voice sounds thin in the unnatural quiet. For a moment, nothing. Then movement—not a crashing through underbrush, but a careful parting, like the darkness itself is opening up. He steps onto the path, and everything in me goes still. White man. Tall. Nothing unusual about that. But everything else about him rings false. His clothes seem to match the dust of the woods—dusty white shirt, suspenders that catch the moonlight like they're made of something finer than ordinary cloth. Dust clings to his shoes but sweat darkens his collar despite the heat. His skin is pale in a way that seems to glow faintly, untouched by the sun. But it's his eyes that stop my breath. They don't blink enough. And they're fixed on me with a hunger that has nothing to do with what men usually want.

"You move like you don't belong to this world," he says, voice smooth as molasses but cold like stones at the bottom of a well. There's a drawl to his words. He sounds like nowhere and everywhere. "I've watched you dance. On nights like this. It's… spellwork, what you do." My spine straightens of its own accord. I should run. Every instinct screams it. But something else—pride, maybe, or foolishness—keeps me rooted. "I ain't got nothin' for you," I say, keeping my voice steady. My hand tightens on my shawl, though it's poor protection against whatever this man is. "And white men seekin’ me out here alone usually bring trouble." His lips curve upward, but the smile doesn't touch those unblinking eyes. They remain fixed, assessing, and patient in a way that makes my skin prickle. "You think I came to bring you trouble?" The question hangs between us, delicate as spiderweb. I don't trust it. Don't trust him. "I think you should go," I say, taking half a step backward. He matches with a step forward but maintains the distance between us—precise, controlled.

"I'm called Remmick."

"I didn't ask." My voice sharpens with fear disguised as attitude.

"No," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "But something in you will remember."

The certainty in his voice raises the hair on my arms. I study him more carefully—the unnatural stillness with which he holds himself. Something is wrong with this man, something beyond the obvious danger of a man approaching a woman alone in the woods at night. The trees around him seem to bend away slightly, as if reluctant to touch him. Even the persistent mosquitoes that plague these woods avoid the air around him. The night itself recoils from his presence, creating a bubble of emptiness with him at the center. I take another step back, putting more distance between us. My heel catches on a root, but I recover without falling. His eyes track the movement with unsettling precision.

"You can go on now," I say, my voice harder now. "Ain't nobody invited you."

Something changes in his expression at that—a flicker of satisfaction, like I've confirmed something he suspected. His head tilts slightly, almost pleased. "That's true," he murmurs, the words barely disturbing the air. "Not yet."

The way he says it—like a promise, like a threat—makes my breath catch. The moonlight catches his profile as he turns slightly. For a moment, just a moment, I think I see something move beneath that worn shirt—not muscle or bone, but something else, something that shifts like shadow-given substance. Then it's gone, and he's just a man again. A strange, terrifying man standing too still in the woods who wants nothing to do with him. I don't say goodbye. Don't acknowledge him further. Just back away, keeping my eyes on him until I can turn safely until the path curves and trees separate us. Even then, I feel his gaze on my back like a physical weight, pressing against my spine, leaving an imprint that won't wash off.

I don't run—running attracts predators—but I walk faster, my dancing shoes striking the dirt in a rhythm that sounds like warning, warning, warning with each step. The trees seem to whisper now, breaking their unnatural silence to murmur secrets to each other. Behind me, the woods remain still. I don't hear him following. Somehow, that's worse. As if he doesn't need to follow to find me again. As I near the edge of the tree line, the familiar sounds of night gradually return—cicadas start up their sawing, and an owl calls from somewhere deep in the darkness. The world exhales, releasing the breath it had been holding. But something has changed. The night that once offered escape now feels like another kind of trap. And somewhere in the darkness behind me waits a man named Remmick, with eyes that don't blink enough and a voice that speaks of "not yet" like it's already written.

Two day passed but The rooster still don’t holler like he used to. He creaks out a noise ‘round mid-morning now, long after the sun’s already sitting heavy on the tin roof. Maybe the heat got to him. Maybe he’s just tired of callin’ out a world that don’t change. I know the feel. But night comes again, faster than mornin’ these days. Probably cause’ I’m expectin’ more from the night. Frank’s out cold on the mattress, one leg hanging off like it gave up trying. His breath comes in grunts, open-mouthed and ugly. A fly dances lazy across his upper lip, lands, takes off again. I step over his boots; past the broken chair he swore he’d fix last fall. Ain’t nothin’ changed but the dust. Kitchen smells like rusted iron and whatever crawled up into the walls to die. I fill the kettle slow, careful with the water pump handle so it don’t squeal. Ain’t trying to wake a bear before it’s time. My fingers press against the wallpaper, where it peeled back like bark. The spot stays warm. Heat trapped from yesterday. I don’t talk to myself. Don’t say a word. But my thoughts speak his name without asking.

Remmick.

It don’t belong in this house. It don’t belong in my mouth, either. But there it is, curling behind my teeth. I never told a soul about him. Not ‘cause I was scared. Not yet. Just didn’t know how to explain a man who don’t blink enough. Who moves like the ground ain’t quite got a grip on him. Who steps out of the woods like he heard you call, even when you didn’t. A man who hangs ‘round a place with no intention of going in.

I tug the hem of my dress higher to look at the bruise. Purple, with a ring of green creeping in around the edges. I press two fingers to it, just to feel it. A reminder. Frank don’t always hit where people can see. But he don’t always miss, either. I wrap it in cloth, tug the fabric of my dress just right, and move on. I don’t plan to dance tonight. But I’ll sit. Maybe smile. Maybe drink something that don’t taste like survival. Maybe Stack’ll run his mouth and pull a laugh out of me without trying. And maybe, when it’s time to go, I’ll take the long way home. Not because I’m expectin’ anything. But because I want to. The juke joint buzzes before I even see it. The trees carry the sound first—the thump of feet, the thrum of piano spilling through the wood like sap. By the time I reach the clearing, it’s already breathing, already alive. Cornbread’s at the door, arms folded. When I pass, he gives me that look like he sees more than I want him to. “You look lighter tonight,” he says. I give a half-smile. “Probably just ain’t carryin’ any expectations.” He lets out a low laugh, the kind that rolls up from his gut and sits heavy in the room. “Or maybe ‘cause you left somethin’ behind last night.” That makes me pause, just for a beat. But I don’t show it. Just raise my brow like he’s talkin’ nonsense and keep walkin’.

He don’t mean nothin’ by it. But it sticks to me anyway.

Delta Slim’s at the keys, tapping them like they owe him money. The notes bounce off the walls, dusty and full of teeth. No Sammie tonight—Stack said he’s somewhere wrasslin’ a busted guitar into obedience. Pearline’s off in the corner, close to Sammie’s usual seat. She’s leaned in real low to a man I seen from time to time here, voice like honey drippin’ too slow to trust. Her laugh breaks in soft bursts, careful not to wake whatever she’s tryin’ to keep asleep. Stack’s behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, but he ain’t workin.’ Not really. He’s leanin’ on the wood, jaw flexing as he smirks at some girl with freckles down her arms like spilled salt. I find a seat near the back, close enough to the fan to catch a breath of cool, far enough to keep my bruise out of the light.

Inside, the joint don’t just sing—it exhales. Walls groan with sweat and joy, floorboards shimmy under stompin’ feet. The air’s thick with heat, perfume, and fried something that’s long since stopped smellin’ like food. There’s a rhythm to the place—one that don’t care what your name is, just how you move. Smoke’s behind the bar too, back bent over a bottle, jaw set tight like always. But when he sees me, his mouth softens. Not a smile—he don’t give those away easy. Just a nod. Like he sees me, really sees me. “Frank dead yet?” he mutters without looking up. “Not that lucky,” I say, voice dry as dust. He pours without askin.’ Corn punch. Still too sweet. But it sits right on the tongue after a long day of silence.

“You limpin’?” he asks, low, like maybe it’s just for me.

I shake my head. “Just don’t feel like shakin’.” He grunts understanding. “You don’t gotta explain, Y/N. Just glad you showed.” A warmth rolls behind my ribs. I don’t show it. But I feel it.

I don’t dance, but I play. Cards smack against the wood table like drumbeats—sharp, mean, familiar. The men at the table glance up, but none complain when I sit. I win too often for them to pretend they ain’t interested. Stack leans over my shoulder after the second hand. I smell rum and tobacco before he speaks. “You cheat,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You slow,” I fire back, slapping a queen on the pile. He whistles. “You always talk this much when you feelin’ good?” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Oh, I ain’t. Just sayin,’ looks Like you been kissed by somethin’ holy—or dangerous.” “I’ll let you decide which.” He laughs, pulls up a chair without askin’. His knee brushes mine. He don’t apologize. I don’t move.

I leave before Slim plays his last note. The night wraps itself around me the moment I step out, damp and sweet, the kind of air that clings to your skin like memory. One more laugh from inside rings out sharp before the door shuts and the trees hush it. My feet take the path without me thinking. I don’t look for shadows. Don’t linger. Just want the stillness. The cool hush after heat. The part of night that feels like confession. But halfway down the clearing, I see him again. Not leaning. Not hiding. Just there. Standing like the woods parted just to place him in my way. White shirt. Sleeves rolled. Suspenders loose against dusty pants. Hat in hand like he means to be respectful, like he was taught his mama’s manners. I stop. “You followin’ me?” I ask, but it don’t come out sharp.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Didn’t know a man needed a permit to take a walk under the stars.” “You keep walkin’ where I already am.”

He looks down the path, then back at me. “Maybe that means you and I got the same sense of direction.” “Or maybe you been steppin’ where you know I’ll be.” He doesn’t deny it. Just shrugs, eyes steady. I don’t move closer. Don’t move back either.

“You always turn up like this?” I ask. “Like a page I forgot to read?” He chuckles. “No. Just figured you were the kind of story worth rereadin’.” The silence after that ain’t heavy. Just… close. The kind that makes your ears ring with what you ain’t said. “You always this smooth?” I say, voice low. “I been known to stumble,” he replies. “Just not when it counts.” I shift. Let my eyes roam past him, toward the tree line. “Small talk doesn’t suit you.” “I don’t do small.” His eyes meet mine again. “Especially not with you.” It’s too much. It should be too much. But my hands don’t tremble. My breath don’t catch.

Not yet.

“You always walk the same road as a woman leavin’ the juke joint alone?” “I didn’t follow you,” he repeats. “I just happen to be where you are.” He steps forward, slow. I don’t retreat. “You expect me to believe that?” I ask. “No,” he says softly. “But I think you want to.” That lands between us like something too honest. He runs a hand through his hair before putting his hat on. A simple gesture. A human one. Like he’s just another man with nowhere to be and too much time to spend not being there. He watches me, real still—like a man waitin’ to see if I’ll spook or bite. “Figured I might’ve come off wrong last time,” he says finally, voice soft, but it don’t bend easy. “Didn’t mean to.” “You did,” I say, but my arms stay loose at my sides. A flick of something passes over his face. Not shame, not pride—just a small, ghosted look, like he’s used to bein’ misunderstood. “Well,” he says, thumb brushing the brim of his hat, “thought maybe I’d try again. Slower this time.” That pulls at somethin’ behind my ribs, makes the air stretch thinner between us. “You act like this some kinda game.” He shakes his head once. “Not a game. Just…timing. Some things got to take the long way ‘round.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to make out where he’s hidin’ the trick in all this.

“The way you talk is like running in circles.” He laughs—low and rough at the edges, like it ain’t used to bein’ let out. “I won’t waste time running in circles around a darlin’ like you.” I cross my arms, squinting at the space between his words. “That supposed to charm me?” He shrugs, one shoulder easy like he don’t expect much. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Just thought I’d give you something truer than a lie.” His voice ain’t sweet—it’s too honest for that. But it moves like water that knows where it’s goin’. I shift my weight, let the breeze slide between us.

“You ain’t said why you’re here. Not really.” He watches me a long moment, like he’s weighing how much I’ll let in. “Maybe I’m drawn to your energy,” he says finally. I scoff. “My energy? I don’t move too much to emit energy.” That gets him smilin’. Slow. Not too sure of itself, but not shy either. “You don’t have to move,” he says, “to be seen.” The words hit like a drop of cold water between the shoulder blades—sharp, sudden, and too real. I take a step forward just to ground myself, heel pressing into the dirt like I mean it. “You a preacher?” I ask, voice sharper than before. He chuckles, deep and close-lipped. “Ain’t nothin’ holy about me.” “Then don’t talk to me like you got a sermon stitched in your throat.” He bows his head just a hair, hands still at his sides. “Fair enough.”

A pause stretches long enough for the night sounds to creep back in—cicadas winding up, wind sifting through the trees. “I’m Remmick,” he says, like it matters more now. “I know.” “And you?” “You don’t need my name.” His mouth quirks like he wants to press, but he don’t. “You sure about that?” “Yes.” The silence that follows feels cleaner. Like everything’s been set on the table and neither one of us reaching for it. He nods, slow. “Alright. Just thought I’d say hello this time without makin’ the trees nervous.” I don’t smile. Don’t give him more than I want to. But I don’t turn away either. And when he steps back—slow, like he respects the space between us—I let him. This time, I watch him go. Down the path, ‘til the woods decide they’ve had enough of him.

I don’t look back once my hand’s on the porch rail. The key trembles once in the lock before it catches. Inside, it’s the same. Frank dead to the world, laid out like sin forgiven. I pass him without a glance, like I’m the ghost and not him. At the washbasin, I scrub my face until the cold water stings. Peel off the dress slow, like unwrapping something tender. The bruises bloom up my side, but I don’t touch ‘em. I slide into a cotton nightgown soft enough not to fight me. Climb into bed without expecting sleep. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling like maybe tonight it might speak.

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

I whisper it once, barely enough sound to stir the dark. Three days pass. The sun’s just fallen, but the air still clings like breath held too long. I’m on the back stoop with my foot sunk in a basin of cool water, ankle puffed up mean from Frank’s latest mood. Shawl drawn close, dress hem hiked above the bruising. The house behind me creaks like it’s thinking about falling apart. Crickets chirp with something to prove. A whip-poor-will calls once, then hushes like it said too much. And then—

“Evenin’.”

My hand jerks, sloshing water up my calf. I don’t scream, but I don’t hide the startle either. He’s by the fence post. Just leanin’. Arms folded over the top like he been there long enough to take root. Hat low, sleeves rolled, collar open at the throat. Shirt clings faint in the heat, pants dusted up from honest walking—or the kind that don’t leave footprints. I say nothing. He tips his head like he’s waiting for permission that won’t come. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You always arrive like breath behind a neck.” “I try not to,” he says, quiet. “Don’t always manage it.” That smile he wears—it don’t shine. It settles. Soft. A little sorry. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again,” he says.

“I don’t.”

He nods like he expected that too. I don’t blink. Don’t drop my gaze. “Why you keep comin’ here, Remmick?”

His name tastes different now. Sharper. He blinks once, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t think you remembered it.” “I remember what sticks wrong.” He watches me a beat longer than comfort allows. Then—calm, measured—he says, “Just figured you might not mind the company.” “That ain’t company,” I snap. “That’s trespassin’.” My voice cuts colder than I meant it to, but it don’t feel like a lie. “You know where I live. You know when I’m out here. That ain’t coincidence. That’s intent.” He don’t flinch. “I asked.”

That stops me. “Asked who?”

He lifts his hand, palm out like he ain’t holdin’ anything worth hiding. “Lady outside the feed store. Said you were the one with the porch full of peeled paint and a garden that used to be tended. Said you got a husband who drinks too early and hits too late.” My mouth goes dry.

“You spyin’ on me?” “No,” he says. “I don’t need to spy to see what’s plain.” “And what’s plain to you, exactly?” My tone is flint now. Sparked. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” He leans in, just enough. “You think that bruise on your ankle don’t show ‘cause your dress covers it? You think folks ain’t noticed how you don’t laugh no more unless you hidin’ it behind a stiff smile?” Silence folds in between us. Thick. Unwelcoming. He doesn’t press. Just keeps looking, like he’s listening for something I ain’t said yet.

“I don’t need savin’,” I murmur. “I didn’t come to save you,” he says, and his voice is different now low, but not slick. Heavy, like a weight he’s carried too far. “I just came to see if you’d talk back. That’s all.” I pull my foot from the water, slow. Wrap it in a rag. Keep my gaze steady. “You show up again unasked,” I say, “I’ll have Frank walk you home.” He chuckles. Real soft. Like he don’t think I’d do it, but he don’t plan to test me either. “I’d deserve it,” he says. Then he tips his hat after putting it back on and steps back into the night. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back. But even after he’s gone, I can feel the place he left behind—like a fingerprint on glass. ——— Inside, Frank’s already mutterin’ in his sleep. The sound of a man who ain’t never done enough to earn rest, but claims it like birthright. I move around him like I ain’t there. Later, in bed, the ceiling don’t offer peace. Just shadows that shift like breath. I lay quiet, hands folded over my stomach, heart beatin’ steady where it shouldn’t. I don’t say his name. But I think it. And it stays.

Mornings don’t change much. Not in this house. Frank’s boots hit the floor before I even open my eyes. He don’t speak—just shuffles around, clearing his throat like it’s my fault it ain’t clear yet. He spits into the sink, loud and wet, then starts lookin’ for somethin’ to curse. Today it’s the biscuits. Yesterday, it was the fact I bought the wrong tobacco. Tomorrow? Could be the way I breathe. I don’t talk back. Just pack his lunch quiet, hands moving like they’ve learned how to vanish. When the door finally slams shut behind him, the silence feels less like peace and more like a pause in the storm. The floor don’t sigh. I do.

He’ll be back by sundown. Drunk by nine. Dead asleep by ten.

And I’ll be somewhere else—at least for a little while. The juke joint’s sweating by the time I get there. Delta Slim’s on keys again, playing like his fingers been dipped in honey and sorrow. Voices ride the walls, thick and rising, the kind that ain’t tryin’ to be pretty—just loud enough to out-sing the pain. Pearline’s got Sammie backed in a corner again, her laugh syrupy and slow. She always did know how to linger in a man’s space like perfume. Cornbread’s hollering near the door, trading jokes for coin. And Annie’s on a stool, head tilted like she’s heard too much and not enough. I don’t dance tonight. Still too tender. So, I post up at the end of the bar with something sharp in my glass. Smoke sees me, gives that chin lift he reserves for bad days and bruised ribs. Stack sidles up before the ice even melts. “Quiet day today,” he asks, cracking a peanut with his teeth. I don’t look at him. Just stir my drink slow. “Talkin’ ain’t always safe.” His brows go up. He glances around like he’s checking for shadows, then leans in a bit. “Frank still being Frank?” I lift one shoulder. Stack don’t push. Just keeps on with his drink, knuckles tapping the bar like a slow metronome.

Then, quiet: “You got somethin’ heavy to let go of.” That stops me. Just a second. But he catches it. “Huh?” He shrugs, doesn’t look at me this time. “You ever seen a rabbit freeze in tall grass? That’s the look. Ears up. Heart runnin’. But it ain’t moved yet.” I run a fingertip down the side of my glass, watching the sweat bead up. “There’s been a man.” Now Stack looks. “He don’t say much. Just… shows up. Walks the same road I’m on, like we both happened there. Then he started talkin’. Knew things he shouldn’t. Last time, he was near my house. Didn’t come in. Just… lingered.” “White?” I nod.

Stack’s whole posture changes—draws tight at the shoulders, jaw working. “You want me to handle it?” I shake my head. “No.” “Y/N—” “No,” I say again, firmer. “I don’t want more fire when the house is already half burnt. He ain’t done nothin.’ Not really.” Yet. He lets it settle. Don’t agree. But he don’t argue either. Behind us, Annie’s refilling her glass. She don’t speak, but her eyes cut over to Mary. Mary catches it. Lips press together. She looks at me the way you look at something you’ve seen before but can’t stop from happening again. And then, like it’s all normal, Mary chirps out, “You hear Pearline bet Sammie he couldn’t outdrink Cornbread?” Annie scoffs. “She just tryin’ to sit on his lap before midnight.” Stack grins but don’t fully let go of his watchful look. The mood shifts easy, like it rehearsed for this. Like they all know how to laugh loud enough to cover a crack in the wall.

But I ain’t laughing.

I nurse my drink, fingers cold and wet around the glass. My eyes flick toward the door, then away. Remmick. That name’s been clingin’ to my mind like smoke in closed curtains. Thick. Quiet. Still there long after the fire’s gone out. I think about how he looked at me—not like a man looks at a woman, but like he’s listening to something inside her. I think about the way his voice wrapped around the air, soft but steady, like it belonged even when it didn’t. I think about how I told Stack I didn’t want to see him again.

And I wonder why I lied.

Frank’s truck wheezes up the road like it’s draggin’ its bones. Brakes cry once. Gravel shifts like it don’t want to hold him. Inside, the pot’s still warm on the stove. Not hot. He hates hot. Says it means I was tryin’ too hard, or not tryin’ enough. With Frank, it don’t matter which—he’ll find the fault either way. The screen door creaks and slams. That sound still startles me, even now. Boots hit wood, heavy and careless. His scent rolls in before he speaks—sweat, sun, grease, and the liquor I know he popped open three miles back. I don’t turn. Just keep spoonin’ grits into the bowl, hand steady. “You hear they cut my hours?” he says. His voice’s wound tight, all string and no tune. “No,” I say. He drops his lunch pail hard on the table. The tin rattles. A sound I hate.

“They kept Carter,” he mutters. “You know why?” I stay quiet. He answers himself anyway. “’Cause Carter got a wife who stays in her place. Don’t get folks talkin’. Don’t strut around like she’s single.” The grit spoon taps the bowl once. Then again. I let it. “You callin’ me loud?” “I’m sayin’ you don’t make it easy. Every damn week, somebody got somethin’ to say. ‘Saw her smilin’. Heard her laughin’. Like you forgot what house you live in.” I press my palm flat to the counter, slow. “Maybe if you kept your hands to yourself, folks’d have less to talk about.” It slips out too fast. But I don’t take it back. The room goes still.

Chair legs scrape. He rises like a storm cloud built slow. “You forget who you’re speakin’ to?” I feel him move before he does. Feel the air shift. “I remember,” I say. My voice don’t rise. Just settles. He comes close—closer than he needs to be. His breath touches the back of my neck before his hand does. The shove ain’t hard. But it’s meant to echo.

