#Mid spring year 2

[kjzx]

So, lesson learned: the calico eggs from the calico festival don't get saved after it ends and hence can't be used next year, I just spent 3 days mostly in the caves earning a currency I didn't end up spending 🙃 (150+whatever the adventure guy would've given me for gathering like 10+ eggs in the caves on the last day)

[cherry-lala]

The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick 

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

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

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

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

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

He's not wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A twig snaps.

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

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

"I'm called Remmick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remmick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

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

“Evenin’.”

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

“I don’t.”

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

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

That stops me. “Asked who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I ain’t laughing.

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

And I wonder why I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It don’t.

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

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

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

So I go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only to the things that matter."

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

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

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

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

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

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

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

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

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

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

I blink. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got stories?" I ask.

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

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

He grins slow. "Alright then."

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

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

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

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

But I’m not.

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

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

——

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

——

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

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

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

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

I never said that.

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

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

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

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

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

Watchin’. Waitin’.

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

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

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

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

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

“Come in, Frank.”

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

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

Straight for Sammie.

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

I stood frozen in place.

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

Then she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There they stood.

A wall of them.

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

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

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

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

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

[xyywrites]

Heya @quiven! Yes this is a tricky thing to write about.

(for me personally, the hardest things to write are the simplest, mundane, everyday occurrences) Depending on the context this is how you could write silence,

1. A minute passed. Then five. No reply from the other side.

So quiet it was almost unnatural—as if the universe had swallowed every last sound, leaving only a void of unspoken secrets. At this point she wasn't sure what she was waiting for anyways. An apology? A confession? A whisper of hope? All the while, she could hear the tic-tic-tic of the clock, the distant laughter of children playing outside, the hum of traffic. Yet the sound she most longed to hear was.....

(I imagined the woman holding a corded landline phone here, old times, maybe she's a school teacher)

2. The air grew thick with the things unsaid. As if they were both afraid. Afraid of what they might bring into existence by naming that delicate, unspoken longing that hovered between them.

3. His silence was a bruise. Purple. Tender. And she kept pressing it to check if it still hurt.

4. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. Spending years in each others' company, they could read even the slightest shifts in expression. How a twitch of an eyebrow meant annoyance, how ....

5. He froze mid-sentence, words caught in his throat, choking him.

6. The phone rang, unanswered. One ring, two ring, three—by the fourth—even the quiet had grown teeth.

7. He’d always hummed while he worked. A habit she'd always found annoying. But now she missed it.

9. She’d always hated quiet. It gave her thoughts too much room to scream.

10. .....Each breath felt like swallowing glass, sharp with the truth they’d rather bleed out than speak.

Silence isn’t passive. It’s a loaded moment — a held breath, a coiled spring, a grenade with the pin pulled. Give it purpose. Is it awkward? Heavy? Comfortable? Threatening?

The context matters. The context guides the imagery.

(this was a comment on my post: The power of Silence in Dialogue)

[harmoonix]

🩶 Wolves 🐺

Astrology Observations

🩶 1st house ruler in 2nd house can indicate a person who loves to spend/invest a lot of money on themselves. They may also pay attention to their looks

🐺 4th house ruler in the 10th house can indicate family members having good careers and sometimes even family members getting popular/more known

🩶6th house ruler in the 3rd house can improve themselves by talking about their struggles and difficulties, open yourself, your words can be healing

🐺 12th house ruler in the 7th house is more based on a longgg spiritual journey in the relationship, both partners can be challenged subconsciously and physically

🩶 2nd house placements especially Moon or Venus can have an addiction at cooking. This may also be one of their love languages, to cook for others

🐺 Mercury in the 3rd or 11th house helps with being more social at a collective point. You get more communicative once you meet people on the same page as you

🩶A weak 6th house can indicate problems with health, also focus a lot on the mental health because it can be draining

🐺 12th house placements can often have episodes of insomnia. Especially Sun/Moon/Neptune, stressing a lot and sending that energy into your subconscious

🩶 Uranus in the 1st/5th and 10th house can have that 'quirky' character energy. Sometimes being goofy about certain things or taking the situations not so serious

🐺 If you have a powerful 8th house you may inherit a lot of things from your family or people. Powerful 8th house as having planets such as Moon,Pluto,Sun there

🩶 Mercury in Sagittarius/Pisces can have a very familiar accent when trying to learn a new language. They may sound close like the native speakers

