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jupiterpiss · 2 days ago

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jupiterpiss my beloved, lemme see the toxic ex remmick post🙏🏻🙏🏻

It’s long.

Warnings: Briefly proof read. Sorry if there are any mistakes. This took a shit ton while and it’s long as hell too. Gore.. GOREEEE PEOPLE. Animals are harmed, some graphic detail of mutations and death. Blood mentioned, spit play. Lots of spit.. he licks you. All over. Reader tries to be cool and insult him but it literally fails. Also cause she’s partially lying. FEM READER. Pussy smacking.. yeah u read that right. Remmick threatens to kill children and members of readers family. He’s really mean here. Mention of curses! P in v. Porn WITH plot. Yeah. Uhhh I think that’s it. Can’t remember where.. but reader is kinda acknowledged to be poc? I think? Somewhere I wrote that but I can’t remember.. so if it’s not there, then just ignore this tag.

It’s the beginning of July when he comes back. When the heat is slowly climbing, held at a pleasant warmth in the beginnings of summer. Not too harsh but not too chill, just enough to sleep with the sheets on.

Although your bed remains cold, has yet to be comforted by the warmth of your skin, yet to cushion itself around your weight.

Instead, the rocking chair on your porch holds your frame. Coddles you, as your it’s child. Protected away in its wood bindings, softly rocking you back and forth.

Between your point and middle finger rests a cigarette, the smoke of it blowing lightly in the soft breeze, swirling around before disappearing into the dark, or lingering around the porch light you got on. Something to keep you awake, comforted. Just as the chair.

You’ve been doing this for a while now, sitting outside, smoking. It was a horrible habit, something picked up just a few months ago. Not too long after you met the man you keep waiting on.

It was actually due to him you even started, that you actually liked the taste of the cigarette, the breeze and roll of the smoke curling in your lungs before blowing it out. It got rid of the shake in your hands, the anxious tap of your foot. Eased you.

It also worked as a distraction, a tactic used to lie to yourself. That yes, you’re only out here for a smoke, only out here to whind down for the night. That you’re not waiting for him, not waiting to see if he’ll show. With his crooked teeth and cocky attitude that seems to fail.

The chair groans, creaks loud as you get out of it, as if it’s calling out to you, mourning the loss of you. The wood of the porch cries just as loudly, louder than it usually does. As if it’s calling for something, crying out the tears and calls you can’t bring yourself to do.

You’re halfway through the door when you feel it. That quiet. The pull of something old, a thread connecting you to the dead, yanked tightly around his finger as if he’s your puppeteer. It’s maybe why you pause, stay.

Then, turn, slowly, as if you could feel it. Feel him.

In the far distance are two little orbs, bright red. Too tall to be a mammal but too short to be an owl in a tree. You stay still, will yourself to not blink. That if you do, he’ll show up. Be a shit ton closer.. and then you’ll have to deal with him.

His hunger. Love. Whatever else that lingers in his bones.

A minute passes, and due to basic human instinct you blink. Once, twice. Each time he gets closer until he lingers just off the porch, by about an inch.

Only then he speaks, when he’s under the shadow of the porch light, gives a small, “Hey baby.”

You stare in disbelief. Perplexed. As if his existence is something other worldly.. which it could be. As if him coming back never occurred to you. It did, several times, but each time he entered differently.

Louder. Meaner maybe. Maybe he would come crying, or hell, even with some new broad. Maybe even a whole ‘pack’ he went out to create. Something.

Not this. Him, casual, as if he didn’t disappear for three weeks. All happy smiles and a lustful gaze.

He doesn’t take the silence very well, can’t, deciding to fill it with random conversation, “was hard to find ya’, at first. Thought you would be back with em’ family of yours. But this nice-“ he points a finger at your house, towards the door that remains halfway open with your body halfway in, facing him.

“Liked to see my girl independent. Always knew you worked hard. Hell, Went outta yer way to get us a house.. now we really can get crackin on the whole family thing, huh?”

“Where the fuck were you.”

His smile immediately drops, and he flinches at your words. Liked you smacked him.

“Well.. now that ain’t no way to greet a lover-“

You cut him off, not in the mood for his banter, “Where the fuck were you, Remmick?”

“Baby.. I was out. Getting food.”

You tilt your head at him, but it’s less of a naive curiosity, more of a way to show your anger. The offence of his actions.

“For almost a fuckin month?”

It sounds like he winces, you can’t be too sure, but with how his shoulders tense, and the way he trips over his words says enough.

“I-wh- lo-look. Look. I was out.. gettin’ food. And I heard the most.. baby.. when I say this voice was god damn beautiful.. I mean-“ he gives a light scoff.

Your eyes squint, and he straightens, “you should’ve heard it. You would understand. It was like the voice of.. of the angels. And I could see em’”

Your jaw clenches, tight, the muscles tense, “see who.”

“Ancestors. The dead.. the- the buried. And the alive. The future. Everything. His voice-“

“His?”

“Sammy,” he quickly clarifies, like a name covers any confusion, “His voice broke the tether. Broke that bound.”

He shakes his head, slow. As if reminiscing on the memory, the life brought on by ‘Sammy’s’ voice. He gives a low hum.

“I couldn’t let that go.”

Dread. Yucky, gross dread washed over you. You hate how this story is going, don’t like how he’s still shaking his head, eyes no longer on you but lost on something else.

Lost on the memory.

He looks like he’s mourning.. and you feel like vomiting.

“Remmick.”

He gives a small hum, eyes still stuck in the corner of the door frame.

“What did you do?” You whisper.

He doesn’t wait long to answer, “tried to get him. Couldn’t. Damn near killed everyone just to do it, though.”

The bluntness of his words, of what he did doesn’t seem to surprise you. He’s always been like that, always been forward with his intentions and words.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t crack something in you. Something deep, a dam waiting to break free.

“He’s a preacher boy. Spoke of God. Sounded like him too when he sang. Should’ve heard him in that Juke joint-“

Your heart plummets.

Falls. Hits the fucking ground and splatters everywhere. It takes everything in you not to make it noticed, not at first.

You heard about that, the whole joint that went missing, only left the Klan and one body to show for in the morning.

Guns were splayed out on the floors, a car on fire was found not to far, and the bodies. Several of em’, all belonging to the Klan. Their wives said otherwise, said there was no such thing, how could there be. Said that it was the one body that didn’t belong to them that did this. Killed their husbands unmercifully.

No one in the community believed it. White folks did, but no one else.

Among the chaos of the scene lied a man with a name no one spoke of, was afraid to. Smoke. Whispered among people, out from a mouth and into an ear cupped behind a hand. Just mentioning him got people in trouble.

But even then.. no one knew what happened to everyone else.

Children left to be orphans and spouses left widowed. The rumours pinned it on smoke, said he took everyone in there too. Some said the Klan did all that. Others said something of a mob.

But the blood. The blood. It was slathered all over, coated the fucking walls from top to bottom. There were trails of hands, feet, looked like someone painted with it. And the boy. The boy. Now you remember. He was said to have claw marks on him, clothes soaked in blood and hand shaky around a guitar. A broken one, not even something full. Hardly spoke, too shaken and scared to even mutter a full sentence.

Left soon after. Didn’t stick around long to see what would be made of the situation.

Your mother hummed low when she told you, said, “The devil is near. Always is.”

You prayed it just wasn’t him. That someone else among the dead did that.

Well ain’t that a fuckin joke.

Your voice comes out croaky, broken. Something that rips out your throat and into his hands.

It sounds like grief, “You did that.”

He snaps out of his daze then. Looks at you, really looks. Takes in the horror on your face, the way you no longer are half way out but now fully in, hand on the door ready to shut it.

Shut him out. He fumbles, brows furrowed together and mouth frowning, “Baby… honey listen-“

“No. No.” You shake your head, “No. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He takes a step up the porch, cautious. Slow, as if approaching a wild animal, “whatcha talkin bout?”

“I shouldn’t have let you in. Around.”

Another step, his hand slowly moves up, trying to reach out, “Baby.”

“I danced too close. Forgotten myself.”

His voice goes low. Muttered, desperate to comfort but no life.. no humanity to do so, “We all do that from time to time. All that matters is movin on.. being together. That.. that was-“

“My ma was right.”

Remmick pauses. You give a deep exhale, “I let the devil in.”

“I- no,” he cocks his head, face disapproving, “I ain’t no devil. Just a man. Your man. Your love.”

He places a hand on his chest, rubs just over the space of his once beating heart. It looks like he’s trying to will it awake, kick it back into working again with the way he lightly taps his chest.

It doesn’t matter much , dead or alive. You decide that then.

Decide that your naivety couldn’t excuse this, been letting this run on to long. Thought you could fix the situation, live with the fact that he forges on the blood of the unsuspecting. Live with the fact that he’s more monster than human now.

If he ever was human. You decide then that you must rid the sickness living near.

“I don’t want this anymore.”

Everything halts. The breeze no longer blows, the crickets quiet. Even the light of the porch flickers.

“What.”

“You ain’t invited in. Nor will you ever be.. I don’t want you coming around anymore.”

“I- are-“

You watch him flinch, eye twitching and mouth opening and closing. You think you broke him.

Eventually, he finds the words, though their shaky while they come out, “I know this is.. this is scary but it wasn’t anything in anger or hatred. I ain’t like that.”

“You teared into him. Ripped his fuckin face.. killed his fuckin friends. You drained the life outta’ there.”

He doesn’t seem to enjoy that imagery, almost looks disgusted by it. Even then, he pleads his case.

“I just wanted them to be family. To be saved. They deserved a life of creation, of unity. This is a world of hate and I was Savin them from it.”

“By killin em.” You correct.

He sneers, “savin. Savin em. I killed their body but not their spirit, not their soul. They got to be one with each other a shit ton longer than what life was givin em.”

Bullshit.

“Well ain’t that a lie. I don’t see em here now. Hell even then.. they can’t do shit now. Not what we can. Can’t be around their own folks anymore.. can’t even see a fuckin sunset, Remmick!”

He doesn’t wince, doesn’t flinch. He stays still, completely still. His face is stern, all humor and concern dropped, washed away with something else you can’t quite point out.

But his eyes flicker again. Red. That says enough.

“All you do is take. That’s the only thing you’ll ever do.” You sniffle, fingers going to wrap around the handle of the door again, “Don’t come round’ anymore. Or I swear, I’ll make you regret it.”

And you slam it shut.

—

It first started with the crops.

Everyone noticed then. They hardly grew, hardly soaked up the sun. The dirt, it was bared of nutrients, sucked clean. As if it was rotten, dying from the inside out.

Only the lucky few, which you could hardly call them lucky, had their crops only last a week before they wilted. At first, they thought it was an infection of some kind. Perhaps the soil carried something, or a crop gone bad.. infected everything else. Some said it was animal, others said bugs. The ones that borrow deep in the mud, rip the crops to shreds from down below.

There was really no clear sign of what it was. What caused this rot. Fingers were pointed, of course. Land owners, workers, black or white. Everyone targeted each other, blamed each other for the diseases that spread across their land. Blamed the soil, the clouds, the weather. Every single speckle in the sky.

There was no clear indication of what was wrong. You didn’t know. Couldn’t.

Not when there were spoken pasts of dying crops, of dying lands. People perishing under famines and rot. Depressing.. but not supernatural. Some of the townsfolk spoke of how this was meant to happen, how it was something that was destined. No land remained untouched by sin, not forever, it just so happened to be their time. The crops would fail, it was natural.

But there was something tight in your throat. Something that tugged deep in your stomach, pulled at your spine. You didn’t want to say what it was. No quite. Not if you were uncertain.

The crops remained dead for the rest of the season, but it slowly became the least of your problems. It remained a lingering warning, a sign. Something whispered in the wind but not quite heard, just a ring that faintly echoed in your ears.

There was other means of resources still left over, the life stalk, the water. Such and such. Most families had goats, cows, horses. Still well. Still alive.

Your father, despite his own concerns, tended to brush off old wise tales. Was never one for folklore, nor gossip, “We still got ‘em’ cows.. ain’t gonna die anytime soon. Just outta’ wheat is all.. we’ll go on.”

It wasn’t long before he ate up his words, because soon after the cows began to rot too. Their wombs at least. Your family only had one, but some folks had two. Or three. It was expected that they would give birth during the summer, and a new herd could be formed, an extension of some sort that the town could benefit from.

But.. they just kept coming out wrong. Not deformed.. couldn’t even call it that. They just..

Some came out with no limbs, some no mouth, others had far too many torsos. Or even in the worse cases some came out hollow, no guts, no organs. Nothing. Just a dead heart.

It was midway through summer, the July heat choking you, the sun blazing down at all hours of the day, not one point had it been cold. The cow began its birth at noon, and by two p.m everyone in the family had gathered around the half baked carcass of a supposed cow.

It didn’t have a back end, didn’t have a head. Only two legs, and a torso. Not even.

And the fear. The horror, the pure fucking terror on your family’s face marked a change.

This wasn’t an infection. It was hatred.

Only then you knew it was Remmick.

But whether you came to that realization now or not, if ever, Remmick really didn’t give a damn. Nor did he stop. But it became less broad, his attacks. His infection. It slowly started to affect less of the townsfolk and just your family. Just you.

The cow was murdered a week later. sucked completely dry. The goat, the only one you had, was pissing blood a day later. Small red dots among its pee, shaking as if it was scared shitless. It didn’t take long for it to also be drained of its life soon after.

Your mother called you over to the house, along with your other siblings who no longer resided there, sat you all down.

Her face was scrunched tight, as if she had tasted something sour, foul. Something wrong. Your father simply stood behind her, jaw set tight, hand steady on her shoulder as she sat in front of him. Comfort, or support. Perhaps both.

“Which one of y’all been dancin’ with the devil, hm?”

You all stayed silent. Your eye twitched, and as she could feel the twitch herself, as if her skin was yours and yours hers, one, she snapped her eyes towards you. The floor creaked under your uneven shuffle, weighing from one foot to another.

“Hm? What have I told y’all? Since birth? Don’t.” She shook her head, “don’t give into pleasures you don’t understand. Don’t give the devil an inch, he will take a mile. Don’t!-“ she slammed her hand down onto the table. Everyone flinched, aside from your father, “Give into the devil! What have I said!”

The room was silent. Tense. No one moved, it felt as if no one was breathing. Her anger consumed the room, sucked the life out of it.

“Look at what you have done. Look! You think he’ll leave now? He’s marked us! Marked! I won’t ask who.. I won’t need to. You’ve damned us.. and that’s-“ she cuts off, giving a low hum, shaking her head.

“That’s enough.”

She stared at you, silent. You think she knows, with how harsh her glare is. And maybe she does, maybe she always had an inkling that you were the one to do this, that you always were going to be the one to do this. Like it’s written in your blood, birthed from the ground of hatred and sorrow, dancing with the devil as if he’s family.

And he was. At one point— not even.

He is. He wears the brand of your mark, made of your comfort and soft words. Love. Felt the warmth of your body, both clothed and naked, been whispered the gentle promises of something more. Something kind, something that digs deep in his chest and forces that dead heart of his to beat.

The promise that he can always come back. That this is home. He’s home.

It’s why he stands outside your home now, in the darkness, eyes red and smirk loose. He waits outside, knows it’s only you that resides in your home, all the way out here in the wilderness and dirt.

His smile only widens when you crack open the door, pissed off. But if he focuses hard enough, sniffs the air a bit harder, deeper, he can smell the traces of your fear. That prickle of sweat nipping at your neck, the shiver you hide by partially hiding your frame behind the door.

“Hey darlin’, long time no see.”

You immediately sneer at him, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He puts up his hands, “watcha mean? I just came on down to visit.. ain’t do nun yet-“

“Fuck off with that. I ain’t a god damn fool, Remmick.”

He watches as you scoff, stares as you look away, off into the night. He stays silent.

“You’re killing the land. My land, my home.”

You don’t look at him, not yet. There’s not much to see in the dark, hardly any shapes or structures to really gawk at. But the shadows of the night seem more comforting than his harsh gaze, the one that digs and pulls back all your flesh. Bares your heart for him, to him.

You feel your eyes grow wet, but are quick to blink away any tears. There was no use in crying in front of him.

“You’re fuckin’ terrorizing everything, everyone. You—“ you shake your head, looking down at the wood, rotting as well. You hardly noticed, just days ago it was fine, strong, but it seems with his presence it festers with sickness. Wilts. Just like the crops.

It’s a horrid sight, makes your gut twist. It’s not even graphic, not like the cow or the crops or any of that. But it twists inside you, forces you to look up at him, “spreadin’ your fuckin’ disease… why-“

He cuts you off, “you know why.”

That shut you up. You have half the mind, the instinct, to look away. But you don’t, or rather can’t, because every time you do there’s something else dying.

And.. he’s right.

You do know. Jesus Christ of fucking course you do. But it feels yucky to say out loud, to say you are the reasoning this is happening. You did this.

Just as your ma said, you brought the devil in.. and got pissed he decided to stay.

He allows the silence to linger for a few more moments, watches you shift uncomfortably under the weight of your own sorrows. It’s only when a frown starts to take place on your lips that his voice tugs you back out of your spiralling thoughts, “I ain’t doing this for fun. This ain’t no afternoon past time— curses like these take will power, I’ll tell ya that.”

Then there’s silence, deafening silence, again. Not even the wind breezes by. The wood, creaky and groaned loud before, remains still. Remmick stares, and you stare right back.

A silent challenge of some sort. You two do that often, stare. See who blinks first in the quiet, who cracks first. It usually happens during arguments, but it occurred once during a love confession.

When you were far too stubborn to give in, and he was far too open to let you shut him out.

“You don’t get to do that.”

He tilts his head, “do what?”

“Blame me. Blame me for your own fucked up thing. That ain’t my fault-“

“But it is. Sorta. I mean.. shit, baby, I did all this—“ he moves then, just sways, back and forth, puts his arms out. As if showing off his work, the dead rotten land that lies before you and him.

“For you. All this. Just to show how much you hurt me.” He stopped swaying, opting to put both his hands against his chest, just over his heart, the one that remains silent.

The sneer is gone, filled with disgust now. Anger. Something boiling low in your stomach and clawing its way up your spine, into your throat. It feels like his claws, funnily enough, as if he’s working through you. And maybe he is.

“But I can change that. I can forgive the hurt. I will change that… if you just, lemme on in.” He nods his head towards the door, eyes briefly looking into the space inside your home, the space that was his.

“We can talk it out,” his eyes flicker back to you, the light on your porch reflecting off of them like a cat’s, “unless you gotta’ another means to figuring things out. You know I don’t complain.”

“Jesus Christ-“

“He ain’t around.. but you’ll be sure asking for him once I’m in there-“

“Are you fuckin-“

“We can get to fuckin.”

You snap, “Remmick!”

He doesn’t shut up, doesn’t really know how to, but he gets in close, places a hand on the doorframe, looks up real slow and says, “I miss you. I want you back.. and I want you to want me back. I know you do.”

You shift an inch away from the door frame, “You really think I’m just gonna’ move past this?”

He gives a small hum, like he’s in thought. That hardly lasts long before he tilts his head again, small frown in place before shrugging, “I’m Savin’ you, darlin, savin’ yer’ land. I would sure hope so.. if it all truly means somethin to you, then ya’.”

You blink at him, once, twice, in disbelief. He makes it out as if he’s the saviour in this situation, as if he’s the knight in armour.. not the beast that’s brought the terror upon everyone. Upon you. You would smack him if it didn’t bring the possibility of being bitten.

He doesn’t let you comment, again, deciding to guide the conversation, “Honey.. I want you to understand somethin’. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said I would linger, that I would fight for you. I’m killin your crops, the cows, goats… you think I’ll stop?”