“You think I won’t?” I breathe once, deep. “I think you already have.” He stands there, hand still half-raised like he’s weighing what it’d cost him. Like maybe the thrill’s dulled over time. His breath’s ragged. But he backs off. Steps away. Chair squeals across the floor as he drops into it, muttering something I don’t catch. I move quiet to the sink, rinse the spoon. My back still to him. Eyes locked on the faucet. Somewhere behind me, the bowl clinks against the table. He eats in silence. And all I can think about the man who ain’t never set foot in my house but got me leavin’ the porch light on for him. —— Two weeks slip past like smoke through floorboards. Maybe more. I stopped countin’. Time don’t move the same without him in it. The nights stretch longer, duller. No shape to ‘em. Just quiet. At first, that quiet feels like mercy. Like I snuffed out something that could’ve swallowed me whole. I sleep harder. Wake lighter. For a little while. But mercy don’t last. Not when it’s pretending to be peace. Because soon, the quiet stops feeling like rest. And starts feeling like a missing tooth You keep tonguing the space, even when it hurts. At the juke joint, I start to dance again. Not wild, not free—just enough to remember how my body used to move when it wasn’t afraid of being seen. Slim plays slower that night, coaxing soft fire from the keys. The kind of song that settles deep, don’t need to shout to be felt. Pearline leans in, breath warm on my cheek. “You got your hips back,” she says, low and slick. “Don’t call it a comeback,” I grin, though it don’t sit right in my mouth.

Mary laughs when I sit back down, breath hitchin’ from the floor. “Somebody’s been puttin’ sugar in your coffee.” “Maybe I just stirred it myself,” I say. But even as I say it, my eyes go to the door. To the dark. Stack catches the look. He always does. Doesn’t press. Just watches me longer than usual, mouth tight like he wants to say somethin’ and knows he won’t.

Frank’s been… duller. Still drinks. Still stinks. Still mean in that slow, creepin’ way that feels more like rot than fire. But the heat’s gone out of it. Like he’s noticed I ain’t afraid no more and don’t know how to fight a ghost. He don’t yell as loud now. Doesn’t hit as hard. But it ain’t softness. It’s confusion. He don’t like not bein’ feared.

And maybe worse—I don’t like that he don’t try. Some nights, I sit on the back step long after the world’s gone to bed. Shawl loose around my shoulders, feet bare against the grain. The well water in the basin’s gone warm by then. Even the wind feels tired. Crickets rasp. A cicada drones. I listen like I used to—for the shift in the dark. The weight of a gaze. The way the air used to still when he was near. But there’s nothin’. Just me. Just the quiet. I catch myself one night—talkin’ out loud to the trees. “You was real brave when I didn’t want you here,” I say, voice rough from disuse. “Now I’m sittin’ like a fool hopin’ the dark says somethin’ back.”

It don’t.

The leaves stay still. No footfall. No voice. Not even a breeze. Just me. And that ache I can’t name. But he’s there. Further back than before. At the edge of the trees, where the moonlight don’t reach. Where the shadows thicken like syrup.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits. Because Remmick ain’t the kind to come knockin’. He waits ‘til the door opens itself. And I don’t know it yet, but mine already has.

The road to town don’t carry much breath after sundown. Shutters drawn, porch lights dimmed, the kind of quiet that feels agreed upon. Most folks long gone to sleep or drunk enough to mistake the stars for halos. The storefronts sit heavy with silence, save for McFadden’s—one crooked bulb humming above the porch, casting shadows that don’t move unless they got to. A dog barks once, far off. Then nothing. I keep my pace even, bag pressed close to my side, shawl wrapped too tight for the heat. Sweat pools along my spine, but I don’t loosen it. A woman wrapped in fabric is less of a story than one without. Frank went to bed with a dry tongue and a bitter mouth. Said he’d wake mean if the bottle stayed empty. Called it my duty—said the word slow, like it should weigh more than me.

So I go.

Buying quiet the only way I know how. The bell above McFadden’s door rings tired when I slip inside. The air smells like dust and vinegar and old rubber soles. The clerk doesn’t look up. Just mutters a greeting and scribbles into a pad like the world don’t exist past his pencil tip. I move quick to the back, fingers brushing the necks of bottles lined up like soldiers who already lost. I grab the one that looks the least like mercy and pay without fuss. His change is greasy. I don’t count it. The bottle’s cold against my hip through the bag, sweat bleeding through cheap paper. I step out onto the porch and down the wooden steps, gravel crunching soft beneath my heels. The lamps flicker every few feet, moths stumbling in circles like they’ve forgotten what drew them here in the first place. The dark folds in tight once I leave the storefront behind. I don’t rush. Not ‘cause I feel safe. Just learned it looks worse when you do. Then—

“You keep odd hours.” His voice don’t cut—it folds. Like it belonged to the dark and just decided to speak. I stop. Not startled. Not calm either. He’s leaned just inside the alley by the post office, one boot pressed to brick, arms loose at his sides. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, suspenders hanging slack. His collar’s open, skin pale in the low light, like he don’t sweat the same as the rest of us. He looks like he fits here. That’s what makes it strange. Ain’t no reason a man like that should belong. But he does. Like he was built from the dirt and just stood up one day. I keep one foot planted on the sidewalk.

“You don’t give up, do you,” I say. He shifts just enough for the light to catch his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite. “You make it hard.” “You looked like you didn’t wanna be spoken to in that store,” he says, voice low and even. “So I waited out here.” The streetlamp hums above us. My grip on the bottle shifts, tighter now. “You could’ve kept walkin’.” “I was hopin’ you might,” he says.

Not hopin’ I’d stop. Not hopin’ I’d talk. Hopin’ I might.

There’s a difference. And I feel it. I glance down at the bottle. The glass slick with sweat. “Frank drinks this when he’s feelin’ good. That’s the only reason I’m out this late.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. “Is that what you want?” he asks after a beat. “Frank in a good mood?” I don’t answer. I just start walking. But his voice follows, smooth as shadow. “I was married once.” I pause. Not outta interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. “She was kind,” he says. “Too kind. Tried to fix things that weren’t broke. Just wrong.” He says it like it’s already been said a thousand times. Like the taste of it’s worn out. I look back. He hasn’t taken a single step closer. Just stands there, hands tucked in his pockets, jaw set loose like he’s tired of carryin’ that story. “How do you always end up in my path?” I ask. Not curious. Just tired of not sayin’ it. He lifts a shoulder, lazy. “Some people chase fate. Some just stand where it’s bound to pass.”

I snort, soft. “Sounds like somethin’ you read in a cheap novel.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes flicking toward mine, “but some lies got a little truth buried in ‘em.” The quiet after settles deep. Not awkward. Not empty. Just close. “You shouldn’t be waitin’ on me,” I say, voice rougher now. “Ain’t nothin’ here worth the trouble.” He studies me. Not like a man tryin’ to see a woman. More like he’s lookin’ through fog, tryin’ to remember a place he used to live in. “I’ve had worse things,” he murmurs. “Worse things that never made me feel half as alive.” For a breath, the light catches his eyes. Not wrong. Not glowing. Just sharp. Like flint about to spark. Then he tips his head. “Goodnight, Y/N.” Soft. Like a promise. And just like always, he disappears without hurry. Without sound. Back into the dark like it opened for him. And maybe, just maybe, I hate how much I already expect it to do the same tomorrow.

The next day dawns heavy, the sun a reluctant guest peeking through gray clouds. I find myself trapped in that same tired rhythm, the kind of day that stretches before me like an old road—the kind you know too well to feel any excitement for. Frank’s got work today, though I can’t say I’m sure what he’ll be cursing by sundown.

As I move around the kitchen, pouring coffee and buttering bread, the silence feels thicker than usual. It clings to me, wraps around my thoughts like a vine, and I can’t shake the feeling that something's shifted. Maybe it’s just the weight of waiting for Remmick to show again, or maybe it’s that quiet ache gnawing at my insides—the kind that reminds you what hope felt like even if you’re scared to name it.

Frank shuffles in with those heavy boots of his, barely brushing past me as he grabs a mug without looking my way. He doesn’t say a word about the food or even acknowledge me standing there. Just pours himself another cup with a grimace. “How long’ve you been up?” he mutters, not really asking.

“Early enough,” I reply, holding back the urge to ask if he slept well.

He slams his mug down on the table hard enough for a ripple of coffee to splash over the edge. “What’s wrong with the damn biscuits?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoves one aside before storming out, leaving behind his bitterness hanging in the air like smoke.

I breathe deeply through my nose and keep packing his lunch—tuna salad this time; at least that’s something he won’t moan about too much. Still, every sound feels exaggerated, each scrape against porcelain echoing louder than it ought to.

Outside, I stand at the porch railing for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the sunlight warm my skin but unable to let its brightness seep into my heart. Birds are flitting from one tree branch to another—free from this heavy house—or so it seems.

I want to run after them. Escape to where everything isn’t tainted by liquor and regrets. But instead, I stay rooted in place until Frank’s truck roars down the road like some angry beast.

Once he's gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and pull on my shoes. A decent day to grab some much-needed groceries.

The heat wraps around me as I stroll through town—a gentle reminder that summer still holds sway despite all else changing. I walk through town, grabbing groceries on the way as I enjoy the weather. I run by grace’s store to grab some buttered pickles frank likes. The bell jingled above me as I entered the store, and grace comes from the back carrying an empty glass jar. She paused when she looked at me before smiling. “Hey gurl, haven’t seen ya in here for a while. Frank noticed he ate up all them buttered pickles? That damn animal.” I chuckled at her words as she set the glass jar down on the front counter. Grace moves behind the counter with that same easy rhythm she always has—like her bones already know where everything sits. The store smells like dust and sun-warmed glass, sweet tobacco, and something faintly metallic. Familiar.

“He Still workin’ over at the field?” she asks, pulling a new jar from beneath the counter. “Heard the boss cut hours again. Seems like everyone’s gettin’ squeezed ‘cept the ones doin’ the squeezin’.” “Yeah,” I mutter, glancing toward the shelf lined with dusty cans and glass jars. “He’s been stewin’ about it all week. Like it’s my fault time’s movin’ forward.” Grace snorts, capping the pickle jar and sliding it across the counter. “Girl, if Frank had his way, we’d all be wearin’ aprons and smilin’ through broken teeth.” I pick up the jar, running my fingers absently along the cold glass. “Some days it’s easier to pretend I’m deaf than fight him.” Grace leans forward, voice dropping low like she don’t want the pickles to hear. “You need somewhere to run, you come knock on my back door. Don’t matter what time.” That almost cracks me. Not enough to cry, but enough to blink slow and hold the jar tighter. “I appreciate it,” I say. She doesn’t press, just gives me a knowing nod and starts wrapping the jar in brown paper. “Also grabbed you a couple of those lemon drops you like,” she says with a wink. “Tell Frank the sugar’s for his sour ass.” That gets a real laugh outta me. Just a little one, but it lives in my chest longer than it should. Outside, the air’s heavy again. Thunder maybe, or just the kind of heat that makes everything feel like it’s about to break open. I tuck the paper bag under my arm and make my way down the street slow, dragging my fingers along the iron railings where ivy used to grow. Everything’s changing. And I don’t know if I’m running from it, or toward it. But I walk a little slower past the edge of town. Past the grove of trees that hum low when the wind slips through them. And I wonder—not for the first time—if he’ll be waiting there. And if he ain’t, why I keep hoping he will.

——

I don't light a lamp when I slip out the back door.

The house creaks behind me, drunk with silence and sour breath. Frank's dead asleep like always, belly full of cheap whiskey and whatever anger he couldn't throw at me before sleep took him.

The air outside ain't much cooler, but it's cleaner. Clear. Smells like pine and soil and something just beginning to bloom.

I walk slow. Like I'm just stretching my legs.

Like I'm not wearing the dress with the small blue flowers I ain't touched in over a year.

Like I'm not heading down the narrow path through the tall grass, the one that don't lead nowhere useful unless you're hoping to see someone who don't belong anywhere at all.

The night hums soft. Cicadas. Distant frogs. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you've stepped into a dream—or out of one.

I settle on the old stump by the split rail, hands folded, back straight, pretending I ain't waiting.

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

His voice folds in gentle behind me. Amused. Unbothered.

I don't turn right away. Just glance sideways like I hadn't noticed him there.

"Wasn't expectin' company," I say.

He steps into view, lazy as twilight, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled and collar loose. Looks like the evening shaped itself just to dress him in it.

"No," he says. "But you brought that perfume out again. Figured that was the invitation."

I shift on the stump, eyes narrowed. "You pay a lotta attention for someone who don't plan on talkin'."

"Only to the things that matter."

He stays a little ways off, respectful of the space I haven't offered but he knows he owns just the same.

"You just out here wanderin' again?" I ask, trying not to sound like I care.

"Nah," he says, grinning a little. "I came out to see if that tree finally bloomed. The one you like to lean on when you think no one's watchin'."

I feel heat crawl up my neck. I smooth my skirt like that'll hide it.

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

I shake my head, but I don't tell him to leave. Don't even ask why he's here.

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

He moves slow toward me and sits—not close enough to touch, but close enough I can feel it if I lean a little.

We sit in it a while. That hush. That weightless kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, "You laugh different at the juke joint than you do anywhere else."

I blink. "What?"

He doesn't look at me. Just watches the dark ahead, like he's reading the night for meaning.

"It's looser," he says. "Like your ribs don't hurt when you do it."

I don't answer. Can't. I ignored the question rising in my head about how he knows what’s goes on in the juke joint when I’ve never seen him in there or heard his name on peoples' lips there.

But somehow, he's right, and I hate that he knows that. Hate more that I like that he noticed.

"You got a way of sayin' too much without sayin' a damn thing," I mutter.

He huffs a laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment."

We go quiet again. But it ain't tense. It's like we're settlin' into something neither one of us has had in too long.

Eventually, I say, "Frank don' like it when I'm gon’ too long."

"You wan’ me to walk you back?" he asks, like it's the easiest offer in the world.

"No," I say, but it comes out too soft. "Not yet."

He nods once. Doesn't press. Just leans back on one elbow, eyes half-lidded like the night's pullin' him under same as me or so I thought.

"You got stories?" I ask.

He raises a brow. "You askin' me to talk?"

"Don't make a big thing outta it."

He grins slow. "Alright then."

And he does. Tells me some nonsense about stealing peaches off a preacher's tree when he was too young to know better, how he and his cousin swore the preacher had the Devil chained under his porch to guard it. His voice wraps around the words easy, like molasses and wind. Whether it was true or not, I don’t seem to care at the moment.

I don't laugh out loud, but my smile finds its way out anyway.

When he glances at me, I see it in his eyes—that same look from the last time. Not hunger. Not charm.

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

I've been lookin' forward to the night often these days, not because of him, of course… The night breathes warm against my skin. I'm on the porch, knees drawn up, pickin' absently at blades of grass growin' between the cracked boards like they're trespassin' and don't know it. I pluck them one by one, not really thinkin', not really waitin'—but not exactly doin' anything else either. I'm wearing the baby blue dress, The one with the lace at the collar, mended too many times to count but still hangin' right. I don't light the porch lamp. The dark feels easier to sit in. And then I hear him. Not footsteps. Not a branch snapping. Just… the way quiet shifts when something enters it. He steps from the tree line, slow like he don't want to spook the night. This time, he's carryin' something. A small bundle of wildflowers—purple ironweed, white clover, queen anne's lace—loosely knotted with a bit of twine. He stops at the porch steps and looks at me. Then, without a word, he sets the flowers down between us and lowers himself to sit at the edge of the stoop. Close. Not too close.

"I didn't bring 'em for a reason," he says after a while. "Just passed 'em and thought of you." My fingers drift toward the flowers, not quite touchin' them, but close enough to feel the velvet edge of a petal against my skin. The warmth of his nearness makes my breath catch somewhere between my throat and chest. "They're weeds," I murmur, though the word comes out gentle, almost like a caress. "They're what grows without bein' asked," he replies, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that way that makes my stomach drop like I'm fallin'. That quiet comes back. But it's a different kind now. Softer. Like the world's hushin' itself to hear what we might say next. I look at him then. Really look. Not at his mouth or his clothes ,that easy lean of his shoulders or those pouty eyebrows —but his hands. They're calloused, dirt beneath the nails. Not soft like the rest of him sometimes pretends to be. My fingers twitch with the sudden, foolish urge to trace those rough lines, to learn their map.

"You work?" I ask, the question slippin' out before I can catch it, betrayin' a curiosity I wasn't ready to admit. "I do what needs doin'." The words rumble low in his chest. "That's not an answer." I tilt my head, and the night air kisses the exposed curve of my neck. He turns his head, slow. "That's 'cause you ain't ready for the truth." The words wash over me like Mississippi heat—dangerous, thrillin'. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I go back to pickin' the grass, my fingertips brushin' wildflower stems now instead of weeds. Each touch feels deliberate in a way that makes my pulse flutter at my wrist, at my throat. He doesn't push. Doesn't move. Just sits with me 'til the moon's hangin' heavy over the trees, his presence beside me more intoxicatin' than any whiskey from Smoke's bar. The space between us hums with possibilities—with all the things we ain't sayin'. When he leaves, I don't stop him but my body leans forward like it's got its own will, wantin' to follow the trail of his shadow into the dark. But I take the flowers inside. Put 'em in the jelly jar Frank left on the windowsill.

——

The wildflowers sit in that jelly jar like they belong there—like they’ve always belonged. Their colors are faded but stubborn, standing tall in the quiet corner of the kitchen, drinking in the slant of light that filters through the window. I find myself glancing at them too often, like they might tell me something I don’t already know. I tell myself not to read into it, not to hope. But hope’s a quiet thing, and it’s been whispering to me since I first set foot in this place. By dusk, I’m already outside, wrapped in the blanket I keep tucked in the closet, knees drawn up tight. The dusty brown dress I wear is softer with wear, almost like a second skin. I clutch the two tin cups—corn liquor, waiting in the dark, like a held breath. It’s a ritual I don’t question anymore. He comes out the trees just after the steam from the day’s heat begins to fade, silent as always. No rustle of leaves, no announcement. Just that subtle shift in the hush, like the woods are holding their breath. I see him leaning on the porch post, eyes flickering to the cup beside me, like it’s calling him home. “Always know when to show up,” I say, voice low but steady, trying to sound like I don’t care if he’s late or not. Like I’m used to waiting. He tosses back, smooth as dusk, “Always pour for two?” I can’t help the smile that sneaks up—soft and slow. “Only for good company.” He steps closer, slower tonight, like he’s weighing each movement. Sits beside me, leaving just enough space between us for the night air to stretch its arms. I hold out the second cup, the one I poured just for him.

He wraps his fingers around it but doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Don’t drink?” I ask, voice gentle but curious, like I might catch a lie if I ask too loud. His thumb taps the rim, slow and deliberate. “Used to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Too much, maybe. Doesn’t sit right with me these days.” I nod, like that makes sense. Maybe it does. Maybe I don’t want to look too close at the parts that don’t fit. The parts that hurt, that choke down the hope I’m trying to keep buried. Instead, I take a sip, letting the liquor burn a warm trail down my throat. It’s a small comfort, a fleeting warmth. I watch the dark swallow the road that disappears into nothingness, and I say, “Used to think I’d leave this place. Run off somewhere—Memphis, maybe. Open a little store. Serve pies and good coffee. Wear shoes that click when I walk.”

He hums, low and distant, like a train far away. “What stopped you?” My gaze drops to my hand, to the dull gold band that’s thin and worn. I trace the edge with my thumb, feeling the cold metal. “This,” I say. “And maybe I didn’t think I deserved more.” He doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t say I do. Just looks at me like he’s already seen the ending, like he’s read the last page and ain’t gonna spoil it.

“I worked an orchard once,” he says softly, voice almost lost in the night. “Peaches big as your fist. Skin like velvet. The kind of place that smells like August even in February.” “Sounds made up,” I murmur, feeling the weight of the quiet between us. He leans in closer, eyes steady. “So do dreams. Don’t mean they ain’t real.” A laugh escapes me—sharp and surprised, like I’ve been caught off guard. I slap at his arm before I can think better of it. “You talk like a man who’s read too many books.” “I talk like a man who listens,” he says, quiet but sure. That hush falls again, but it’s different this time—full, like the moment just before a kiss that never quite happens. I feel it—the space between us thickening, heavy with unspoken words and things I can’t say out loud.

— Days passed, he shows up again, bringing blackberries wrapped in a white cloth, stained deep purple-blue. The scent hits me before I see them—sweet, wild, tempting. “Bribery?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide the way my heart quickens. “A peace offering,” he replies, with that quiet smile. “In case the last story bored you.” I reach in without asking, pop a berry into my mouth. Juicy and sharp, bursting with sweetness that makes me forget everything else—forgot the weight of my ring, forgot the man inside my house, forgot the world outside this moment. He watches me, a softness behind his eyes I don’t trust but can’t look away from. I hand him the other cup again. He takes it, polite as always, but doesn’t sip. We settle into stories—nothing big, just small things. The town’s latest gossip, a cow wandering into the churchyard last Sunday, the way summer makes the woods smell like wild mint if you walk far enough in. I tell him things I didn’t know I remembered—about my mama’s hands, about the time I got stung trying to kiss a bumblebee, about the blue ribbon pie I made for the fair when I was fifteen, thinking winning meant freedom. He listens like it matters, like these stories are something he’s been waiting to hear. And for the first time in a long while, I laugh with my whole mouth, not caring who hears or what they think. The sound spills out, unfiltered and free, filling the night with something real. I forget the ring on my finger. Forget the man inside the house. Forget everything but this—the night, the berries, and him. The man who doesn’t drink but still knows how to make me feel full.

——

The jelly jar’s gone cloudy from dust and sunlight, but the wildflowers still stand like they’re stubborn enough to outlast the world. A few petals have fallen on the sill, curled and dry, and I haven’t moved them. Let ’em stay. They feel like proof—proof that life’s still fighting, even when everything else is fading. A week’s passed. Seven nights of quiet—hushed conversations I kept to myself, shoulders pressed close under a sky that don’t judge, don’t say a word. Seven nights where my bruises softened in bloom and bloom again, where Frank came home drunk and left early, angry—always angry. Not once did I go to the juke joint—not because I wasn’t welcome, but because I didn’t want to miss a single echo from the woods, a single step that might carry me out.