🐺 Sun in the 9th house can indicate you take your culture/tradition and history very seriously. You may also be into other cultures

🩶 Fire Signs over the 9th house are the people who learn things the fast way and that helps them so much. They memorize things easily

🐺 Being Air dominant is an indicator that you thrive for social gatherings. You love to communicate, you love to share your feelings with the world. You love to experience everything at once

🩶 Most people have at least 2 dominant elements based on their planets, if you have more earth placements than any other, you're earth dominant. But most people will have 2 dominant elements due to birth charts being extremely selective

🐺 Also you can guess someone's placements by the season they're born. And I talk mostly about Moon, Mercury, Venus or Mars. You will guess their generational planets by the year of their birth, for example people born in the spring are very likely to have Pisces/Aries/Taurus in their chart

🩶 Remember to always check your transit especially when you have "bad days" this can help you to know how to get better next time you'll experience them

🐺 Your 7th house sign can also indicate the season you'd most likely to get in a relationship. Gemini in the 7th house for example can tell mid summer is a good time for that, Scorpio in the 7th house can indicate fall is a good time for relationships etc..

🩶 The dark traits of having Sun or Leo in the 7th house is that you tend to have narcissistic partners. Either selfish ones. Always take care at the people you choose to have in your life

🐺 If you have 3 or more planets in one house that's called "stellium" which indicates a big focus on the native life based on the house that stellium is located in

🩶 People with 12th house/Pisces placements tend to be deeply empathic, sensible to the things that happen around the world, sensible to animals etc

🐺 Having Sun in the 5th/7th/10th or 11th house can indicate youre an extrovert, depends a lot on the aspects but these are very social houses for the planet sun

🩶 You can spot harsh aspects in your chart by looking at the elements, air placements don't get along with water placements, earth placements don't get along with fire placements

🐺 Hiding secrets from others can be something Cancer placements can be into. They don't like to overshare things so they rather keep it secret

🩶 Mercury aspecting Venus tend to have really beautiful voices, that type of sensual soft voice (the sign and the degree matters in this case)

🐺 Bad traits of people with 2nd or 10th house placements is that they sometimes tend to buy things they dont really need but they still wanna buy something 🤣🤣

🩶 Your 4th house sign and ruler talks deeply about how you decorate your home, where you'll find your home and so many more

🐺 Saturn in your 1st/2nd or 5th house can indicate you were forced to grow up early in life. The situations that happened in your life during childhood or after will make you more mature

🐺 Have a blessed day/night!! Take care of yourself!🤍🤍 best wishes

@harmoonix

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 2 | masterlist

-

Sweat beads on your brow as summer approaches its zenith. Its hottest point. You splurge on an iced caramel latte from the gas station on the way over and pick one up for John as well. Your arm is already stretched out when he opens the front door to let you in, offering it to him. 

“I, uh…thought you might want one as well,” you explain, stuttering through your words. Crumbling under his amused expression. 

You crave it though. His approval. That fond smile that seems reserved especially for you. The rare murmured good girl, his hand sometimes coming down to ruffle your hair. Even the memory of it makes your breath get lodged in your throat. You covet every crumb of it.

He takes the iced latte from you though before heading out for the day. Gift received. Even squeezes your shoulder in thanks before he shuts the door behind him, and you manage to keep from swooning until you hear his car pull out of the driveway. 

You stand by the window with the baby pressed to your chest for so little that you can’t blame when a little fist tugs at your hair. 

“Sorry, lovie,” you whisper into his fuzzy hair. Inhale deeply. 

It’s not as though you’re starved for things to do. Were John’s son a few years older, you might have your work cut out for you, but there’s still plenty to do around the house even when you put the baby down for his morning nap. You save the vacuuming for when baby is awake and you’re not in danger of hearing him suddenly start crying through the baby monitor, but you dust and fold laundry and start the dishwasher and take the recycling out and by the time the baby is ready for lunch, you’ve already broken a light sweat. 

Let no one tell you that babysitting is a walk in the park.

That being said, you do put the baby in his stroller for a walk in the park after lunch. 

The park isn’t terribly far from John’s house, so coupled with the short path around the park and the walk back, you’ll get a good amount of steps in today without risking the baby being late for his mid afternoon nap. 

It’s hard to not have an accidental, forbidden thought. Something like I wonder if anyone thinks I’m the baby’s mom when you push the stroller past a group of moms gathered together near the jungle gym, their kids sprinting on wobbly legs and climbing like dexterous little wildlings. 