He slowly shakes his head, giving a small tsk as if he’s scolding a child. Scolding you for not realizing his presence will remain, a ghost among the living.

“No baby. This remains.. unless you lemme on in there. Lemme apologize, nice and soft. Slow. Just how I make love to ya’.”

It’s then that you snort, a noise that makes him flinch. His brows furrow, yours narrow, “you ain’t nice when you make love. Hell, you don’t even know how to be slow.”

His teeth shine in the light, bright and but not sharp, not yet at least. But his mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, something you hardly can care for, cutting him off before he can even begin.

“You ain’t nice then, you ain’t nice now. And honestly… this is hardly love.”

That seems to brush him the wrong way.

His eyes narrow, offended, as if you made fun of his mother and told him to blow off his father. Which to Remmick.. it basically translated to the same thing.

Fuck off and die.

“The fuck you mean this ain’t love, woman? If there’s one fuckin thing about this situation.. is that it is. Hard, cold love. The fuck is wrong with you.”

You sneer again, “you’re killin everything I love, asshole-“

“Oh for fucks sakes.. and exactly why do you think I did that? You hurt me, broke all the fuckin’ promises you said you’ll keep.. and I dealt with that. Dealt with it fine, but to excuse me of not loving you? That’s fuckin evil.”

You stare at him in confusion, perplexed by his contradictions, “clearly you’re not dealing with it well.. don’t need to fuckin’ guess that, I could just walk outside and see all the dead shit you caused.”

He nods, again, slow. Though it seems like a lightbulb went off. A small click.

He backs away from the door only by an inch, puts a hand on his hip, “well then.. come on out. Show me exactly how I’m not dealing well.” He frames it as if he actually wants you to show him, shakes his head low and all, as if he really doesn’t have a clue.

Stupid motherfucker.

“Remmick.”

He perks up, “Hm? Yeah, baby?”

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

You go to slam the door.

He immediately yelps, “I’ll kill em.”

You catch the door before it fully shuts, rip it back open to reveal him with a stern face. Jaw set, eyes narrowed.

He repeats himself, “I’ll kill em. The life stock. All of em. Rip them to fuckin’ shreds, force y’all to scatter for food.”

He watches you take in his face, his features, his eyes. Watches you search for any evidence of him lying.

Your shoulders drop when you can’t find it.

“You’re gonna starve us. That it?”

“Not starve.. I know y’all got other means of food.. just in town though… far, far off into town.” He shoots a thumb behind his back, pointing in the direction of said town. Your gaze doesn’t wander away.

You consider him, for a moment. Stay silent as you look over him. The way he seems proud of himself, of his threats. The way he seems this is love.

Your voice cracks as you whisper, “Why can’t you just go.”

You don’t repeat yourself when he gives a small hm, just stand there and stare. Eyes glossy, small divet between your brows where they furrow.

“That’ll mean leavin’ you. Can’t do that now, right? Sides’… you miss me.”

Your response comes out quick, too quick. Practiced. “No.”

He immediately smiles, “yeah… yeah you do. Don’t lie.”

You hate how easy he can see through each answer, but even now, with him so close and so all knowing, you respond quick again.

Never could learn your lesson. “I’m not.”

“Baby.. honey, this is cute an’ all but it’s dumb how yer’ tryin so hard. Come on.. I mean what is this really?” He gets off the door frame again, hands back on his hips, “I’m gonna’ come in eventually.. don’t matter how. Whether that now or fifty years from ere’, I’m coming in. Just make this easy.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, the same tongue his eyes catch on, a low groan leaving him.

You ignore it.

“Fuck you. I don’t what delusion your livin in.. but it ain’t sure gonna’ happen. So how bout you.. Eat shit and die, Remmick. Keep fuckin round and I’ll get the Choctaw a little note on where your resting.”

It’s a low , low blow. Hell.. not only is it childish but just straight wrong. You have no clue where he lives, if he even has a home to begin with. He could very well be homeless. Must be given all the time he has to curse crops and cast spells on people.

That and he’s dead.

Still.

“Well baby, that just mean.”

He gives a faux pout. You think of shooting him then, there. Right in the forehead. Too bad you don’t got your gun on you.

“Yeah? Well, you’re being fuckin cruel. Now do me a favour, and fuck off.”

He hardly gets a word in before you shut the door.

—

Maybe slamming the door on an ancient vampire’s face wasn’t the best. Maybe you should’ve reconsidered exactly what that would entail for him to do. What anger he would have left over.

It’s that very night that he kills all the life stalk. Doesn’t even suck them dry, just completely rips them apart. Eats them. Tears them from the outside in.

It’s your neighbour that breaks the news, sees you early in the morning, passing by their home. It’s the blood that’s slathered over their clothes, their face scrunched and their eyes wet with tears. It’s only then when you stop and ask what happened.

They only shake their head, eyes low, before muttering, “the devil got to em’. Killed ‘em’ all.”

You stay for an hour or two, helping clean all the blood. Helping put the bodies away. You have to, can’t go about your day without doing it. Without feeling that festering guilt run deep in your bones. Eventually you become drenched in it, there’s so much dunked into the floor, dragged across the walls. It looks like he hardly even sucked the blood. Looked like hardly even fed off them.. just killed them cause he knew it would hurt the townsfolk. Would hurt you, and your family.

You plan to take a bath, the sweat and blood starting to irritate your skin, make it all itchy. You keep scratching all over, scaratchinb at your neck as you prepare some water to bathe in.

You’re hardly paying attention to it, gaze away from the water that pours out. Don’t look when you pour it into the tub, not until you dip your hand in, and bring it back out to see red.

Blood red.

Your throat catches on a gasp, coming out a small whimper as you slowly rub off the blood onto your clothes. Short gasps come out with it, panicked. Loud. Each one more shallow than the other, faster and faster in tune with your heartbeat that seems to spike in its rhythm.

The entire tub is coated in what looks to be blood, thick blood. As if someone just slit their throat and decided to die there. It smells foul, like rot itself. Like death.

You go to the kitchen, partially jogging. You think you’re going to vomit but you swallow it back, but only a gallon of saliva takes over your mouth that’s thick and stringy that you force yourself to also swallow.

The faucet comes to life when you flick it on. but instead of pouring out water, it chokes out chunks of blood. Thicker than the one in tub. You shut it off immediately.

You’re not exactly sure how long you’ve stood there, by the kitchen, hands gripped tight in fists as they rest against the wood of your table. Not sure how long you’ve been combating an anxiety attack, or how long you’ve been sniffling back mucus after hanging your head down for so long.

You do know that your legs are achy, spine screaming in discomfort after being arched for so long, hating how you don’t stand to your full height. Your body keeps swaying slightly, as if trying to cue you to sit down but you don’t listen. Ignore it. Ignore the blood that still coats your sink, and tub. Dont pay attention to the way the blood slowly dries and then chips off your nails.

You’re not sure how long you’ve stood there until you hear a knock. Two slow reps, as if someone is calling out to you, calling for you, and less about the door. Less about signalling their arrival, because they already know you’re aware of their presence. Aware of the shiver that you also ignored, the shiver that shook your bones and forced its way into your lungs.

Upon opening the door, you’re immediately graced with the sight of a smiling white man.

Your white man.

His smile widens as he takes in the state of you. Bloody, sweaty and tired. There’s blood coated all over the front of your clothes, which he can assume is also on the back as well, and from your feet to just below your nose is blood. Slathered and sprayed all over, coated everywhere because you couldn’t stop wiping your face, willing the tears away.

“Awh baby, look at that. Look at you,” his gaze slowly trails from your feet to your face, slow. Taking in the sight like he’s drinking water.

“Figured you saw the little gift I left behind, huh?”

He smiles, big. Cocky. Happy with himself, with the sight of how ruined and bloody and gross you look. You feel your anger sink its claws back in, take hold of you.

“This is how you plan to get me back? Huh? Fuckin killin everything, becoming an obsessive, fuckin weirdo? That’s what you're doing to get my attention, that’s the plan to get back home! The fuck is the matter with you!”

He stands there, not stunned. No. But amused. Just slightly, hidden behind the glare he givens, deep within his flesh.

It’s troubling, makes your nervous, makes you shout out, “Just leave me the fuck alone, Remmick!”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. He watches you with keen eyes, mouth slightly agape. Like you just told him some of the most perplexing information known to man. At some point you think you’ve actually stunted him, forced him to rethink the situation. Then after a bit it becomes annoying, at one point you think he’ll just stand there saying and doing nothing. Like a god damn statue.

But then he gives a slow blink, one, two and then three of them. He nods his head, slowly. As if taking it in, understanding it.

Agreeing.

“Yeah… yeah okay.”

You move back a bit, confused, eye him suspiciously, “okay?”

He nods again, “yeah okay. I’ll leave you be.. actually-“ he places a finger onto his lips, traces of a smirk lingering of his lips, “I think everyone will.. yer’ family.. they still be livin down in that one house you invited me into, right?”

The smirk slowly grows on his face, no longer hidden, doesn’t need to hide it when you slowly pick up what exactly he’s putting down. The cogs quick to fill in the gap.

Motherfucke-

“You wouldn’t fuckin dare.”

He snorts, “oh I would. You know I would.. hell, yer daddy, he still got that shake in his hands? Yer ma still got the bad ear? Ya know..” he sucks his teeth, “I wonder how long it’ll take for them to recognize the sounds of their little ones cries,” he cocks his head at you then, “think yer daddy will fight me off in time?”

You damn near almost fly out of the fuckin house, almost grab at him, but it’s when your arm is almost fully out, body half way through the opening that you pause.

No. Rip yourself back into place, force yourself to remain inside.

Because just out of the corner of your eye, ever so faintly you could’ve missed it without the light on, you see the way his claws on one hand are fully out. Glint under the light. long and sharp, looks like small hooks on his fingers. He gives a small surprised laugh.

“Oh.. well, almost got cha’ there, sugar. Yer’ fuckin quick, I’ll give ya that.”

Your eyes flicker from his hand to his face, then back to his hand that slowly retracts his claws back in. You shiver.

“Stay the fuck away from my family.”

He licks his lips, as if the mere mention of your family was intriguing to his hunger, “mm.. I’ll stay away.. if you get yer’ fine ass self outta’ that house.”

A small ‘eugh’ leaves you, lip curling up as you shake your head, “that ain’t fuckin happening.”

He rolls his eyes upon your response, hands back on his hips, fidgeting with the clasps of his belt, “well then.. better start makin calls to that family of yers, say some last I love you’s before they leave.”

Annoying. That what this was becoming. Him and his threats. And you couldn’t even slam the door shut because you were certain he would kill em. It was just— it was annoying. And fucking terrifying. And he won’t leave.. and, and, and—

“God.. you fuckin messy piece of shit, son of a b-“

He perks up, like a dog, even takes a step closer to the entrance again, “messy?”

That catches him off guard, as if the rest of the sentence made sense until then, “I ain’t messy. This..” he points out his pointer finger, shaking it around, signaling to your house, you, the situation.

“This ain’t messy. But it can be.. just you wait. You really want shit to get messy.. oh baby.. it’ll get fuckin worse if you want it.”

“If I want? If I?” You point to yourself, brows raised, “I. Like this is fuckin up to me-“

“Yes!” He shouts. Temper rising. You flinch. He doesn’t care, keeps going, “yes of fucking course it’s up to you! All of this is! Jesus Christ— you’re gettin on my fucking nerves. I’m threatin your fuckin family! I’ve already taken your land, and the fucking cows and whatever else you fuckin have and still! Still! You can’t fuckin see how this is up to you! Still!”

His hands no longer rest on his hips, instead out on either side of him, up in the air, as if proclaiming this not to you but to the sky above. But God knows who he’s speaking to, knows in the way he only has looked at you this entire interaction, blue eyes washed away with red, staring. Always staring. This time they hold more anger than anything.. and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.

Longing.

Still, even with that there, tugging at him, his anger lashes out.

“Really, I’m startin to think you don’t care bout’ yer family, not enough to save em’, let alone yourself.”

It’s not necessarily cruel, really he’s just saying parts of the truth. His own form of the truth. You have no doubt in your mind he truly believes that, despite his own manipulative nature, and the lengths he goes to basically bully you, you truly believe he thinks that.

And that almost hurts more.

You shove that feeling down, “Remmick.. be honest. Completely honest.. did you really think this was gonna’ last?” You tilt your head at him, set your lips into a straight line.

You’re closer now, hand back onto the door, just close enough to see all the freckles painted across his skin, but far enough to not let him in. He blinks, goes to say something, but hardly begins before your stringing along your sentence.

“Hm? Think this was gonna work out? That we were gonna’ be happy and completely fine, never to face the consequences of this unnatural connection?”

He buts in then, “Oh hey now hol’ on— this ain’t unnatural-“

You put up your pointer finger, nowhere near close to his face but close enough to cut him off, “it is. You know it. The fucking earth knows it.. I mean.. Even if I take you back. Even if. What then? Hm? I’ll grow old and die.. we can never be out together. Hell, can never grow together, never have a family! Never do shit! How long did you think that was gonna last?”

“We would figure it out. Always do— just cause it ain’t natural, hell a shit ton of stuff ain’t natural if you think about it. Cars? Ain’t natural. Fuckin—“ he points to the porch oil lamp, “ain’t natural. Those clothes ain’t natural, but you’re sayin just cause we are fuckin and loving, the earth and god above is gonna rain terror on us?” He squints his eyes in confusion, turning his body slightly as he looks you up and down, as if the idea itself was offensive. But you know he’s mocking you.

That demanor quickly drops when you quickly nod your head, “yes. It’s exactly that.”

His lip twitches, small sneer before his face scrunches together into something hurt. A piercing pain he can’t quite get rid of, not as long as you bend away from him.

“Well ain’t that something.” He trails off, looking towards the corner of the door frame again, lost in thought. You watch the way his eyes flicker, watch him flicker through his own brain, pin down something else to say. Something else to threat.

He comes up short. But he talks anyway, “well.. I ain’t leavin. Not tonight. And I’ll wait till that sun comes up.. and even then, shit, who knows, I’ll bury myself under your fuckin house and come back,” his eyes slowly trail back over to you, “or I can kill yer kin. All of em. Hell.. might just do fuckin both, night’s still young. And you ain’t going anywhere.”

He shrugs, as if this was a normal conversation about what time he’s planning to go to the store or some shit. You don’t know, but there’s no empathy. None you can find.

He tilts his head down, forces himself into your view as you look down, away from him, and that just won’t do.

“In or out.”

Your chest heaves, rising and falling. Fast. Heart pounding. Hard, so fucking hard against your chest you think you may black out. But you can’t, can’t when you're staring at him, can’t when you watch the way his expression falls into something horrible. A teasing smile, a playful wink as you glare at him.

He asks again, “in or out.”

“Shut up.” You whisper, foot tapping against the floor as you think. That pulls his attention down, a small snort leaving him as he watches the soft rhythmic tapping of your foot.

“Tic- tic-“

“Just shut the fu-“ the words down on your tongue, trailing off into the wind, in one ear and out the other as he mimics the same tapping, but with his hands on the wood of the doorframe he now leans against. Both hands against the frame, body just inches away from the threshold.

He sings it this time, an off key tone, “I-nnnn or ou-“

He doesn’t finish.

“In.”

His eyes flicker up, surprised. Like he actually wasn’t expecting you to say it. That shock doesn’t last long though, lips pulling away to reveal a strong set of teeth, a row of sharp jaggered edges that will cut deep. Have cut deep.

“Right on.”

—

He isn’t nice. Not at all.

He practically hauls you up, slams himself into you before he’s grabbing you up into his arms, slamming the door shut with his heel.

You feel yourself slam into your wall, a small squeak hardly leaving your lips before he’s shoving his tongue into your mouth. He groans like an animal caught in heat, his hands trailing over you so quick, so rough it forces the fabric of your night wear to tear in some places. The small rip of fabric against nails heard, but ignored by the both of you.

He doesn’t stick against your lips long, only there to taste the saliva that pools in your mouth and the blood that sticks against your teeth. He practically whimpers upon tasting the metallic twinge caught between your gums, nudges his nose against your cheek as he breaks the kiss.

“I could eat you alive.” It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. One he whispers against your cheek before he’s shoving his face into your neck.

You expect a bite then, the tear of sharp teeth and the gurgle of blood.. but you don’t get that. Not yet. Instead, he flicks his tongue out to lick the blood that’s there, going from just under your jaw to your collarbone. He practically makes out with your skin, traces his tongue over the soft flesh before nipping at it, then back to licking.

It’s only when you give a small whine he focuses back to your mouth, not kissing, but breathes against you. Takes in your air, just to breathe it back to you.

Then, “you still got those panties I like?”

You nod.

“Wearin em?”

You nod again. The sound that comes out of him sounds painful, like it gutted and clawed its way out, straight agony. One would think an animal just got shot, but really it’s just him. He places you back down onto the floor, but keeps you pinned to the wall with his own body, knees cracking as he slumps down onto the wood.

He’s breathing heavy, chest rising and falling so rapidly you think he’s about to collapse— despite the fact he practically already did. But just between your thighs. He doesn’t fall again, far too busy ripping the fabric of your nightgown, despite the fact it flowed off you, it seemed to be too much in the way for him to keep intact. Not that it wasn’t ripped already.

After some shuffling, and tearing, he makes it to his sanctuary.. one of the many reasons why he harassed you to begin with. There, your beyond soaked panties, practically see through if you place a light to them. He slumps again, this time against your thighs, resting his head as he gives a painful groan.

You glance down, confused by exactly what he’s whining about, only to see him whispering random words against your skin.

It’s only until you hear the small call of your name from his lips that you realize he’s begging. No.. praying. No.. you’re really not sure. Your name is jumbled with a bunch of ‘pleases’ and words you can’t quite understand.

Foreign. Not for him…but for you. A silent promise, maybe.

Nonetheless, you grow antsy, annoyed. He’s come all this way.. to beg, he could’ve done that outside.

“Remmick-“ he nods, “what are you doing?”

He looks up then, eyes heavy and mouth in a gentle frown, “appreciating you.”

You can only nod, slowly, more or less still confused. Perhaps not only by him.. but this whole ordeal. By this rapid change from point A to point fucking D. Still.. his whining didn't help much.

His gaze goes back down, to between your legs, a look of awe on his face. He doesn’t wait for you to continue, doesn’t care to, not when he’s trailing his fingers over your flesh and taking down the last fabric separating you from him.

He moans again.

The light catches just right on your flesh, coats it in a soft hue, and reflects the slick just right. Back into his sight, back into his hunger. He hardly waits before he’s darting his tongue out, and gives a light lick over your slick. A small one, hesitant almost. Oddly enough, as if he couldn’t bare taking this one thing, despite how far he’s come to get it.

But it’s with this small lick, one that doesn’t even arise a gasp from you, just a small tilt of the head as you continue to look down at him, that gets him going. Makes him groan, deep and low in his chest.

He tears the rest of your undergarment off, tattered and tossed to the side despite his own claim of it being his favourite.

He doesn’t allow you time to react before he’s muttering a small, “come ere’,” and grabs at you, coaxing you down onto the floor with him, prompted against the wall. Once your ass meets the floorboards, he doesn’t waste any time in grabbing hold of both your legs and putting them over his shoulders, hardly paying any mind to the act. Like second nature. Like a habit.

And given how often he does it, you think it’s come to be truly a mindless act. Almost as mindless as the gasp that leaves you when he spits on your pussy, hand giving a light smack to the outside of your thigh in response.