Remmick never knocks. Never calls out. He just appears—like something old and patient, shaped out of shadow and moonlight, settling beside me without question. Sometimes he brings nothing, and I wonder if he’s even real. Other nights, it’s blackberries, or a story, or just silence, and I let it fill the space between us. And I do. God, I do. I tell him things I never even told Frank. About how I used to pretend the porch was a stage, singin’ blues into a wooden spoon. How my mama braided my hair so tight it made my scalp sting, said pain was the price of lookin’ kept. How I almost ran—bags packed, bus ticket clenched tight—then sat on the curb ‘til dawn, too scared to move, then crawled back inside like a coward. He never judges. Never interrupts. Just watches me, like I’m music he’s heard a thousand times, trying to memorize the lyrics. Tonight, I don’t wait on the porch.

I’m already walkin’. The night’s thick and heavy, like the land’s holdin’ its breath. I slip through the back gate, shawl loose around my shoulders, dress flutterin’ just above my knees. The clearing’s ahead—the path I’ve grown used to walking. He’s already there. Leaning against a tree, like he belongs to it. His white shirt glows faint under the moon, suspenders hanging loose, like he forgot to do up the buttons. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees me—like he’s been waitin’ for me to come, even if he don’t say it. “You’re early,” he says, low. “I couldn’t sit still,” I whisper back, voice soft but steady. His eyes trace me—like he’s drawing a map he’s known a thousand times but still finds new roads. I step toward him slow, the grass cool beneath my feet, and when I’m close enough to feel the pull of him, I stop. “I been thinkin’,” I say, real quiet. “Dangerous thing,” he murmurs, lips twitching just enough to make my heart kick.

“I ain’t been to the joint all week,” I continue, voice thick as summer air. “Ain’t danced. Ain’t played. Ain’t needed to.” He waits—patient, silent. Like always. “I’d rather be here,” I whisper, and something inside me cracks open. “With you.” The silence that follows ain’t cold. It’s heavy—warm, even. Like a breath held tight in the chest before a storm breaks loose, like the whole earth hums with what’s coming. “I know,” he says. Just that. Two words that make me feel seen and bare and weightless all at once. I don’t think. I just move. Step into him, hands pressed to the buttons of his shirt. My eyes stay fixed on his mouth, not lookin’ anywhere else. And when he doesn’t pull back—when he leans just enough to meet me—I kiss him. It starts soft. Lips barely grazin’, testing, waiting for something to happen. But then he exhales—like he’s been holdin’ somethin’ in for a century—and the second kiss isn’t soft anymore. It’s heat. It’s need. My fingers clutch his shirt like I’m drownin’, and he’s oxygen. His hands find my waist, firm but gentle, like he’s afraid of breakin’ me even as he pulls me closer. I swear the whole forest leans in to watch, silent and still.

He don’t push. Don’t take more than I give. But what I give? It’s everything.

He don’t say nothin’ when I pull back. Just watches me, tongue slow across his bottom lip, like he’s already tasted me in a dream. “C’mere,” he says low, voice rough as gravel soaked in honey. “You smell sweet as sin.” I step into him again without thinkin’, heart rattlin’ around like it’s tryin’ to climb outta my chest. His palm presses to the back of my neck, warm and heavy, pulling me into a kiss that don’t feel like a kiss. It’s a deal, made in shadows, older than us all—something that’s been waitin’ to happen. The second our mouths meet, he moans deep in his chest—like he’s relieved, like he’s been holdin’ back for years. Then he spins me—fast—hands already under my dress. “Ain’t no point bein’ shy now, baby. Not after all them nights sittin’ close, like you wasn’t drippin’ for me.” My knees almost buckle. He bends me over a log, and I don’t resist. I can’t. My hands grip the bark tight, dress shoved up, panties dragged down with a yank that’s impatient and sure. I hear him spit into his palm. Hear the slick sound of him strokin’ himself once, twice. Then he sinks into me—slow, too slow—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath I take. My mouth opens, no words, just a gasp that’s all I can manage. “Goddamn,” he mutters behind me. “Look at you takin’ me. Tight like you was built for it.” He starts movin’, deep and filthy, grindin’ into me with purpose. I arch back into it, already lost in the feel of him. And then I see it. His face—just behind my shoulder. His jaw clenched tight. His pupils blown wide—no, glowing. A flicker of red embers in each eye, like fire trapped inside. I blink, and it’s gone. I tell myself it’s the moonlight, the heat, how mushy my brain is from what he’s doin’, like he owns me. He don’t give me a second to think. “Feel that?” he growls. “Feel how your pussy’s huggin’ my cock like she knows me?” I whimper—pathetic, high-pitched—but I can’t stop it. “Remmick—fuck—” He yanks my hair, just enough, til I tilt my head back. “You was waitin’ for this,” he says, voice low and rough. “I seen it. Seen the way you look at me like I’m the last bad thing you’ll ever let hurt you.” Leaning into my neck, lips brushing skin, breath cold now—too cold. “But I ain’t gone hurt you, darlin.’ I’m gone ruin you.” He bites—just a little, not sharp—enough to make me gasp, my whole body tensing on him. He laughs—soft, wicked. “Oh yeah,” he says, rutting harder. “You gone come for me like this. Face in the moss, legs shakin’. All these pretty little sounds spillin’ out your mouth like you need it.” I can barely keep up. Dizziness hits hard, slick runnin’ down my thighs, his cock hittin’ that spot over and over. “Say you’re mine,” he growls, hips slammin’ in so deep I cry out. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Remmick—” His voice drops—dark, velvet, dirtied—like he’s talkin’ from a place even he don’t fully understand. “Good girl,” he mutters. “Ain’t nobody gone fuck you like me. Ain’t nobody got the hunger I do.” And I feel his hand—big and rough—wrap around my throat from behind, just enough to remind me he’s still in control. Then he starts pumpin’ into me—fast, mean, nasty. My back arches. My moans break into sobs. “You gone give it to me?” he pants, barely human anymore. “Come all over this cock?” I want to answer. I try. But I can’t—my body’s already gone, trembling on the edge of something wild and white and all-consuming. And the second I come—everything breaks loose. He buries himself deep and roars—low and wrong, not a man’s sound at all. I feel him twitch, feel the flood of heat spill inside me, and his face presses into my neck, mouth open like he’s fightin’ the urge to bite down.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there. Still. Breathin’ like he ain’t breathed in years. ——

The morning creeps in slow, afraid to wake me, like it knows I’ve crossed a line I can’t come back from. I roll over, the sheet sticky against my skin, last night’s heat still clingin’. For a second—just a second—I forget where I am. Forget the weight of the house, the stale scent of bourbon and sweat baked into the walls. All I feel is the ghost of him—Remmick—still there in the ache between my thighs, in the buzz that lingers low in my belly. Remembered the way remmick carried me back to my porch and kissed me goodnight before walking away becoming one with the night. My fingers drift without thought, pressing just above my hip where a dull throb pulses. I wince, then pull the blanket back. And there it is. A dark, new bruise—shaped like a handprint—only it ain’t right. Too long. The fingers are too slim, curved strange, like something trying too hard to be human. My breath catches. I press again—harder this time—hoping pain might wash the shape away, or that pressure might flatten whatever’s twisted inside me.

But it doesn’t.

So I pull the blanket up, wrap it tight around me, and lie still, staring at the ceiling—waiting for some sign, some answer, some permission to feel what I shouldn’t. Because the truth is—I should be scared. I should be askin’ questions. Should be second-guessin’ everything last night meant.

But I’m not.

Instead, I replay how he looked at me—how his hands, too warm, too sure, moved like they’d known my body in another life. How he said my name like it was already his. I press my legs together under the sheet, close my eyes, and breathe deep. A girl gets used to silence. Gets used to fear. But nobody warns you how dangerous it is to be wanted that way. Touched like you’re somethin’ rare. Somethin’ sacred. Somethin’ wanted.

And I—I liked it. More than that—I craved it now. Even with the bruises. Even with the shadows twisting in my gut. Even with the memory of those eyes—burnin’ too bright in the dark. Don’t know if it’s love. But it sure as hell felt like it.

——

I move slow through the kitchen that morning, feet bare against cool linoleum. The coffee’s already gone bitter in the pot. Frank’s still in bed, his snores rasping through the cracked door like dull saw blades. I lean against the sink, sip from a chipped mug, and glance out the window. The jelly jar’s still there. Wildflowers wiltin’ now, but proud in their dying. I touch the bruise again through my dress. And I smile. Just a little. Because maybe something ain’t quite right. But for the first time in a long while—I’m happy, or well I thought…

——

The nights kept rollin’ like they belonged to us. Me and Remmick, sittin’ under stars that blinked like they was tryin’ to stay quiet. Sometimes we talked a lot. Sometimes we didn’t too much. But even the silence with him had weight, like it was filled with words we weren’t ready to say yet.

I’d tell him stories from before Frank, when my laughter hadn’t yet learned to flinch. He’d listen with that look he had—chin dipped low, eyes tilted up, mouth soft like he was drinkin’ me in, slow. He never interrupted. Never tried to solve anything. Just sat with it all. That kind of listenin’ can make a woman feel holy.

And I guess I got used to that rhythm. I got too used to it.

Because on the twelfth night, maybe the thirteenth—don’t really matter—he said something that pulled the thread straight from the hem. We were sittin’ close again. My shawl slippin’ off one shoulder, the moonlight makin’ silver out of the bruises on my thigh. He had that look on him again, like he wanted to ask somethin’ he’d already decided to regret. “You know Sammie?” he asked, real casual. Like it was just another name. I blinked. The name hit strange. “Sammie who?” He shrugged like he didn’t know the last name. “That boy. Plays that guitar like it talks back. You said he played with Pearline sometimes.” I sat up straighter.

I never said that.

I’d never mentioned Sammie at all. I swallowed. My smile faded before I could think to save it. “I don’t remember bringin’ up Sammie.” The pause that followed was heavy. And not in the good way. Remmick shifted beside me, slow. His jaw ticked once. “You sure?” I nodded, eyes never leaving him. “I’d remember talkin’ ‘bout Sammie.” He looked out at the trees, the edge of his mouth tight. “Huh.” And just like that, the air changed. It got thinner. Like breath didn’t want to come easy no more. I pulled the shawl closer. Suddenly real aware of the fact that I didn’t know where he slept. Didn’t know if he ever blinked when I wasn’t lookin’. “You alright?” he asked, too quick. “You askin’ me that, or yourself?” He turned to me then—real sharp. Real focused. “Why you gettin’ quiet?”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

“Just surprised, is all,” I finally said, trying to smooth it over like I hadn’t just tripped on somethin’ sharp in his words. “Didn’t think you knew anybody round here.” “I don’t,” he said, fast. “You’re the only one I talk to.” “Then how you know Sammie plays guitar? I’ve never seen you at the juke joint nor heard word about you from anyone there.” His stare was too still now. Too fixed. Like a dog watchin’ a rabbit it ain’t sure it’s allowed to chase. “Maybe I heard it through the wind,” he said, not responding to the other part. But there was no smile behind it. Just the shadow of a man used to bein’ questioned. A man who didn’t like the feel of it. I stood, brushing grass off my legs. “I should head in.” He stood too, slower. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe the night just made him bigger.

“You mad at me?” he asked, quiet now. “No,” I said. “Just thinkin’. That alright with you?” He nodded. But it didn’t look like agreement. It looked like calculation. I didn’t turn my back on him till I hit the porch. And even then, I felt his eyes stick to my spine like syrup. Inside, I sat by the window, hands still wrapped around the cup I didn’t finish. The wildflowers were dry now. Curlin’ in on themselves. And I thought to myself—real quiet, so it wouldn’t wake the rest of me: How the hell did he know Sammie and what business he wan’ with him?

——— The days slipped back into that gray stretch of sameness after I started avoidin’ him. I filled my hours with chores, with silence, with tryin’ to forget the way Remmick used to sit so still beside me you’d think the night made room for him. But the nights weren’t mine anymore. I stopped goin’ to the porch. Stopped lingerin’ in the dark. The quiet didn’t soothe me—it stalked me. I felt it behind me on the walk home. At the edge of the trees. In the walls. I knew he was there.

Watchin’. Waitin’.

But I didn’t let him in again. Not even with my thoughts. That night, the juke joint buzzed with life. Hot bodies pressed close, laughter thick with drink, music ridin’ high on the air. I hadn’t been back in weeks, but I needed noise. Needed people. Needed not to feel alone. I sipped liquor like it might drown the nerves rattlin’ under my ribs. Played cards with a few men, some women. Slammed down a queen and grinned as I scooped the pot. That’s when Annie approached me.

“Y/N,” she whispered, voice tight. I looked up. “Frank’s here.” The name hit like a slap. I blinked. “What?” “He’s outside. Ask’n for you.” Annie’s face was pale, serious. Not the usual mischief in her eyes—just worry. I rose slow. “He’s never come here before.” Annie just nodded. We moved together, my heart poundin’. Smoke, Stack, and Cornbread were already standin’ at the open door, muscles tense, words clipped and low. When Frank saw me, he smiled. That wide, too-big smile I’d never seen on him. Not even on our wedding day. “Hey baby,” he drawled, too casual. “Wonderin’ when you’d come out here and let me in. These folks actin’ like I done somethin’ wrong.”

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

“Frank, why’re you here?” My voice was calm, but confusion lined every word. He laughed—soft, amused. “Can’t a man come see his wife? Thought maybe I’d finally check out what keeps you out so late.” Something was off. Everything was off. “You hate loud music,” I said, heart poundin’. “You said this place was full of nothin’ but whores and heathens.” He looked… wrong. Eyes too glassy. Skin too pale under the porch light. “Can’t we all change?” he said, teeth flashin’. “Now can I come in and enjoy my night like you folks?”

I looked at Smoke. He gave me that look—the one that said “you don’t gotta say yes.” But I opened my mouth anyway. Paused. Frank’s smile dropped just a little. “Y/N,” he said, his voice darker now. Familiar in its danger. “Can I come in or not?” My hand flew up before Stack could step forward. I swallowed hard.

“Come in, Frank.”

The words fell like stones. And just like that, the door to hell opened. The moment he crossed that threshold, the temperature dropped. I swear it did.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t drink. Just sat at the bar, stiff and still, like a wolf wearin’ man’s skin. Annie leaned into Smoke’s shoulder. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” she muttered. Mary nodded, arms folded. “He looks hollow.” Thirty minutes passed. Then Frank stood. Didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked into the crowd like a man on a mission. Headin’ straight for the stage.

Straight for Sammie.

Smoke pushed off the wall, followin’ fast. But before anyone could act, Frank lunged—grabbed a man near the front and tackled him to the floor. Screamin’ erupted as Frank sank his teeth into the man’s neck. Bit down. Tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards, across people’s shoes. The scream that left my throat didn’t sound like mine. Smoke pulled his pistol and fired. The sound cracked through the joint like lightning. The man jerked, then stilled. Frank’s body fell limp over him, gore soakin’ his shirt. Then suddenly Frank stood back up like he wasn’t just shot in the head, the man he bitten standing up besides him the same eerie smile on both their blood stained mouths.

I stood frozen in place.

People screamed, chairs overturned, glass shattered. Stack wrestled another body that started lurchin’ with glowing -white eyes. Mary grabbed Pearline, draggin’ her through the back exit. Annie grabbed me. “Y/N—we gotta GO!” We burst through the back, runnin’. I took the lead, feet slammin’ down the path I used to walk like a lullaby. Not now. Not anymore. Now it felt like runnin’ through a grave. Behind me, I heard chaos—growls, screams, more gunshots. I looked back once. Bodies jumpin’ on each other, teeth sinkin’ into flesh. All Their eyes— White. Glowing like candle flames in a dead house. Annie was right behind me.

Then she wasn’t.

I turned. They were all gone. Sammie. Pearline. Mary. Annie. Gone.

I kept runnin’. The clearing opened up like a mouth, and I stumbled into it, chest heaving. And that’s when I saw him. Same silhouette. Same calm. But he wasn’t the man I knew. Remmick stood just beyond the tree line, Same shirt. Same pants. But now soaked through with blood. But his face— That smile wasn’t his smile. Those eyes weren’t human. Red. Glowing like coals. Just like I thought I saw that night I gave him everything. I froze. My legs locked. My throat closed up. Remmick tilted his head, playful. Mocking.

“Oh darlin’,” he cooed, stepping forward, arms out like a man offerin’ salvation. “Where you think you runnin’ off to? You’re gonna miss the party.” I stumbled back, tears burnin’ in my eyes. “What are you?” He stepped forward, arms open like he meant to cradle me, like he hadn’t just let blood dry on his chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, like it was me betrayin’ him. “You knew. Somewhere in that smart little head of yours, you knew. The eyes, the voice, the way I don’t come out durin’ daytime—”

“You lied,” I whispered. “Only when I needed too,” he said. I shook my head. “I thought you loved me.” Remmick stopped, cocking his head. Everything soft in him was gone. Only sharp edges now. “You thought it was love?” he asked, teeth glintin’ between blood. “You thought I wanted you?” I flinched.

“All I needed was a way in. You—” he stepped closer, “—were just a door. But you kept it shut. Had to break you open. Took longer than I liked.” “I trusted you,” I said, voice crumblin’. “And you broke so pretty,” he said. “I almost didn’t wanna finish the job. But then you ran. Made it… inconvenient.” He hissed softly, a grin curling up like a scar.

“I didn’t want you, Y/N. I wanted Sammie. That boy’s voice carries somethin’ old in it. Ancient. And that joint?” He gestured back toward the chaos. “It’s sacred ground.” “You used me,” I whispered, tears burnin’ now. “I let you in. I trusted you.”

“You believed me,” he corrected. “And that’s all I ever needed.” My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and spine, all my blood screamin’ for me to run. But I couldn’t move—just stared at Remmick, my chest heavy with grief, with betrayal, with rage. He tilted his head again, eyes burning like iron pulled from a forge. “I didn’t want you,” he said again, voice soft as a lullaby. “I wanted the key. And girl, you were it.”

My throat worked around a sob. My legs, finally rememberin’ they was mine, shifted. I turned to bolt— And stopped.

There they stood.

A wall of them.

Faces I knew too well. Cornbread. Mary. Stack. Even Annie—lips pulled in a wide, wrong smile. Their skin was pale, waxy. Their eyes—oh God, their eyes—glowin’ white like candles lit from the inside. They didn’t speak at first. Just smiled. Stared.

And then—slow and soft—they started to hum. That same song Sammie used to play on slow nights. The one that never had words, just a melody made of aching and memory. But now it had words. And they all sang ‘em. “Sleep, little darlin’, the dark’s gone sweet, The blood runs warm, the circle’s complete, its freedom you seek…”

I backed away, breath shiverin’ in and out of my lungs. The chorus kept swellin’. Their voices overlappin’, mouths stretchin’ too wide, white eyes never blinkin’. Like they weren’t people anymore. Just shells. Just echoes.

I turned back to Remmick— And he was right in front of me. So close I could see the dried blood on his collar, the gleam of teeth too long to belong in any man’s mouth. He lifted his hand—calm, steady. Like he was invitin’ me to dance. “Come on, Y/N,” he whispered, smile almost tender now. “Ain’t you tired of runnin’?” I didn’t know if I was breathin’. Didn’t know if I wanted to be. Everything hurt. Everything I’d carried—love, hope, grief, rage—it all sat in my mouth like copper.

I looked at his hand again. And maybe, for just a moment, I thought about takin’ it. But maybe I didn’t. Maybe I turned and ran straight into the woods. Maybe I screamed. Maybe I smiled. Maybe I never left that clearin’. Maybe I did. Maybe the darkness that took over me, was just my eyes closed wishing to wake from this nightmare.

[grotesquevi]

18+ minors & men dni, fingering, domestic!vi, dirty talk, this is basically sleepy, lazy sex in the middle of the night, kinda sweet dunno.

side note  # if you recognize this, might be because this is a piece from my previous blog vicorices (terminated blog 2025-2025 r.i.p) so this is my new account. i'm trying to get all my writing back up slowly and with my whole heart. this is a celebration since may is finally over and we are now entering june with the right foot. check out my arcane directory to check out the process of re-uploading fics. someday i'll get there.

nighttime is vi’s favorite time of the day. the long summer nights that seem eternal under the barely noticeable stars in the sky, the lonely moon hanging high as her breathing collides with the back of your neck, holding you tightly against the planes of her body as silence finally fills the room.

two in the morning, three, the two of you have fallen in a comfortable routine where you keep on talking until you randomly look at the clock and shit: you have work tomorrow, vi has shit to do as well so the lights are out and she’s holding you beneath the sheets, cuddling as she tries to sleep, concentrated in your breathing, your soft skin and how relaxed everything feels laying right next to you, anything but your ass barely covered by the oversized shirt she can feel without seeing it.

“are you asleep already?” she cannot help to ask after some minutes, and you hum trying to make her shut up. “how do you fall asleep so quickly? it’s not fair.”

vi would love the talent on herself, but there’s always something: the bed’s too comfortable, too silent, too peaceful. her life has always been rough and fast, so she rolls in bed until her eyes close by themselves, hugging you tightly as a reminder you’re on her side, that her lone days are over — a reassurance that the thin duvets she’s sleeping in does not belong not even near stillwater.

“don’t sleep,” she moves you slightly at first, a couple of seconds until she’s downright shaking you. “baby, wake up. don’t leave me, i want some kisses.”

it’s been a long day. vi’s muscles are sore and you’re barely able to keep an eye open, but either way you’re putting an effort on stretching out to reach for a kiss, looking at her from over your shoulder as you purse your lips together for a quick peck vi wastes no time in taking.

and the thing is, it should be a quick kiss. should cause vi’s kissing you again and again until you seem to get the memo, parting your lips slightly to let her tongue push warm and wet against your bucal cavity, playfully touching yours as you are slow to return the kiss, allowing it anyhow. her kisses are so damn nice for a reason, when her hoop ring squishes against your own nose and she’s wishing to kiss you for as long as her breathing allows it to.