Those thoughts are dangerous though, best kept under wraps. Clandestine. Because once you start having those thoughts, they never really go away; they just get relegated to a part of your brain that switches on when the lights go off and you think about what it must have been like to carry a baby in your stomach for nine months. 

You’re in danger, girl, a small voice in your head warns you. It’s hard to hear her clearly these days. 

John comes earlier for once, around midday. It takes you by surprise. You jump when the door opens, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot and, in that same second, a wave of terror and rage washes over you, your heart already racing at the thought of someone breaking in while it’s just you and the baby home. You spring to your feet, hands already trembling by your sides, and then his familiar shape walks into the room, boots still on and all.

He pauses when he sees your shoulders slump with relief. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, heart still racing. “I thought you were…” Your voice trails off towards the end because you don’t know how to say it without sounding silly. 

His eyes cut to the baby in the bouncy chair behind you, your body still stood protectively in front of him, and then they soften. 

“No, that’s on me—should’ve given you a ring before I left,” he says, a light apology in his voice. He throws his keys into the bowl in the foyer before stalking towards you. You stare up at him wide eyed, only blinking when he ruffles your hair before bypassing you to go pick up his son. 

“How’s my baby?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the baby’s milksoft cheek, and your heart spins and cartwheels in your chest. All sorts of tricks that keep you rooted in place, unable to manage a single word. “You been good today?”

I’ve been good, you almost croak out, the words on the tip of your tongue. You swallow. Force them back down. You’re not his baby. 

Another dinner invitation that you can’t turn down. Not because it wouldn’t be polite but because you couldn’t muster up the will to refuse even if you really did have plans. Lucky that you don’t. 

When he puts the baby down to sleep for the night, you linger by the door, sure you’re a platitude or two away from being shown out for the night. John calls your name from the kitchen though, drawing you deeper into the house again. 

“Go put something on,” he instructs when you idle under the archway of the door. With his back to you, you can’t make out the expression on his face, leaving you no choice but to gawp at the undulation of his shoulder muscles as he washes out the dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher. “You want something to drink?”

“Just, uh—” you rasp, clearing your throat. “Just juice, thanks.”

You can’t settle on anything to stream, nothing perking your interests; or maybe you’re just too antsy to make an informed decision on what to watch right now. 

There are other things to worry about. Like John moving around in the other room or the way your denim shorts ride up when you sit down, bunching up at the crotch. You make an attempt to lift your hips and pull them back down as much as you can, but you panic and abort your plan when John comes into the room, embarrassed at the thought of being caught readjusting yourself. 

The cushion under you bounces slightly when John drops himself down onto the couch beside you, the motion making your shorts ride up even more. You wince when the seam presses tight against your clit, on the edge of mildly painful and turning you on. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says, putting his own drink down on the coffee table before handing you your glass of juice. 

“Thanks,” you bleat, taking a sip almost instantly to mask the look on your face, afraid he’ll read the panic there and press for details. 

He sits closer than usual, as he always does these days. It’s not something you ever discuss. It just seems to happen. Slowly, like ice sheets drifting over water. One day you’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch and the next he’s all up in your space, thigh to thigh with you while the living room goes dark and the TV glows, the reflection throbbing against the glass. An ever-flickering light that illuminates the side of his head when you peer up at him.

Your tongue rests against the roof of her mouth, dry; sparing.

With his arm resting on the back of the couch over your shoulder, the scent of him is almost smothering. Each inhale makes your head spin. If you were to tilt your head to the side, you’d be level with his armpit, his scent strongest there, and that thought spins in your head like a merry-go-round until someone in the movie you’re supposed to be watching shouts, dragging your attention back to it. 

“Christ, these are little, huh?” John grunts, suddenly reaching over to pinch the frayed ends of your shorts between his fingers. “This what the kids these days are wearing?” 

You don’t know how to respond to that. Your body’s so hot that you feel like you’re swimming in heat, sweat prickling at your hairline and on the back of your neck. 

“I-it’s hot out,” you stutter, your whole body suddenly hot. With how high your shorts have ridden up, his fingers are precariously close to your core, just a hairsbreadth from skimming up your inner thigh and brushing against your folds, now plump and sensitive. 

You wonder if he can make out the outline of your pussy from underneath your shorts. They hug into the seam of your legs, pinching the skin of your inner thighs. You don’t dare glance down. 