“Fuckin missed you.. look at ya’, basically cryin for me. She treating you right?” He nods towards you, but his gaze is stuck on your pussy.

Your brows furrow, “are you-“

He shushes you, giving a small shake of the head, “quiet, I’m talkin to someone real special.”

You give a shallow breath, and despite your confusion, you keep quiet. Even keep your breathing quiet, as if you’ll actually hear your autonomy speak back to him.. but he nods along as if it does. Traces his gaze over the expanse of your inner thighs and between them, even gives a small hm.

“Didn’t think so.. been neglectin you..” he shuffles closer, laying on his stomach now, rests his face close enough that you can feel his breath against your clit. “Don’t worry tho.. I’m ere’ now, be all better, promise,” and with that he dives in.

Licks from your opening to your clit, setting a steady pace. Down, up, circle, down, up, circle—

Its until he’s to the m that you realize he’s spelling out his name, tracing it along with your clit before gradually licking down to your entrance, where he begins the next m.

One of your hand’s hold tight in his hair, grip so fucking tense it makes you half worried that you might be tearing out his hair. Your other hand rests on the floor, clenching and unclenching. Scraping against the wood, you’re certain if you go hard enough your fingernails will start to break, or the wood will.

You feel one of his hands slip down off your thigh, sneaking it beside his mouth. He spread you open to him, the air cool against your entrance, clit twitching as he lightly coos.

“Fuckin.. shit-“ he goes back down, and you practically yelp when you feel his tongue enter you. You clench down on the muscle, hips knocking against him, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. The heat of it, the rhythm of ‘in and out and in’ a similar pattern to earlier, though he doesn’t trace his name. Just fucks you with his mouth, slowly. Moans along with you, almost like he can feel your pleasure, his own hips knocking against the floor desperate for friction. Anything.

He eats you like a man starved, like the entrance of your pussy is an open wound he’s teared into your flesh, feasting upon you like it’s his last meal.

And you let him. Have to, each time you push, to give yourself room, to let yourself a moment of breath, he doesn’t budge. Hardly moves, only groans, slightly distracted before continuing.

You whine out his name, pushing at his shoulders again, telling him to calm down. To relax.

Instead, to spite you, he shakes his head side to side, quick. It’s.. nasty. Gross. You don’t even say anything, can’t even insult him for the action, just watch slightly disgusted and quiet. But he doesn’t allow you enough time to react to the fact he basically just motorboated you, distracts you by doubling down. He shoves more of his weight onto you, forcing you off the wall and onto the ground, where he presses you uncomfortably close. A mating press of some sort.

One that makes you breath funny and his tongue sink deeper into your gummy walls that clench around the pink muscle. He ain’t slow, just like you said. He flicks his tongue fast, over your clit before prodding into your hole before going back up. Like he can’t decide what to do, and it fucking pains you. Pulls out whiny moans, eyes barely able to focus on him given how often they roll back.

He eventually pulls away, a pause to his torture. To his worship. It doesn’t last long, that small pocket of relief from overstimulation, not long before he spits another wet glob of saliva onto your folds. Although, He doesn’t rub it in like he usually would, no, he gives a harsh smack. Right against your clit.

And just as he hoped, you yelp. Loud. Flinch harder against the contact, hips jerkin up that are forced back down.

“Calm down,” he scolds, tsking.

He gives another harsh smack, tsking again when you flinch. Makes it out to be a you issue for reacting rather than him smacking your pussy like nothing.

“Flinchin like I’m gonna hurt ya..” he shakes his head, eyes downcasted, gaze stuck on the way your pussy clenched around nothing.

“You’re smacking me.. I’m gonna flinch-“ his eyes flick up, brows twitching into a furrow before he’s landing another smack against you. Hard.

You yelp again.

“Don’t be rude,” he keeps his hand over you, doesn’t move it until you break the stare he holds, tilting your head away. Only then he starts to gently rub, his hand working in a circle right over your bundle of nerves. He gets off his stomach and onto his knees, just hovering over you, hand soaked in your wetness as he works you over.

slowly, the pace in which his hand works builds, his eyes keen on the way you twitch and flinch under him, the way your thighs try to close but given he’s in the way, it’s useless. Watches as you clench around nothing, wetness practically seeping out of you, onto the floor. He watches, and waits. For that build, that fall. The climb before the climax, the way you gently jerk your hips against him, head thrown back and away from his gaze, bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth.

He waits for it. The eventual beg, the one he keeps his ears open for. That soft whisper you do, a gentle sigh that rolls off your tongue.

He waits.

You eventually break, unaware of his little game, “please.”

He doesn’t slow, not at first, just watches as you try to mouth out your words again, desperate, “please.”

“Hm? What was that, darlin?” He tilts his head. You whine again.

“Please..please—“

He buts in, “please.. what? Can’t read yer mind”

“Let me cum.. please.”

There’s a devastating long pause, where he just continues. Doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t give an hm or snarky remarks. You know better, he’s got good ears despite how fucking old he is, so you know he very well heard you.. he’s just being a dick. A dick you would want to bounce on, but he ain’t letting you yet.

You ask again, real sweet this time, pet name and all, “Baby.. please, please let me cum.”

He ignores you.

Instead, when you're just on the cusp, legs twitching and mouth open, moans pitchy and loud while you strain yourself to hold off your orgasm, he pulls away.

And that damn near breaks you, “fuck! Please.. please don’t- why- don’t-“ you got to reach for his hand, a big fucking no no, but you’re desperate. Desperate to get his hand back on you, desperate for him to fuck you.

He smacks it away, “don’t,” but that doesn’t stir him away, doesn’t even warrant any proper punishment he would usually do. The ones where he doesn’t fuck you on dick at all for the night, just snacks your ass and forces you to count each one before finger fucking you.

Really.. he’s desperate too. Has been for several nights now. His hand is tired of taking care of him, and his dick aches to be inside. He moves off you, hands gripping at your thighs as he does so, forcing you closer to him as he drags you across the floor by an inch or two.

Your hands work on pulling down the suspenders that are clung tight to him, hardly getting them down in time before his hands are working on getting his zipper down.

It’s not long before he’s prodding at you, just gracing your entrance, so close that if you rock your hips against him once, the tip will slip in.

But his hands have a death grip on you, keeping you in place and stuck under him. Doesn’t want you moving before he does, can’t allow you when he’s slightly hungry for something else that coats you.

The blood. Still clinging onto you, no longer wet by dry, flaking off onto the floor in places, still slathered across you face and down the rest of you. It’s only slightly wet against your chest, where he licked earlier.

You think he’s going in for a kiss with the way he slowly bring himself forward, eyes hungry and irises red. He might bite, actually, once you consider how hard he’s breathing.

But no. He doesn’t do either. His tongue is wet and rough against you as he licks across your face. From your cheek to your nose, over the bridge of your nose and over to the other cheek.

You push at his chest, “Jesus— Remmick!”

He doesn’t budge, licking at your ear, “just wanna’ taste, that’s all.”

Your face scrunches in disgust as drool drips off his chin onto your cheek, and when he shuffles a bit, going to lick your other ear, more drool drips onto your mouth.

It’s not that you have swapped spit, you have several times, but it’s the fact he won’t stop licking you like a damn dog. Nipping at your ears, gripping at your jaw as he licks at your cheek, licks the tip of your nose all the way to the top just below your forehead. You’re coated in his saliva. In him. And he’s not even inside yet.

You try to push him again, “You’re drowning me-“

He gives a small groan, nothing more. Doesn’t care if you sputter or happily moan, doesn’t matter when he’s cleaning up his mess. His baby needs to be clean, deserves to be.

But as you wiggle and try to get him to stop, his free hand snakes down to between the both of you, grabbing at his dick and giving a shallow thrust into his hand, tapping just against your folds. You whimper, try to look down but the hand on your jaw stops you.

Only then he pulls away, just to look at you. Take you in. Take in the way your cheeks are red and wet, the way his saliva is slowly drying on you and your lips are slightly bruised from him nipping at them.

Takes in the soft look of your features, of your eyes, nose that’s also wet. Licked clean now. Takes that all in as he slaps his dick against the top of your pussy.

Knocking. “Can I come in?”

Grins when you give a small snort, “Yeah.”

Both of you gasp upon him entering. He doesn’t push in all in one swoop, no. He savours it, always has, always will. This is the only time he goes slow, when your walls are clenched tight around him, and his dick weeps pre cum into your gummy walls.

He likes to drag it out, go inch by inch. First the tip, then he waits for you to grow impatient before he goes another inch. He waits until you open your mouth to say something, when you're about to tell him off. Then, he pushes in again. He finds it entertaining, the way the words die on your tongue and you give a devastating sigh, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open. He loves that. Shutting you up with just his length alone.

Makes him feel special. Knows only he can do that.

“That good?” He whispers, breathing on your lips. You nod, “yuh huh.”

He smacks your thigh, “bet it fuckin is.”

Again, he pushes in, another inch, but he doesn’t keep it there. He drags it back out , all the way until the tip hardly remains inside you, and he plans to just slip in half way.

But it’s when you give a small whimper, and your hand moves to his neck, where you lightly squeeze, he throws that plan out the window. He slams all the way in, and you practically scream.

Groans right with you and holds your hips right against him, dick fully in and kept there. You arch your back, head knocked back as you rise against the floor, hand slipping off his neck. He catches your hand, right as it slips down his chest and places his hand on top. Pats it twice.

He grinds against you, knocking the tip against that spongy bit inside you, making your legs lock around his hips. The floorboards creak under both of your weight, louder and louder as his pace grows. It’s clumsy, at first, neither of you able to stop jumping and grinding against each other. Each time you knock against him, he drags out, and each time he slams in, you push out.

It’s frustrating. Not in sync, at all. Makes him mutter out a string of curses, his grip tightening on your hips but neither of you have the strength to stop, can’t stop. you have to force yourself to meet his hips in time, force yourself into a steady rhythm with him. It’s only when you have a steady pace that he grows more desperate, hands clawing at you, dragging up and down over your nightwear, ripping small tears into it.

He becomes more encouraging as well, praises flowing out, “Yeah.. yeah there ya go, fuck— so fuckin wet, ya hear that,” he shuts up, lets you hear the squlench of your pussy and the soft smacking of his skin against yours. You whine, “Jesus.. yeah- yeah, don’t stop.”

“Oh I ain’t. Never gonna’, never leaving either, ain’t gonna let you kick me out,” he gives a small nod, “gonna have to fuckin rip me out ere’, move- fuck- move.. real far to.. to get away from me.” His speech slurs towards the end, dragged out and messy.

Just as before, he drags your thighs up further, goes as far to slide his arms under the curve of your leg and prompts your ass off the floor. He leans up, resting on his knees and pushes down into you. The new angle makes him go deeper, if that was even possible. Makes him touch an area that you are certain no one else could ever touch, your toes curling and pussy fluttering around him.

You don’t even realize you're drooling until you feel him lean over and lick it up, mixing it with his own before swallowing it down.

“Fuckin love the way you taste,” he mutters, voice raspy and low, “fuckin love you.”

There’s a pull in your stomach, not something made of dread, but something sweeter. Burns deep in your flesh, small butterflies flapping around as your nerves flare, nervous despite the fact he is quite literally inside you.

He slowly drops you back down, one arm slipping out from under your leg and hand trailing up to your throat, where he lightly moves your head to the side, baring your throat to him.

His nose nudges against your pulse point. He takes a deep whiff, his lungs fully expanding, taking you all in. He lets out a shuddered breath, “say it back.”

You stay quiet, far too gone to know what the hell he’s talking about. He gives your cheek a light smack, “say it back.”

“Mmm.. shit- say what?”

“That you love me.”

He gives a hard thrust then, hits just fucking right. Tip ramming against your g spot, fucking you dumb and quiet, your body hardly having the strength to even give out a moan. But he doesn’t care, nips hard at you when you don’t say anything.

You manage to croak out, “I love you.”

Then, pressure. Hot, white pressure searing against your neck. Teeth prick at you, and it feels like pure agony. Rips you away from the pleasure of his dick ramming into you and shoves you head first into pain. It doesn’t even amplify the pleasure, doesn’t do shit.

You scream, but it’s gurgled by blood, neck pumping it out in spurts that coat his awaiting mouth.

He doesn’t comfort you through it, not at first. Not yet. He just sucks it down, swallows it in large gulps, the sound so loud and prominent it brings tears to your eyes.

It’s only when you mutter his name, croaked and raspy that he starts to lightly brush his thumb back and forth against your cheek, hand placed just under your jaw.

He drinks it down like it’s his last meal. Drinks it with the same desperation he fucks you in.

With a mouth full of blood, pooling over his lips, dripping down his neck and onto the floor, “yer good, I’m here. Yer safe.”

Ain’t that fucking ironic.

“Rem-“ he shushes you.

“It’s all good.. just let it happen, let it wash over you.”

He’s no longer thrusting into you, just keeps himself deep inside. Still. Not completely, he twitches, but doesn’t move either. Gave up on trying to distract you.

“Yer good.. we’ll be good. Together, one. That’s exciting, huh?”

He smiles, big. Genuinely happy. You don’t have any energy to shake your head. He goes back down to drink more, “this is exciting. Now we’ll never be apart.”

He drinks from you happily, and it’s the sound of ripped flesh and blood seeping out that you die to.

At least he has you forever.

#idk what to tell ya #remmick #this took a WHILE. whoops #remmick x female reader #Remmick smut #kinda gross.. idk.#bros spitting bars insults and threats

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bullet-prooflove · 3 days ago

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Trauma: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John makes a realisation after his confession.

Companion piece to:

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

It’s been an hour since John told you he loved you and so far your reaction has been extremely lacklustre. You’d simply uttered the words ‘OK John’ before you’d grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. He doesn’t remember putting his coat on or the car journey over here or much of anything else after that. He just knows that right now he’s tucked up on your couch, his shoes by the door and a cosy grey blanket has been tucked around him. In the background Die Hard is playing on the TV, part of a movie marathon that’s running tonight.

“So I guess we’re just not going to talk about it.” He says, his cheek pressed into the cushion as he watches the screen. “We’re just going to pretend I didn’t say what I said.”

“Pretty much.” You respond as you set a mug of steaming hot tea down on the chipped thrift store coffee table in front of him. Everything in this apartment comes from some version of Goodwill, it’s all mismatched and pre-loved. His mom would freaking hate it but to John, it feels more like home than any place he’s ever lived. “I’m not putting validity on anything you say during a period of an emotional distress.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m emotionally distressed?” He asks you, picking up the mug that’s always allocated to him when he’s here.

It’s one of those Mr Men ones from the books you used to read as a kid. He’s Mr Bump because he’s of the amount of times you’ve had to stitch him up, and you’re little Miss Helpful because you were always there with whatever he needed. He sips from it as you take a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

“Kinda yeah.” You inform him, picking up his feet and setting them in your lap. Your palm comes to rest on his ankle, thumb tracing delicate circles over the scar on his calf from crashing his bike as a kid. “You saw a woman throw herself off a roof and then had a dissociative moment. Do you even remember anything that’s happening in this movie?”

He stares at the screen where John Mcclane is climbing through a vent in a dirty white wifebeater, muttering to himself. He knows the scene, he’s seen it fifty thousand times before but he doesn’t for the life of him know how the other man got there. Just like he doesn’t remember getting here or where the blanket came from. He just knows he’s in your home, safe with his Mr Men mug.

“No… I…”

“Do you remember our psych rotation?” You say gently, the light caress of your thumb keeping him anchored in the moment. “The different ways people respond to trauma? I think this is your way of processing what happening. You just need to relax for a while, somewhere familiar, where there’s someone around who actually gives a fuck about you.”

Everything you’re saying, it makes sense. His support network back home, it’s woeful. His family hate the fact he chose to become a doctor, they don’t understand the toll it takes, how some days it’s the best job on this earth and on others… well it’s like this.

If they knew anything about what happened today they would try to leverage him into leaving, force him back towards the philanthropy and in this state, he doesn’t think he’d be able to fight it.

Coming here has taken away that burden, given him the space to breath. His mom and dad probably wouldn’t have given a shit but his Gamma, she’s a force to be reckoned with. He would have found himself seated on the board of the family foundation long before his head had even stopped spinning.

“I did mean it.” He tells you, the exhaustion seeping into his bones as the tension in his muscles begins to unfurl. “It wasn’t some trauma response-”

“And if that is true you’ll tell me some other time, not after you’ve been through something horrible.” You say firmly, squeezing his ankle to make your point. “I’m sure there’ll be candles and moonlight and other fancy shit…”

“You’re making fun of me.” He mumbles, burying his face in the cushion.

“A little.” You concede, your head tipping back to rest on the couch. “It’s been a day for me too, I gotta get my kicks somewhere.”

It’s the little sigh that captures his attention, the one that is almost undetectable. You do that sometimes when you’re stressed, it’s like you’re trying to discreetly eject the remnants of a shitty day without letting anyone else know you’re having one. He puzzles back over your shift, the glimpses he caught of you during his. It comes back to him in fragments, tiny blocks he tries stacking one on top of the other until he comes to his conclusion.

“Your paediatric patient...” He begins, tilting his head to look at you but you shake yours in response to his words.

Kids, they’re always the hardest and this one had been barely more than three months old. Shaken baby, you had told him when the two of you crossed paths in the hall. Parents were addicts, couldn’t deal with the crying. You and Doug Ross were doing everything you can but…

“Brain dead.” You tell him, gaze fixed on John Mcclane’s antics. “Parents were arrested while you were up on the roof.”

“Oh Crys…” He says, his voice filled with sorrow because he didn’t see how much you were hurting, not until now. “You said we’re in this together and here you are looking after me. Come here.”

He lifts up the blanket and pats the space in front of him, gesturing for you to take up residence there. You comply, stretching out along the length of the couch with him, your back against his chest. He drapes the blanket over you, his arm wrapping around your waist, drawing you into the shelter of his form until every inch of you is pressed against him. His cheek comes to rest against yours, the bristles of his five o’clock shadow ghosting along your jaw.

You weren’t ready he realises now, to hear what he had to say. You do this thing when you get overwhelmed, you shut down, focus on the things that need fixing, the things you can control. It’s another way of dealing with trauma and John, he’d been too in his own head to see the signs.

“No more looking after me.” He whispers as your fingers thread through his, clasping his palm to your chest where your heart beats steadily underneath his fingertips. “We look after each other remember? That’s the rule.”

Love John? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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#john carter #john carter x reader #john carter er #john truman carter iii #er nbc #nbc er #er 1994

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solrburst · 3 days ago

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this' my girl — tommy miller x reader

𝑅equest: “tommy miller x fem reader he like plays his guitar for her and like reader starts to get horny af watching him play and he’s like come here and he puts her on his lap and smut ensues 😇😩”

𝒮ummary: Watching Tommy Miller play his guitar on the porch does things to you—and by the time he’s done strumming, you’re in his lap, begging for more than music.

𝒲arnings: riding, light degradation, unprotected sex, praise & aftercare, dirty talk, tommy calls reader his girl!!, reader teases everyone, tommy loves it, age gap

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: fuck yeah i love him

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 4,7k

The sun had barely dipped below the treeline when Tommy picked up his guitar.

The day had been long—but the evening was calm, soft with the kind of golden hush that settled over the town like a warm blanket. You were on his porch now, arms draped over your knees, sipping lukewarm beer from a bottle and watching him tune each string with quiet focus.

He always looked like this when he played—half in the world, half somewhere else entirely. The porch creaked under his boot as he leaned back in the chair, one thigh lazily spread, fingers nimble over the strings. His brows furrowed slightly, not from frustration but from care, like he was coaxing something private from the guitar’s belly. A low, twangy chord shivered into the dusk air.