“vi,” you say, trying to catch on your breath for a moment as your cheek touches back the pillow again, resting — “i’d like more, but i’m just so tired.”

she’s smiling. even in the darkness of the room you can’t see much but you feel her, and vi does not have much choice here, not when she loves the sound of your voice betraying you cause you do want more, even when it’s impossible for you to move any muscle.

“it’s okay,” she whispers in your ear after a second or two “i know you do. there’s no need to move here, sweetheart.”

you’d call it lazy fucking cause it don’t take much to cum. a quickie even, a forty minute long session that don’t qualify as a quickie really, but it’s close enough for both of you, in your own terms. vi’s urging you to come closer, and as fast as you fall asleep you’re now on your back, laying comfortable as she demands more kisses.

her fingers don’t miss a second to spread your legs open, and suddenly it’s like she’s all over, making you move until she’s pressed on your side, hovering right above you — and usually she’d have you back pressed against her chest on nights like this, kneading on your breasts, breathing in your skin, but she wants to see you. wants to notice your features, your pretty face distorting with the pleasure she brings in plain dark, kiss you when you fall apart engulfing your sinful sounds, whispering sweet words to drive you closer to the edge.

simple as that.

so vi hates it when she gets tired too, cause finger-fuck you? it’s a huge fucking effort. stopping once in a while for a second or two from the sore feeling in her muscles after a long day, making you chuckle lowly between erratic moans as she touches you just right how you want to; she’s fucking burning at that point.

“i’m sorry,” vi whispers against your neck, but she don’t really mean it— “doin’ my best here.”

her digits force themselves at your entrance, coating them with clear arousal as she fills you up, curling as she happens to know your body, those points you enjoy almost too much, the places that make you cum.

she’s doing it on purpose either way, teasing you. even when there’s this sound filling the room each time she sinks down and you’re awake as ever now, moving your hips against the palm of vi’s hand in search for more friction against your sensitive cunt, she’s taking her time cause sleep can wait, your needs? that’s different.

“fuck you’re so tight,” she whispers against your neck before you’re pulling on your shirt upwards, squirming against the wrinkled sheets to rise it above your tits, nipples already aching for her touch. even in the dark, violet notices the soft expanse of your bare skin colliding against her own, the smell of flowers in your skin as you recently switched to a new fragrance. “greedy. greedy whore always asking for more.”

the words slur together when she speaks: can you blame her? it’s impossible not to when her mouth catches up your hard nipple between her lips and tongue, that sweet tongue of her’s, swirls around it, wide licks before her mouth closes around to suck, fucking you deeper with her digits buried in your pussy — and you moan, cause the motherfucker bites on your chest lightly, enough to send shivers down your spine.

she’s good at driving you crazy, every. single. time.

“there you go baby. always s’good for me” vi praises with a smile. “do you hear how wet you are from just a little kiss? gonna make my girl cum.”

there’s something about the dark, cause vi loves to see you, fucking you with all the lights on so she can see every part of you, your very own fiber — but like that? it has so many perks too, a lot when she focus on your moans, the roughness on your voice each time you pant her name, the feeling of your warm cunt evolving her fingers, squeezing them like your own consciousness is trying to draw them deeper, harder. it makes her rely on her senses.

“ngh-m’gonna cum vi,” your voice is so fucking soft, like you’re recovering from being dizzy seconds before saying it, weak as you move faster. you’re leaking on the damn mattress beneath you as your body seems to function on it’s own — and it’s all it takes to make the earth stop spinning on it’s axis, the rippling orgasm pouring like hot fire in your skin as a loud moan leaves your lips, making your brain melt away in your own system.

vi enjoys watching you come undone, the shaking in your legs as you reach out to kiss her, the messy and sloppy kiss you give her in plain ecstasy that’s nothing but teeth and tongue, roughly passing your tongue against her parted lips.

your breathing is heavy and god, vi wishes to turn the lights on just to see that fucked out expression in your face, the way your brows furrow as you’re sensitive when she’s withdrawing her fingers, licking them clean like they’re full of ambrosia and not your clear arousal.

your intentions are clear afterwards when you’re pushing your knee between her parted, inviting legs, leaving an invisible trail of kisses against the column of her exposed skin; that tattoo on her neck you’ve seen many times before now brushing against your lips — your girlfriend is a mess already when you touch her, needy as she grinds desperate for her own release.

it doesn’t take much to make her cum either way, and when she finally falls asleep, you think that’s the fastest way to make her actually rest.

a win is a win after all.

[augment-duke]

Dietrich was a man who always memorized the details, he knew that, he also knew he couldn't hide his mistakes forever; but as he lay there, comfortable and bare, watching the way that stoic brow creased with some unspoken sorrow. He wished he could. Just to keep that pain from his heart. "I was desperate when BAEL first found me...Then... I was left alone, unable to die." A shiver of a whisper crossed his throat, bobbing those violent scars done by his own hand. "It didn't work. Nothing ever did I mean-" "Never again." It was a harsh whisper, a declared vow that interrupted him, the softest touch of genuine affection pushed snowy locks aside as that gaze rose to meet him. It was not pity, it was not judgment. It was earnest and understanding compassion. "I promise Alexander, never again."

-----

[[Me on my bullshit for my own novel work???? Maybe so. This fuckin book (and these two) are a fucking slowburn so I ain't gonna get this actual scene context properly written till like the summer LOL. So here's me just fuckin around with the draft of it. I'd rant more about the whole of this scene and book things cause Im FERAL but I'll save that for... actually writing it.

I am enjoying writing it though! Sappy as I be!

I'm colorblind so I can't be bothered to color things apparently (its so fuckin hard sometimes so I'm going back to lines) but here's a color layout below cut to save space]]

[minkieater]

when another member walks in on you ateez ot8 x fem!reader

silly little thing i wrote between clients today

smut below the cut! mdni ↓ dom/sub dynamics, exhibitionism, oral sex, p in v lol, lmk if i missed anything !!

hongjoong ☄️

“shut up slut, they’ll hear you. i bet you want that, don’t you?” he had your face buried in your mattress, drool slipping from your mouth, your ass up in the air where he was relentlessly drilling  into you. 

you moaned, you had stopped caring about your volume long ago, they would hear hongjoong’s thrusts before your moans anyhow. you clenched around him, only making him hiss out and reach over to push your head impossibly farther into the mattress. 

you pissed him off— you got a little too close to wooyoung, talked for a little too long and hongjoong was livid. 

“you want him to hear you, don’t you? want him to hear all the pretty sounds you make? showing off, huh? attention whore,” his words were venom, his lips inches from your ear with how he bent over you, foot planted on the mattress beside your shoulder. 

“are you guys oka— oh shit, i’m so sorry,” hongjoong lets go of your head only for the two of you to snap your faces up to the intruder, hongjoong stilling inside of you.

“what the fuck?” was all hongjoong could get out, a stunned wooyoung in the doorway, his jaw on the floor at the sight in front of him. “wooyoung! get out!” 

“it didn’t sound like you were fucking! i got scared,” you heard wooyoung yell as he closed the door behind him, leaving hongjoong to pick right back up where he left off. 

“don’t think i missed how you clenched around me, whore.”

seonghwa 🫧

seonghwa had you on your knees while he sat on the bed, leaned back on one arm with the other around your ponytail, guiding you up and down his length. 

in a black tank top and gray sweatpants he looked so fucking sexy in the living room, you couldn’t help but pull him into his bedroom for a minute alone — you needed to taste him, show him how much he affected you. 

“fuck, you’re so good at that,” his words were quiet, a low rasp to his voice as he tugged on your hair a little harder. your mouth slipped off of him with a pop, batting your eyelashes up at him with a knowingly coy smile.

he groaned, a little louder this time, his head falling back. “don’t look at me like that or your throat’s getting fucked.” 

you giggled, mouth attaching to him again, bobbing your head up and down a little faster now. he bucked his hips up little by little, using more force with each stroke and you took him proudly, small gags and noises of nasty wetness leaving your lips.

the door opened without either of you noticing, only catching a head of brown hair leaving seonghwa’s bedroom with a shriek of surprise. this wasn’t the first time yeosang had walked in on you, but it still made you laugh every damn time.

you looked up to seonghwa with a giggle on your lips after popping off him again, seonghwa wearing a smile himself.

“how many times do you think we’ll scar him before he stops coming in here?” seonghwa asks, letting go of your ponytail.

“if he was going to catch on, he would’ve by now,” you readjusted yourself on your knees during the pause, shaking your head before bringing your focus back on his delicious length before you. “you said something about fucking my throat right?”

yunho 🧍🏻‍♂️

you and yunho had been waiting for a day alone for weeks. for too long had you been silenced in the hours from one to three, his fingers clamped over your lips or stuffed between them in an attempt to keep you quiet. comeback season was busy, and when there was time off everyone lazed around the dorms and didn’t fucking leave. 

now, on your third consecutive day off, the dorms were empty and yunho took advantage. he had your hands pinned under your back with a belt he had just taken off, hips snapping into you so hard the sound was sure to be heard outside. 

“sloppy little cunt sucking me right the fuck in,” he hissed, hips cracking into your thighs, his fingers keeping you still.

you were wailing at this point, tears streaming down your face, begging for reprieve while also thinking if he stopped you’d die. 

“don’t stop,” you repeated, a mantra on your tongue, from your hips being slanted upward his cock was hitting that spongy spot in your walls that drove you fucking insane. 

you were so close, mere thrusts away from hitting your peak, and the door busted open, an out of breath mingi stood at the door.

“the rest of the guys are walking in right behind me,” mingi’s words were panicked in a warning, but yunho didn’t stop. he ignored his friend, knowing you were so close, wanting your high to crash over you so he could follow. 

you screamed — mingi couldn’t move. yunho fucked you through it, thrusts only quickening to meet his own end, until he doubled on top of you with two large hands landing right beside your head. 

yunho turned to look at mingi, a smirk playing on his lips with heaving breaths, “enjoyed the show?” 

yeosang 👥

everyday yeosang woke you up the same way: his fingers or his head between your thighs until you were creaming around him, then he replaced it with his cock. it wasn’t a good morning until you had at least one, if not two orgasms. 

this morning he was greedy— it seemed he didn’t want to let you go. you came on his face once, his fingers a second time, and he was working you up to a third on his lap. if yeosang could do anything it was last, his stamina was like no other, he could go for hours if you let him. 

you had your knees planted on the mattress beside his hips, his cock hitting your cervix continuously as you grind your hips back and forth against him, your nails clawing at his shoulders. his head was leaning against the headboard, leaving his throat open to you, where you licked and sucked pretty little bruises across the base of his neck, little whines leaving his throat.

“yes, baby, ‘m so close,” he croaked out, his voice raspy and deep, his abs clenching with every grind of your hips. 

“cum for me then yeo, fill me up,” your hand moved from his shoulder to wrap your fingers around his neck, pulling him towards you to connect your chest to his.

your mornings weren’t usually so filthy, never downright nasty, bringing your skin to touch his brought a sense of intimacy back to your morning. 

his head fell onto your shoulder with a groan, filling you up just as you told him to, thighs twitching beneath you. you moaned at the feeling, letting your head rest atop his, bringing your hands to tangle in his hair. 

“you guys awake yet?” seonghwa popped into your room, making you twist your body around to look at him, eyes wide.

“definitely awake,” he pulled his lips into a line, bidding you a singular nod before closing the door again. a huff of amusement left your lips as you looked back down to the boy laying on your shoulder, patting his head, giving him a moment to come back before you’d take your morning shower together.

san 🚪

san couldn’t wait. you were at your favorite club, both tipsy and horny, dancing to the beat of the song before san’s fingers dipped below your dress. you looked up to him with wide eyes, met with a filthy smirk and a pair of dimples that ushered you towards the men’s bathroom. 

“san, anyone could walk in,” you were uneasy, san was never so impatient that he needed you then and there. he’d never portrayed signs of exhibitionism before today, your sex life had always been private — you liked it that way, yet the hunger in his eyes and the spark left in the wake of his fingers on your skin made you excited. 

“let them see how good i fuck you then,” he hummed, fingers flipping up your dress, plunging into your core that was so wet he slipped in. the squelch of his fingers was deafening, you thanked god the bathroom was empty. 

he stuffed you into a stall, fingers still curling into you before he slipped your panties to the side, replacing his fingers with his cock. the pace he set was brutal, your hands bracing the wall above the toilet as he fucked into you from behind, hips slapping into your ass. 

you fought to keep your moans inside, pointless as the sound of skin slapping would overpower them anyway. san groaned, “knew you’d be wet, naughty girl. you were basically begging me to fuck you on the dance floor for everyone to see.” 

a whine escaped you, nails clawing against the tile of the wall. he slipped a hand around your hips, coming between your legs, rubbing your clit at a pace he knew would have you coming in seconds 

“fuck, san, harder please,” you breathed out, head dipping below your arms, hanging between them. 

he listened, quickening his pace, fucking you somehow harder than he was before. his fingers worked in a quick rhythm, making the pit in your stomach grow until you were overflowing on his dick.

“yeah, that’s it, baby. cum all over my cock,” he was drunk off your pussy, words slurring together, keeping his pace on your clit to ride you through it. 

when you were twitching from overstimulation he emptied himself inside you, head falling to the center of your spine. there was nothing but the sound of heavy breaths in the public restroom, you and san catching your breath and your sanity before he flipped your dress back down and zippered himself back up.

when you left the stall, jongho was washing his hands at the sink, barely giving you a glance as you stepped into view. 

“how long have you been in here?” san asked, a pink rising to his cheeks, looking like a completely different person than he had moments ago.

“unfortunately, long enough. broke the seal so i had no choice,” jongho shrugs as he grabs paper towels, drying off his palms. “make sure you two wash your hands.” 

mingi 🫶

the say my name stage always fucked you up, it never failed. being on stage period always fucked mingi up, that never failed either. it was safe to say that your post-show routine was always fucking backstage, it happened every stop, every show, you lost count of how many dressing rooms in foreign countries you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life in.

what was abnormal was mingi not waiting until the show was over. always professional, mingi waited until everyone was no longer sprinting around backstage with mini-fans and makeup brushes to touch up the eight boys before they had to head back out onstage. 

as he came off the stage, his walk was fast paced, precise. it would’ve scared you if you didn’t know what it meant. his fingers hooked around your arm, dragged you further backstage, and had you in a random closet in a stadium completely foreign to you. 

he was quick to split you open, granted say my name was within their first set so you were already dripping by the time he made it between your legs. 

“always so ready for me,” he mumbled out, zeroed in on your center but eyes still not fully clear. in his post performance haze he was always rougher, selfish, not a care in the world for you. it was your favorite. 

“put it in,” you barked out, hips bucking toward him and he was sheathed within seconds. giving you no time to get used to the stretch you wheezed, head lolling onto his shoulder, and he let loose. 

he fucked you stupid, you joined him in whatever haze his brain was under as he pounded into you, hips clapping into the silence of the dark storage room. you heard footsteps outside but mingi made no moves to halt his thrusts, only focused on one thing, getting the two of you off before he had to go back onstage. 

“are you fucking?” yunho’s voice wasn’t clear until he had the door open, light cascading into the storage room, yours and mingi’s necks snapping to look at the intruder.

he was smirking — he knew what he was walking into yet he did it anyway. you and mingi both smiled cheshire grins as yunho stepped inside the storage room, quickly slamming the door shut behind him. 

“why didn’t you invite me?”

wooyoung 🐈‍⬛

wooyoung had you splayed out on the bed, legs bent up with his head between them. eating you out was adjacent to your meditation time, as he calls it, it's his favorite way to wind down. after a long day, after a short day, during his day, it didn’t matter when. wooyoung was always down to eat you out, eager even — he is a man not above begging. 

your chin was shot back, eyes screwed tight, wooyoung had made you cum on his tongue twice so far and he was nowhere near finished. 

after eating you through your second orgasm his licks had slowed down, easing up his pressure, making his tongue soft and pliable instead of hard and pointed. 

soft moans left your lips, he knew by now how to work you through overstimulation, lazily licking at your clit until your moans turned to whines once more.

“taste so fucking good, could eat this pussy all night,” his eyes were fully closed, he was in a dream. between your legs was his happy place, he’d die there a happy man, he’d admitted it more than once. more than ten times, at least. 

when he noticed your breaths getting shorter and your moans shifting to a higher pitch he was sharp with his movements, picking up his pace, licking up your folds and sucking on your clit with swollen lips. 

hongjoong bounced through the door, “hey wooyo, you- jesus fucking christ!” 

your legs snapped shut, closing over wooyoung’s head and he pried himself out of your cage with painted fingertips, jumping up to face hongjoong at the door.

“what?” wooyoung asked, palm swiping at his chin.

“i’m scarred,” hongjoong muttered, voice horrified with hands covering his eyes. your hands fled for the blankets, pulling them over your body with a speed you weren’t expecting to have to use. 

“what do you want, joong?” wooyoung asked, rushed yet still casual, sitting on his knees. his abdomen was clenched, muscles on display as he twisted backward, you didn’t even care that hongjoong was in the room. 

“i was going to ask if you had a spare pair of headphones,” his voice was barely above a squeak, hands still covering his eyes.

“oh, yeah i do, here, they’re my sony 1000MX—”

“i don’t give a fuck wooyoung, give them to me so i can leave.”

jongho 🧸

you were hanging out with jongho in the dance practice room as he practiced the same routine again, the fifth time tonight.

he groaned in frustration after missing a step again, the same step he’s missed the past four times he’s gone through the routine. his hands cover his face, dragging down his cheeks.

you get up from your spot on the floor, making your way in front of him, grabbing his hands to hold in yours.

“why don’t you stop for the night?” you tilt your head, nothing but warmth in your eyes as you stare into his, cold and irritated. 

“i need to get this fucking right,” his lips are pursed, his eyebrows are knit together as he barks, “i need to clear my head.” 

within minutes he had you on your hands and knees atop the hardwood floor, bodies facing the mirror that spread across the wall, forcing you to watch yourself as he fucked you stupid. 

“see that?” he smirked at you through the mirror, fingers tight on your hips, “nothing but a cocksleeve whenever i want it, so willing for me.” 

his words were cool and calm, almost a threat on his lips as he abused your core. your eyebrows were tangled and your mouth hung open, knees and palms burning from the pressure against the harsh wood. 

“yes, just for you,” you manage to choke out between thrusts, body jolting forward with each thrust. 

“that’s right baby,” he nods, his smile turning villainous, only fucking into you harder as he spits, “such a fucking whore, letting me fuck you in public like this.” 

you nod, eyes screwed shut, “d-don’t fucking stop.” 

his chuckle is deep, his thrusts losing their rhythm, “you want it? want me to fill this filthy pussy up?” 

the door to the practice room opens, san strolls inside with a smile on his face before he sees the two of you — he shrieked. “what the fuck!?” 

jongho stilled, laying himself atop your body, trying to cover you as best he could. his words come out nervous, “get the fuck out!”

san slips back out of the door, then peeks his head back in, “wait, when are you gonna be done? i want to practice.” 

“san!” 

masterlist

[mariasont]

Ideas From a Book - A.H

a/n: im writing what i want !!!!!!!!!!!!! i have a gun kink SUE ME !!! if you don't like it don't read it !!!!!!!

anyhow HAPPY READING

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which hotch comes home to find you reading and finds out you have a gun kink

warnings: 18+ MDNI, a lot going on here yall idk, gun going in ur vag, reader loves smut she's just like me fr, gun kink!, dirty talk, established relationship, yada yada

wc: 2.3k

When Hotch returned home from work, the ritual he had was comforting in its predictability: shedding his coat and shoes, setting down his briefcase, and locking up his gun. Then, he'd find you, as he always did, nestled into the couch, book in hand. 

It was something he could count on, as reliable as the sun rising in the morning. Your bookshelf was a spectrum of genres--science fiction, poetry, mystery, historical, fantasy--name it, you've likely read it. Among these, he had noticed a trend--your favoritism for romance. It was fitting, as you've always been an ardent believer in fairytales and happy endings. It was a belief he intended to uphold, a fairytale ending he was set on creating for you. 

The book you held today had a cover he didn't recognize. He cleared his throat, announcing his arrival. Your eyes met his in an instant, and he was struck anew by just how pretty you are. Effortlessly so. He told you as much, though you seldom accepted the compliment. 

"Hi, handsome," you said, infusing your words with honey as you folded the corner of your page and laid the book aside. Spencer would scold you for that. "How was work?"

A shrug rolled off his shoulders, fingers working to loosen the tie that felt like a noose after a long day. Stepping further into the living room, he sighed, "Heavy with paperwork."

"That's no fun," you said, lips curving into a delicate pout. 

It was an invitation he couldn't ignore. Leaning in, his hands found your face, and as your lips met, you giggled, pulling back just enough to study his face, the harsh lines under his eyes, reading the fatigue on his features like a well-thumbed novel. 

"What are you reading?" he questioned, easing down next to you, the couch dipping to his weight. 

You dodged his eyes, fingers absently fidgeting with your earlobe as you gave him a half-smile, tilting the book just enough so he couldn't catch the title.  

"Just some romance book," you admitted, with a slight uptick in your voice. "Garcia recommended it."

He regarded you with a contemplative frown. Normally, a book you would have gone on for hours, detailing every character, plot twist, and subplot, dissecting its layers and intricacies in exhaustive detail. 

Aaron watched as you placed the book on the side table, movements deliberate. You positioned yourself across his lip, a seemingly innocent distraction. It almost worked. Your soft thighs sinking into his calloused hands, as if they were crafted just for him. He recognized your ploy, though, giving your leg a squeeze a little tighter than necessary. 

You leaned in, your breath tinged with the minty traces of your afternoon tea, a detail as intimate as any secret shared between lovers. He nipped at your lip, a gentle diversion, as his hand crept towards the book.

You wriggled in his hold, vying to get there first, but he was faster. Much faster at that, although you loved to challenge him on that. He secretly loved when you did. He loved you. 

"What are you doing?" Your voice was rising in a panicked pitch. You stretched your hand out, trying to reclaim it, but he kept it just beyond reach.

Aaron's arm formed a band around you, effectively pinning your arms to your torso while you writhed within his grasp. A groan was stifled in his throat. "Quit that."