He hums, pulling his hand away and you stare wide eyed at the television in front of you when you shift and the glide between your legs tells you just how wet you are. Sitting on the couch next to your boss twice your age with a wet pussy. 

You lean forward to try and readjust, masking the movement by reaching blindly for your glass on the coffee table at the same time. You must pick up the wrong glass by accident though because when you go to lift it to your lips, John’s hand stops you, fingers curling around yours and easily tugging the glass away from your mouth. 

“No, baby, that’s mine; bit young for a drink, aren’t you?” John chuckles, eyes squinting with his smile. 

“I’m legal,” you frown, pouting. 

He acts like that sometimes; like he doesn’t keep track of how old you are. 

“All right, but only a sip, got it?” he cautions, handing you the glass. 

You don’t know why you take it. You would’ve been better admitting to your mistake and putting the glass back down. 

He chuckles when you wince on your sip, nearly spitting it up. Horrifically embarrassing because it’s not like you’ve never had a drink before. You’ve gone out for drinks plenty of times with friends. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, taking the glass from you and flicking his knuckle against your bottom lip as he does. “That’s what I thought.”

And it happens again and again. Head resting on his shoulder when you drift off on the couch before he shakes you awake. In the grocery store, he comes up behind you while you’re pushing the cart and puts his arms around to steer you down another aisle, his broad chest pressed against your back. 

You hold your tongue. Bite off and chew the words. Because it’s nothing; it’s innocent. You’ve known from the get-go that John is more of a man of action than words. If anything, you’re the one reading too much into things. Little touch-starved girl from the bad side of town. It’s not his fault that you preen when he praises you; that you bunt your head against his hand when he ruffles your hair. Every drop of affection soaked up, savoured. Nourishing your heart and your soul. So lonely, so wanting. All those years holed up on your own, no warm body in the bed beside you. 

Then John Price waltzed in and you expected to keep everything sealed up tight in your chest.

So it’s no wonder you gorge yourself on his touch and hope he doesn’t notice the way you lean into it. The rabbit-quick beat of your heart. Your want simmering under your skin, a disgusting, base thing desperate for gentleness. 

You wonder if he sees the same thing when he looks at you.

In the heat of summer, John invites you to join him and the baby for a weekend at the beach in Portugal.

You only say yes because it’s the dog days of summer. At the beach, there’ll be umbrellas to sit under and beer coolers of cold drinks and the ice cold Atlantic to swim in. Plus, you’ve had little opportunity in your life to travel—you’ve barely stepped foot in France, never mind Portugal. But John has friends with a house in the Algarve that have graciously offered him the week, so who are you to say no to such a thoughtful gesture? 

The only reason you consider not going is because you can’t shake the sense of foreboding. 

“Baby, can you get my back?” John asks when you arrive at the beach the first day of your trip, and when you turn back to him, you have to act quick to catch the sunscreen lobbed your way. 

That’s how you find yourself kneeling in the sand behind him, rubbing sunscreen on his back. His shoulders flex under your hands, and you can feel the muscle bunching and relaxing with each swipe across his shoulder blades. The worst is when you get to his low back. John’s groans are obscenely loud, guttural rumblings from the back of his throat. Ravenous. 

“Okay, that’s everything,” you chirp, rubbing the excess off on your thighs. 

“Good,” John says, twisting around. “Now it’s your turn.”

Your eyes widen.

“Wait—I don’t need to—”

You don’t know quite how he manages it, but a couple minutes later, you find yourself lying flat on your stomach on your beach towel, John squirting a good amount of sunscreen onto the middle of your back. All you get as a warning is the sunscreen bottle tossed to the ground beside your head before two big hands come down to your back to massage the cream into your skin. 

There’s nowhere for you to go when John throws a leg over your hips to straddle you. He holds the majority of his weight off you, but despite his best efforts, you can still feel his dick against your ass, his loose swim shorts doing nothing to hold him in place. 

He doesn’t ask for permission before undoing the knot holding your bikini top together, one quick pull and then the garment loosens around your chest. You can feel the fabric pool around you on the towel. 

“John, you—” you start, almost coming up onto your elbows before realizing that your top won’t be coming with you if you do. 

“Just gotta make sure I get your whole back, baby,” he reassures you, both hands gliding up your back to curve around your shoulders before dragging back down. “Won’t be more than a minute.”

It’s no use calling him out on the lie because there’s nothing you could do even if you did.