You didn’t mean to stare. But once you did, it was hard to stop.

The way his forearms flexed when he adjusted the tuning pegs. The line of his throat when he tilted his head, listening. The casual ease of him, shirt clinging to his back where the sweat from the day hadn’t dried yet, collar loose, a sliver of his collarbone showing through the open buttons.

Then he started strumming. Slow, deliberate. Something bluesy, with a drawl and drag to it that matched his voice when he murmured your name on quiet nights. His boot tapped a slow rhythm against the porch. And you sat there, mouth just slightly open, chest too tight, the beer suddenly forgotten in your hand.

It wasn’t just the music.

It was him—Tommy, lost in the song, unaware of how goddamn good he looked doing it. How his fingers moved like they could undo anything—clothes, thoughts, you.

You bit your lip, throat dry.

"Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?" he asked, eyes still on the strings, voice dipped in that slow Southern ease that always made your stomach twist.

You tried to answer. You really did.

But all you could think about was those fingers on your skin instead of the guitar.

You didn't answer right away. Just took another lazy sip of beer, then let your tongue run across your bottom lip—slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing. Because you did.

Tommy glanced up at that, eyes catching yours over the curve of his guitar. His gaze lingered, then dropped to your mouth. His fingers slowed, the song bleeding out into a low, unfinished hum.

"Mm-hmm," you hummed, voice syrupy and wicked. "Just thinkin' you might be better with those fingers off the strings and on somethin' else."

His brows arched, just a twitch, like he couldn’t quite believe how fast you flipped the switch—but not even close to annoyed. That was the thing about Tommy. Older, steadier, yeah, but you’d learned real quick that he liked how your mouth ran. He liked how you said shit that made his jaw clench and his hands curl.

He strummed another lazy chord, grinning now. “That right?”

You nodded, smug. “Might be the only instrument I ain't heard you play properly.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head, setting the guitar aside with a soft thump. “Jesus, girl.”

You leaned forward, elbows on your thighs, chin in your hand. “What? Can’t keep up?”

That got him. Just like always. Tommy chuckled, deep in his chest, and leaned back in his chair, eyeing you like you were both a problem and his favorite pastime.

Then he patted his thigh. “C’mere.”

You didn’t hesitate. Tossed the beer onto the porch floor with a soft clink, then stepped over, sliding right onto his lap like it was the most natural seat in the world. His hands came to your hips instantly, rough and warm, anchoring you there.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, voice low against your neck. “Mouth on you don’t ever quit.”

You grinned, settling your weight so the pressure between your legs hit just right. "Wouldn't you miss it if it did?"

Tommy groaned, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. "Shit. I really would."

You were already grinding without meaning to, slow and lazy, lips brushing his ear as you said, “Told you. Those fingers should be on me.”

He didn’t argue.

His hand slid up, fingers pressing under your shirt, calloused tips dragging heat across your skin. His other hand held your thigh firm to him, and he looked up at you with that soft, amused smirk—like he couldn’t believe the things you said, but he loved every damn one of them.

“You always this needy when I play, or just tonight?” he asked.

You met his gaze, bold. “Always. But you looked too fuckin’ good this time. And I was sittin’ there thinkin’—‘if he don’t touch me soon, I’m gonna start humpin’ the goddamn railing.’”

He laughed, loud this time, mouth pressed to your throat. “Christ.”

“Don’t worry, I’d scream your name anyway.”

And that—that—made him groan again, deep and sharp, as his hand slid lower and his mouth caught yours.

His mouth was hot against yours—slow, deep kisses that made your toes curl in your boots. He kissed like he had all the time in the world. No rush, no hurry. Just the slow burn of knowing exactly what he was doing and exactly how it was affecting you.

His hand drifted down again, teasing the curve of your ass through your skirt. He squeezed once, hard enough to make you roll your hips into him, chasing friction, but he didn’t give you more. Not yet.

"Always talkin'," he murmured against your mouth, "but look at you now."

His fingers crept under the hem of your shirt, brushing over bare skin with maddening softness. Calloused fingertips circled just above the waistband of your jeans—never low enough. Just light, slow sweeps that made your breath catch and your thighs clench.

You squirmed in his lap, trying to grind against the growing heat between his legs, but his grip pinned your hips down. Not enough pressure. Not enough anything.

"Tommy—"

"Shh," he said, mouth trailing down your jaw. “You get me all riled up with that mouth, then act like I’m the impatient one.”

You huffed, hands in his hair, tugging a little. "Then do something, old man."

He just laughed, low and rough. “Oh, I will. Just wanna hear what kind of noise that mouth makes when you’re not usin’ it to sass me.”

Then he moved.

His hand slipped down the front of your skirt, slow as hell. Just the pressure of his knuckles first, sliding against you through your panties—barely grazing where you needed him most.

You gasped, jerking your hips, but he caught your wrist and held you still.

“Nuh-uh,” he whispered. “You wanted this, baby. Now you’re gonna sit right here and take it.”

His fingers finally dipped lower, dragging over the soaked fabric between your legs.

“Well damn,” he drawled, cocky grin curling against your throat. “You been sittin’ there this wet the whole time I was playin’?”

You couldn’t even answer. You just whimpered—high and sharp—biting down on your lip.

Tommy groaned, voice gone thick with heat. “Look at that. Little mouth won’t shut up 'til I get my hand on your pussy, huh?”

You nodded, desperate.

But he didn’t move faster.

He rubbed lazy circles, maddening and featherlight, just enough to make you twitch. You rolled your hips again, whining under your breath, trying to get him to push harder—but he just kept up the teasing pace, watching your face with dark eyes and a smug little smile.

"Go on," he murmured, “use that mouth again, baby. Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, panting. “Fuck, Tommy. Please—touch me for real. Don’t fuckin’ tease—”

“Oh, no, no,” he chuckled. “You don’t get to boss me around now. Not after runnin’ your mouth all evenin’ like that.”

His fingers pressed a little firmer then, just enough to draw a sharp, shaky moan from your throat. You clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle.

"That's it," he whispered. "Sound like that again, and maybe I'll give you somethin' to grind on proper."

You cried out when he finally pushed your panties to the side and dragged two fingers through the slick heat between your thighs—slow, then sudden, plunging inside without warning.

"Jesus fuck," you gasped, hips jerking forward, voice cracking on the end of the curse.

Tommy groaned, low and dark, like he could feel it all the way up his arm. “Shit, baby… that pussy’s already grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

His thumb found your clit, slow circles at first, but this time he didn’t hold back. He curled his fingers deep inside you, finding that spot that made your legs shake in seconds. Your back arched, your head dropped onto his shoulder, and you let out a broken, needy moan you couldn’t even pretend to control.

“Look at you now,” he muttered into your ear, fucking his fingers into you harder. “You talk all that shit, sit on my lap actin’ like you’re in charge—now you’re just whimperin’. Soaked through. Desperate.”

You clawed at his chest, babbling something between a moan and a curse, but he didn’t let up.

“Say it,” he growled. “Tell me how bad you need it. C’mon, baby. Use that filthy little mouth.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The slick sounds of his fingers working inside you were loud in the quiet porch air, and you were soaking his jeans, hips bucking against his hand like you had no shame left.

“Fuck—Tommy—I need it—need your cock—please—fuck me, please—”

He grinned against your throat, biting down just hard enough to make you yelp. “That’s more like it.”

He pulled his fingers out slow, wet and gleaming in the low light. You watched, dazed, as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with a low groan.

“Taste like you’re already close,” he said, voice husky. “You gonna cum just from beggin’? You want me to ruin you right here on the porch, huh? That what you need?”

You nodded frantically, grinding down on the hard line of his cock through his jeans. “Yes—yes, fuck, just—need you inside me, now, Tommy, please—”

That broke him.

He was unbuckling his belt before you could blink, dragging his jeans down just far enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. You whimpered at the sight of it, grinding harder.

“Goddamn,” he growled, gripping your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ needy. You think I’m just gonna slide into that tight little pussy 'cause you’re cryin’ for it?”

You nodded, breathless.

He lined himself up, rubbing the thick head against your dripping folds—but didn’t push in.

“Say it,” he snapped, voice low and mean now. “Tell me you want this cock. Tell me how bad you need it stretchin’ you open.��

“I want it,” you choked out. “I need it—I need your cock—please, Tommy, just fuck me already—I want you so deep,want you to ruin me—please—”

That was it.

He slammed into you in one rough, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and your scream echoed out into the dark.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he held you there, trembling around him. “Tight as fuck—so fuckin’ wet.”

You clung to him, nails biting into his back, mouth open and gasping.

He gave you no time to adjust—just pulled back and slammed in again, hard, fast, relentless.

“Take it,” he snarled, voice wrecked. “That what you wanted, baby? Huh? Talkin’ all that shit, grindin’ on me like a bitch in heat—now you got it. Now you’re gonna take every inch.”

You could barely answer. Just moaned, eyes rolled back, tears prickling from how good it felt. Your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in like it needed him, and he felt every twitch.

“You gonna cum for me?” he rasped, pounding into you. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”

He didn’t let you cum.

Not yet.

Right when your moans pitched high and your body started to tighten, that wave crashing just at the edge—Tommy grabbed your hips and stilled you.

"Uh-uh," he growled, breath hot against your neck. "You don’t get to cum like that. Not after all the shit you’ve been talkin’."

You whimpered, squirming, trying to roll your hips, but his grip was like steel. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and deep, and the stretch of him had your legs shaking.

"Want that release?" he asked, voice thick and cruel with amusement. "You’re gonna work for it."

He leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs wider, dragging you up just enough for your cunt to clench around the tip of him. Your whole body trembled at the loss of him.

"Go on, baby," he said. "Ride me."

You blinked at him, fucked-out and breathless. “W-what—?”

“You heard me.” His hands stayed heavy on your hips, but no longer guiding. “You want to cum so bad, you’re gonna bounce on this cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show me just how needy that filthy mouth of yours really is.”

You let out a choked sound—half a gasp, half a moan—but he didn’t give you time to hesitate. “C’mon. Be a good girl. Take what you want.”

You started moving, slow at first—lifting yourself and sliding back down with a whimper, your thighs already burning from how badly your muscles shook.

Tommy groaned, head falling back as he watched you. “That’s it. Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Runnin’ that mouth all night just to end up cock-drunk and grindin’ on me like some needy little thing.”

You moaned, bracing your hands on his chest as you picked up the pace. His cock filled you perfectly, every thrust down hitting deep, his thick length dragging along every spot that made your vision go white.

“You gonna cry for it now?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Beg me again while you ride this cock, baby. Let me hear that sweet little voice.”

You were panting, wrecked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you fucked yourself on him harder. “Please—Tommy—I need it—need to cum so fucking bad—please, I’ll do anything—”

He grinned, dark and proud. “Yeah, you will.”

His hands finally moved, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your shirt before gripping your ass, guiding your rhythm now—harder, faster.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Bouncin’ like a goddamn toy. Mouth’s not so smart now, huh? All you can say is please—ain’t even words anymore.”

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. Just the sound of his voice, the wet slap of your bodies, the brutal grind of your clit catching on the base of him with every desperate thrust—

“You close?” he hissed. “You better be. You better cum fuckin’ hard after makin’ me wait this long.”

Your nails dug into his chest as the pressure snapped all at once. Your orgasm hit like a goddamn freight train—crying out his name, cunt clenching around him, your whole body trembling uncontrollably.

Tommy cursed, hips jerking up into you as he chased his own release, growling through gritted teeth.

“Fuck, that’s it—milk my cock, baby. So goddamn tight—fuck—”

He spilled inside you in deep, heavy pulses, holding you down tight, growling into your throat as he came.

For a long moment, there was just the sound of your panting, the creak of the porch, the crickets in the dark.

Then—

“You always this mouthy,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple, “or just when you’re about to be split open on my cock?”

You gave a breathless, dazed laugh. “Ask me again in five minutes. I might still have somethin’ to say.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “Then I guess I’ll just have to shut you up again.”

His breath was still warm on your skin, chest rising and falling beneath you, both of you coated in sweat and satisfaction. You lay slumped against him, spent and boneless, your forehead resting against his shoulder, lips slightly parted as you came down from the high.

Tommy didn’t say anything at first.

He just held you.

One hand traced slow, grounding circles on your lower back, the other tangled gently in your hair, fingers brushing through the strands like you were something fragile and precious. His cock was still buried inside you, thick and warm, twitching every so often with the aftershocks of release.

“Jesus,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and rough but sweet underneath. “You really tryin’ to kill me.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut, heart still pounding. “S’only fair. You do it to me every time.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded against his neck. “More than okay.”

Tommy shifted just enough to wrap both arms around you tighter, pulling you fully into his chest. You stayed like that—your body molded to his, your thighs draped over his lap, sticky and trembling and safe. The night air cooled your sweat-damp skin, but his body was solid heat beneath you.

Neither of you rushed it.

He didn’t pull out, didn’t even try. Just stayed there, letting you keep him inside you, like he knew the way it kept you grounded. You could still feel the dull throb between your legs, your muscles twitching every now and then with the memory of how hard he’d fucked you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing a hand over your thigh. “Look at you. All used up and still clingin’ to me like I’m gonna disappear.”

You huffed a lazy breath. “Mm. Not lettin’ you go until I can feel my legs again.”

“I can work with that.”

His palm moved slowly along your back, kneading gently, checking you without saying anything. That was the thing about Tommy—he always noticed. The tremble in your hands, the way your breath hitched, the way you tried to bury your face a little deeper into his neck.

"You did so good for me," he murmured, voice dropping softer. “Took me so sweet. You always do.”

You didn’t answer—just sighed against his skin, your fingers curling into his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat now, steady and strong under your cheek.

Time passed.

Eventually, when your breathing evened out and your body stopped twitching, Tommy kissed your temple again.

“You ready?” he asked gently.

You nodded, just barely. He held your hips steady with one hand and slowly pulled out, careful and unhurried. You whimpered at the stretch and the emptiness, but he was already wrapping his arms around you again, cradling you back against his chest before you could move.

“Gotcha,” he whispered. “Still gotcha.”

And you believed him.

Because no matter how rough he got, no matter how filthy your mouth got or how loud the sex turned, after—it was always this.

Him. Holding you like you were the only damn thing in the world he wanted to keep close.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You mumbled something in protest—too content, too boneless to move—but he was already lifting you gently off his lap. You winced a little at the sensitivity between your thighs, and instantly his touch went even gentler.

“Easy,” he said, steadying you as you stood on shaky legs. “I got you.”

You did your best to walk inside, but your knees buckled a bit, and before you could catch yourself, Tommy had already scooped you up into his arms like it was nothing.

“Mouth works fine, but them legs? Useless.”

You smacked his chest lightly, hiding your face there as he laughed.

He carried you straight into the bathroom, setting you down on the closed toilet lid while he turned on the shower. Steam started to rise almost immediately, curling into the air, soft and warm.

You watched him move—still shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, hair a mess, scratches on his neck from your nails. You should’ve been tired, but your heart swelled a little instead. Something about him, like this, just looking at you like he wanted to take care of every last inch.

When the water was warm enough, Tommy came back to you, crouched in front of where you sat, and reached for your jeans.

“Let me?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

He undressed you slow—gentle fingers unbuttoning your skirt, peeling the fabric down your thighs. You lifted your arms when he needed, letting him strip you bare. His gaze never left yours long, always checking, making sure you were okay. When he helped you up and led you into the shower, the warm water hit your skin like a breath of relief.

You stood under the spray, eyes closed, head tipped back, and when you opened them, Tommy was stepping in behind you, still half-clothed, pulling his shirt off over his head and letting his jeans drop to the floor.

“I can clean myself, y’know,” you teased, voice soft, lazy.

“Sure you can,” he murmured, stepping in close, hands already reaching for the soap. “But I wanna.”

He lathered the bar between his palms and ran them gently over your shoulders, down your back, over your hips. His touch was careful now, reverent almost. No more teasing. Just warmth. His hands lingered at the backs of your thighs, then slid between them with soft, slow care, cleaning you with practiced tenderness.

You hissed a little at the sensitivity, but he kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.”

You let him care for you.

Let him wash your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp slow and soothing. Let him rinse the soap off your skin, trail his hands over every inch of you like you were something holy he’d fought to protect.

And when it was done, when the water ran clear and your body felt lighter again, he turned off the tap and wrapped you in a big, worn towel. Pulled you into his chest one more time, damp and soft, lips against your forehead.

“No more back talk tonight,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re sleepin’ the whole damn night in my arms.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t talk in my sleep,” you mumbled.

He chuckled again, kissed your temple. “God help me.”

And he carried you to bed.

Still warm from the shower, still sore in all the right places, still held like you were something he didn’t plan on letting go of.

Not tonight. Not ever.

The smell hit you before your eyes even opened.

Something warm and buttery, eggs maybe. Coffee, definitely. The sheets were soft, still tangled around your legs, and the soreness between your thighs made you smirk into the pillow. Your muscles ached in that perfect way—like a reminder, like a reward.

You stretched with a slow groan and sat up, blinking in the early morning light pouring through the window. Tommy’s side of the bed was empty, but the faint clatter of pans and the low hum of a country song drifted in from down the hall.

You found your shirt on the floor—not your shirt, his, oversized and worn soft—and tugged it on without bothering with anything else. Your legs protested with every step, but you made it to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the frame, arms crossed, grin already in place.

There he was.

Tommy Miller. Shirtless. Hair still messy. Standing at the stove with one hand on the skillet and the other around a mug of coffee. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, back flexing every time he flipped something in the pan.

God help you.

“You know,” you drawled, voice still scratchy with sleep, “if I’d known breakfast was part of the aftercare package, I’d have let you fuck me stupid a long time ago.”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, smirking the second he saw you. “Sweetheart, you did let me fuck you stupid. That’s why you’re walkin’ like you just got off a horse.”

You grinned. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

He let out a low whistle, flipping an egg. “There’s that mouth again. Thought I broke it last night.”

You stepped into the kitchen, coming up behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his warm back.

“Nah. You just put it on snooze.”

He laughed—soft and low—and reached down to take your hands, lifting them to kiss your knuckles. “Sit. Food’s almost done.”

You let go reluctantly, padding over to one of the chairs and flopping down with a sigh, legs spreading instinctively under the hem of his shirt.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Eyes flicked down, lingered, then back up to your face with a slow shake of his head. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admitted, scooping eggs and toast onto a plate. “But one of these days, you’re gonna sass me at the wrong time, and I ain’t gonna wait 'til we’re behind closed doors.”

You smirked. “Promises, promises.”

He slid the plate in front of you with a wink, then leaned down to kiss you—slow, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Just your lips, the faint taste of coffee, the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

“Eat,” he murmured. “Then maybe I’ll see if that mouth of yours is still good for anything else.”

You picked up your fork with a grin. “Spoiler alert: it is.”

Tommy sat across from you, his own plate in hand, watching you like he already knew exactly how the rest of the morning was going to play out.

And he wasn’t in any rush either.

You were halfway through breakfast, Tommy halfway through his second cup of coffee, when the knock came.

Three solid raps on the front door, followed by the familiar creak as it swung open.

“Tommy?” Joel’s voice, gravel-thick and unmistakable, rolled through the cabin. “You up?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just glanced toward the door, then at you, his brow arching.

You raised your mug and muttered, “Do I have time to put pants on, or are we just doing this full feral?”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “Think we’re past first impressions now, baby.”

Joel stepped into view just as you stood from the table—Tommy’s shirt hanging long over your bare thighs, no shame in your posture as you sipped from your mug and gave the older Miller a once-over.