You smiled, a hint of tease in the curve of your lips and stilled. You were acutely aware of the effect you had on him, and it was a feat achieved with little effort. 

"Why are you being so secretive about this?"

He nodded to the book. The cover was unassuming, black with a smattering of designs that sprawled across it. It looked like any other book you read.

"I'm not being secretive," you insisted, deliberately avoiding his probing gaze. "You're just being nosy."

"Oh, am I?" He couldn't help but laugh, nose crinkling as he dismissed the notion with a shake of his head.

You nodded, not saying anything in response. He thumbed through the book, opening it to a random page.

"Wait--," you pleaded, but his attention was already glued to the ink. You wrapped yourself around him, your face buried in the folds of his crisp dress shirt as you murmured into the fabric, "please don't."

His arm shifted from your waist to cradle the back of your neck. "Gasping at the cool metal of the gun running across my belly, I want him press it into my panties."

Your breath caught, warmth flooding your cheeks as you pressed your face deeper into his chest. "Aaron, stop."

But he didn't, of course, he was far too intrigued.

"Parting my legs, I roll into the metal. He runs it back and forth across my pussy, wetting it against the barrel to my entrance," He continued, wetting the pad of his thumb as he turned the page, eyes meeting yours. 

He cocked an eyebrow as if waiting for your response. You didn't give him one, huffing a sigh as you plucked the book from his hands and flung it onto the cushions of the couch.

"Are you...into this?" He articulated each word with deliberate slowness, as if navigating a minefield. "This is a little intense."

You groan, tucking your chin down to your chest as you fought against the tingling sensation clawing up your spine.

"I don't know." The words tumbled out in a murmur, a feeble shield against the embarrassment flooding your senses.

It was the truth. You didn't know. Ink on a page was a far cry from reality. Nonetheless, your recent daydreams were filled with images of Aaron with his gun. God, forbid you see him on duty.

He shifted you off his lap, and you felt the corners of your mouth turn downward involuntarily. You watched his retreating figure vanish down the hall, your thoughts racing at breakneck speed, gripped by the fear that you had scared him off, that this was his tipping point.

The welling tears were poised to fall, but they paused as he came back into view. Holding his gun.

Your breath halted, a knot forming in your throat as you clumsily rose to your knees on the couch, your eyes wide and transfixed on him.

You watched, more like ogled, as he methodically removed the magazine, opening the action and ejecting the cartridges of the gun, putting the safety into place. Your throat felt dry. His advance towards you was predatory, a slow march that rekindled a well-known flutter in your stomach.

"Aaron?"

He stepped in front of you, the firearm dangling loosely at his side. You gazed up at him, peering through the shelter of your lashes.

"Do you want me to fuck you with this?"

You knew you said you didn't know if this was something you were into, yet here you were, retracting every syllable. Suddenly so incredibly turned on it almost hurt.

You nodded vigorously, your enthusiasm outpacing your self-awareness.

The look he gave you was one you recognized instantly, eliciting yet another soft pout before you gave in. "Yes, please, Aaron."

"Good girl," he said, making your heart skip a beat as he pressed the nose of the gun into your chest, forcing you backward. "Always so good for me."

You nodded again, even though there was no need to, but you weren't really focused on his words. You were focused on the gun pressing into your body, imagining it pressed against your clit, up your pussy.

"You're sure, um," you managed, trying to catch your breath, pausing in the middle of your sentence to clear your throat, "that all the safety stuff is on?"

You sounded dumb, you were aware, but all intellectual thoughts were out the window.

He let out a deep chuckle, the sound sending another wave of desire straight to your core. "Yes, baby, all of the safety stuff is on."

"Okay, good."

He pressed his lips to yours, the gun still flush against your chest, now grazing your nipple as you arched into him.

He pulled back only enough to speak into your mouth. "What's your safe word?"

"Mercy."

He hummed in response, fingers threading through your hair as he pushed the barrel of the gun down your stomach. You froze, a subtle gap forming between your lips as your eyes remained locked on the motion.

He brought his mouth to your ear, nipping at the skin lightly as he pushed the metal further down your body, lifting the hem of your shirt with it. You gasped at the feeling, pulling your bottom lip through your teeth as you tried to hide just how affected you were.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." It was immediate. Without hesitation.

He kissed your lips, gentle and unhurried, as if he was savoring the sensation, like he thought I might crumble under too much pressure. He might be right.

"Take these off."

His gun pressed against the waistband of your shorts. You didn't waste a second, lifting your hips and shimmying out of the fabric. A sound of approval vibrated from his throat, his fingers entwining in your hair, gently drawing your face closer to his.

"Are you sure about this?"

A nod came naturally, followed by a yes breathed out like a prayer, as your eyes trailed down to in between your thighs where the gun was now sitting. 

"Aaron, I need it."

"Oh, you need it, huh?" He tsked his tongue, running the nose of the gun over your clothed heat. "I can tell."

You let out a sharp gasp, bucking your hips into the device as you met his eyes, willing him to keep going. You had never been more turned on in your life. His hand moved from your neck to the small of your waist, pinning you in place. With one hand. Fuck.

He laid the gun beside your hip on the couch in order to pull your panties off. You squirmed at the rush of cold air encompassing between your thighs. His eyes were glued to your pussy, tongue darting out to swipe across his lips.

"Christ sweetheart," he hissed, sliding one finger through your slit, showing you the moisture you had produced. "Needy girl."

"Aaron, please." You needed something inside of you.

He laughed, at your expense, but you didn't care, concentrated on his hand grabbing the Glock and repeating the action his finger just did.

You choked out a sound, stuttering against the touch. He in a merciful mood apparently, pushing the gun slowly into your sopping cunt. You were writhing against it, your mouth parted as you tried to get used to the foreign object.

"You okay?" He asked, pausing his motions, giving you a second to adjust.

You swallowed; gaze drawn down to where he was sliding the gun into you. You bit down on your lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Yes."

"You can take it," he said, but the way the firearm was stretching you made you unsure.

It wasn't the size necessarily, but the way the groves and magazine were cramming into you was making hold your breath, which him being him he noticed immediately.

His hand rested gently against the pouch of your stomach. "Breathe."

The pent-up breath escaped your lips, and he rewarded you by sinking the gun further into your pussy. You fingers wrapped around his biceps, the tips digging slightly into the constellation of freckled skin.

One final thrust and it was fully in you. You could feel every groove and contour of it, cunt clenching and unclenching at the sensation. 

"Look at you," he drawled, beginning to fuck you with it. It transcended the prose of any book, a sensation that no array of printed words could fully capture. "You like that?"

Nodding was your only recourse, mouth hanging pathetically open as you moaned and whined. You were in a daze-like state, every sound and motion involuntary.

"This is the Glock 17," he explained, thrusting the gun faster, causing you to tighten your hands around his neck, bringing him so close his words were melting into your skin. "It feeds from a staggered-column magazine that has a 17-round capacity. It sends 115 gr bullets downrange at about 1200 feet per second."

You could feel your arousal leaking to your thighs, coating his forearm in the process, but that would never stop him.

"This gun has taken the lives of nineteen unsubs."

You know this should make you coil away, that it should feel wrong somehow, but all you felt was that growing tightness in your core, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling at a more rapid pace.

"You don't even care, do you? All you care about is getting yourself off." His chuckles wove through his words, and his motions didn't falter, intent of ushering you to your peak. "My dirty girl."

You were so close, the edges of the gun managing to hit every spot just right.

"Come on, honey."

Fuck. You let out another strangled gasp, way louder than intended as your back arched like a string of a bow, and then suddenly you released.

A prism of colors exploded behind your squeezed eyes. A collage of musical notes falling over your ears. Your whole body was being ignited as you gushed around the gun.

"Christ." His new favorite word as of late. He withdrew the weapon from you.

You let out a subdued hum, propping yourself on your elbows, your eyes lazily rising to meet his with a tender flutter.

"You're so pretty," he murmured, the compliment settling on you like dew on morning flowers. Your gaze caught the gun, now bathed in a liquid gloss, cradled in his hands.

"Oh my god," you said, hand covering your mouth.

He laughed softly, placing it on the coffee table before his lips brushed against yours, a soft and measured caress that belied his previous urgency.

"You might need a new one," you said sheepishly, heat creeping into your ears as he pressed another soft kiss to your cheek.

"Absolutely not," he murmured into your flushed skin. "It just became my gun of choice."

You were going to give him the best head of his life.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[readwritealldayallnight]

“-and every year after that, we always had double chocolate chip cookies instead of regular chocolate chip. Made me stand out at the school bakes sales, too! And I would beg and beg and beg my mom to make them before any other sweets-”

“Got my stomach grumblin’ over here now, love.” Simon cuts off your rambling with a loving chuckle. The first winter’s snow began falling from the sky in London that morning, and you’d been eager to tell your lover about the traditions you’d had growing up around this time of year.

“Well imagine how I felt, Si!” You say with a giggle, patting his stomach in emphasis. “I swear, it’s become a true Pavlovian response, I see the first snowflakes and I instantly start craving those cookies again. Like when I was little…”

Simon sees the melancholic smile playing across your lips, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that first chance he gets, he’ll be ringing your mum to get said recipe from her.

And if you walk into your shared flat a few days later, the smell of burnt something wafting through the air, fire alarm beeping incessantly, coming upon a flustered looking 6’4” behemoth of a man swatting a flowery dish towel through the air in attempt to dissipate the smoke coming from the oven, well, the sentiment behind your lover wanting to surprise you with your favourite treat from childhood is a thousand times sweeter than the cookie itself.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Ooh, look at those ones over there!” You exclaim, tightening your grip on Simon’s arm. You’re both strolling through a local farmers market on a dreary Sunday afternoon with nothing better to do. Your free hand points towards a stall selling beautifully intricate bouquets of flowers. “They’re so pretty for this late in the season.”

Simon is glancing over at the stall, minutely nodding in agreement, before his gaze shifts back to the crowd.

“Want one?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. Just thought they looked nice. We don’t need any.” You say, leading him past the stall, not noticing when he glances back over his shoulder to remember the name written at the top of the display.

Once back home, upon hearing your gasp of surprise followed by what he recognizes now as your excited squeal, he smirks to himself in the other room, knowing you’ve stumbled upon the bouquet he had delivered during your nap.

What you don’t know is that he’s already set it up so that you’ll be receiving a new fresh set of flowers every week now, delivered straight to your front steps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Really wasn’t that bad this time around, promise.” You mumble into his firm chest, his muscular arms holding you there as you snuggle on the couch. He got back from a two week deployment last night, and you’re still catching him up on everything he missed. “I made a point of going outside everyday, for a change of scenery at least.”

“Tha’s good, lovie.” He whispers, running his digits through the strands of your hair, careful not to tug any time he runs into knot, instead gently trying to comb it out himself.

“Not like I was all alone, anyhow.” You say with a small giggle, biting your lip. He finds himself answering with his own lighthearted chuckle, sitting up straighter to glance at the table over your shoulder. “Gave me something to look forward to each day, feeding the lil’ guy.”

“Was hoping it’d be a nice surprise for ya. Not another chore…”

“Oh, Goldie’s not a chore.” You laugh, swatting at Simon’s chest. You also take the time to glance over at the goldfish in question, swimming in the small circular fish bowl that Simon had somehow snuck into the flat the day before he left. He hated the idea of leaving you alone all the time, never knowing when he’d have a chance to speak on the phone, and he didn’t want to burden you with a larger, more high maintenance animal like a dog or cat. And so, Goldie was brought home.

“Although, I’m worried maybe he’s getting lonely when I’m out of the house. Might have to get him a friend.”

Simon doesn’t even try to hide the corny grin that spreads across his face.

“Have I ever told you the joke about the two goldfish in a tank?”

[caliburn-not-calculator]

Bit more a put together portrait. Once more I make unnecessary sparkly background

Some au art! Maxim from the devil au, he’s a shiny fellow

[prodbymaui]

Eunoia. — 이민형

when it's all said and done, girl, I want you

PAIRING: mark lee x reader GENRE: unspoken feelings

WORD COUNT: 2.3k+ words

WARNINGS: finger fucking, pet names (baby, love), pool sex, exhibition kink, grinding

SYNOPSIS: it's late at night and you're yet to pull yourself out of the ocean that is your thoughts. Mark helps you out in a complexed but effective way that he knows. A/N: very self-indulgent, definitely not a scenario that came up to me in the middle of the night and stayed in my mind ever since. anyhows, enjoy reading!

The day nears the next cyle of the moon and sun, but you remain at the pool side— music resonating from your phone as you dip your feet in the pool, drinking the night away. 

You should’ve been worn out from all the fun that you had with your friends yet for some unknown reasons, sleep doesn’t come to you easily. In result, you opt grabbing one of the unfinished bottles of vodka for yourself.

The thoughts swimming in your head must’ve drowned you, considering that you didn’t hear one of the bedroom doors opening and the footsteps walking towards. It is only when someone sits next to you that you notices their presence.

Your gaze shifts from the stars to the man on your right— Mark. Your breath hitches for a moment. The messy hair and a plain white shirt paired with the dopey smile on his face is enough for you to fall in to another trance.

“What got you out here having fun all by yourself?” Mark tilts his head in question, to which you let out a soft laugh.

“Is drinking alone fun now?”

“I suppose.. ? It looks fun for me.”

Merely replying with a smile, silence engulfs the both of you. And as if on cue, your mind boggles you over trivial things once again, just like what it does since you were young.

Mark passes you a brief glance, then to the music playing on your phone.

Thoughts

Sometimes, I just can't control my thoughts

No medication's ever made them stop

All I think about is everything I'm not

Instead of everything I got

He sighs, biting his lips as he contemplates on what to do.

And it’s not Mark if he chooses the complexed but effective way.

The bubble of your thoughts pop when the water splashes at you suddenly. Surprised, you look over to Mark who’s swimming his way towards where you are seated. Just right before you, Mark comes up from the water, brushing his black undercut hair back.

His eyes meet yours. “Hi,”

“Hello,” You grin, sipping your vodka.

He walks a little bit more closer, enough for his chest to make contact with your knees. Mark smiles again, resting his hands on your knees.

“Hi,” He repeats softly.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Hello Mark,”

What is this man doing? The voices in your head asks.

“Come swim with me?”

You glance at the rippling water illuminated faintly by the moon, then back at him, standing waist-deep with a boyish grin that doesn’t quite match the hour. 

“Pass, I’m just waiting for sleep to take over my body. Besides,  you shouldn’t be swimming this late at night, Mark. You’ll catch a cold.”

Mark exhales dramatically, a mix of exasperation and amusement, before swishing the water toward you in a playful splash. It doesn’t reach, but the gesture draws a reluctant grin from you.

“Loosen up a little,” He says, his voice warm, almost teasing. “Who cares about catching a cold if it means having a bit of fun?”

You’re not quite sure how it happens. You remember saying no—firmly, even—but now the cool water laps at your legs, rising steadily until it reaches your waist. Mark’s hand is warm and steady in yours, his grip pulling you further into the pool, toward the deeper end.

“Mark,” you warn, your voice low, your fingers tightening instinctively around his. It’s not fear—nothing as dramatic as that. You can swim perfectly well, and the depth of the water doesn’t intimidate you. It’s just…this wasn’t supposed to be on your list for tonight.

He slows, catching the hesitation written across your face. Without a word, he stops walking, the two of you now floating in the very center of the pool. The stillness around you is palpable, broken only by the faint ripples you’ve created together.

Mark’s gaze softens as it finds yours, studying your expression carefully, reading the unspoken. Then, with a quiet assurance, he slides his arm around your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

“I’ve got you,” he says, the words low but firm, steadying you in a way that feels more solid than the water ever could.

You sigh, taking in the comfort of the moon and starts hovering above the both of you, and the comfort of Mark’s arm around you.

“What do you think Yeonjun and Wooyoung’s reaction will be if they see us like this?”

“The teasings, oh god,” The mere thought of the two troublemakers’ reactions is already enough to make Mark sigh in exasperation. 

He can practically hear their voices now—the teasing tone, the exaggerated laughter. They’ve been relentless lately, poking fun at the “odd vibe,” as they like to call it, between the two of you. Their wild imaginations have taken your every interaction and spun it into something far more dramatic, their assumptions as colorful as they are persistent.

You laugh at his response, sliding your arms to rest on his shoulders. “Why do you think they tease us so much?” Mark’s chuckle fades, leaving a quiet tension in its place. The water sways around you both, but all you can focus on is how his gaze has softened—more intent now, as if he’s waiting for something.

“They think there’s something between us,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel weightier. His hands linger at your waist, his touch steady yet hesitant, like he’s holding back.

You swallow, your laugh from earlier now a distant echo. “And… do you think they’re right?” you ask, surprising yourself with the boldness in your voice.

Mark’s lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “Sometimes,” he admits, barely above a murmur. “It’s hard not to when they keep planting the idea in my head.”

You feel a faint warmth rising in your cheeks, though you’re not sure if it’s from his words or the way his thumb grazes your side absentmindedly. “And what does that idea look like to you?”

The shift in his expression is subtle, but it’s enough to make your heart stutter. There’s something deeper in his eyes now, something that makes the air between you feel almost fragile.

“Do you want me to show you?” he asks quietly, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge to it—a flicker of vulnerability he can’t quite hide.

The moment stretches, the world outside the pool fading to nothing. It’s just you, Mark, and the unspoken tension swirling between you, like the water lapping at your skin.

Whether it’s you or Mark who closes the distance first doesn’t matter. All that matters now is the way his lips meet yours—soft and deliberate, moving in a rhythm that feels as though it’s been waiting to happen. The kiss deepens naturally, a slow, intoxicating exchange that carries the urgency of something long denied.

Mark’s hand slides to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair as though anchoring you to the moment. His grip is firm but careful, a silent assurance that he won’t let go. When he feels you lean further into him, your movements mirroring his, something shifts.

With surprising ease, Mark’s other hand slips beneath your legs, lifting you as though you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, securing yourself against him. The movement presses your bodies closer, the water rippling around you in lazy waves.

You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, his lips trailing softly before returning to yours. The press of his body is undeniable, a tension simmering beneath the surface, but the way he holds you—steady, deliberate—grounds the moment in something more than just desire.

Mark pulls away, breathing heavily. “I know it’s late but tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want any of this and I’ll pretend none of this happened tomorrow.”

Nonsense. You don’t even know what got him thinking like that when you’re already on cloud nine just by his kisses.

“Don’t stop,” You whisper against his ear before connecting your lips with his once again.

As your tongue fights and clashes with one another, you gasp at the feeling of Mark’s palm cupping your core. The water surrounds every part of your lower body but Mark could still feel the slimy texture of your juices on his skin.

His fingers slides along your labia, letting it explore and feel your warmth. The soothing movements of his pads strays away from your focus as Mark’s kisses travels down to your neck. Tracing your skin with his tongue, Mark licks a stripe straight to where your neck and collarbone meets. You gasp as he gives it a little kiss before sucking the skin, at the same time he enters a digit inside you.

“Mark..”

He shushes your noises yet his fingers serves absolutely nothing to help you do so. Not long after you’ve gotten used to his single digit, he enter another after another, curling them inside. Your head lols back, trapping your bottom lips between your lips.

Turning the both of you around, Mark carries your weight one arm while the other busies itself pumping inside you. In a few steps backwards, your back hits the wall of the pool causing Mark’s fingers to be buried deeper inside. Your hands fly to grab something as a leverage, eventually finding his flexing arms. The cold breeze brushing against your skin reminds you that you’re not in the privacy of your bedroom or any private space right now. And Mark uses it to his advantage, seemingly knowing well what you like despite this being the first time that he’s having a taste of you. “Haechan was awake when I left the boys’ room, you know?” he murmurs, his tone low and teasing as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His lips brush against your cheek in a series of soft, fleeting pecks, his warmth lingering with each one. “He was mumbling something about wanting a snack but being too lazy to actually get up. You know how crazy that man is about his snacks, babe.”

His voice drops to a playful whisper. “What if he decides to come out? Imagine him catching us like this—you trembling in my arms, eyes fluttering shut, your hips jerking against me like you’re trying so hard to keep quiet. One look at your hips, and he’d know exactly what’s happening, no questions asked.”

You curses at the thought of being caught. And Mark laughs. Because he knows damn well it’s not due to embarrassment nor fear. The clench of your walls on his fingers tells him so. “Wouldn’t you like that, babe? I think you would,” Curling his fingers upwards, your eyes rolls to the back of your head. “Look at you getting close at the thought of it. I wonder what’ll be his reaction.”

“Mark please,” You plead, not even knowing for what reason. “Please? I don’t know even know what you want, love.” It’s frustrating how the brutal pace of his thrusting fingers contrasts the soft and loving tone of his voice. It messes your head and inside both at the same time. “Please please, Mark—” Your eyes catches his sharp gaze in a hazy film, barely even able to open your lids to maintain eye contact. “Fuck– haah, I’m gonna come.” “Yeah?” Mark pulls you impossibly closer, grinding his prominent boner on any accessible part of you that he can reaches by merely moving his hips. “I’m gon– I wanna cum, I’m gonna cum. Shit, Mark please, baby,” You desperately cling on to him, meeting his fingers halfway as you try your best to fasten the pace despite the restrain from the water. Mark groans, silently wishing it is his cock you’re clenching around so tightly right now. How good it must feel to your warm walls massaging his length, tightening on him just right, milking him dry until he’s nothing left but an empty vessel of a man obsessed with you and your body. He presses your bodies to the wall as he grinds harder and faster, matching your pace. “Do it. Come for me,” He whispers your name in an encouraging manner. And you did just as he orders. Failing to keep your eyes open, your eyes shut close as your mouth forms a circular shape. The pleasure comes to you crashing down. Mark doesn’t know what kind of hold you have on him but he’s certain it is no way near surface level when he reaches his own climax just by watching you come undone in his arms. The look of you embracing the pleasure he offered is enough to send him off the edge. You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, your ragged breaths mingling with his as you try to steady yourself. The aftershocks still linger, leaving your body heavy and your mind hazy, but the comforting rise and fall of his chest anchors you. Both of you silently agree to stay like this for a moment, letting the sound of the pool water gently lapping around you fill the quiet. It feels like time has paused, a brief reprieve from everything outside this bubble of warmth.