With hands as big as his, his fingers can’t help brushing the sides of your tits every time he smooths his hands down your back. You bite your lip nearly raw to keep from letting your moans escape, toes curling in the sand underneath you and thank god John is facing the other way or else your arousal would be clear as day to him. The gusset of your bathing suit is already damp and you haven’t even gotten in the water yet. 

His hands drag up and down your back, lathering the lotion into your skin, massaging it into the muscle. Each pass of his hands making your eyes roll back, breath coming out in choppy pants. Tweaking when the palms of his hands easily encompass your shoulders, nearly tickling under your arms.

“There we go. All done,” he announces, jolting you out of the lustful fog you’d slipped into during his ministrations. 

“All good?” you ask, a touch breathy. 

“Mhm,” John rumbles, smoothing a hand up your back one last time, just to double check. Only clenching your fists until the skin around your knuckles tighten keeps you from shuddering at his touch. “Lemme just—” 

Your throat constricts when you feel him reknot the back of your bikini top, fingers quick and deft for their size. He’s tied knots before. It’s better not to let that thought sink in too deep. 

Turning over onto your back takes a near insuperable amount of energy, the rest wrung from your body by the hands now preoccupied with readjusting his shorts. 

“You alright if I take him for a swim?” John asks, holding his squirming son against his bare chest. 

You wave him off, a hand coming up to shield your eyes from the sun. 

You can’t help but stare at his ass as he walks away, practically mesmerised. In the water, he wades up to his knees with his son still cradled in one arm. The ocean water laps at his shins, dappled with light, low waves in the distance scintillating at their peaks. The ends of his swim shorts cling to his legs as the water leaches into the fabric. 

Trying to keep your eyes off him is a losing game, not when John’s clad in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks, broad shoulders and chest on display, and now your hands tingle with the memory of how they felt rubbing suntan lotion over his skin. His trunks are pulled taut around thick thigh muscles, just barely loose enough to keep from being indecent. 

The panic returns when you catch some nearby women ogling him, one angling her body towards him like she’s considering walking over, and that’s when your heart beats too fast and you stumble to your feet, leaving your beach towel and umbrella behind to go join John in the water. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he greets when you’re only a few steps away, shivering when the cold water touches your feet. “Missed us, did ya?”

He reels you in with his free arm, pulling you into his side before transferring the baby into the cradle of your arms. Doesn’t even flinch when your breast is pressed against his side, as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. As if your cheek wasn’t nearly flush with the pelt of dark hair growing in whorls on his chest, your eye level with a dark, flat nipple. 

The girls hovering nearby scrunch their noses up when they notice you snuggled up against John’s chest. Assuming you must be someone special for him to be holding you that way; like a girlfriend or a wife—

You choke off the rest of that thought before it can take root. 

The rest of the trip is no better. You’re a right mess made worse by the cloying heat and the forced proximity. At the restaurant, John pulls your chair out for you and then sits right beside you, arm resting on the back of your chair while he talks, cologne clotting the air around you. He’s popular wherever he goes—easy candour and winsome smile able to make anyone, from the servers to the other patrons, want to get to know him better. 

All you can do is bask in the radiance; a sun in the middle of any room. 

Back at the house, you sleep in the other room, only a single, flimsy wall between your room and John’s. The walls are so thin that you can hear every groan and snore and snuffle, head ringing with his sounds until you fall asleep and they permeate your dreams instead. 

At seven in the morning, you wake to the sound of him rolling over in his bed, the mattress squeaking under his weight, and taking himself in hand. The sound of flesh against flesh; the groans bitten off too late for you not to catch them, sweat beading on your hairline as you stare at the white wall and picture John on the other side, big chest panting with his breaths as he tugs on his cock. You listen until his final groan, fingers petting at your clit until you have no choice but to turn your head into your pillow to muffle your sobs. 

As best as you try to put it out of mind, you can’t meet his eyes at breakfast. 

You flinch when the same hand that he must’ve used to jerk himself off comes down onto the top of your head when John goes to refill his mug of coffee. “Sleep well last night?” he asks, deep voice still coated in sleep. 

“Not bad,” you whisper. 

Shivering when he drops his hand to the junction between your shoulder and your neck and gives it a squeeze.