Joel’s eyes flicked from you to Tommy, then back, a brow raising ever so slightly.

Tommy stood up behind you, easy as anything, stepping close to rest a hand on your lower back—warm and firm, right where the hem of the shirt barely covered.

“Joel,” he said simply, “this’s my girl.”

Your heart gave a little lurch, like a caught breath—but you played it cool, shooting Joel a smirk over your cup.

“Hey,” you said, voice dry. “Nice to meet you. Heard you were taller.”

Joel blinked, clearly recalibrating, but his lips twitched like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or leave.

Tommy, on the other hand, definitely laughed. “Told you, Joel. Mouth on her don’t quit.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you another beat—measuring, not unkind—and then he gave a slow nod, jaw ticking. “Well, ain’t she a handful.”

You flashed him a grin. “I prefer ‘a lot to handle.’ But I’m flexible.”

Tommy groaned softly behind you, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. “God damn, woman…”

But his grip never left your waist.

Joel looked between the two of you again, something settling in his face—not approval, exactly, but something close enough.

“Well,” he said, “I was just stoppin’ by to drop off those spare tools. But I’ll, uh… let you two get back to your mornin’.”

You leaned into Tommy’s side, deliberately smug. “Oh, we were done with the mornin’.”

Tommy choked on a laugh and Joel just shook his head, muttering as he turned for the door, “Y’all are trouble.”

When it shut behind him, Tommy exhaled and muttered into your ear, “You tryin’ to kill me with that mouth?”

You turned, arms wrapping around his neck. “You called me your girl.”

He gave you that smile—soft, sure, the one that always made your chest tighten.

“That’s 'cause you are,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You think I let just anyone sass my brother with no pants on?”

#tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller smut #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou #fanfic #smut #tommy miller #gia writes tommy ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.#gia writes request ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

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supercorpkid · 3 days ago

Text

North

Supergirl. Supercorp. Lena Luthor x Kara Danvers.

Word Count: 4.5k

Notes: loosely inspired by Clairo's song 'North'.

The key sticks in the lock.

Of course it does. The house has been abandoned for years—so long Lena forgot it even existed until she needed somewhere no one would think to look.

The door groans open, and stale air breathes out like something exiled and forgotten. She doesn’t step inside. Not yet. Just stands there, one hand still on the key, trying to summon something—anything—from this place.

If she stares at the couch long enough, maybe a memory will surface. Lex and Lillian playing chess. Lionel with his whiskey, some heavy book cracked open on his lap. Maybe a younger version of herself curled by the fireplace, small and shadowed, just trying to be unnoticed.

But nothing comes. Not even when she forces it.

Her mind is playing tricks on her, because the only voice she hears—the only presence she feels—was never here.

Kara Danvers doesn’t even know this house exists. And still, Lena swears she can hear her, “Hey Lena, come snuggle on the couch and watch a movie.” She shakes her head as if to shake the voice inside her brain off.

The place smells like dust and old wood, varnish gone sharp with time, a ghost of lakewater and damp earth. But when Lena breathes in, it’s Kara she feels in her lungs.

That’s why she left. That’s why she ran. Because everything in her penthouse smelled like Kara. Like sunlight and laughter, like warmth that creeps in on you. It smelled like sweet nothings and heavy comfort. Sun-warmed cotton, bare skin, and smooth-talking.

It clung to her pillows. Her couch. Her clothes. It haunted the house with invisible hands, brushing over her shoulders, curling against her spine.

Kara stayed over.

Just like that. No excuse. No justifying why she didn’t go home. She curled up on the couch with Lena like she belonged there. Head on Lena’s thigh. Gentle fingers tracing the seam of her trousers. Not sexual. Not not, either.

“You always smell like lavender. It's my favorite.”

Lena didn’t know what to say. Her heart was already beating too hard. Kara had looked up at her with those wide blue eyes and smiled like she’d just said something innocent.

In bed, later that night, she pushed it further.

Whispered as a secret in the quiet of the night, under the same darkness, surrounded by the same blanket, “Goodnight, my heart.”

And Lena's heart, god, it screamed. All of the sudden there were flashing lights. Sirens in her bloodstream. Every nerve buzzing like something terrible was about to happen—because something always does. When she lets someone close enough to touch the parts of her no one should reach—awful things happen to everyone involved.

She’d said nothing. Turned her back to Kara and stared at the wall like it might save her.

But it didn’t. Because Kara stayed the night. And in the morning after, she made coffee like it was her kitchen. She danced around in socks, humming some stupid song under her breath, calling Lena love like Lena had earned it. But…

Did she?

Lena could feel herself splitting down old fault lines. Cracks she’d plastered over years ago beginning to open again.

So she ran.

No note. No goodbye. Just a bag thrown together in ten minutes and a car aimed north.

Now the lake stares back at her through tall windows like it knows the truth.

This wasn’t supposed to be her story. She wasn’t supposed to be the one who fell first. She should’ve had the upper hand. The control. The distance. All the things she learned in this very house—maybe, probably—to wield like weapons.

But Kara had gotten under her skin. Sweetly. Softly. Like honey. Like flowers growing under your feet. Like something that gets you before you even notice it's there.

And somehow, impossibly, Kara is still here. In the creak of the floors. In the way the light moves across the walls. In the ache behind Lena’s ribs that won’t subside.

How is it that Kara's warmth seems to have followed her all the way here, when it should be a place filled with nothing but resentment and expensive art?

Lena drags herself upstairs. The bed is enormous. Cold. Blinding white. Too Luthor.

She strips it bare.

The old sheets go in a pile on the floor. She buys new ones. Drives an hour into town to make sure they’re not satin, not high thread count, not something Kara would sink into with a smile. These are scratchy. Beige. Soulless. That’s what she needs.

She buys too much food. A way to tell herself that she is here to stay. That, this time, she won't shake this feeling in two to three business days. No. This time, it's deep. Nestled inside her like marrow and she knows she will need weeks to get over her love for Kara Danvers.

Maybe— maybe she even knows she will never truly get over it. She just needs to be functional before going back to National City.

There's a text on her phone, when she glances down at it. Kara’s name. That stupid heart Lena had added next to it. Pink. Soft. Mocking.

It’s not the Luthor way, she tells herself. Then again, perhaps it’s the most Luthor thing she’s ever done—this brand of operatic madness. Because she’s out the door before she can stop herself.

Underwear and a T-Shirt. Nothing else. Not even shoes.

She runs and runs—through grass, down the slope, straight to the edge of the lake. Breath ragged, chest burning. She keeps running.

And then, she stops just short before the water meets her toes and flings her phone so far into it, she knows she will never get it back.

She doesn't even know what the text said. It doesn't matter. A hello at this point could have killed her.

She stares at the lake for about ten minutes until it dawns her, whoa—that was dramatic. And completely unnecessary. The superwatch is still perfectly fastened to her wrist, of course. Because while she may have lost her mind for a second, she’s not insane enough to throw that into the water.

She draws a breath and turns toward the house. Resigned. She walks back up the slope with wet grass clinging to her ankles and mud drying on her calves. Every step heavier than the last. By the time she makes it back inside, she wants to scream.

Because—what was that? What was all of that?

The sleepovers. The touches. The pet names. The way Kara looked at her in the mornings like it was already theirs, like Lena was something she could keep.

And then—nothing.

No explanations. No confessions. No kiss.

Never a kiss.

Was it all a game? Was she just… practice? A warm place to land until Kara figured out who she really wanted?

Lena knows Kara. Knows her heart, or thought she did. And she wants to believe that Kara wouldn’t play with her like that. That she wouldn’t be cruel.

But what if she is just too good at it?

That’s the part Lena can’t stand—the possibility that none of it meant anything. That Kara can smile and touch and whisper like that, and still walk away unscathed. That she can call someone my heart like it’s nothing.

And maybe Lena was foolish for believing it. For letting herself think that this could be different. That Kara—sweet, sunny, ever-loyal Kara—could see her, really see her, and still stay.

Lena rips open the fridge. The door bounces back from the force of it. She stares inside like it's supposed to offer her answers, and then laughs—a bitter, hollow sound that barely makes it out of her throat.

She’s angry now. And it’s better than being sad.

Because it hits her—how pathetic she must’ve looked. Curled up on the couch with Kara. Letting her lay there, tracing lines onto her trousers like that didn’t mean anything. Like she wasn’t branding Lena at that moment. Whispering things no one had ever said to her before and expecting her to survive it.

And what did Lena do?

She smiled. She let it happen.

God, what kind of Luthor was she? A bad one. One that would be scrutinized if anyone else from her family had seen.

She was twelve. Sitting in the lounge of this very house, legs tucked up under her as she watched Lex play chess against their mother. Lillian didn’t even glance at her as she moved a rook and said, flatly, “People who are soft don’t get to win.”

Lex had chuckled, cruel and easy. “People who are soft get turned into weapons.”

Lena had pretended not to care, pretended it wasn't about her they were talking about. Had pretended her heart wasn’t cracking just a little when Lionel looked up from his whiskey and said, “See, Lena. You have to learn that no one will like you if you’re soft.”

She stares at herself on the nearest shiny surface. Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are red. She looks like someone who didn’t learn.

Kara had walked right into her life with sunshine and sweetness and meant it, and Lena still managed to fall for it like a fool. Like a Luthor desperate to believe she could be loved.

No. No.

This was her mistake—thinking she could be soft. Thinking she could lay back and let someone like Kara hold her and stay the night without consequences.

She grips the counter tighter.

If she’s going to break, she’ll do it on her own terms.

The wine doesn’t even taste good.

She finds it in the cellar, one of the few things in this house she vaguely remembers liking. Dusty bottles, stupid labels, vintage worth more than most people’s cars. She doesn’t care. Just pops the cork with shaking hands and drinks straight from the neck, mouth tilted, jaw tight.

She finishes and starts another bottle in the same breath. Manages to get halfway through it, before she stumbles her way upstairs again. Leaves her clothes in a trail behind her like she’s shedding everything Kara ever touched.

The sheets are beige. Soulless. Chosen for their lack of memory. And yet…

She throws herself into the bed—and freezes. The scent hits her before she’s even fully underneath. That fucking smell.

Not Kara, not exactly. Not like her skin or her perfume. It’s subtler. But it’s there. That warm cotton softness, that trace of vanilla from Kara’s shampoo. The smell of safety. Of being held.

And Lena chokes on it.

“No,” she whispers, fists already twisting the pillow, dragging it out from under her to throw across the room. “No—no—no.”

She tears the blanket off, throws it down, tears at the sheets like they’ve betrayed her. Which they have. Which everything has.

“I bought these. I chose them,” she says, voice rising, cracking. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near me.”

But Kara always was good at sneaking in.

Even now, even here—hundreds of miles away, behind locked doors and miles of dirt road—Kara got in anyway.

That’s what breaks her.

Not the wine. Not the bed. Not the house or the lake or even the fucking text she never read.

It’s the realization that no matter how far she runs, she still brought Kara with her. Kara Danvers is in her blood now. Every breath tastes like her. Every ache leads back to her.

She sinks to the floor beside the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms around them like a cage. And then the tears come. Angry. Humiliating. Loud.

Not the elegant kind that slides down cheeks like poetry—no, these are the kind that rip their way out. Ugly. Shaking. Snotty.

“I hate you,” she sobs into her own arms. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

But she doesn’t. God, she doesn’t.

And that’s the worst part.

She presses her face into her arms and tells herself it’ll pass. That she’ll wake up tomorrow and feel nothing.

But the ache only gets louder.

Because right now, she doesn’t believe Kara ever meant it. Not really. Not the hand warm on her tight, not the pet name, not the staying over, not the never leaving.

And that’s the part Lena can’t forgive.

She cries until her throat hurts. Until she’s gasping more than sobbing. Until her body is wrung out and her skin feels too tight for her bones.

Eventually, she drags herself into the bed again—not because she wants to, but because the floor is cold and she’s shivering. The sheets are still warm from her outburst, but the smell lingers. She hates that it’s in the fabric, hates that it’s in her. That even now, Kara feels closer than anyone else ever has.

She stares at the ceiling in the dark, blinking through the leftover tears, and lets the silence press in around her. No phone. No noise. Just her, alone in the bed she tried so hard to make sterile.

She wants to hate her. But Kara never gave her a clean wound. Only the kind that keeps reopening.

She kind of wishes Kara had kissed her and then disappeared. Slept with her and then laughed. Lied, cheated, done something she could hold like a weapon. But Kara hadn’t done anything like that. She’d just stayed. She’d lingered.

She’d said things like goodnight, my heart.

And Lena—idiot, idiot—she’d believed it.

That’s what gets her again. The punch of it. The humiliation of how deeply she let herself believe. Like some wide-eyed farm girl in a high school movie, not someone raised by wolves in thousand-dollar suits.

“Luthors weren’t built to be this stupid,” she mutters bitterly into the mattress.

But she was. Somehow, she was.

Because when Kara smiled at her like that—when she touched her hair like it was silk, and called her love like it meant something—Lena believed her.

And now she doesn’t know how to stop feeling Kara in her bones.

She’s surviving on tears. And anger. And wine, obviously.

Usually, by now, she would’ve gotten over it. She would’ve reasoned with herself—told herself it was ridiculous. That having this many emotions about one person is not only unhealthy, but maniacal.

She’s not Lex. She’s not about to become the kind of person who spirals over Kara Danvers like he did over Clark Kent.

Only… Lex didn’t want Clark to kiss him breathless and say he was in love.

Or maybe he did. It would explain a lot more.

Maybe Clark played with Lex’s feelings the same way Kara plays with hers.

Kara leaned in too close one night, in the penthouse. Close enough that Lena could see her own breath stutter in Kara’s glasses. Close enough that when Kara whispered something—I swear this lipstick drives me insane—and then kissed her cheek like it was nothing. She thought she would die.

But her hands had stayed on Lena’s hips for a second too long. Her eyes had dropped to Lena’s mouth like they’d meant to.

And Lena, like a fool, had tilted forward.

Just slightly. Just enough to ruin everything.

But Kara only smiled. Like Lena had misread the whole thing. Like they were playing some game Kara never agreed to start.

And then she’d left.

Went home like she hadn’t just lit Lena’s entire ribcage on fire and walked out before watching it burn.

Maybe it wasn’t even romantic. Maybe it never was.

Maybe Kara’s just doing that thing people do—keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Whispering sweet things to keep her soft. Keeping her roped in, just in case. For leverage. For safety. So she’ll always know where to find her, if she needs to.

Maybe that’s all Lena ever was. A safety net. A contingency plan with good taste in wine and a huge bed Kara liked sleeping in.

Because how else do you explain it?

How else do you explain the way she keeps coming back? The way she touches Lena like it’s second nature and then pulls away like she didn’t mean it? Like Lena imagined the whole thing?

God, maybe she did.

Maybe that’s the real Luthor curse—not the madness or the ambition or the name carved in stone—but the delusion. The desperate, pathetic hope that someone like Kara Danvers could ever mean it when she calls her love.

Before she realizes, it’s been a week.

Look, Lena is a pathetic mess when it comes to Kara Danvers. But she’s better than that. She’s smart. Resourceful. Half a Luthor—for whatever that's worth.

So she comes up with a plan. A damn good one.

She keeps herself busy with the stupid house. Cleans it. Throws things away. Hides others in the basement. She gives herself a clean slate. Somewhere she can almost see herself living for real. After all, she does have a portal.

But when her mind plays tricks on her, she has a contingency plan.

She runs. Down the slope and straight into the freezing lake, until her body is fighting just to survive. Until the cold shocks her brain quiet again.

It isn’t a perfect system, but it helps.

Until it doesn’t.

It works until she’s dragging herself out of the lake, soaked and shivering and breathless—only to see Kara standing at the edge. Just waiting. Her mind is either powerful enough to conjure Kara here, or she’s been found.

She freezes.

Literally and figuratively.

Kara says nothing at first. Just looks at her like she’s not cold, not dripping, not trembling from the inside out. Like she’s something Kara’s been watching for a long time.

Lena wants to scream.

Instead, she walks right past her. Leaves a trail of lakewater and bruised dignity all the way up to the house.

“Wait—”

Kara follows. Of course she does.

“I’ve been texting. You just disappeared, and I had no idea—”

Lena slams the door behind her like it might keep the words out. Like it might keep her out. Even though she knows Kara is strong enough to break it open if she wants to.

“Ever think I didn’t want to see you?” Lena snaps through the door. Her voice shakes more than she means it to.

No way—no fucking way—she’s letting Kara into this house. It’s been hard enough trying to scrub away the smell of memories, the echoes of touch, the look Kara left her with.

“Lena.”

It comes out in that stupid, pleading tone Lena hates. Or loves. The one only Kara ever uses. The one no one else would dare use. The one she’s addicted to.

Kara’s at the window now. Hand pressed to the glass like she could reach through it.

Lena blinks hard. Maybe she’s still hallucinating. Maybe Kara’s just a trick of the cold.

But when she opens her eyes again—

“Lena, please. Let’s talk.”

It makes Lena laugh. Sharp. Bitter. It bounces off the clean walls she’s spent a week pretending weren’t the ruins of her heart.

“Why are you running?” Kara asks. “Why were you half-naked in a freezing lake all the way up north, alone? Why are you acting like I’m the reason for all this?”

A shiver crawls down Lena’s spine.

She realizes, belatedly, she’s still mostly naked—and freezing. She grabs the robe by the door, perfectly placed from all the other times she’s had to defibrillate her emotions back into submission.

Still, the shiver doesn’t stop.

Because Kara is right there on the other side of the glass, asking all the questions Lena thought she’d buried. The ones she thought they’d both already answered.

“Let me in?” Kara says. So softly it nearly undoes her. It’s the gentlest thing Lena’s ever heard. It makes her knees shake.

“I have let you in. So many times.”

Kara’s lips part like she might argue—but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. She just stands there, blinking like she wasn’t expecting that.

Lena laughs again. Bitter. Broken. “You want to talk? Now? After all this time pretending there was nothing between us?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” Lena cuts in. “You always were. Pretending it didn’t mean anything when you looked at me like that. When you touched me like that. Like it was nothing when you whispered things no friend would say and left before I could answer.”

She’s shaking again. Robe clenched in both fists like armor.

Kara’s eyes go wide. “That’s not— I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“No,” Lena says, stepping forward, voice low and sharp. “You were just trying to keep me. Keep me around. Keep me wanting you so you’d never have to decide if you wanted me back.”

Silence falls. Heavy. Too big for the room.

Kara looks down. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Lena agrees for an entirely different reason. “It isn’t.”

They stare at each other through the glass. Kara looks like she might cry. Lena already is—but the tears are stuck somewhere between fury and ache.

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You know why I ran. You’ve always known.”

Kara presses her forehead to the glass. “Baby. Please. This isn’t how we should talk.”

“Like what? With something between us?” Lena huffs a laugh. “This is the only way I can talk to you—so you don’t sneak in again and tear down all my walls and make me love you like I’ve never been hurt.”

Kara doesn’t flinch. She just watches her. Tender and unflinching. Like Lena's breaking along the same fault lines Kara has traced with her hands a thousand times before.

“I never snuck in,” Kara says quietly. “You let me. Every single time.”

Lena’s breath stutters.

“And every single time, you ran. When it got close. When it got good. You ran.”

Lena stiffens. “Don’t turn this on me—”

“I’m not, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying I knew. I saw this coming.”

Lena blinks fast. Her voice drops. “I thought if I stayed gone, you’d stop caring.”

Kara shakes her head. “I thought if I gave you space, you’d come back when you were ready. Like you always do.”