But fate, as always, has other plans.

A slow, deliberate clap breaks the stillness, immediately snapping your attention toward its source. The sound is followed by a low whistle that cuts through the air like a taunt.

“Well, that was one hell of a show,” comes the familiar voice, dripping with mock amusement.

Your head snaps up, and there he is—Haechan, leaning casually against the doorframe of the boys’ room, arms crossed and that trademark cocky smirk plastered across his face. His expression, equal parts smug and entertained, makes your stomach drop.

[luveline]

Hii!! I’ve been binging your fics all week so I wanted to make a request of my own!! 🫶

I was thinking Hotch (and Jack, obviously) with a reader who’s been his long time girlfriend, the constantly stay over at each others houses type. Reader has a cat, one that sleeps with her every night, and Aaron just dealing with that 😭 and maybe a little bit of Jack with a kitty 🩷 thanks !!

Ty for requesting!! fem

“Are you sure it’s okay?” 

Hotch pulls you in through the front door. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but he could. “As sure as I was the first ten times you asked.” 

“I hear the ire in your voice. Don’t be mean.” 

What better time is there to suffocate you in affection than after a damning accusation such as that? Hotch smiles into a kiss, letting his fingers run down your arm to the handle of the carrier. From inside echoes a soft meow. 

“I think she’s upset,” you say. 

“About being moved?” 

“About her beau she sees in the window sometimes. Brokenhearted.” 

He lifts the carrier and you open the door. You make soft kissy sounds until your cat, lovely miss Goldie, deigns to crawl toward your hands. You scoop her out of the carrier and kiss her shiny fur, hand instinctively running down her back. Goldie is a big girl, full grown, with a cuddly disposition. She doesn’t like to play or fight, but she’s adventurous. Hotch is sure she’ll have fun exploring the apartment again. 

“Where’s Jack?” you ask over Goldie’s head. 

“Somewhere. I think he’s reading.” 

You give Goldie a pet, turning her to see Hotch, who finds himself quite fond of the creature despite previous inclinations. “Hello, Miss Goldie,” he says, thumbing at the place between her eyes carefully, 

She mews. 

“She missed you.” You kiss his cheek, giving him all sorts of thoughts about missing you, your perfume, and your skin. 

You put Goldie down and let her explore. You’ve brought a travel litter tray and a few things for breakfast, setting the tray up in the smaller of the bathrooms while Hotch makes his way to Jack’s room. 

Jack’s sitting in a beanbag playing on his DS, eyebrows furrowed but wearing a smirk his dad so rarely sees. 

“Your best friend is here,” Hotch teases from the doorway. “And she’s brought someone with her.” 

Jack’s jaw drops. “She brought the cat?”

“Yes, and she’s looking for you, I’d wager.”

Jack snaps his game console closed and clambers onto his feet. Hotch catches him before he can race down the stairs, murmuring fatherly chastisement and ruffling his hair as Jack thunders down them anyhow. “You’ll scare the poor cat,” Hotch says, and only then does Jack chill out. 

“Y/N?” Jack says, edging into the living room. 

You’ve made yourself comfortable on the couch, laying half-curled with a predictable Goldie purring on the cushion behind your head. “Hi, bud! You’re not that excited to see me, I know.” 

“Can I pet her?” he asks. 

“Sure. Just do the kissy noises and she’ll come right to you. Hey, did you miss me at all? I missed you.” 

“Of course I missed you, Y/N,” Jack says, kneeling in front of you and patting the cushion next to your legs as he attempts to smack his lips together. “Hiii, Goldie.” 

Her fur is quite rare, in Hotch’s uneducated opinion. She’s a British shorthair if he recalls correctly, somewhere between white and blonde. I found her in the street, you’d said, third date, lipstick on his cheek from a few tipsy kisses, all covered in fleas and tics, who could ever do that? Can you believe it?

Goldie slinks down to bump her face against Jack’s hand. “Lean in and she’ll give you a kiss,” you whisper. 

Jack leans forward. Goldie follows him slowly, sniffing, whiskers twitching, before pressing her nose and jowls to his nose gently. Jack’s laugh is younger than his years, he’s that happy. 

Goldie jumps down off of the couch to walk a circle around Jack, nudging his arms with her nose. She wants to be picked up and held, but Jack doesn’t know that yet. She does it to you constantly when Hotch is over, not jealous, just demanding. And at night when you sleep and Hotch is trying to cuddle you, she either decides that she’s the one that’s going to be in your arms tonight, or that the only place she could ever sleep is on top of Hotch’s head. 

It’s much the same in the evening. Hotch sits next to you on the couch in an attempt to rub the tiredness out of your back, and Goldie, still unheld, moises over to nose at your legs with her little wet nose. 

“Come here, darling,” you croon, while Hotch restrains your arms. 

“You love the cat more than me.” 

“Only most of the time, Aaron,” you say, reaching under his hugging to try and pick her up. 

“Leave her for a minute, Jack’s playing with her.” 

Jack, as lovely as he is, had abandoned everyone to play on his DS again, evidenced by the sounds of kart racing echoing from his room. “She gets lonely,” you whine. 

“So do I.” 

You sigh and cup the back of his head. “You’re as clingy as she is, too.” 

He feels an insistent pressing against his knee, though he ignores it in favour of your face, turning you toward him for a kiss, desperate to lay a proper one on you after an hour without one, but then a little mew comes and you pat his cheek. 

“Come on, honey, my old girl wants in on the hugs.” 

You put Goldie in the crease between your thigh and his. She purrs with delight. He watches you smile at her, knowing that the nuisance of your big heart is a part of why he loves you. Doesn’t make going without your kisses any easier.

[todayisafridaynight]

OKAY THE JO ASK I MENTIONED

I'm working on next week's video and it's just like 8 Characters Appearing In Y8 or whatever, and there's a lot I've scrapped to keep it manageable, but obviously I re-listened to the teaser trailer and it got me thinking about Y8 Jo... as usual...

RGG's connection with reality is tenuous at best, but in the case of prison life especially, it's pretty obvious it's Mostly modeled off of movies and other media. Which is fine, RGG is more often than not actively "going for RGG-ism rather than realism" (per staff interview), but it does mean I'll be BSing my way through most of this ask <3

So unlike America, in Japan, inmates can't just make a list of people who can visit them (I would cry if that were the case). Only family, people connected to the case/law enforcement/civil servants, and people who need to consult them about personal matters with legal consequences (e.g. marriage, childcare, employment) can get in.

Friends and associates aren't generally barred from visitation, but Basically It's A Pain In The Ass that requires consistent correspondence to prove they know each other. On top of wardens summarily rejecting visitation requests they don't think will be Productive for the inmate, there's an additional challenge for someone like Ichi as people with criminal records are deemed Bad Influences and so face higher rates of rejection and letter confiscation.

Now. ABSOLUTELY none of this Actually Matters because we've seen Yasuko (who absolutely should have a right to visitation) get rejected and people who probably shouldn't have a right be able to get in. Most wardens don't actually do their jobs (either because they're corrupt or because they're My Man Kosaka From Y5). Because of that corruption, even if a big deal is made of it (50/50 on that), it shouldn't be too hard for someone like Ichi to arrange a visit. It's just down to whatever Yokoyama and co. think is the best for the story.

HOWEVER. It did get me thinking. Because even before I noticed it was Jo's voice, I noticed he definitely didn't sound surprised to see Ichi. He doesn't miss a beat greeting him. And "been a long time, Ichi" has some nuance to it for being such a simple phrase; if you're saying it, and you're Jo, you're not only not surprised to see Ichi, but also the one who's starting the conversation proper and in control of the conversation, whether Ichi knows it or not. At least that's how it's been used so far and how it's generally used in media.

So it's like, What's The Circumstance Here where Ichi is not only able to meet him but Jo also isn't surprised... are you playing it cool... are you gonna be cunty... have you been writing/calling so you know to expect it... do you have other reasons to expect it... If I May Dream A Moment are you meeting outside of prison, so Ichi's the one who's caught by surprise...

This literally isn't even Anything for how long this ask is lol sorry I'm just. Yeah. I am once again Thinking

nothin like a lil thinkin while we wait for more lad8 news yk..... im an encourager of it hell yeah.......

[sed-haec-hactenus]

i hope i never see you again.

a final confrontation, and an explanation long overdue.

word count | 4.9k link to work on ao3

sylus x reader mentions | heavy angst, no fluff, reader is not mc

You'd like to think that you've long since come to understand the man standing just an arms-length away from you, what with his silver hair that still somehow glistens even beneath the aged, orange-tinted porch light; the way that even without his arms through the sleeves, his blazer sits immaculately atop a button up, slacks cuffed perfectly at his ankles; the way his face – which was always so inscrutable in the threads of your memory – remains so, even now.

It's strange. 

As you gaze up into his unfairly captivating eyes, you swear to yourself that this polaroid image you spent so long so carefully crafting of him – layers upon layers of a man that you toiled so painstakingly hard to even have within your reach – too, remains the same. You can almost wholly delude yourself into believing that to be true. You can feel it; taking one step closer, just past the threshold and onto the porch, just outside of the security of your home, both the physical and the one you built around your bleeding heart, and your fool's paradise would be a fantasy no more. 

Your fingers twitch against where you hold the door open, your last line of defense. 

The smell. The polaroid – your polaroid – has caught; the image comes into focus, and the edges are smoldering. It's burning.

The fringe of his hair, though seemingly perfectly coiffed at first glance, is just barely mussed; like someone's run their fingers through the silver strands. Just beneath the lapels of his blazer, you notice now that the thin chain that usually bridges the collar of his button up is missing; like someone had forgotten to put it back in its rightful place after having removed it in the first place.

His lips, your eyes inadvertently flit down to, are canted slightly downward, subtly displacing his habitually knowing expression with one you're realizing you can't quite read. 

Like someone was here before you, with gentle hands and languid touches that left behind this whisper of disarray, and he was unable to smooth every last morsel over. 

It's blistering.

"Don't.” 

Your voice is rough, harsh, and his mouth stays parted for a second too long, closes around what you know was going to be your name, but you don't want to hear it. Not now, and not like this.

Your lower lip catches in your teeth, a silent question pressed against it. It seeps through the gaps, and the absence of it writhes into an unspoken accusation anyhow. 

Why?

Sylus, ever the epitome of composure, doesn’t speak right away. You know that he knows better than to look anywhere other than at you, yet as you hold each other’s gaze, the air between the two of you becomes so tense, so palpable, you feel it in the back of your throat. It’s still. Thick. Thick with everything, all the confessions and admissions, he’s far too late to say.

His shoulders rise and fall with a low sigh of resignation.

“I never meant for things… for us to end like this. You, of all people, should know that.”

A humored laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and you shake your head in utter disbelief. Something vicious and nasty and unnamed starts festering in your chest, clawing against your ribs, threatening to tear you apart entirely.

“That’s low, Sylus, even- no, especially for you,” you say bitterly.

You watch as his mouth twists, contemplative. He tries again.

“Let me at least just explain myself, please, Y/N,” Sylus says, tone measured. But you can see it in his eyes–he’s wavering. You could despise yourself for recognizing it at all.

“What’s even there to explain?” you scoff, unable to mask the hurt that permeates your voice.

“Everything, Y/N.”

That unnamed something creeps further up your throat just as swift as the polaroid burns. “No. I think I know exactly what I really meant to you, Sylus.”

And how couldn’t you?

You, who was enamoured by his out of place, yet commanding existence in your unostentatious life. You, who tried your hardest to stay hidden, unobserved, in the furthest corner of an art gallery away from the curated noise and polished crowd, yet still kindled a curiosity in the man whose presence alone demanded an audience. You, who noticed his appearance at your side in the warped reflection of a gilded frame, only realizing you’d been studying the brushstrokes of the painting aimlessly when he inquired about your honest thoughts in a low, amused voice. You, who thought, “It’s all performance,” then heard his quiet chuckle, “Surely, you don’t mean just the piece,” and decisively turned to regard your mysterious company– only to find his impossibly carmine eyes already looking at you.

You, who felt like you were truly being seen for the first time in a long time, in a way that invited you in; a vow woven so intricately into one glance, it made something in you localized to your heart believe that this was the beginning. That you were the beginning.

Perhaps that’s what it is. Maybe this unnamed something that sits, waiting, behind your tongue is not grief at what you’ve lost, neither is it the misery adorned across your chest, nor is it the betrayal that’s haunted you in the depths of night, rather it is acceptance you’ve not only turned a blind eye to, but abandoned completely in favor of blissful ignorance. For acknowledging its actuality means accepting that you made your choice. You took the path less traveled and it brought you to this moment now. 

But that couldn’t be so. You might have chosen this road, but when the echoes of every single waking second spent with Sylus live behind your eyelids to torment you when you so much as blink, all paths would have converged into this one anyways. And no matter how carnal the desire, you’re no Orpheus. You can’t look back. You can’t bring back the person you were before Sylus.

The you that existed with Sylus, though, was so in love. So alive. And that, in hindsight, is what’s been killing you slowly. Romantic love was something you’d let linger in the recesses of your mind, never to see the light, for it was something that somehow always seemed so foreign, never meant for you. But the way that had Sylus looked at you the night of the gallery truthfully was the beginning. Words and glances exchanged like secrets in his car, your getaway, as the moonlit water of Whitesand Bay glistened just beyond the open window, with the wind catching on your outstretched fingertips, had you feeling a little like falling in love with this stranger who felt like anything but. 

So you did. As did he.

If love was a religion, then he was devout, and you were his divine. With notes of sharp spice and hints of bergamot, he wrapped you so carefully in his scent, you were always certain you could spend eternity in this embrace. The charmingly ardent way he always spoke to you felt like he was meant to exist in the confines of a fantasy, and the unabating way in which he treated you with such admiration and adoration felt like he would worship the ground you walked if he could. 

And you loved him the only way someone who would have never expected love in return could ever love their first– wholeheartedly, without condition. It wasn’t a love full of glittering spectacles, or grandiose gestures, for such declarations were never you, yet it was intense all the same. Like Sylus was scripture, you faithfully mapped every inch, memorizing him like a prayer to be recited at eventide. Your love let him exist without the need to pretend. A familiar, quiet kind of love where he could return home every night, forgo his defenses, and hang his armour by the door. For months on end, a love most fervent.

So foolish of you. To not have seen your own love had doomed you from the start.

It started with a mistake. One made so silently, entwined in the spaces of your love that, in retrospect, if you weren’t so closely attuned to all that he did, you would never have heard it. But you did; a sharp flick, the scritch of a match, followed by the low hissing of a flame held to your beloved polaroid that even the naïve you of then couldn’t ignore. A name. He’d said it so casually in a conversation so fleeting that you paid it no regard. Until it wasn’t something you could overlook twice. 

This name– her name, quickly became commonplace in your relationship. At the second occurrence, you implored Sylus about the matter. Someone he’d become acquainted with in his work dealing with the imports and exports of Linkon City, he’d informed you. A colleague. How wonderful, you’d reasoned, that his profession presented him with chance meetings like this. Thus, it was never mentioned by you again. 

But then, for all you had claimed to be so intimately aware of him, you finally began to see. 

It lingered a little too long, her name. In the space you weren’t aware was between you two. In the way it would hang in the air a little too long. In the lilt of his voice that was so undeniably soft, you weren’t sure if it was worse that it felt like something not meant for your ears at all or that he didn’t even seem to register he was starting to say it in the same way he said yours. 

That steady, holy ground beneath your feet was shifting, he was slipping out of your grasp– and what were you, if not a bystander? His visits to your home in Bloomshire grew more frequent, yet simultaneously somehow, he was never actually there. He would still touch you, embrace you, and kiss you all the same, but the wail of your fragile heart told you something was different. That it had been different for a while, now. With the dampened light of the moon spilling through your blinds and the lull of sleep overhead, you would lie with him in the sanctuary of your bed, just as the two of you always had– your fingers feebly toying with the neckline of his sweater, and his own tenderly brushing over the skin of your eyelids. Only it felt less like you were a girl seeking wonted comfort in the familiar fabric of her lover’s wear, and more like you were secretly sewing into his heart your hope that he would stay. And it felt less like Sylus was a boy stroking the day’s worries out of his lover’s sight, and more like he was quietly willing you to close your eyes, so you wouldn’t have to see he wasn’t.

Then, it ended. Just as it had begun, it ended; quietly.

Rare was it for you to spend an extended amount of time in the center of Linkon, but work summoned Sylus away, and what with your traitorous feelings of guilty relief for the reprieve, you physically couldn’t stay home. A brief train ride later, you were less than surprised that Azure Square was teeming with life. Whether the bustling passerby and euphoric sounds of the city were the solace you needed mattered not, you were hearing and comprehending nothing more than the static of your own mind. The faces among the crowd were akin to figures moving in blurred strokes across an over-crowded canvas, immediately ferrying you back to the night of the art gallery.

Very little mind was being paid to your surroundings as you nursed a cold drink, sat beneath a canopy, and lost in the corridors of thought. The little bell strung on the door of the coffee shop jingled as more faceless strangers filtered in and out, and you could hear the rhythm of footsteps passing even as you were miles away. For the umpteenth time, you caught the faint aroma of coffee as the closing door wafted it in your direction, and with it, came a whisper of spice and citrus.

Sylus.

Like the scent itself took you by the face and coaxed you out of retrospection, your gaze focused on the backs of two strangers no more than a few metres away. Coffee in hand, hair tied in twin ponytails, and clad in white uniforms you know you’d seen somewhere but weren’t familiar with, the joyous atmosphere surrounding these two girls made you feel even more reprehensible, so you turned away, willing the ache and the devil on your shoulder to follow. 

And maybe if you had been free of the tendrils of insecurity curled around your neck– maybe if you weren’t being suffocated beneath the weight of your own love of all things, you would’ve soberly finished your drink, rode the train back in solitude, and let yourself choke. But you were already on your feet.

You’d never wished for anything as achingly as you pleaded in that moment to be wrong. Perhaps all of your conflicting emotions had finally coagulated, and they were clouding what would otherwise be sound judgement. Maybe you were making unnecessary bounds and leaps towards a conclusion you weren’t even sure of. You could feel your lips part, the breath that gathered in your chest, and the sound of your hoarse voice as you said but one word. A name. Her name. 

There was no mercy. No warning. And when the graceful sweep of her ponytail over her shoulder gave way to wide eyes and a startled expression, you knew she wasn’t just a stranger. 

Even now– as you restudy the man that was everything but a stranger to you, the last remaining embers of your polaroid crumble away to little more than ashes at your feet, fluttering into the depths of the chasm stretching the expanse of your porch.

“Enlighten me then, Y/N, on what you’re so certain you meant to me,” Sylus rebuttals. 

Your jaw tightens, “N-”

“Don’t you even think of responding with ‘nothing.’ You know that couldn’t be further from the truth, Y/N,” he interrupts, the abruptness betraying how unlike him this all is.

With the hand not pressed to the door, you throw your hand up in exasperation, coughing out a clipped laugh, “But it is what I meant, Sylus! What more could I have meant if you were willing to spend months lying to me–to my face about everything, at that?”

He shakes his head in an infuriatingly calm manner, and you hate how composed he can remain, even moreso now that all of your self-restraint is unraveling. But– with the dam cracked, why stop now?

“Jesus, Sylus, I–I mean you even lied about your job,” you stutter over a thick knot of emotions, “and I didn’t even get the courtesy of hearing the truth from you!”

That discovery was nothing less than a direct slap across the face. You can vividly remember the sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach– not at the fact that he had been keeping anything of this magnitude from you, but that you’d been so gullible to have believed it. Imports and exports for Linkon City. Not even knowing what his home looked like or where he lived, for that matter. And for you to have been so extraordinarily insensible to have let that be okay because you loved him.

Even revisiting that revelation now makes your insides writhe. Your eyes slip shut, and the sound of the deep inhale you take is soft, yet simultaneously stretched thin.

“It’s almost repulsive how pathetically naïve I was,” you murmur.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. He never does. He holds your stare when you finally look back up at him, and quietly says, “I can’t even begin how to tell you that I regret not having been the one to be honest with you. Especially from the start–”

“Then why didn’t you?!” The question bursts out of you before you can even consider stopping it. You press your lips together, well aware that any final morsels of collectedness are slipping from your grasp.

He exhales slowly, and you don’t entirely miss how the breath shudders slightly at the end, “As much as I lament deceiving you, Y/N, I ask that you understand the sheer amount of danger I would have put you in for even considering telling you my identity.”

You blink once, “I do understand. Really– I do, regardless of my current feelings. But what I’m hearing now is you thought it was safer to pretend to be someone you’re not, and never were, instead of just being honest with me? That was your idea of protecting me?”

“Y/N,” Sylus says in a more terse voice, “Don’t twist it like this. You’re too smart to insult both of us by acting like that’s what I was doing.”

Whether it’s a result of your frustration, heartache, or both, you can feel the telltale prick of tears behind your eyes, “If I’m so smart, why couldn’t you respect me enough to tell me the truth?”

Something in his unflappable front flickers, but your gaze has fallen to the silent abyss beneath you, threatening to swallow you whole. 

“You denied me the choice of deciding if the truth was something I could live with. If it was someone I could love.”

The silence from before envelops you now. Adrenaline simmers beneath your skin. The unnamed something you came to recognize as acceptance settles heavily in your chest, leaving you with nothing except all of your raw, naked emotions– and questions that you’re not even sure you want to hear answered, but desperately need to so your heart can have permission to end its suffering.

There’s another beat of taut silence between you, and when you finally bring yourself to look back up at him, you can see where his expression is fraying at the edges. 

“You’re right,” he says, the vague presence of something akin to quiet remorse in his voice, “I was wrong in assuming that in sparing you from the truth of who I am, I was sparing you from danger.” 

There’s a pause that follows that feels deliberate, like he’s silently pleading with you to not merely listen to his words, but to feel the weight of a truth he’s well aware is much too late.

“What I thought was protection was nothing more than thinly veiled control. You didn’t, and will never, deserve that, and I’m sorry for that, Y/N,” he whispers.

Something in you longs to call him a bold-faced liar– wishes that you could scream at him for lying yet again, but there’s a painful throb when something else threads its fingers over and under the arteries of your bleeding heart. That lingering acceptance, once more. You yearn to say he’s being deceitful, but you know all too well that it hurts all the much more because you know he means it.