[hoshigray]

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 [𝐍𝐎𝐓]!! | a JJK series

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “GO FUCK YOURSELF, SATORU GOJO!” “BETTER THAN FUCKING YOU!” It’s no secret to anyone on this Earth that you and Gojo cannot stand each other. Despite that, the world seems amused to put these two star-crossed lovers haters in the same space. Or worse, have them dwell deeper into their feelings for one another…

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Gojo x fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern + college AU - frenemies to lovers + mutual pining - fluff + angst + misunderstandings - first kiss - virginity loss - Gojo and reader are at least age 20 - secret relationships; implied friends-with-benefits - sex in shared rooms; college dorms + hotel suite - college parties - use of party games (seven minutes in heaven) - confessions - mention of drug/alcohol abuse - humor bc Gojo and college, lol - Gojo is a cocky, tactless sweetheart, nothing new - cameos of other characters + explicit content will be listed in their respective fics (within the contents).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: when I say that I had this series planned out, I mean like mid-October last year planned out, lmaoo!! I'm honestly so psyched to do this series, as it's one of my favorite tropes + relatively short as I'll be busy irl, but we'll do what we can!! i was lowkey feeling this concept when i was re-watching Ranma 1/2 and figured it would work great with Gojo. So, here's to hoping i can properly execute my thoughts with this series, hehehe~

reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ❤︎ gif header made by me + fic dividers used are provided by the wonderful @cafekitsune and @animatedglittergraphics-n-more!!

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒊𝒓...

All the material below contains explicit 18+ content, so minors do not interact.

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (Feb 1st)

The start of the spring semester is supposed to be fresh and new, not be cramped up in a closet with your frenemy at a party! And what's worse: you actually like the feeling of his lips on yours!?

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 (Feb 7th)

Is it possible to wish to be in the embrace of someone who makes you want to throw them off a cliff? You seem to think so, and the same goes for Gojo. But alas, good things always come to an end, even when not meant to be...

₊˚⊹♡ 𝐒𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 (Feb 14th)

Going on a date with the guy who broke your heart is something you’d never thought would happen – especially on Valentine’s Day! But it’s just for him to be in your good graces again, nothing more…Yeah, go ahead and tell yourself that.

𝑨 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑳𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖!

Would you like to be tagged when these pieces get released? Lmk in the replies, please, and thank you!

𝑻𝑨𝑮 𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑺𝑬𝑫!!! Have made a list of the first 50 ppl who asked, but don't worry!! Check back for the stories when they're posted on their respective dates!!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ❤︎ These stories have been written by the original poster (me). Do not steal, edit, copy/plagiarize, or post any of my works on your own accounts, in or out of this app. Please and thank you.

[iannmin]

Every Season After | j.yh 정윤호

pairing + genre,, childhood!bestfriend!yunho x reader, fluff, childhood best friends to lovers, slight angst if you squint, each timestamp represents a memory (written in a linear timeline)

a/n,, just had a sudden burst of urge to write this :) & i wanted to try something new hehe

“Because of you, i laugh a little harder, cry a little less, and smile a lot more.”

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

DECEMBER 5 2005 ⋆₊˚

5:30PM, Winter. By mid-afternoon, the light, once bold and golden, softened into a pale silvery haze and the shadows began to stretch lazily across the snow-blanketed playground. The air grew sharper, filled with the familiar yet unsettling tang of frost that promised to linger long after the sun has disappeared. By the time you look up again from making snow ducks, yet another day has gone by with the apartment street-lamps flickering to life. Everybody has gone home now. It was just you and another boy. He was crouched near his army of snow ducks, wearing a thick navy parka dusted with flecks of snow. Even with his rosy cheeks and reddened fingertips, he was carefully adjusting the wing of a snow duck. You eyed his every move, but he must have felt it. “Still here?” He said, without looking up. You flinched, ears reddening, “I-I didn’t mean to stare!” He put down his duck maker and walked over, boots crunching loudly against the packed snow. Reaching out a hand, he said “I’m Yunho, I’m turning six this year, let’s become friends” After the brief and awkward exchange of names, there you were, kneeling beside him, scooping up fresh snow, transforming the playground into a battleground. And on that very night, the snow ducks stood as silent witnesses to the beginning of something new — a friendship forged in the harsh December winter.