Lena just stares at her, like seeing her for the first time. Like something she believed is quietly cracking apart inside her.

“I keep trying to reach you, but every time, you disappear. You know it’s not just me, Lena.”

A breath catches in her chest. She follows Kara’s eyes to the door. "Please?”

And that does it.

With trembling fingers, she unhooks the latch. The door creaks open like even the house is holding its breath.

Kara doesn’t move.

Lena breathes in, sharp and shallow. “I hate you for being right.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I still—” Her voice breaks.

“I know.”

Kara steps in. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal, unsure if it’ll bite or collapse.

“I didn’t come here to win,” she says. “I didn’t come to pull you back.”

“Then why did you come?”

“To be here. If you want me to leave, I will. But I couldn’t let you think I didn’t care.”

Lena’s lip quivers. She stares at Kara like she’s trying to find all the parts of her she’d rewritten as apathy. As abandonment.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” she whispers.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Kara says it so fast, so sure, there’s no room left for doubt. “But you have to want it too. You have to want it enough not to run when we’re close. When we’re almost there.”

Lena looks away—and this time, the tears come. Quiet. Unstoppable.

“I know you’re scared,” Kara says, softer now, each word wrapped in care. “I know they taught you to question everything—especially love. But you don’t have to question mine.”

And something in Lena breaks. She exhales like there’s a crack in her chest—like something old and heavy has finally given way.

“I thought you were playing with me,” she whispers. “Because it was convenient. Not real.”

Kara flinches, her face folding like the words physically hurt. “Lena, you’ve always been real. I want to give you everything. I just need you to stay when it gets real. We have to stop doing this to each other.”

Lena wipes her face and finally meets her eyes. “I always thought it was you pulling away… but maybe it’s been me. This whole time.”

Kara steps closer. Still not touching. Just there—radiating warmth like sunlight through winter glass, soft and sure.

“Let me stay?” she asks. “Let me in again?”

Lena’s voice is barely a breath. “And if I want you to stay forever?”

Kara’s smile is huge, warm, uncontainable. Like the sun breaking into the house, rewriting its history. It reaches the darkest, dustiest corners. And it does even more in Lena’s heart.

“It’s the only way I know how when it comes to you, my heart.”

Lena doesn’t speak. She just breathes Kara in like she’s been underwater for days and only now found air again.

Then, quietly, like the words might break her even more than silence already has, “Hold me?”

Kara doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around Lena, careful at first, like she still might be pushed away. But the second their bodies meet, Lena exhales, a choked sound against Kara’s shoulder. She’s still shivering, damp and cold, but Kara’s warmth is immediate, all-consuming, the kind of heat that sinks into bone. And so she just melts.

Her arms circle Kara’s waist like she’s anchoring herself to something real for the first time in days. Maybe longer.

Kara pulls back just enough to cup Lena’s face, her thumbs brushing the tears away like they don’t scare her, like she wants to touch every part of the pain and still stay.

Lena’s eyes flutter shut, then open again. Steady now.

“No more waiting,” she says, voice raw. “No more running. Make me yours in a way none of us can deny anymore.”

Kara’s breath catches. Her gaze flicks to Lena’s lips like it’s instinct—like she’s been holding back for years and suddenly can’t remember why.

She kisses her.

Soft at first—reverent, trembling with everything they just said. But Lena makes a sound, a tiny, desperate thing in the back of her throat, and Kara deepens it without hesitation. Her hands slide into Lena’s hair, pulling her closer like she’s trying to fuse them together. Like there’s no world beyond this room, this kiss, this moment.

And Lena burns. From the inside out. With just a kiss, Kara surrounds her again. The warmth creeps in slow and steady—the smell of vanilla, sun-warmed cotton, and bare skin. It’s everywhere. It wraps around her like a weighted comfort, like coming home.

And Lena wonders, dazed and breathless, why she ever ran from this. Because this—this feeling, this touch, this one person—is the best she’s ever had.

When Kara finally parts their lips for air, Lena already knows what’s coming. Knows it like a vow. A promise etched deep into something eternal.

“No more dancing at the edge of us,” Kara murmurs.

And Lena, heart thudding, voice barely more than a breath, answers with her own vow—soft but certain: “No more hiding our feelings.”

Kara lifts her like it’s easy, like it’s always been meant to be, and Lena wraps her legs around her without hesitation. She’s laughing through her tears now, breathless, alive.

She used to think love like this would ruin her—but it’s the only thing that ever made her brave enough to stay.

#supergirl #kara danvers #lena luthor #supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl imagine #supercorp fanfic #kara zor el #kara x lena

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reveriebae · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Sky High & Sinful

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

Eden Heights Rooftop – 11:43PM

The city below hums like a secret. Lights flicker like pulse points. The sky’s a deep shade of black velvet, stars smudged behind clouds. The air is warm—just enough to keep you from needing a jacket, but still cold enough to make your skin pebble under your thin dress.

You’re the last to arrive.

And the way they all look up when you push the rooftop door open? You might as well have stepped on stage.

You stroll across the concrete in a slinky black satin slip, no bra, and those tiny shorts hidden beneath—just in case you forget to cross your legs. You’re barefoot, holding a bottle of cheap wine, face glowy from your skincare and a long hot shower. Hair down. Skin out. Eyes dangerous.

“Late again,” Hongjoong mutters, puffing his cigarette, “but of course, she makes it worth it.”

Yunho's sitting on the edge of the picnic bench, eyes locked on your thighs. Wooyoung lets out a whistle. “Shit. Gotta start charging rent for the way my dick jumps when you walk in.”

Mingi raises a red solo cup. “To miracles in silk.”

You slide into the open spot between San and Yeosang. San’s already buzzed, head thrown back in laughter at whatever Jongho just said. Yeosang offers you a sip of his gin—no words, just eyes trailing the dip of your collarbone as you take it slow, smirking against the rim.

The group is loose.

The air smells like smoke and lime and sandalwood. A Bluetooth speaker plays some lazy R&B, and someone brought a deck of Cards Against Humanity but forgot all the white cards.

Conversations overlap.

“...I’m telling you, that chick at the bar totally winked at me—”

“San, you were high. She blinked. Twice.”

“Still counts.”

Jongho’s eating chips straight from the bag. Wooyoung’s mixing drinks like he works the bar he’s avoiding all weekend. Mingi’s leaning against the railing, smiling at his phone. Yunho is very not-smiling, watching him.

You?

You stretch your legs out, one bare thigh brushing San’s denim-clad knee. You notice. He definitely notices. You don’t move it.

Yeosang leans close. “You look good tonight.”

You look at him sideways. “I always do.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. But tonight you look like trouble.”

You grin. “Then don’t sit next to me, pretty boy.”

Hongjoong tosses his cigarette off the edge and claps his hands. “Alright, degenerates. Let's stir the pot. Truth or drink?”

Wooyoung slams a bottle on the table. “Let’s fucking go.”

Yunho groans. “Every time we do this, someone cries or comes.”

You lick your lips. “I’m okay with both.”

Hongjoong lights another cigarette. “Alright,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke, “let’s do this—truth or drink. Rules are simple: answer the question, or take a shot. And if your answer’s lame, you’re drinking anyway.”

Wooyoung rubs his hands together like a gremlin. “Who’s going first? Not me. My mouth gets me in trouble.”

“Exactly why you’re going first,” Yunho says, grinning.

Wooyoung sighs. “Fine, fine. Ask away, sinners.”

Mingi smirks. “What’s your biggest turn-on that would make everyone here look at you sideways?”

Everyone leans in. You cock a brow. Wooyoung doesn’t flinch.

“I like being called a good boy,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Like, really good. Like ‘don’t stop, just like that, good fucking boy.’”

You inhale your wine. Yunho chokes.

San immediately shouts, “SOMEONE GET A LEASH.”

Jongho throws a chip at him. “You’re so unserious.”

But Wooyoung is proudly sipping his drink like a satisfied pet. “What? You think I moan like a porn star for nothing?”

You look him up and down. “Oh, I knew it was you moaning last game night.”

He points at you. “It was.”

Hongjoong taps the bottle. “Next.”

The bottle spins, landing on you.

Yeosang raises an eyebrow. “Let’s see if she plays or drinks.”

San leans in. “How many of us have you fantasized about?”

The rooftop goes dead silent.

Even the Bluetooth speaker stutters. One of the clouds covers the moon. Somewhere, a cat dies.

You tilt your head. “What, just this week?”

Jongho groans into his hands. “I am not mentally stable enough for this conversation.”

You grin. “Six. Possibly seven if one of you took off that chain during cardio day.”

Hongjoong looks offended. “I don’t even go to the gym.”

You just wink.

And then—Seonghwa clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, sipping his wine, posture perfect, hair barely tousled. “Let me say something before the next person confesses to sucking toes.”

Everyone turns.

“Here we fucking go,” Mingi mutters.

Seonghwa adjusts his sleeves like a therapist about to deliver an intervention.

“I think it’s important that we’re being honest with ourselves, yes. But it’s also important to remember—sex is not a replacement for emotional intimacy. So while we’re up here comparing orgasm counts and spit kinks, maybe we should also ask: Have you hydrated? Have you healed your abandonment wounds? Do you know your attachment style?”

San stares at him. “Did you just soft launch a TED Talk?”

You nod slowly. “Is this the same man who told me two weeks ago to spit in his mouth?”

Seonghwa doesn’t blink. “You can be emotionally intelligent and into degradation. Duality exists.”

Jongho sips his soda like a church deacon. “Amen.”

Hongjoong just says, “Jesus Christ,” and passes him the bottle.

The group bursts out laughing.

San throws an arm around your shoulder, whispering, “Tell me more about those seven fantasies later.”

You lean into him, legs stretched across Yeosang again. “Only if you survive Seonghwa’s next lecture.”

It’s past 2AM now. The bottle’s half empty. The ashtray is full. And the speaker’s playing that one playlist that only comes on when everyone’s too drunk to change the vibe.

You’ve gone from sitting upright to lounging horizontally between San and Yeosang, with Wooyoung curled up at your feet like a mutt who’d bark at anyone who touched you wrong.

Hongjoong is lying flat on his back beside the bench, arm over his eyes, mumbling about capitalism and the death of art.

Yunho’s shoulder is pressed against yours. Mingi’s head is on his lap. Jongho’s jacket is tossed over everyone like a shared blanket. Seonghwa’s the only one still upright, sipping water and softly scolding everyone to hydrate.

“Drink this or I’ll force-feed it to you,” he says, handing you a bottle. “And stop giggling like that—you sound like Wooyoung when he fake moans.”

You grin, cheeks warm. “I never fake anything.”

Yeosang hums. His fingers graze the inside of your thigh.

It’s so casual—like he didn’t even mean it. Like your skin was just there, and he had no choice but to trace it lazily with the tips of his fingers.

But your breath catches anyway.

You glance down.

Yeosang’s got his head turned away, lips parted slightly, eyes half-closed like he’s not doing shit. But the smirk tugging at his mouth says otherwise.

You shift your hips slightly. His hand follows.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice low, almost inaudible.

You hum. “Define good.”

He chuckles, soft and dark. “Your thighs are soft.”

“Your fingers are bold.”

He glances at you through half-lidded eyes. “Do something about it then.”

Before you can answer, Wooyoung whines and grabs your ankle.

“Stop flirting when I’m literally dying of affection starvation,” he groans. “I need to be held. Spoon me or I’ll cry.”

“I’m gonna cry if you don’t shut the hell up,” Hongjoong groans from the floor.

“I’ll spoon you,” Jongho offers sleepily. “After I dropkick you.”

San’s snoring. Mingi’s giggling. Yunho shifts his weight and sighs when you lean into his chest, letting your hand rest on his thigh like you own it.

It’s a messy, half-asleep pile of warm limbs, drunk thoughts, and tension that hums under every whisper, every accidental graze, every look held for too long.

You don’t even realize when you fall asleep.

The rooftop lights flicker off just after 3AM. Somewhere between drunk confessions and wandering hands, someone finally says:

“Let’s just crash here.”

And no one disagrees.

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #smut #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #choi san #song mingi #jung wooyoung #choi jongho #ateez series

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incloudcity · 6 hours ago

Note

hii could i request a quinn hughes fic where he’s dating someone in the pwhl ?

offside | qh43

requests are open

a/n: took some liberties with the plot here hope you don’t mind

Your phone buzzes somewhere under a pile of practice gear. You find it just before the call goes to voicemail.

“You’re not going to like this,” your agent says before you can speak.

“Then why are you calling?”

“Because you’re going to say no. And then say yes.”

You sit on the floor, stretching out your legs. “Try me.”

“There’s a league-wide marketing initiative between the NHL and PWHL. You’re on the shortlist.”

You frown. “Marketing, like... billboards?”

“Not exactly. They want a crossover story. Public-facing. Human interest.” She exhales. “They’re calling it a soft promo campaign for both leagues. ‘Interpersonal branding.’”

You tilt your head. “Is that code for dating?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly: “Fake dating. Light touch. Just a few public appearances, some media spots. Nothing wild.”

You scoff. “Why me?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Because you’re polarizing. People either love you or hate you. You’re too blunt, too aggressive, too… competitive, apparently.”

You close your eyes. That word again.

“And who,” you ask, not bothering to hide your irritation, “is the NHL sacrificing to this noble cause?”

“Quinn Hughes.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Clean-cut, articulate, painfully polite. Your opposite. PR thinks it’ll be good contrast.”

You lean your head back against the wall, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with hockey. “This is so stupid.”

“Probably. But it’s two months. You do it, smile for the camera, and maybe people stop calling you ‘uncoachable.’”

You say nothing.

“Just meet him,” she adds. “If it’s a no, it’s a no.”

The meeting is over Zoom. His camera is on before yours, posture straight, background tidy. He looks like a guy who irons his socks.

“Hey,” he says, nodding once. “Thanks for doing this.”

You give a short nod back. “Don’t thank me yet.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right. Guess we’re co-stars.”

“I was thinking ‘hostages.’”

That gets a real smile. Brief, but there.

The call is mostly logistics—dates, appearances, things you’re expected to say or not say. You listen, arms crossed, as a PR rep suggests light PDA, “if it feels natural.” You glance at Quinn’s screen. He looks just as uncomfortable.

When the call ends, you stay behind a beat.

He does too.

Neither of you speaks, but the look he gives you—half amusement, half apology—feels oddly like camaraderie.

The first event is a photo call at a community rink. You’re in full gear; he’s in a hoodie and jeans. There are camera flashes, kids with autograph pads, a guy yelling for you to “put your arm around him.”

You don’t.

But Quinn, perceptive or just decent, slides his hand into yours like it’s casual. Like this isn’t ridiculous.

You glance at him.

He just shrugs. “Apparently we like each other.”

You turn toward the camera and smile—barely.

The pictures hit social media within the hour. Most of the comments are harmless fluff. Some are worse.

You expected it.

Still stings, though.

Over the next few weeks, you play along. Sort of. You're in press junkets, soft-focus videos, awkward TikToks neither of you understands. You hate pretending to giggle when he says something mildly clever. You hate how they frame your resting face like it's a character flaw.

But you don't hate him.

He listens more than he talks, and when he does speak, it's careful, thoughtful. He doesn’t tell you to smile or soften. Doesn’t shrink away when you bristle at dumb questions or roll your eyes during takes.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says one day after a shoot.

“Let me guess: you expected angry and impossible?”

“I expected tired,” he says. “You just hide it badly.”

You look at him. “And you don’t?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve just had more practice.”

The clip goes viral within hours.

A scrimmage game, meant to be light-hearted. You’re mic’d up, joking with kids, chirping gently. Then someone in the stands makes a comment—about your place in the sport, about women’s hockey being “cute.” The words hit wrong.

You snap.

Not violently. But with heat. Precision.

Security doesn’t move fast enough, so you do.

Someone leaks the raw audio.

They call it a meltdown. You call it standing up.

You log off for two days.

When you finally turn your phone back on, there’s a clip of Quinn, mid-press conference. A reporter asks about you—about the outburst, about whether the campaign was a mistake.

He shifts in his seat, annoyed.

“If standing up for yourself is a mistake, we’ve got bigger problems.”

It’s simple. Off-script. Not protective—just honest.

And it changes everything.

You’re stranded in Calgary after an unexpected snowstorm. Most of the joint press tour has been cancelled, and the hotel is down to its last few rooms.

They stick you in a shared suite.

Of course they do.

You toss your bag down. “Don’t worry, I’m not the type to talk through my feelings.”

Quinn grins faintly. “Good. I’m the type to fall asleep with a podcast on.”

The silence that settles between you is comfortable, not tense. You order takeout, sit at opposite ends of the couch, and pick at each other’s fries. You talk about road games and playlists, the pressure of captaining a team you’re still learning to lead, and what it feels like to be constantly misunderstood by people who haven’t played a minute of your sport.

“I used to think being quiet meant I’d stay out of it,” he says. “Turns out, silence doesn’t protect you. It just makes other people louder.”

You nod. “Same goes for not playing nice.”

You don’t sleep in the bed. Neither does he. You both fall asleep on the couch, your hoodie rolled under your neck, his jacket tucked over your legs.

It’s not romantic.

But it’s real.

The campaign ends quietly.

No joint statement. No drama. The leagues shift focus to playoffs, team milestones, Olympic buzz. Your name trends less. His interviews stay clean.

You go back to your team. He goes back to his.

Nothing changes. And everything does.

You start getting more questions about your game, less about your personality. People stop calling you difficult. Start calling you deliberate.

The article comes a month later. A feature in a mid-season profile.

“She’s a fighter,” it says. “But not in the way you think. Not reckless. Not impulsive. Intentional. Exacting. A storm with aim.”

You read it twice.

You’re in Vancouver for a weekend road trip. A back-to-back. Your team is exhausted, half the roster taped together with ice packs and adrenaline.

Between games, you spot him.

Not backstage. Not in a media scrum. In the stands, near the top row. Hoodie up, cap low, head down.

No signs. No posts. Just watching.

You don’t wave.

After the game, he’s waiting in the tunnel.

“Nice assist,” he says.

You smirk. “Didn’t know you still followed the campaign.”

“I don’t,” he says. “I follow you.”

The moment lingers—not heavy, but not nothing.

You don’t ask for more.

He doesn’t offer.

There’s no kiss, no confession.

Just mutual recognition.

An understanding.

Something like respect.

You never officially speak again—not in a headline-worthy way. No breakup posts. No lingering statements.

But every once in a while, when schedules line up and cities overlap, you see him.

Always out of frame.

Always watching.

And when people talk about you now, they don’t say too much.

They say underrated.

They say undeniable.

They say herself.

And finally, that’s enough.

#nhl x reader #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes fic

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cloudedangels · 22 hours ago

Text

Extended Leave ♡ Part 5 (18+)

📖 Pt One 📖 Pt Two

📖 Pt Three 📖 Pt Four

▪ Fem!Caleb x Fem!Reader ▪ AU ▪ 18+ ▪ minors pls do not interact ▪ part 5 of my Extended Leave series ▪︎ 3,237 words

Blue light and relief. Worship. Crashing into each other at last.

cw/tags: fem!Caleb, fem!reader, AU, pilot!caleb, childhood friends to what are we?, slow burn, domestic intimacy, yearning, tension and tenderness, soft butch x soft femme, mutual pining, emotional repression, unspoken feelings, pining gone feral, watching/listening (mentioned), voyeurism (mentioned), soft dom!Caleb, service top, smut, sapphic romance, mutual obsession, quiet intensity, emotional intimacy, yearning, flirting, sapphic angst, possessive energy, low-key yandere!Caleb, jealousy, self-doubt, dirty talk, freak4freak, snapped tension, crying, edging, oral(f), fingering(f), pet names (pips[queek], baby, pretty/sweet girl, princess)

bunnie's looped songs for this part 🎧here🎧

full fic playlist 🎧here🎧

Although it's not necessary I do recommend playing the looped playlist while you read if you can (:

She exhales, and there's ten years in the way she kisses you then, her fingers reaching for the place that's been aching for them for days on end.