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Saying anything that remotely mirrors the words ‘it’s okay’ would make you just like he was; a liar. So you elect to say nothing at all. But as you stand in your doorway with the biting winter air making itself intimately familiar with the skin of your cheeks – staring down the ghost of your wildest dreams and the reality of your ruin – you slowly realize that what you desire more than the truth is to be free.

The void beckons you twofold, so you let your stare fall away again. You shake your head, in not disbelief, but defeat. In the closet, another skeleton waits– born of his lies, and unwilling to wait any longer.

“... And her?” 

Two words is all it takes to permeate the air with something far more volatile than before. Sylus, too, doesn’t speak right away, and a part of you grieves that he can’t immediately say you’ve got it all wrong. That it isn’t what it is. And even though you’re sure you look just as disheveled as you feel, you quietly let his eyes trace your features. 

His expression shifts as he circles his response around on his tongue before he even opens his mouth to speak. You decide to spare him the effort. 

“Was it always her?” 

Sylus’ expression falls for a moment so brief you wonder if you imagined it, “She and I were not romantically involved while you and I were together.”

You feel your neck become increasingly warm from anger, and you instantly shake your head at him– bottom lip worried between your teeth. 

“Don’t dodge the question, Sylus.”

“Y/N–”

“So– what, you kept the timelines clean? That’s real fucking rich.”

“The relationship that I have with her is complicated, and–”

You almost laugh. “How?! How is it so complicated that you needed to lie to both of us just to keep it tidy? Sylus, I don’t know how the truth will make me feel, but I know damn well another lie is far from fair to me.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his jaw clenches with the slightest jump of a muscle. Anticipation swells in you as you notice, for what is surely the first time, as his lips part to speak only to stop short; he’s hesitating. The ripple of torment that slithers its way down your spine is excruciating.

“There is no way for me to explain it without sounding disingenuous.”

It takes a herculean amount of effort to stifle the itch to immediately scoff, but you keep yourself quiet. There’s nothing you could say in this moment right now that would be worth easing the pressure on him, and frankly, you don’t want to. 

Sylus’ chest rises in a low breath, “She was mine in a life that’s long since come to pass, and I’ve a bond with her that even I can’t explain. Her reappearance in my life now carried with it the presence of something that I still can’t unravel. Not when she herself wasn’t fully aware of the significance she bears to me.

“It would be remiss of me to pretend that my proximity to her was a mere coincidence, but it meant close to nothing because she was under the impression I was exactly who she’d been warned about. Then, everything changed.”

With each word that leaves his mouth, the world around you – the light of your porch, the chasm at your feet, you, Sylus – starts distorting at the edges. Like this isn’t a conversation you’re actively participating in, but more like you’re witnessing a scene that’s happening to someone else. It sounds unreal, and if it were anyone else telling you what he’s confessing now, you’d laugh. But this isn’t just anyone else. And for all the lies he’s woven so intricately around you, something in you deep down knows this isn’t one. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep yourself grounded. Only now do you realize that the door stands abandoned behind you– your hands buried in the pockets of your sweater, keeping their anxious trembles out of sight. 

Nothing, however, can hide the fear that’s laid itself bare in the look on your face.

“You deserve more than a bare bones explanation after all that you’ve gone through,” he admits solemnly, “and I would be the one to provide that to you if the circumstances surrounded you and I, but–”

Sylus’ voice tapers off before he can finish. Not that it matters when it’s all the same to you. You hear what needn’t be spoken aloud regardless.

But this is about her and I.

It isn’t until you taste salt in the corner of your parted lips that you register the weight of the tears welling in your eyes and rolling down the slope of your cheeks. Their existence is made even more miserable with the frigid air. Then, a numbing realization dawns on you: somewhere, in the margins of this back and forth, he’s taken the liberty of claiming your proverbial knife as his own, turned it inward, and positioned it against your chest. Without force, yet without hesitation. 

Waiting. 

For one final truth.

“I loved you, once, Y/N,” he breathes steadily, “but I love her now, and evermore.”

Ah.

You feel it. The crescendo. The point of the knife curves gracefully, guided by steady hands as it glides past your skin, through your bones, and plunges with a sigh of finality into your heart. 

Unconsciously, you stagger back a step. You’re unable to hold his gaze. Your eyes drop down to his chest, your attention blurring out of focus. 

All of it.

The aching. 

The evenings spent mourning. 

The endless nights wondering when you lost him.

The unrelenting mornings asking when you lost yourself.

It all converges into a singular, overwhelming moment. You press your nails into your palm, desperate to feel anything else. 

How foolish of you, to think you had ever understood the man standing so far out of reach. It’s incredible you never saw it sooner: You never truly had him to begin with. 

You try valiantly to blink through the tears staining your vision, steeling yourself to face him as you come undone. Even when you’re falling apart at the seams, there will forever be this that remains constant. Because when you finally muster the courage to lift your chin and look him in the eye, it’s devastating– just how beautiful he still is to you. 

Memories in snapshots flicker across your mind and briefly, you wonder if this is what people see in the moments before death wraps them in its embrace. You conjure images. Of the valleys your fingers left behind in his frosty hair with the haze of early morning hovering in your bathroom. Of a coffee table; where you had a habit of leaving the chain of his button up after you removed it when he’d arrive. And his expression, in the way the corners of his eyes seemed to soften just for you when he said he loved you. 

Then, just as your beloved polaroid of him, this too, snuffs out. The memories stop. Abruptly. As if they themselves know you’re not welcoming them any longer.

A trove of them remains in the archives of your heart, though it feels less like that tenderness that’s been haunting you and more like you’re rotting from the inside out. Your body feels cold, but not because you miss the memories– or because you miss him. You feel cold because you can see.

While you were busy loving him, Sylus was already remembering someone else.

“You’re a cruel man, Sylus,” your voice cracks a little over the syllables of his name.

“... I know.”

In a last ditch effort to exhaust the last of your rage out on him, you rifle through snippets of the one and only interaction you had with her. Searching for even a granule of something that would allow you to absolve yourself of the loathing you’ve been drowning yourself in. That would prove she – just as he did – knew all along. But you can’t. The remorse that was sprawled across her face then– and the sympathetic way in which she whispered ‘I’m sorry’ was a testament for this. 

The last sliver of anger in your body relinquishes into a hurt you know all too well. With it, the will to loathe her slips away and it leaves in its wake the quiet ache of knowing that against fate, you never stood a chance. How could you have been able to bring yourself to hate a girl who was just as kept in the dark? You’re too tired, and maybe too kind, for that.

You’re not quite sure what myriad of expressions you must be making, but you sure as hell can’t look at his for a second longer. Another step backwards leaves Sylus bathed in the orange porch light alone. There’s so much you’ve yet to say to him. So much that you still want to say. Nothing, however, feels adequate enough to convey in words the weight of what he’s done to you, so you concede. 

“You’re a cruel, cruel man,” you echo resignedly, “and I hope I never have to see you again.”

With practiced ease, you slip further back into the shadowed refuge of your home that once upon a time, housed two. Keeping the door open has allowed for the winter outside to infiltrate its ambiance; the floor beneath your feet a frigid kind of cold. You’ll have to remedy this with wool socks when you’re alone tonight.

Sylus says nothing and the silence is resounding, even when the door creaks as you begin to shut it; slow, and certain. And you’ll implore yourself to acknowledge it as some sort of sadistic self-punishment later, but before you can close this chapter for good, your eyes find Sylus one last time, and when you catch a glimpse of something like guilt softening the edges of his face, you pause.

The sheer loneliness you’ve felt is something you wouldn’t ever wish onto someone else. Hence you’re not sure if you’ll ever find it in you to truly forgive him. Perhaps you never truly will. Maybe you, as well, are a cruel person for that. Time will pass, and you’ll spend it unlearning him, anyhow. 

When the time does come to pass, and the dust settles with it, there is one truth that stands untouched.

“But I hope fate is kind to you this time around.”

You, too, loved him once. 

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 2k Content/Warnings: sfw, arcane au in which they're all actors starring in the show, softttt sevika, loser!sevika if you squint, actress!reader, reader is fem/referred to with fem terms and pronouns A/N: i am sure i'm not the only one who likes to imagine that every character in arcane is simply an actor, and they were simply acting; not actually experiencing the tragedy they cannot seem to catch a damn break from... so, without further ado, here is this first installment of this series! as per the poll i posted, sevika will be first, and vi is up next!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚

୨ৎ You’re an up-and-coming actress, with Arcane being your debut television series

୨ৎ The audition process was no easy feat; after its first two seasons’ massive success, it was clear that Arcane’s casting directors were looking for the best of the best, and you were up against some intense competition

୨ৎ Some of which were were a-listers, so naturally, you had your moments of doubt, assuming that there was no way you were beating any of them out

୨ৎ You persevered anyhow, due mostly to the genuine love you had found for the character you were auditioning for: Evette, a prodigy mechanical engineer from Zaun who lands herself an internship with Hextech Labs. 

୨ৎ Her story consists of the tragic loss of her parents at the hands of enforcers, unyielding ambition driven by the desire to honor her late parents, and of course, one of the yummiest sapphic slow burns on television to date

୨ৎ You’re sure this slow burn is the main reason why so many actresses scrambled to land this role, and you couldn’t really blame them

୨ৎ Nina Singh was irrevocably and undeniably one the hottest people in existence, playing Sevika, one of the hottest characters in existence

୨ৎ This made for some very awkward chemistry tests between Nina and a few potential Evettes; actresses focusing so much on trying to seduce Sevika that at times, Nina felt like she was shooting the intro to some shitty porno

୨ৎ Then came you: one of the finalists for the role of Evette, unbeknownst to you 

୨ৎ You’re a nervous wreck in front of Nina- she’s an a-lister herself- and even still, your ability to embody Evette and bring the depths and nuances of her relationship with Sevika to life leaves the room taken aback

୨ৎ You’ll never forget the day of your chemistry test; you’re exchanging the final lines of the short scene you’re given to perform with Nina, heart pounding in  your chest

୨ৎ “Not getting any younger,” Nina gruffs in character, nodding towards your tedious work tightening the loose bolt on her arm, “and I’d rather not spend more time with a Piltie than I have to.”

୨ৎ Nina’s got a prosthetic arm in real life, so there’s actually a little bolt she lets you toy with for the scene

୨ৎ “If you want to leave with your arm short-circuting, be my guest,” you sigh, “but I don’t do sloppy work.” Your eyes flit up to hers for a moment- just until she catches you staring- before you continue tinkering with her arm. “And for the record,” you say, finally leaning back to admire your handiwork, “I’m not from Piltover.”

୨ৎ Nina’s brows furrow in confusion for a split second before she conceals her interest with Sevika’s typical scowl. “You didn’t tell me that.”

୨ৎ You smirk, looking up at her through your eyelashes. “You didn’t ask.” 

୨ৎ “Jesus,” the director calls out, “You two… I mean, the chemistry is palpable. Exactly what I'd envisioned. What do you think, Nina?”

୨ৎ You feel shy under her knowing smirk

୨ৎ “I think we’ve got our Evette.”

୨ৎ “Yeah?” The director responds with a smile, “What do you think, Y/n? How would you like to join us for season three of Arcane?”

୨ৎ Frankly, you almost shit yourself in front of the entire room

୨ৎ Thankfully, you’re able to keep it together and accept the role like a normal person; and now, here you are, three years later, and Arcane fans are obsessed with you

୨ৎ Even more than they’re obsessed with you, they’re obsessed with you and Nina 

୨ৎ Your character is a catalyst for the well-deserved, long overdue exploration of Sevika’s character and her vulnerabilities, and you and Nina are so invested in your characters that the bond you develop while filming inevitably goes beyond screen

୨ৎ At first, you’re wildly intimidated by her; she’s a renowned actress who’d been in the industry for a while, most known for roles similar to Sevika: guarded, icy, domineering

୨ৎ You’re quite tickled (and pleasantly surprised) to learn that Nina is the exact opposite

୨ৎ As soon as cut is called, she’s breaking into a smile, cracking a joke, or praising you for your performance

୨ৎ After particularly heavy or intense scenes, though, her expression tends to remain serious, and her focus isn’t on anyone but you until she knows you're all good

୨ৎ There’s one scene in particular- one where Sevika’s ripping into Evette- that Nina still feels bad about

୨ৎ It’s the first scene she thinks of when a journalist asks which scene from season three was the hardest to film

୨ৎ “I hate having to yell at her,” she says. “I can’t stand it; and you saw her bring on the tears- man, it broke my freakin’ heart!” 

୨ৎ You reach over to rub circles in between her shoulder blades, playfully rolling your eyes

୨ৎ “Poor baby,” you say, sticking your bottom lip out in a mocking pout

୨ৎ “So I take it Sevika’s disposition is much different than Nina’s?” The journalist inquires

୨ৎ “Oh, 100%,” you nod, “Apart from the RBF, Nina is a softie. I’ve never seen her angry.”

୨ৎ “I’m not a softie,” she mutters, resting her chin in her hand, “and what is RBF?”

୨ৎ “Resting Bitch Face,” you say in tandem with the journalist

୨ৎ She lets out a loud laugh, doubling over in her seat

୨ৎ It’s after this interview that fans begin to pick up on some… not-so-platonic energy between you and Nina

୨ৎ Nina is very sweet, yes, but she’s also very shy

୨ৎ But it seems that whenever she’s around you, she’s much more comfortable, coming out of her shell more than ever

୨ৎ Thus prompts the compilations 

୨ৎ “Nina Singh and Y/n Y/l/n being in love for 12 minutes and 54 seconds”

୨ৎ “Every time Nina manages to make the conversation about Y/n compilation”

୨ৎ “Take a shot every time Y/n makes Nina blush challenge: extreme”

୨ৎ But there are three moments in particular that fans can’t get enough of:

୨ৎ 1. The forever immortalized moment where you made Nina blush during a red carpet event

୨ৎ It wasn’t abnormal for the two of you to be paired for most press appearances, considering that your characters were a package deal in season 3, so you’re not surprised when you’re being photographed on the red carpet at the season premier and the photographers want a shot of you two together

୨ৎ “Let’s get some of the two of you, yeah?” the line of photographers begin to call out

୨ৎ Your hand reaches out for Nina- who’s a few feet away, getting her own photos taken- and she quickly slots next to you, arm wrapping around to hold your waist

୨ৎ Her fingers comb through her hair; once, twice, a third time

୨ৎ “My hair won’t stay out of my damn face,” she grumbles

୨ৎ Suddenly, you’re turning to her, reaching up to tuck the stray tendril of raven hair behind her ear and brushing back any other stray pieces

୨ৎ “Better?” You ask, turning back to the cameras like nothing had happened

୨ৎ You don’t notice that she’s acting like a total loser now; all fidgety and shy and awkward

୨ৎ In fact, she gets so bashful that her hand comes up to hide her face

୨ৎ And, of course, who wouldn’t photograph a moment so adorable?

୨ৎ She’s forever haunted by the circulation of her photographed schoolgirl crush freak out

୨ৎ 2. The one and only time she’s ever gone Sevika on someone in real life; and it was to defend you 

୨ৎ You’re sitting on your very first panel at a popular convention, as star-struck by the sea of fans in front of you as they are by the actors and actresses in front of them

୨ৎ This was the most pressure you’d felt during the press tour yet; being interviewed in real time in front of the show’s biggest supporters, answering questions from the show’s biggest supporters

୨ৎ Luckily, the crowd had been great so far

୨ৎ (You’re also sat in between Nina, who always eases your nerves, and Ekko’s actor, who you definitely shouldn’t have been seated next to because all you two do is cut up smh)

୨ৎ Until, a perturbed fan has a question for Nina

୨ৎ “I heard that Natalia Richmond was in the running for the role of Evette; I’m a big fan of both of your work, and I was honestly a little bummed to hear that she wouldn’t be starring alongside you. Not that Y/n didn’t do a good job, but do you wonder what Evette’s character could have looked like if someone else had gotten to take a stab at the character?”

୨ৎ The room falls silent

୨ৎ Your ears burn with embarrassment, and on instinct, you look over to Nina, whose jaw is set

୨ৎ She lowers her mic, turning her head to you with a scoff

୨ৎ “Are you fucking kidding me?”

୨ৎ The crowd lets out an awkward laugh; her mic had picked up her grievance 

୨ৎ Not that she gave a fuck

୨ৎ “Well,” she exhales, bringing the mic back up to her mouth, “truthfully, I don’t think Y/n did a good job. I think she did an incredible job.”

୨ৎ Your breath hitches in your throat

୨ৎ Her voice is stern, assertive; and for the first time since you’ve known her, Nina Singh is pissed

୨ৎ “I wouldn’t have been able to deliver the performance I wanted to this season without her. Sevika’s character arc would not have been executed as well as it was if i’d worked alongside anyone but the woman to my right; so no, I do not wonder what Evette’s character would have looked like if she weren’t played by Y/n, and I haven’t wondered since the day we had our chemistry test.”

୨ৎ With that, she sets the mic down, leaning back and crossing her arms in front of her with a scowl still on her face

୨ৎ The crowd gives her an applause- thankfully, the majority of Arcane’s fans adored you and could not have pictured the Arcane universe without you- and you lean over, giving Nina a “Thank you” and a squeeze on her arm

୨ৎ “Don’t mention it,” she shrugs; and at the sight of the warm smile on your face, she’s a giant teddy bear again

୨ৎ 3. The time you and Nina casually dropped that you’re basically U-Haul Lesbians

୨ৎ You two are setting up for an interview, and the camera is already rolling as your makeup artists powder your faces and your mics are adjusted

୨ৎ The footage starts in the middle of an idle conversation with the journalist

୨ৎ “So you hadn’t heard of RBF until then?” she asks

୨ৎ “I must be getting old,” she shrugs. She gives the makeup artist a soft “Thanks” as they walk away before she continues. “I hadn’t heard that phrase a day in my life; although I had heard that I’m a little unapproachable.”

୨ৎ You chuckle to yourself, thinking of the first time you met Nina; she does tend to sport a furrowed brow, but as soon as she speaks, she’s as kind as can be

୨ৎ “I didn’t think you liked me when we first met,” you muse 

୨ৎ “Oh, well you were right that time. I don’t like you.” 

୨ৎ You all burst out into a fit of laughter 

୨ৎ Anyone who knew of Nina knew of her affection for you

୨ৎ “Right, that’s why we're roomates; because you hate me so much,” you chuckle.

୨ৎ “Exactly- ‘s why we took in a stray cat, too, because who does that with someone they like?"

୨ৎ The journalist is now looking at both of you, gobsmacked

୨ৎ “You mean to tell me you two are living together and took in a stray cat together?”

୨ৎ Cluelessly, you both look to each other, then back to the journalist

୨ৎ “Yeah,” you smile, nodding innocently

୨ৎ “So you two are basically married…” 

୨ৎ Nina snorts, and you giggle, and you both agree

୨ৎ And that night, when you’re both back at home, Nina finally asks:

୨ৎ “Well, since we’re basically married, are you gonna let me take you out to dinner?”

୨ৎ Bonus: 

୨ৎ Yes, there was a sex scene

୨ৎ No, the two of you did not hear the director say cut

୨ৎ Tweets below… enjoy.

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (7)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: again, I'm thanking all of yous for fueling the chemical override fire! Your comments/messages are so sweet and hilarious and wild - just as this story demands <3 Happy reading!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The arrangement you and Ewan share is in place, but jealousy rears its ugly head when another costar takes an interest in you. It isn't Aemond's allegiance that renders Ewan green-eyed, so to speak...

London

Whenever Ewan needs you, you answer the call.

Because, in truth, you need him too. This might not be the most savoury of arrangements; it might not be what you pictured in your head when you thought of getting back together.

But this way, you can have him, and he can have you.

It's a win-win situation. Even if you're not his, and he's not yours, as he so nicely put it.

So you're there when his need arises. Which, as it happens, arises often - intense, wanton, and greedy. He takes you for himself, your body left littered with markings that can only be from his teeth, his fingers, his aching manhood.

Beads of sweat would cloud your vision as the side of your face is pressed to the mattress, your legs bent to give him better access, so that he sinks deeper. He would whisper, - you're mine... you're mine... fuckin' mine, darling - when he leans down to pant roughly in your ear, momentarily forgetting about the one condition of this whole thing.

You're not his. But as he finishes inside of you, claiming your lips in a bruising kiss, you also have it in you to conveniently forget.

Your respective apartments in London set the stage for your trysts. Ewan comes over so often that he's had to use the back entrance, after getting papped once on a foggy Sunday morning, leaving your apartment building in the same clothes that he wore when he entered at midnight.

LATE NIGHT RENDEZVOUS! - on page 6! Game of Thrones spinoff stars can't get enough of each other!

When Ewan said that the whole thing was going to be a secret, he must have failed to account for the near-impossibility of that notion for a celebrity.

What can be kept secret for those in your line of work?

A romance between two young, highly coveted actors will see the light of day eventually, aided by the blinding flashes of papparazzi cameras.

Predictably, your friends catch on and demand to know how you little lovebirds found your way back together, because of course, they always knew you would.

Sadly, you have to burst Phia's bubble when she calls one evening. "We're not back together."

A pause. She mulls it over. "But the papers..."

"I know."

"He's been seeing you... " She claims, her tone growing unsure.

"He has."

"Then what... oh." You can practically picture the realisation coming across her face. Would it be accompanied by distaste or disappointment? Neither is good anyhow.

"We're seeing each other. But, not really, if you get what I mean."

"No!" she exclaims. You can hear shuffling in the background, like she just slammed the book she was reading shut. "Whose brilliant idea was this?"

"That's doesn't mat - "

"It's Ewan's, isn't it?" she answers, confirming her own suspicion. "That little devious bastard."

"It's not his fault," you find yourself shaking your head, then you startle as the buzzer to your apartment gets your attention. The routine is in place - it's the receptionist letting you know that Ewan is in the lobby. Speak of the devil...

Hmm. You walk to the intercom to let him upstairs, thinking of him coming to claim his prize. But he's not the devil - he's my twisted angel, whose heart I broke.