☆☆☆☆☆

Time folds. To your dismay, she still hasn't touched you yet. You are already soaking wet, waiting for her touch.

Caleb pulls back and tugs you down by the waist, so gently it feels like a cradle.

“Forgive me. I'm not going to make you wait much longer... I just... I need you just like this... if you'll let me do this right,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Kisses there. Your throat, collarbones.

Your whimper under them, your hips buck, desperate.

"I've dreamt of this, so so many times... Just let me show you what I can do for you, okay?"

She shifts her weight and the bed shifts beneath you. Filtered through the curtains, light spills around you, a pale blue cast, an underwater dream, a piece of sky. The slats of the blinds paint stripes onto Caleb's shoulders and neck, your chest. She looks cut open by the light.

"You look so pretty I could cry," she whispers into your jaw. "I would keep you like this if I could, hanging, breathless. I've never seen you want me so bad."

You whine. "Caleb..."

"Shhh." She leans down to kiss you again. Every kiss is less clumsy than the last, but still a crashing wave of so much beyond the surface.

"You're too good to be tortured... I swear, I just want to savour you... is that okay, pretty girl?"

Your eyes shut and you nod. She's different. Not by much, but you like it. Even if she's wrapping you around her finger.

"I'm going to take your shirt off... I want to see you."

The shirt peels off before you can speak. You look at her as she takes you in. "So perfect..." She grips the shirt, balled in her hands. "This shirt used to be mine... were you wearing it when you came last night, pips?"

Your eyes shut and you're blushing hard as you bob your head in confirmation. She presses it to her face and breathes it in. She's snapped out of self control, and you get wetter as it happens.

She presses the shirt to her face again and breathes in like it’s a drug, like she could drown in it.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers, muffled against the fabric. “I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.”

You can’t tell if she’s talking to you or herself. You wonder if she’s going to keep it. Hide it somewhere. Sleep with it under her pillow when she leaves again.

Then she looks back down at you, shirt still in her hands. Her voice is hoarse. "I’ll never stop thinking about that. You, wearing me while you—” She shakes her head.

“Saying my name like you did... You knew I’d find out, didn’t you? You wanted me to know.”

You shake your head, breath caught, but your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. Her eyes go there.

“You little liar,” she murmurs, and there’s no malice in it. Just tender, yet filthy, worship. You’re in disbelief.

"You're ready for me to open those pretty legs? Show me what you have for me?"

Good god, she's making you dizzy. Your legs open, light shining between them. Your pink panties are soaked. You can feel it.

"You and these lacy things... I've taken care of 'em for you, n now they're soaked because of me? You'll drive me crazy... I don't even have to touch you there, it's wet, I can see... you must be aching, pips aren't you?"

She kisses down your stomach, slow and hungry, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you. You twitch when her lips graze just below your navel.

Your breath catches. Her hair brushes your inner thighs.

Then she stops. Rests her cheek against your hip bone. Eyes closed.

“Do you know how many times I thought about this?” she says, almost absently. “You, begging me. Your pretty thighs shaking. My name in your mouth and nothing to brace you but my hands.”

You whimper. Your hips arch, but she presses her palm flat on your pelvis. Not yet.

“I used to touch myself sometimes when I was alone in the cockpit, you know, at the base too, in that lonely fucking bed.” she murmurs, almost like she’s confessing a sin. “Quiet, careful... Thinking about you laying in my old bed, in this fucking shirt. Sucking your fingers because you missed me.”

You let out a sound you can’t name. It breaks in your throat. Mostly because you know she's not wrong.

“Shhh, shhh, I know,” she says, eyes finally open again, wide and wild. “Me too. It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

��I’m gonna see you now. I’ll be good. I’ll be gentle. But I’m gonna look, and you’re not gonna hide.”

The fabric drags down slow—wet, clinging to your lips—and you swear she moans under her breath as it leaves your skin. She keeps them around your knees, not even bothering to take them off fully. Her fingers ghost down the inside of your thigh like a prayer. You twitch. She watches you, (always watching) then her eyes swallow you.

"S-so pretty..." she whispers, and you feel small and wet and pulsing.

"Please..."

"You're so good to me, poor thing... I'm gonna make it all better, mkay? You just gotta tell me, do you want my hands or my mouth? I can't promise it'll be perfect, I've saved everything for you... but I'll keep going until it feels like heaven, you've just gotta ride it out with me. You're brave, you can use your words..."

She brushes over your panties just once with two fingers and gasps out a moan at the same time as you. Your hips buck into it, you feel so desperate.

"Oh my god... is that for me, princess?"

"Yes," you rasp out. It's been for days, she had yet to claim it.

"Careful, you can't take that back..."

Your lips are pressed together, your legs are shaking. The waiting is torturous despite her earlier promise not to. You eyes lock onto hers. You can feel the look on your face, and you know it's pathetic, she doesn't have to tell you. But you beg, again, just like always.

"Caleb..."

Her moan is more of a whimper when you pull her name from your mouth like that.

"Please... I can't—"

She looks at you, blue, dashed by the lights. She looks so pretty, so strong, so wild and just for you, that you can hardly take it.

"My hands or my mouth? I can't until you choose, I know it's hard to think like this—I can't choose for you..."

You try to speak but only breath comes out. You reach for her wrist, try to guide her—but she stops you again.

“Say it,” she murmurs. “I need to hear you pick.”

“...Your mouth,” you whisper, the words so fragile it’s like breaking a spell.

Her eyes widen. “You sure?”

You nod, and this time she doesn’t ask again.

She kisses your jaw, then all the way down your body, from your neck to your belly. Wet, sloppy, greedy kisses.

The stripes of blue light shift across your thighs, her shoulders. She kisses down your stomach in slanted shadows, each press of her lips a new stroke across your skin. You swear the sunlight is holding you both down. Your breath shudders, hips and fingers twitch.

Her breath is warm and damp when she descends to the space between your legs, lying on her belly, propped up by her forearms. Her left hand slides to your hip to press you down, the other reaches to hold your hand.

"If I get too lost and you need me to stop, grip your nails into my hand as hard as you can, okay? I can't guarantee anything else is gonna pull me away from you once I start."

You blink. You don't want to have to hurt her.

As if reading your mind, she squeezes your hand. "I'm a strong girl, pipsqueak, you won't hurt me."

Her head hangs just above your core, and you swear you feel her shake.

“You smell like you’ve been waiting for me your whole life,” she whispers. Then her lips part, and she presses the softest kiss to your clit—like it’s sacred.

You cry out without meaning to. Her hands tighten—one at your hip, the other still interlocked with yours.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, baby,” she breathes against you. “I’ve got you now. I’ll never let anyone else see you like this. I swear on everything.”

Her lips finally descend, and it’s like a gasp gets pulled out of your soul.

Her mouth moves slowly, lovingly, and it’s unbearable how gentle she starts. Licking like she’s trying to write something inside of you. Like she wants to live there.

☆☆☆☆☆

It’s slow, so slow. She licks like she’s testing the temperature of a flame. Your thighs jerk. You moan.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know how good you taste. I could stay here forever.”

You can’t answer. You can only clutch the sheets. The light paints her shoulder blades in ribbons. Her hair brushes your thighs like silk. You forget what day it is. What year it is. You could drown in the feeling of her.

You try to hold on—to what, you’re not sure. Your breath, your sanity, some last shred of yourself before she completely takes it.

The Caleb you're used to is patient. This Caleb is not. She's slow but taking, she kisses you like time doesn’t exist. Like this was what clocks were built for.

She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just breathes, licks, worships. And when her lips wrap around you—when her tongue flicks like she’s spelling her name—you cry out again. You think you feel your heartbeat in your throat, your toes, your scalp.

Her grip on your hand tightens.

“You’re so sweet,” she murmurs between licks, “and so loud… You never used to be this loud. Is this who you are with me now? Do I get to keep her?”

Your hips arch up, but her arm locks you down.

“I knew it,” she groans, almost in disbelief. “You were made for me.”

You pant her name. You’re unraveling. She moans into you.

Your legs begin to shake. She doesn’t stop. Won’t. Not until you say her name again.

“Caleb—Caleb—” you sob, voice gone thin. “I—”

Her eyes snap up. The obsession in them is glassy and you want it, you want it so bad it swallows you.

“That’s right, baby. Let me hear it.”

She suckles you, slowly, then deeper. Her nose presses against your skin. Her hand leaves yours just long enough to reach between your thighs, and when she pushes a finger in, slow but sudden. You jolt like you’ve been struck by lightning.

You cry out her name again, and she laughs, shaky and low and broken.

“Oh my god. That’s it. That’s what I needed. You saying my name like that. You… taking me like this.”

She kisses your thigh. Adds a second finger. Your body’s unspooled thread.

“You’ve got no idea what I’ve saved up for you,” she whispers. “What I’d do to make you cum for me. I’d—”

She falters. Her head drops back down. She licks again.

You’re not going to last. You can feel it.

And she can, too.

“Don’t hold it,” she pleads, almost angry. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. I need it. Let me feel you fall apart. Let me have it.”

You reach for her wrist again. This time she lets you. Holds you. Fingers buried deep, tongue gentle, too gentle—

But only for a moment.

Then her rhythm changes. Becomes purposeful. Consuming. Curling. Her teeth graze you and you scream.

She groans like she’s the one climaxing.

☆☆☆☆☆

The light splits around you.

There’s too much of her—mouth, fingers, breath, voice, Caleb Caleb Caleb—you can’t hold it anymore.

You try to say her name. It comes out as something else. A sob. A vow. A confession.

There’s a second where you don’t know who’s holding who.

The sound of your name is still ringing in her mouth.

Your thighs are trembling. Her hands won’t let go.

She’s still between your legs, forehead pressed to your thigh, like she’s praying.

Her fingers haven’t moved. Neither have you.

“I’m still here,” she murmurs.

Your eyes are prickled with tears. Hers are too, her fingers move out of you with the lewdest wet sound, a near-pop.

"God, Caleb... Where did you learn how to do that?"

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just breathes against your thigh, her fingers sticky where they rest against your hip, her mouth swollen, her chest rising with something wild.

Then:

“I didn’t,” she says. Her voice sounds dazed. Wrecked. “I just thought about it. Constantly.”

She kisses your leg. Another. Slower.

“I thought about what it would sound like,” she murmurs, voice trembling now. “How soft you'd be. How sweet you'd taste. What you’d look like when you came for me. I just… paid attention.”

Your chest heaves. You can feel the flutter of her breath between your thighs still, and her fingers are twitching like she’s resisting the urge to go again.

“I didn’t even know I’d be good at it,” she adds, finally lifting her head. Her face is pink. Her eyes are glassy. “I just knew I’d never forgive myself if I got it wrong.”

You can barely breathe.

“You didn’t,” you whisper.

Caleb stares at you, like your praise is too much, another wave she’s about to drown under.

“I want to stay here,” she says, softly. “I want to stay inside of this. I want to sleep in the sound of you falling apart.”

You reach for her face. Thumb brushing her cheekbone, fingers tracing the side of her damp jaw.

“You can,” you whisper. “For as long as you want.”

She laughs—quiet, breathless, half-collapsed against your thigh like she’s resting there. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again.

“I... saved it all for you.”

The words fall like a confession. Her breath is still warm on your skin. You feel raw and kissed open and so full of her you think you'll burst. She sucks her fingers clean.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, flushed, trembling.

She just hums, fingers slipping free of her mouth. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still starving.”

She shifts, pulls herself up and forward, crawling until she’s kneeling between your legs, until her face is level with yours again. Her expression is unreadable for a second, wild, tender, broken, but still soft.

Then she says, “I am.”

You don’t know what to do with it, so you reach for her. Her arms wrap around you immediately, strong and warm, and she holds you like she thinks you might disappear. Your breath shudders against her neck.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no sound but the birds outside. The slow drip of her breath. The whisper of her fingers stroking your body under the blankets. You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes, maybe. A whole hour.

You don’t move.

Until, “Pipsqueak?”

You tilt your head, eyes still closed. “Mhm?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

She adjusts you, presses herself tighter to your chest, like she could shield you with her ribs. Like she could rebuild the entire world with her body to keep you inside it.

Then, “Was it too much?”

You blink. “No. God. No.”

She kisses your hair.

“I didn’t mean to…” she starts, but trails off.

You pull back enough to look at her. Her face is open, bare in the pale light. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are red.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks.

The question is so quiet it nearly breaks you.

You reach up, cup her cheek.

“No,” you whisper. “You did something right.”

Her eyes flutter shut under your touch, like she’s in pain. Or relief. Or both.

Then she opens them again.

“You said my name like it meant something new,” she says. “You don’t know what that did to me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I think I do.”

She leans in again—this kiss is softer, quieter. Just a brush. A thank-you. A promise. Her hands never leave your waist.

Her eyes close. Her lashes flutter against your hand.

“I’m scared,” she says, finally. “It’s too much. It’s always been too much with you.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

When she finally lays her head on your chest, it feels like your whole world exhales.

She’s trembling again.

You bury your fingers in her hair. Her breath steadies. Then slows.

You think she’s asleep until she murmurs—

“I’m not done with you.”

You blink.

“Not today,” she clarifies. “Not ever. You understand?”

"Is that a promise?"

She doesn't reply right away. Her arms wrap tighter. You kiss her head.

In your arms, she feels small and like the whole world at the same time. A dream within a dream. The galaxy within a girl. Your undoing and the person you know best.

Her face is damp on top of you, she trembles a little.

"Caleb? Are you crying?"

She nods. Doesn't move.

She mumbles into you.

"Now that I've had you like this, I will be lost if I can't come back to you. Everything I've ever done was holding the fact that I would need to come back around to you. There's no other way now. I really will never be able to return to anything else."

Again, you're crying with her.

You wonder where she gets all of this doubt from, all this fear. You can still feel her all over, inside of you.

The light has moved. Shadows stretch differently now. You think it must be past two, maybe three.

"Remember when I was a kid, what you would do during storms when the power went out? I wouldn't move, I was so afraid of the dark... I'd cry and cry but I was scared to call for you. So you’d run around the house yelling 'lighthouse, lighthouse! Mei mei lost at sea!' with a flashlight in your hands. Until you'd find me. Or until I was brave enough to follow the sound of your voice or the light beams."

She laughs raspy, breathy, and small, "Yeah. Of course I remember... Why would you bring that up now?"

"I think... I'm brave enough. Brave enough to look for you now. If you can't make it to me on your own, I'll clear the path." You lift her face and she looks at you tear-stained and awestruck. "Even though lighthouses don't move." You mock, a smile blooming on both your faces, giggles erupting. A break in the seriousness. A pearl inside the shell of time.

“I’ll be good,” she whispers. “I’ll be normal. I’ll try.”

You laugh, breathless. “Don’t. I like you like this.”

She blinks, then smiles, hiding her face inside of your chest.

“God help us both,” she mumbles.

🏷taglist: @chewbrry @grlpartdoll @jetterdonna @starryeyed-apple @mephisto-with-a-knife @er0da @dream-gardener

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series lmk in comments or reblogs! (Must have age in bio)

#fem caleb au #fem!caleb #fem caleb #extended leave series #caleb #caleb fanfic #lads caleb #caleb lads smut #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb smut #lads smut #caleb smut #lads fic #caleb lads #lads fanfic #sapphic #wlw smut

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mediocrecowboyhat · 3 days ago

Text

All hope | Jack Marston x fem!reader

Like a ghost unable to move on, Jack wanders along the border of Mexico and the US after killing Edgar Ross. Not wanting to go back home just yet, he meets a woman, who is about to change his life for the better.

I only recently started to play rdr1 and haven't gotten to the part where you play as Jack yet, so I can only hope that I managed to get his character right in here

Word count: 5.5k

Tags: major spoilers for rdr1, she/her pronouns for reader, reader also speaks Spanish, mentions of loss and grief

Edgar Ross is dead, his body now floating somewhere in the San Luis River and so is Jack, in a sense. It's been how many days now, since he had killed that godforsaken man? He can't tell. All he knows, is that he's been wandering along the banks, along the border of Mexico and the US, unable to move on. Where would he go anyways? Back home? If he can even call it that anymore. Nothing awaits him at the empty ranch, only two graves on a hill.

Edgar Ross is dead, but so are his parents. He has avenged his father, but that won't bring either of them back, will it? Revenge, he has read about it in his storybooks many times before, but no description seems to be accurate to the real deal. Usually the main character feels, what? Fulfilled? Satisfied? All he feels is, well, nothing at all.

Edgar Ross is dead and he does not feel the way he had expected, what he had sought after. That rage, that grief, both still roar inside him, even after he had put a bullet in it's source. No, revenge is a fool's game after all. It doesn't change his situation, but taking a life sure changes him as a person. None of the man's blood has gotten on him, there was too big of a distance between them for that to happen.

But when Jack kneels down by the shore to wash his face, he could swear that the skin on his hands is drenched in red. The water feels cool and refreshing against his face, somewhat snapping him out of his grim thoughts. Then he takes a moment to examine his reflection in the river, but a stranger is staring back at him, blurred by the rushing stream.

It's only fitting, really. He entered his mission for revenge as a man and has left as a ghost. He fears that it won't get better either, fears that he will never feel complete or content again. A sudden shuffling behind him rips him out of his daze and he whips his entire body around. Is it the law? Have they found the body already and are now here to arrest him?

A mental image of himself at the gallows appears before his inner eye and panic settles in. What would his mother think of him? When all she ever wanted was for him to live a good life, an honest life. Look what has become of her little boy, of little Jack. When his head snap up to gaze at the person infront of him, he freezes.

It's a woman, her wide eyes trained on the gun that he had instinctively fished out of it's holster. She's beautiful, no, stunning the way she stands there on that hill. If someone would ask him for a description, he'd say that she reminds him of the moon, providing a guiding light during the blackest of nights.

Or maybe a single, blooming rose surrounded by a field of dead plants. All air is knocked out of his lungs and for a brief moment he forgets himself, forgets how terrified she must be right now.

"I'm sorry, Miss. You startled me.", he murmurs quietly, perhaps even too quiet for her to hear and puts the gun away.

She answers, though on Spanish. He doesn't understand a single word, but judging by her expression and gestures, she might be apologizing for the same reason. When her eyes land on his clueless face, her own lights up in realization.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you- oh, well." The laugh leaving her lips is sweet and has a beautiful ring to it. "I didn't mean to scare you."

When Jack notices that she's waiting for an answer from him and he's been doing nothing, but gawking at her like a complete fool, he awkwardly clears his throat.

"No need to apologize." He stands up and swats off the dust from his pants. "I was about to leave anyways."

"No, don't let me disturb you. I was just passing through." Her eyes dart around, over the ground, as if she's searching for something. "This spot usually has herbs."

That's when he let's his own gaze wander as well, but he doesn't believe he will find any. He remembers his father coming home with some herbs every now and then. They put it in his mother's stew, but nothing was ever able to save the taste of her meals. The memory sends a stabbing pain through his chest and he immediately banishes it to the far back of his mind.

"I won't be in your way for longer than necessary, Miss.", he says and makes his way towards the horse.

Although it seems like a pair of invisible strings are pulling him to the woman. Jack feels the urge to stay and listen to her voice some longer. Her head turns to where he's standing, next to his stallion and he almost squirms under her intense stare. It's as if she's examining him.

"Are you hungry?", she then suddenly asks and he blinks a few times.

"What?"

"I mean no offense, but you look like you haven't eaten in a while. I have food at home, that only needs to be warmed up."

That he hasn't and now that she's pointing it out, his stomach begins to rumble. All he has done the past days was move around and occasionally stop to rest. He shoves his hand into his satchel and finds it empty of any food. He could swear that he had packed an apple and assorted biscuits. Has he really eaten them all?

Even if he did, those things aren't nearly enough to keep a person going for several days. Should he go with her? The wiser choice would be to leave, to get as much distance between him and this place as possible, before anyone finds the body.

Oh dear Lord, now he's thinking of Edgar Ross again.

"I'm sorry, if I was too pushy.", the woman speaks up, ripping him out of his thoughts and Jack hastily shakes his head.

"No, I just- I'm a bit distracted, is all." He takes off his hat to runs his hand through his filthy hair. "I think I'd like a meal, thanks."

That gets a wide smile from her, one that would have any sane man drop down to his knees instantly. When she goes to climb onto horseback, he extends his arms to help her, but she politely waves him off. Once he's sitting in his saddle, she points to the right and they ride off.

Her hands are holding onto his jacket, on his sides and he gets so distracted that he almost misses how she gives him her name. It's fitting, he thinks, suiting her quite fine.

"I'm Jack. Jack Marston."

"It's nice to meet you, Jack Marston.", she replies and he's tempted to disagree.

She wouldn't say that if she knew what he had done.

"Nice to meet you too, Miss.", he mumbles instead.

"So what are you doing out here?", she asks and he chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Just passin' by.", he grumbles, the words coming out flat.

Much to his relief she notices that he's in no mood to elaborate on that and so she refrains from questioning him about it any further. It doesn't take long to get to her home, which he can't say is too much of a surprise, considering she walked by foot towards the river. The property isn't anything big.

There's a house, that could easily keep a small family, without it ending up too cramped. Infront of it is a garden in which she seems to be growing some vegetables. Over to the side is a coop and the chickens are roaming around freely. Another thing that catches his eye, is the lack of a wagon and horses and if he remembers this area on the map correctly, then the next town is quite a distance away.

Although she owns no horses, there's still a hitching post to the side and he leaves his stallion there. Once again, she waves off all offer to help her dismount. His gaze wanders over her home a second time, starting to feel awkward. Now that he thinks about it, wouldn't he be intruding on her and her family?

"Is it really alright that I'm eatin' with you?", he asks, the question leaving his lips, before he even considers it.

"I invited you, didn't I?", she answers, a hint of amusement accompanying her words.

There's more of it gleaming in her eyes when she throws him a quick glance over her shoulder.

"What about your family?"

"Don't worry, I'm alone here." Then she feigns seriousness and raises her finger in a conspiratory way. "But no funny business, Jack Marston. I can work a gun."

The threat is half-hearted and lacks all bite. She's not really believing that he will cause any trouble, but he still plays along and lifts his hands in surrender.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss."

Inside, she ushers him to take a seat at the dining table and tells him to make himself feel at home, while she heats up the food. He watches her rummage around in her bag, before fishing out a handful of fresh herbs. She must have managed to collect some then, before running into him.

Now that her back is turned to him, he takes off his hat and reaches up to touch his hair. It's greasy and hasn't been washed in ages, so he'd rather much prefer keeping the hat on. Though he feels a bit rude doing that. Then his gaze drifts to the interior, which isn't a lot.

There are the necessities, furniture one finds in every house, some embroidery and photographs hanging on the walls and a lot of potted plants. They're breathing some fresh life into the old building, with all the green and the occasional colored blossom. Two doors are behind him, probably leading to bedrooms and maybe a bathroom. Ah, what he wouldn't give for a bath.

Maybe he could ask her for that? Since she seems to be nothing but kind and inviting, but he wouldn't want to inconvenience her like that. She's already going above and beyond in his eyes, by preparing food. Lost in his own thoughts, Jack doesn't notice her staring at him at first and he straightens his back.

Judging by the look on her face, she must have said something and is now waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't catch that.", he awkwardly admits and fidgets with the hat in his hands.

"I was asking where you're from. If you don't mind sharing.", she repeats with that sweet laugh of hers and begins to set the table.

When he crossed the border, he didn't exactly intent on letting anyone know who he is or where he's from. Just in case someone would find Edgar Ross. Jack's initial plan was to slip in and then out again, completely unnoticed and then head back to the ranch.

Well, obviously that didn't happen and now he's sitting here with this wonderful woman, who, for some reason, is treating him similar to an old friend. He's convinced that he doesn't deserve her kindness and she definitely wouldn't be extending it, if she'd only know about his sins.

But she brought him to her home, so it's only fair and proper that he tells her about his. Besides, it doesn't look like she's hiding a whole squad of detectives in her basement or something. Perhaps in the kitchen cabinets then? The mental image makes him almost huff.

"Near Blackwater. My family- I mean, I own a ranch there."

At his correction, she briefly tilts her head to the side, as if wondering what he meant by that. Thankfully, she doesn't question it and instead fills his bowl with a steaming hot stew. The smell makes his mouth water instantly and when he picks up the spoon, his hand almost trembles.

After thanking her yet again for the meal, he tries his first bite and it nearly brings him to tears. When was the last time he had eaten a home cooked meal? The stew doesn't remind him of home, it's way too good for that, but it fills him with the same warmth. Jack grips the spoon so tight, that the whites of his knuckles are showing and he forces the food down his dry throat.

"Is something wrong?", his host, who has taken a seat infront of him, asks with worry lacing her voice.

That's when he realizes how his reaction must look like to her and his eyes go wide in horror.

"No! No, it ain't like that." His gaze drops down onto the bowl and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, the first one since forever. "It's delicious. Really."

In a matter of seconds, he clears his bowl and she goes to give him a refill. Although he's pretty certain that he could finish the whole pot in one sitting, he still tries to deny the second serving. But he's half-assing his protests, so she continues, as if he never said anything. By the time both of them are full, he helps her wash off the dishes or at least attempts to do so.

"It's the least I can do.", Jack insists.

"Don't be silly! You're my guest.", she insists as well.

All the talking and bickering makes him feel like a person again and so dread hits him like a slap to the face, when he realizes that it's time to go. Through the windows, he sees that she sun is setting and he doesn't want to abuse the hospitality of his lovely host. The thought of leaving her pains him, something telling him that he should stay, that things well be alright with her.

"Thank you for everything, Miss, but I think I should go now."

"What? In this darkness?", she argues and vaguely gestures towards one of the windows.

"I wouldn't wanna impose on you for longer than necessary.", he counters, but she firmly shakes her head.

"Nonsense. It would be rude of me to send you out in the middle of the night." Without so much as giving him room to protest, she moves over to take his jacket. "Come on, I'll run you a bath too. No offense, but you kinda need it."

That gets a chuckle out of him.

"None taken."

As he already expected, behind one of the doors is a bathroom. A tub is ready and waiting in the middle, to the side a lit hearth to keep the room warm and next to the tub is a small table with soap and a cloth. Inside here as well, there are plants placed on every surface. Very cozy.

After he takes in everything and inhales the soapy scent, she comes rushing in with a pile of clothes.

"These belonged to my father. They should fit.", she says, putting them down on a stool.

"I can also put these back on.", he suggests, tugging at his shirt and she looks at him, as if he grew a second head.

"What good will the bath be, if you change into your dirty clothes? No, no, I'll wash them tomorrow."

Before he could tell her that it won't be necessary, she already vanishes out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

Once he's finished and slipped into the new pair of clothes, that are slightly too big for him, but still good to wear, he steps out of the bathroom. While he was in there, she had prepared a spot to sleep for him. What he at first assumed was a sofa over at the wall, was in fact a bed. It didn't look like one before, with the amount of pillows she had thrown on. Must have been intentional.

With a full stomach and as clean as a baby, he drifts off to sleep faster than he had ever before. In the next morning, when they're both up and eating breakfast, the dance continues.

"I can't just send you off with dirty clothes. Let me wash them."

"Alright, ma'am."

Then in the noon, when the clothes are washed, he approaches her outside, the laundry basket on the ground beside her.

"And you're just gonna put on wet clothes? Nonsense, they need to dry first."

"Sounds fine to me, Miss."

The clothes take all day to dry in the sun and by the time they're done, it's suddenly too late to leave again. What terrible host would kick him out in the middle of the night, she'd argue yet a second time and Jack would just nod along in agreement.

The next day, when he catches her preparing a basket with vegetables and eggs, looking like she's about to leave, he steps in her way.

"You're walking?", he asks to which she nods. "Let me give you a ride on my horse."

She doesn't argue and with her hands full, she this time accepts his assistance. His calloused hands find her waist and he hoists her up onto horseback. The contact sends a jolt through his body and he hides his flushed face under the rim of his hat.

"How come you don't have any horses?", he questions, once they're on their way.

"I didn't have any money when I lost my family. Had to sell the horses and the wagon.", she explains in a matter of fact way.

Jack doesn't answer, but instead thinks about the wagon he has back on his ranch. It wouldn't be too difficult to transport all her chickens over to Beecher's Hope and then she'd never have to walk again. Her vegetable garden would need to be sacrificed though. Unless they fill the back of the wagon with dirt and dump the crops on it. Would that work?

On the third day, it's obvious that none of them want to say their goodbyes. The excuses become more ridiculous and shallow, until it's nothing but a running joke. Jack starts to help around the small farm and they develop a routine over time. They share the work and one day, after taking a bath, he stops to inspect his reflection in the mirror.

Staring back at him, isn't the stranger from weeks ago anymore. It's Jack Marston or more so a glimpse of the Jack Marston he could be, if he'd stay by her side. He still isn't a welcoming sight for sore eyes, he thinks. That mop on his head that he calls hair, still frames his face in a disheveled way. That nose, still crooked from the time he had broken it.

But the crease between his eyebrows isn't as deep anymore and the corners of his mouth aren't constantly pointing down. There are still remnants of his signature scowl, the Marston special that he has inherited from his father, but he looks closer to relaxed than to brooding.

When he steps into the main living area, he finds it empty. Jack turns his head to look through the window and finds his sweetheart sitting comfortable on the porch. It feels wrong to refer to her as his host at this point. If one would ask him, he'd call her his savior, his personal guardian angel, but she'd smack his arm at that.

So sweetheart it is, though she has no clue about the nickname. It's a secret between Jack and whoever is looking over him. He doesn't believe that he will ever have the guts to tell her how he feels. His gratitude for her generosity, patience and kindness, he tries to shower her in everyday. What she had done for him, is more than he could ever repay.

But he has also fallen for her. It was inevitable, really, from the day they met. The way she had appeared in his life, like a gift from the heavens, like a sweet apology for putting him through all hell. Jack had crushes before obviously, but none of them had hit him like this, like a freight train going at full speed.

Maybe he should have insisted on leaving, instead of allowing these things to develop, because he knows that he doesn't deserve her. She's too wonderful, too good. Guilt is gnawing at him, day in day out, because he still hasn't told her about the baggage he carries. It doesn't feel right to keep her in the dark, when she has been nothing but honest.

Sighing, he walks out and shuts the door behind him. She beams at him, delighted to see him and he could have screamed and punched the air right then and there. The setting sun drowns the farm in a deep orange and his knees go weak at the sight of her. Excitedly, she pats the spot next to her and he joins her on the wooden bench.

"I got us something from town. For a job well done.", she tells him and hands him a glass.

With a triumphant grin, she holds up a bottle of whisky and opens it up with a plop. He forces a smile when she fills up their glasses, not wanting to sour the mood, but she notices. She always does.

"What's wrong?", she asks and places a warm hand on his knee.

The contact makes it difficult to grasp a single clear thought and he downs his whisky for courage.

"I gotta confess something, Miss." He swallows the lump in his throat. "And I won't blame you, if you decide to hate me afterwards."

"I could never hate you, Jack Marston."

Just you wait.

And so he lays down all his cards, telling her exactly what he did and what had lead to it. From his father being forced to hunt down his former friends or more so family to Jack wandering along the river. He tells her about Edgar Ross, the reason why he has lost both his parents and that he's now floating somewhere in the San Luis River.

Unless he's been washed up to the shore or someone has fished him out, that is. By the end of it, he's gripping the glass like his life depends on it and he stares at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. The bench creaks softly when she leans back and the long stretched silence torments him.

"That's why you were so jumpy that day.", she speaks up after a while and he nods.

"I thought you were the law or something."

There is a long pause.

"He sounds like a bad man. This Ross. If you ask me, he kind of had it coming.", she then answers and his head snaps to the side. Her expression is one of confusion. "What?"

"You ain't upset?"

"Why would I be?"

"I killed a man and I kept that from you.", he points out and she takes a sip from her whisky.

"You really thought I didn't know that you did something wrong? Do you not remember what you looked like when we met?", she argues and he runs a hand over his face.

Hearing this, he's not sure if she's a saint or a fool.

"So you knew I was bad news and still took me in?", he questions, almost sounding accusatory.

"You weren't bad news. You were..." The liquor in her glass sloshes in circles, as she swirls it around. "Lost."

Lost.

She hit the mark with that description. Jack Marston was a lost soul during that time, wandering the border like a ghost that simply couldn't move on. This woman, his sweetheart, has taken him in, clothed and fed him. Now he's admitting that he's done one of the most horrible crimes one could think of and she's not even judging him a little bit.

No, she says that Edgar Ross had it coming. He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry or do both.

"Thank you. For everything.", is all he manages to bring out.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end at some point. He knows it, she knows it. It was only a matter of time until they had to part ways, with Beecher's Hope waiting for him back by Blackwater. The way she's standing by his horse and biting down on her lip, as if to prevent it from quivering.

"I'll write to you.", he says and wraps his arms around her.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He cups her cheeks and stares into her lovely face, memorizing every detail, before leaving. A voice deep within him demands to lean forward and kiss her, but he knows better. A kiss would make things harder and so he let's go.

She has packed food for him, for his journey back home. Calling it home doesn't sit right with him, not when it's abandoned and empty. After a long time of riding along dirt roads, he finally reaches it and it looks just as hopeless as it did the day he left to take revenge.

His boots sound hollow inside his house and he wrinkles his nose at the thick layer of dust that coats every piece of furniture. It's strange to be all alone again, to not hear her voice from the other room or feel her gentle touch on his back whenever she talked to him. There's also an alarming lack of plants in here, he now notices.

So at the next best opportunity, he goes out to town to buy pots. In Blackwater, he grows back to his jumpy self. He gets a sense that every pair of eyes is watching him, judging him. Have the news gotten around that Edgar Ross is dead? Has anyone found his body? Although terrified of the answer, he still buys a newspaper.

His eyes dart from article to article, but none covers the death of the retired Detective. Perhaps the river has carried his body away, to a place unknown or unreachable to man. God, he sure hopes so.

The following days, he busies himself, working hard to fix the house and the rest of the property. It's partly to distract himself from the sense of impending doom and partly, because he has gotten so used to the physical labour back on her farm. When he's not imagining to be gunned down by a group of armed lawmen coming for his hide, then his mind is filled with thoughts of her.

Sometimes he gets so lost in them, that he hears her laughter in the wind or sees her dress in the corner of his eyes. It drives him mad in the worst and best possible ways. At times, when he wakes up from a particularly realistic dream, he swears he could smell her cooking in the air.

Jack writes letters regularly, the moment he gets an answer from her. It tends to take a while, since she has to walk on foot to the next town, but he learned to be patient for her. He mainly writes about his work on the ranch, joking about how much he misses her home cooked meals. His dreams, thoughts and feelings, he keeps to himself though.

Some of her letters are partly written in Spanish in an attempt to teach him. During his stay at her farm, he had picked up a couple words, but she makes a point to continue the lessons. Oh, how he yearns to hear those sentences from her lips, to meet her again in general.

It torments him, this distance. He feels elevated thanks to her, but also more lonely than ever. One day, he tells himself that it's enough, that he must see her again otherwise he feels like he will perish. Though he can't just show up empty handed.

Should he get a bouquet of flowers? He knows what her favorite ones are, but they will whither and die by the times he gets there. Jewelry then? He has never seen her wear any, but that doesn't necessarily mean she doesn't like it.

No, none of them are enough. If he'd have any ounce of decency, then he'd take the moon and stars down for her, but alas that's out of his capabilities. Instead, he heads to town, buys the sturdiest Shire the stable has to offer and attaches it to his wagon. They could throw the chickens into the back and bring them here.

But what if she doesn't want move to him, to the states? Well, then both the Shire and wagon stay there. Jack can't stand the thought of having his sweetheart walk one more mile in this heat. On his way to her house, his mind is spinning and running laps. What will he say? Most importantly, what will he do?

He imagines scooping her up in his arms at her doorstep and kissing her senseless, like they do in those romance novels. Though something tells him that he should refrain from doing that. He has never been a ladies man and smooth is at the very bottom of his characteristics. If he'd attempt anything of that sort, they would both fall and probably break a limb or two, if he knows himself right.

The palms of his hands are growing clammy from sweat and his heart drums against his ribcage, when her house appears in the distance. He parks the wagon to the side and jumps off the driver's seat, kicking up some dust in the process. Nervous and fidgety, he takes off his hat and quickly pats down his dark hair to make it look like he at least put some effort into looking decent.

The chickens are outside, as always and some of them flock to his legs, having recognized him. Their presence has a strange relaxing effect of him and he takes in a deep breath, before knocking at the door. Nobody answers and he can't hear any movement coming from inside. So he slowly opens the door and pokes his head through the crack, while calling out her name.

No answer and he let's himself in. Surely, she won't mind after he had practically lived here for a month or two. Her basket is in it's usual spot, so she couldn't have gone into town. The gears in his head are working on overdrive, as he thinks about the many different possibilities. What if something happened to her during his absence?

Quickly, he banishes those grim thoughts and steels his nerves. Obviously she must have headed to the river then, to pick some of the herbs, she mentioned on their first meeting. As much as he'd prefer to avoid the river, his legs carry him towards it nonetheless.

Jack stops at a hill and gazes down at the shore. Someone is crouching down on the ground and cutting some plants free. His heart skips a beat at the sight and he finds himself unable to move a single muscle. She's beautiful, the way she kneels there, her dress pooling around her legs. How on earth he had gone without her, back at his ranch, is beyond him.

The thought of leaving her again seems oh so ridiculous now. Slowly, she rises back to her feet and he watches her stuff the herbs into her bag. The knife she's holding, she slides into some kind of holster attached to her belt and then she turns around. Their eyes lock and Jack forgets to breath for a moment.

A strong sense of déjà-vu overcomes him and he recalls the two of them standing here, not too long ago. Only now their spots are reversed and she's the one gawking at him, as if she had seen a ghost. The surprised expression on her face is quickly replaced by pure joy.

They both move at the same time and basically crash into each other for a bone crushing hug. Her fingers are digging into his back and he buries his face into the curve of her neck. Inhaling, he fills his nose with her scent and lets her overpower his senses entirely.

"You're here!", she exclaims in both shock and delight and they pull away to look at one another.

"I'm here."

Not knowing what possesses him, he slides one hand to the back of her neck, the other around her waist and presses his lips on hers. It was an instinct, kissing her, an act purely based on impulse. His emotions are boiling over and he pours it all into this moment.

She doesn't move and he fears that she will reject him, but then she grab the collar of his shirt, deepening the kiss. He melts into her, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces.

Edgar Ross is dead, but his ghost isn't haunting Jack anymore.

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