Phia isn't finished. "What do you mean, it's not his fault? If this was his idea, then let me just talk to the lad and screw his bloody head on straight."

You stand by the door, waiting for his arrival, because whenever Ewan needs you, you're there.

You need him too.

"Phi, I... I want this," you reply. "I have to go."

"Babe, we're not done here. You're not getting off easy."

"I know, I know," you smile at her genuine concern. "Maybe you're right, maybe this all wrong." But...

You know you don't have to say it outright. It's there to see, clear as day.

You love him.

She sighs loudly, resigning herself to the truth of her friend's predicament. "You'll figure this out, the both of you."

"Hope so, Phi." The doorbell rings. You rush through your goodbyes, dropping the call with a promise to keep her updated on what she deems a ridiculous situation.

You greet him at the door, and he stands there, with his black hoodie obscuring his face like he's Daemon about to do some nefarious act of sorts. And he just might. He chews on his lip, and smirks as he takes you in.

"Darling," he greets as he lets himself in. He shrugs off his hoodie and drops it in its usual corner, before beckoning for you with his arms reaching.

He runs his fingers through your hair, as he kisses your neck and inhales your scent, purring, " - fuckin' missed you, beautiful - " as his skilled fingers find the hem of your old shirt.

"My darling girl," he says, and you so badly want to hate him, because he's not being fair. Why does he get to act like this matters to him, when he made it clear that this is only so both your needs are met? Why does he look at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat in hope, with those same blue eyes that blazed when he once said he loved you?

How can you make sure that you don't fall back in love with him, when that love was never truly gone?

"Ewan," you moan as he pushes you against a wall, his rough hands kneading your flesh. You help him pull his shirt over his head, and your fingers drag upward along his skin until it finds the silver chain around his neck. You use it to pull him even closer, not a breadth of space between you.

He kisses you, and it's like an anchor finding home.

Yours or his, it matters little.

It nearly bubbles out of the two of you - those forbidden three words - each time his hips slam right into yours. It's almost there, fighting, waiting to be heard. His 'I really do fucking love you', and your 'I'm sorry about everything, about lying, all I ever wanted was you.'

Nearly. If only things were that simple.

He never stays for long afterward. Small talk is shared - about his new film, the ongoing production for yours, the upcoming engagements you both have for season 3 of House of the Dragon. The bloody weather, even.

The holidays have come and gone, and soon the two of you will again have to fly out to work - you, back to Atlanta; him, to LA for the pre-production of his film with Jenna Ortega.

He took on the film after all, and you should be relieved, but it's hard to feel any sense of ease when you know he will have to be with her in a way that he can't be with you. To the rest of the world, soon enough, they will have to play at being together. Your only claim to him rests in between the sheets, in the countless hollow trysts to be shared.

He doesn't reach for you after the deed is done, after his clothes are back in place and his hair is relieved of that post-sex tousle. As if touching you would cast him aflame.

But you feel his eyes linger on you, all the time, especially when you try to avert your gaze.

What is he thinking, you wonder. Who does he see?

On his way out, he has to deal with an obstacle in order to retrieve his hoodie. An adorable one, at that. Your black Bobtail cat, Sansa, nestles comfortably atop it. Her paws grip the cotton material of the hoodie as Ewan tries to pull it away.

"She likes you," you smile at the sight of Ewan gingerly trying to lift Sansa so she doesn't lash out at him. Even though the likelihood to that is low, with Sansa taking so well to Ewan's constant presence, so much so that you sometimes find her meowing at the door waiting for him to come back. The traitor.

"Good girl," he whispers to her, his hoodie almost released from the weight of her fluffy shape. "That's it."

Then he turns to you, smiling as he shrugs his hoodie back on. "I don't think she wants me to leave."

Like mother, like daughter, comes your thought. But when he straightens, and appraises you with a sideways glance, an amused hum escaping his lips, you realise that you said it out loud.

He smirks openly to himself, his ego blossoming. You roll your eyes at him, mumbling, "Oh, give me a break."

He simply shrugs, walking over to the door.

"I'll call you," he calls over his shoulder as a matter of courtesy, but he sounds uncertain, and the question lingers. Please don't say no, his tone practically begs.

How can you ever?

Arms crossed in an attempt to act nonchalant, leaning against the wall, you smile and say, "Try not to miss me too much, Mitchell."

His eyes linger as they always do. "Impossible task," he responds, casually, unaware that he just upended your whole world with his words.

He solidifies the grip he has on you, before he leaves.

And so the fucked up cycle continues.

Los Angeles

A ginger tabby cat slinks around Ewan's ankles as he sits in the director's office, reminding him of your Sansa and the way she would slink in between your bodies the moment she finds an opening, which is usually after the heated roll in the hay.

He smiles to himself on instinct, remembering how you once shared that you wanted to adopt another cat, preferably a Ragdoll, and name him Benjicat.

"Benjicat?" Ewan had asked.

"Yeah," you smiled, as you stroked a purring Sansa between her ears. "Benjicat Blackwood."

Ewan merely blinked, the connection dawning on him, the brilliance of your idea not lost on his supposedly indifferent mind. He could not hold back his warm and appreciative smile as he gazed at you, and for a moment, he pretended that things were back as they were.

He briefly had the idea that, perhaps, you should adopt the future Benjicat together.

Until the bitter thought crossed his mind - he wasn't the one who quashed that possibility first.

In the office in LA, Jenna sits daintily across from him, still aloof and somewhat of a stranger. She had given him a shy smile when she sat down at the table, exchanged pleasantries and surface-level compliments, the works.

Ewan feels nervous, almost ill at ease, and he normally would be able to single out the reasons why. It could be the notion of meeting an acclaimed director and his future costars. Trying not to stumble on his words, messing up their first impression of him. Maybe he had chainsmoked one cigarette too many before the meeting, worsening the anxiety-inducing effect of his staple black coffee with six sugars.

But this is different. He knows the thing he is dreading is when the matter of the PR business will be brought up.

So he doesn't know what emotion comes over him when the director, Autumn de Wilde, lightly remarks in an attempt to break the tension, "So, Ewan, how's your girlfriend?"

"M-my girlfriend?"

"Yeah," she says jovially, "your costar right? It's all over the socials."

"Oh, I love her," Jenna chimes in. "Is she back in England or is she filming somewhere?"

She's not my girlfriend, is what he should say, but he can't push the words out of his mouth. He's not even sure he wants to. After all, that is why he had the idea for the friends with benefits arrangement in the first place - because he can't cope with the fact that you're not his girfriend anymore.

"Mmm, yeah, she's - uhhh - she's filming in Atlanta," Ewan answers, dodging the main question, but not really.

"Well, say hello to her for me," Autumn says. "She's a keeper, huh? What with her being okay with the PR bullshit you will have to do."

Jenna purses her lips apologetically at him, then remarks, "I don't like that Bruce guy. I know some people who worked with him, and they share the sentiment."

Ewan feels lighter, knowing that they're on the same page. He asks tentatively, "That PR thing... is it set in stone or - ?"

Autumn sighs, "Apparently so, kid. But I heard along the grapevine that great ol' Brucey is dealing with some suit and he might have to pull out of the film."

"Some suit?" Ewan asks.

"A lawsuit," Jenna says.

"Oh." What the fuck. "If he pulls out then what that does mean for us?"

"Halle-fuckin-lujah, that's what," Autumn laughs. "More creative control, more logistics control... more happiness for everyone, really."

"Does that mean the PR relationship will be scrapped?" Ewan blurts out, before sheepishly adding to Jenna, "I mean, no offense - "

"None taken," she shakes her head at him. "I never had a liking for that stuff anyway."

"Well, we'd have to consult with the rest of the execs but they're a lot more likely to be conducive to requests," Autumn says.

Ewan feels a rush of relief, one he immediately wishes he can share with you. If you only you stuck it out with him. If only you didn't leave him hanging at the first sign of trouble.

If only you weren't unsure of how you felt about him.

He calls you afterward, because he wants to, the last remaining shred of his resentment towards you be damned.

"Production nearly finished, darling?" He asks, the pretense of holding back from using the term of endearment long since abandoned.

"Mhmm, I've got one more week here in Atlanta, Mitchell."

You've gone back to calling him Mitchell - not baby, love, or anything remotely romantic.

It bothers him, but he's determined not to let it show.

"I've got about a week and a half here still."

"Then we've got season three prep in London, right?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "I'll see you back there I suppose."

"Okay," you reply, sounding uncertain of what to say next. "Are you... is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he automatically says. "I just thought... maybe I can come see you."

He listens to your steady breathing at the other end, and it calms him. He waits in silence, until you respond with, "Aren't you busy out there, Ewan?"

He is, and he is aware that it makes him seem desperate. It has only been a few weeks since your last rendezvous back in London, and he is supposed to remain nonchalant. Unaffected. This is not supposed to be some kind of lifeline for him. The thought of you should not be what runs through his mind at every waking moment.

He contradicts all of that, when he admits, "I am, but I want to see you anyway. I can fly out for a day and we could - "

"Ewan - "

"I need you."

You sigh deeply, and he pictures the silhouette of your shoulders rising and falling, the pinch in between your brows, the concerned frown your lips take the shape of.

He misses you. Do you miss him too?

"I know," you say. "But I'll see you soon in London, okay?"

That was not the answer he wanted. There are times when you sound dispassionate and he feels like you couldn't give less of a shit about him, and it kills him.

Even though it shouldn't, and this is what he should have expected, after proposing the arrangement.

But there are also times when you give him a spark of hope to cling to.

"Besides," you muse, "we'll soon have to prepare to give the fans what they want. All the love for Aemond and Alyna surely will not be ignored by the writers. I know I'm rooting for them."

Ewan laughs, "I am too."

Aemond and Alyna. You and him. There are fans, and there are fans, and Ewan is proudly a member of the latter.

"Okay, so, I have to head back inside," you say. "I - uhhh - "

"Yeah, darling, I'll see you soon." I miss you.

"Hmm," you respond, stealing his signature line right from his lips.

He stays on the line, unwilling to let you go.

"Mitchell?" you ask.

"Yes, love?"

"I guess you missed me too much after all."

He smiles wistfully, "I guess I did."

London

Production for your film wraps in early February, just in time for the initial preparations for the upcoming season of House of the Dragon.

You arrive back in London a week before the table read, just in time to join the rest of the cast for a mini reunion at Matt's apartment.

A few drinks in, with numerous tales regaled amongst the large group about what everyone has been up to for the past half year, and you realise just how much you missed being with the cast.

They truly are the best bunch of people you could have ever dreamed of working with.

You eventually found yourselves branching off into little groups, with some preparing food in the kitchen, others smoking out in the balcony, and the rest scattered in the expanse of the apartment.

Matt's place is well-decorated for a bachelor pad, with personal knick-knacks at every corner. You note this to him, as you sit on the plush carpet in his living room. Your little half-circle consists of yourself, Matt, Phia, Liv, Bethany, and Tom, all in varying degrees of inebriation, but either of the lads arguably take the cake.

"You see that?" Matt leans close, pointing to the green shelf nestled in the corner. "On the second level right there, is a prop I stole from season one."

"No way," you squint in that direction, unaware that he gives you a good once-over, the admiration in his eyes plain to see.

The others are quick to point it out in typical fashion.

"Now, now, Smithy," Tom quips. "Try not to burn holes in the girl with yer eyes there."

"She's my babe," Phia jokes, winking at you.

"Oh really?" Matt simply leans back on his palms, unaffected. "Not Ewan's?"

"Oop - " Liv's eyes widen like saucers. "Don't even go there, Smithy."

"Why ever not?" Matt shrugs.

"Guys," you shake your head, waving a hand in dismissal. "it's fine. It's... whatever."

"He's not here," Matt says. "We can talk about it."

"Gossip girl over here," Bethany smirks.

Matt was right in pointing out that Ewan is yet to arrive back from the States. Of course, Ewan had given you a call letting you know that he would be spending the night before the table read at your apartment.

But right now, in this moment, you didn't really feel like going through the sordid details of your affair.

"We can talk about it," you say, "but I'd rather not."

Matt laughs, "Okay. But are you or are you not together?"

"Matt," Tom groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in amusement at his mate's boldness.

"Hey, it's a simple question!"

"It is, isn't it?" you shrug, allowing him that, because he is speaking true. It is supposed to be simple. "We're not actually together... but some of you already know - " you shoot Tom and Phia pointed glances " - that we had a thing once, and we may have a thing still, only lesser and more casual." You look around the group, hoping they got the gist, and that no follow-up statements are necessary.

"Hey, I get it," Bethany replies. "It sounds complicated, but it's your business, sweetheart."

You hum gratefully. The others jump on another topic, but Matt slinks closer to you, with the on-brand glint in his eyes. He says, lowly, "That's good, then."

Your mouth parts in pleasant surprise, as you finally take notice of the way he looks at you. "Say that again, Smithy?"

"You heard me," he answers. Smooth. Matt has been known to be the resident casanova of the cast, with his undeniable charm on and off set. He can get along with absolutely anyone, and this includes the array of women who get pulled in by his charisma.

It's lost on you why he would now set his sights on you, but you can't deny that you enjoy the attention.

Fabien suddenly comes into view with that digital camera of his pointed towards your group. He snaps one of Tom whose raised bottle of beer half covers his smirking face. Then he turns to you and Matt, saying, "Give papa a smile, kids!"

Matt quickly slings an arm around you, making you lean against him. He coolly points to the camera, posing like he usually does. You smile widely, your brain in a pleasant daze from the alcohol, the banter, and the alluring scent of Matt's perfume.

"Send me a copy of that, Fabs," Matt comments after. Fabien will probably post the photo on his usual Instagram slideshow, but Matt happily stays off the socials.

"Gonna get it framed?" you joke, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

"Oh, you bet," he winks at you, making you swallow nervously. Speaking to him now, in this way, you realise just how easily the Matt Smith is able to get with the ladies. Charm practically oozes off of him.

And Daemon was your original favourite, after all.

Fabien and Matt walk you and Phia back to your apartments in the wee hours of the morning. Though your neighbourhood was only 5 minutes away, the lads gallantly insisted that they wouldn't let you go without an escort.

Your group weaves its way through the empty streets of London, chatting and laughing away, the effects of the alcohol yet to wear off. At some point, Matt wraps an arm around you, and you let him keep it that way.

You have grown fond of him, having spent a lot of time with him during filming. And, well, you needed to keep your balance anyway.

Not to mention, he offers a pleasant distraction from having to yearn all the damn time for what you once had with Ewan.

Fabien and Phia walk ahead to her nearby apartment, so you're left with Matt in front of your building.

"We'll be spending a lot more time together this season, fortunately," he says.

"That's kind of a given," you laugh. "Alyna's never going to drop her oath to the Queen."

"And the King."

"Consort," you finish for him.

He laughs freely, shaking his head, before his expression turns a bit serious. He dips his face closer to yours, whispering, "And in real life? Is Alyna sticking with Aemond?"

That stumps you. Matt's blue eyes are indeed arresting, but one mention of Aemond is enough to bring you back into the Ewan Mitchell spiral.

But... you're not his.

You shrug in response, smiling softly, "I guess some things just aren't meant to be."

You become convinced that the universe must be testing you because your phone buzzes in that moment, revealing an incoming call from Ewan One-Eye.

Matt spots it easily, challenging you with, "So what then, beautiful? Are you going to answer the call?"

It buzzes once more, and another time, before you press decline.

Matt doesn't give you the time to regret your decision. He swoops down and plants a soft kiss at the corner of your lips. Nothing too much, but just enough to toe the line of simply being friendly.

"I - I better head inside - " you stammer, your face heating up.

"You better."

"I'll see you soon, Smithy."

He nods, "See you soon, my Alyna."

Ewan can hardly focus on the script in front of him. He struggles to get his lines out efficiently during the table read, and he hopes that no one else notices.

It would be a miracle if you actually take notice of him, with Matt stealing your attention as he sits to your right.

The cast and crew are positioned around the room, and you just happened to be directly across Ewan, right in his line of sight. He would revel in it, but not now, with Matt leaning in once in a while and whispering something in your ear that makes you softly giggle.

How unprofessional. Whatever he is telling you, it sure must be fucking fascinating.

He isn't entirely oblivious of your growing closeness with Matt. He saw the photos of the two of you walking the streets of London, snug against each other, but he chose not to think much of it. After all, how many times has Matt been pictured with an arm wrapped around a costar? That is just how he is. Open and friendly.

Ewan had not been inclined to think it meant something more in your case.

"Ewan," he hears Tom sharply whisper to his left. "It's your line."

The room is silent in anticipation, eager to get on with the script. You lock eyes with him and offer an encouraging smile, and he is just about to reciprocate, but then he notices Matt's arm resting on the back of your seat.

Like he has laid a claim on you.

Ewan ends up grumbling out his lines, lacking the vulnerability that Aemond is meant to be displaying in that scene.

His keeps his expression stoic, trying to do his best to accomplish the task at hand. A tiny consolation is that the script to season three seems to be marginally better than that for the previous season.

There is not a single scene of Aemond and Alyna thus far, but the script is littered with those of Daemon and Alyna. Which makes complete sense, since they're fighting for the same cause, and Daemon has been somewhat of a mentor to the young Alyna.

Ewan liked their dynamic, being a fan of both the characters, and their real-life counterparts. But the scene that is playing out before him may be enough to sway his bias to the contrary.

Daemon and Alyna. You and Matt.

Ewan scoffs to himself, forgetting where he is for a moment. Tom side-eyes his weird behaviour, thinking, the lad must have left his marbles back in America.

Ewan doesn't notice. His thoughts race a mile a minute - Do the writers not see the potential goldmine they've got with the Aemond and Alyna dynamic? Do they not know how crazy it would drive the fanbase?

Is Matt unaware that it was his name - Ewan's, and no one else's - that you were screaming last night?

Your sputtered little pants of his name rise from his memory, your breathing ragged by the time he finished making love to you the third round in the same night.

That... that was his.

You are -

"Mate," Tom clasps him on the shoulder, "drink some water, yeah? You look bloody flushed."

Ewan hums gratefully, nodding once, shaking the image of you from his mind.

After all, he wears his Adidas joggers today, and the thin material would not be able to conceal it if he ended up having a raging hard-on, in front of everyone during the damn table read.

When another scene of Daemon and Alyna comes on, with you and Matt eagerly reciting your lines to each other, the boyish lust that Ewan entertained essentially dies.

He purses his lips, a ghost of a smile, ever the good and supportive costar.

He raises his head to distract himself by looking around the table, eventually locking eyes with Phia, who had already been looking at him strangely.

You okay? she mouths.

His head snaps toward the sound of your laughter before he could respond.

"Shoot, sorry," you smile, apparently having read the wrong line. Everyone at the table waves it off, a cacophony of 'it's alright' and 'you got this' heard around the room.

When you finish the rather long, drawn-out speech Alyna makes, there is an intermission before the next scene.

People begin turning to each other to make comments, some stand to stretch their legs. Then Ewan hears it - "How'd I do, Smithy?" followed by "Not too shabby, my Alyna."

His Alyna?

Ewan flips the bloody table over in his mind.

Ewan calls you the following night, under the pretense of the arrangement.

In truth, he'd take anything. He could sit on your couch and watch paint dry, if it meant being around you.

"Not tonight, Ewan," you say, and his heart sinks.

"Why not?" he asks, uncaring about how downright needy he sounds.

"Uhhhm, I have a friend over," you reveal.

"Phia? I'm sure she'll understand."

"Oh, come on, Ewan. It's not Phia, and even if it was, I wouldn't just send her away."

"Who then?" he insists, but some part of him already knows the answer.

"Fabien," you say, "and Matt. But Fabien already left to go see Bella, so it's just - "

"You and Matt, huh," he spits bitterly. For an actor, he sure is unable to mask his emotions.

"What are you insinuating? We're friends. You're his friend too, Ewan."

"Hmm," his grip on his phone tightens, "you seem a lot closer than friends to me."

"You're being ridiculous," you scoff. "I would ask you to still come over if you want to hang out with us but not if you're being this unpleasant."

"Forget it," he practically snaps, immediately regretting his tone, "let me know when you're less occupied."

"Ewan - "

"It's okay, darling," he cuts you off, wanting to be done with the conversation already. "I'll come see you before the cast shoot." He refers to the Entertainment Weekly photoshoot the entire cast is slated to do in the coming week, the first offering of season three promo.

"Okay," you exhale, then say, "Sansa misses you."

That earns a weak smile out of him. If only her owner could say that she misses him too. "Does she?"

"Mhmm," you respond, and he hears the smile in your voice, "so... so you better come over soon or she might start clawing at the door."

Matt makes his presence known, his voice becoming audible as he walks into the room where you are, asking, "You alright, love?"

"Ewan, I gotta go," you say in a rush.

"Okay," he sighs in defeat. He drops his phone on the couch, then paces around his apartment, needing to get the picture of you and Matt canoodling out of his mind.

He audibly groans. Why must he torture himself so? If you say that you and Matt are just friends, then that must be the case.

My Alyna, Matt had called you.

In a sudden flash of madness or genius, Ewan picks up his phone and redownloads a certain wretched app.

It takes less than a minute, and soon he finds himself back in the mostly uncharted waters of Instagram. Careful not to accidentally like any post as he had before, he makes his way to the section that lets him create a new post.

Scrolling through his photo gallery, it doesn't take long before he finds one to his liking.

No editing is needed. He knows that the image and its subjects need no addition.

In his eyes, you are perfect as you are.

That night marks Ewan's second ever official post on his Instagram, yet again sending the entire fandom in a wild tailspin.

It's a picture of you sitting on top of your bed, hair slightly dishevelled, and with an old pyjama shirt on. Sansa is cradled on your bare thighs, and a smile graces your face as you pet her dotingly. The angle is from the side, where Ewan lay on his designated part of your bed, surreptitiously taking the picture.

The morning light cast a soft glow on your face, and the entire scene had made Ewan wish he never had to leave.

Under the post, reads the caption -

My Alyna.

💌 next chapter

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Some notes in the margins...

In part 8 - the EW photoshoot, more season three prep, and big news regarding Ewan's upcoming film!

I'm taking all your amazing ideas into account, and you'll continue to see smatterings of them in this story.

As always, I can't wait to talk with yous in the comments! Which couple is your endgame? <3