APRIL 17 2008 ⋆₊˚

2:14PM, Spring. The Spring season had just begun. The rain came down in relentless sheets, pounding against the school roof, turning the courtyard into a mirror of rippling puddles. While everybody padded off under their multi-coloured umbrellas, you stood there squatting at the front gate, clutching your bag to your chest. Your umbrella. You'd forgotten it. Again. You were nine back then, so instead of running in the rain, your hands tightened against the grip on your bag, vision blurring - not just from the rain, but from the hot sting of tears welling up at the prospect of not being able to make it home. "Forgot something, didn't you?" the sudden voice made you jump, turning to see yunho standing there, his slightly taller frame partially blocking the rain. His dark hair was damp from the drizzle, and he wore his usual dimple smile. "I-I..." your voice wavered, you didn't know why the tears were threatening to spill over. He stepped closer, his free hand reaching out to tilt the umbrella over the both of you. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to cry over something like this, I've got you." Both of you walked side by side, the small umbrella forcing you closer together. He held it high enough to shield you, though his shoulder was starting to get wet. "You're getting soaked, Yunho." He shrugged, "I'll live. What matters is getting you home dry."

OCTOBER 23 2012 ⋆₊˚

8:16PM, Autumn. You were both 13 now. By then, Yunho had grown a head taller than you and you no longer could tease him about his height. "Happy birthday, dummy." You grinned, holding out a small, slightly crumpled box wrapped in bright blue paper. Yunho blinked, staring at the box in your hands. "I saved up. I know how much you wanted it, so...yeah." Yunho took the box and tore into the wrapping, his clumsy fingers fumbling with the tape. Inside was a red baseball cap, one he'd been eyeing in the baseball store for weeks. For a moment, Yunho was speechless. "This is... really cool, holy shit you're the best!" You lit the candle, his face glowing in the flickering light, softening the sharp lines he was starting to grow into. "Now make a wish, birthday boy." He closed his eyes for a moment, then blew out the candle in one breath. "What'd you wish for, hm?" You teased, nudging his arm. "Can't tell you," he said, leaning back on his hands. "But... I think it already came true."

JUNE 26 2015 ⋆₊˚

4:26PM, Summer. You’ve just gotten the news of Yunho’s successful audition. There’s a burst of hurt in your chest, dazzling and gnawing. You know you should be happy for him for pursuing his dreams but your face burns and so do your eyes, knot thick in your throat. Before you know it, you are slipping off your shoes in front of his doorstep, fighting the internal battle to will back tears. yunho’s brows shoot up when he opens the door to your face crumpling. One look at his face was enough to send the water crashing down. Had it not been Yunho, you’d feel like an attention seeker, but you held him tight, so tight against your chest as if you were afraid of him slipping away from your grip. Without question, he swept you up into his arms, huge warm hand running up and down your back. How much has he grown? Was his hands always this big? Were you always this small? He kept you there for a long moment, before peeling himself off of you to look at your face. Your breath was still hitching unevenly, coming in shallow, jagged gasps that caught painfully in your throat. Each inhale was sharp and shaky, as though you were trying to draw air through a tangled knot in your chest. You stared at him red-eyed, snot running from your nose. He looked you straight in the eye, mumbling “I will never ever leave you. I’ll be back in no time. Pinky-promise?” and that made you feel a whole lot better.

DECEMBER 5 2018 ⋆₊˚

5:30PM, Winter. Three years had passed since then. It might have been the nostalgic faint scent of frost lingering in the air or even the all too familiar row of wooden benches that got you squatting at the edge of the playground, cold biting at your cheeks. But there it was. Your eyes landed on an abandoned yellow snow duck maker in the middle of the playground and it was enough to send memories rushing back into your head. Every detail was painful, really — the spot under the slide where Yunho used to make his snow ducks with you, the echo of laughter that once filled the air, and the way your heart had felt so much at ease. A lump formed in your throat, tightening again with each passing second. Your chest ached and your vision blurred just like it once did on an April afternoon back in 2008. Your lips quivered, tears threatening to break through again. You hated how weak you were.

“You’re always crying”

You looked up and your breath hitched. There he was. Yunho. His face was the same yet completely different — the soft plump boyish roundness now replaced by sharper angles. The way he carried himself changed too,, his lanky frame filled out, movements steady and confident, no longer the awkward shuffle of the boy you remembered. Yet, all it took was his smile to catch the faint glimpse of the boy you used to know — that damn dimple.

Your heart froze for a moment before it began to race uncontrollably. "Yunho..." You blinked, as if your mind was trying to reconcile the boy from your memories with the man standing before you. "You're really just gonna squat there and cry in front of me?" he teased, stepping closer. "Some things never change."

You hastily wiped off the stinging tears in your eyes, too embarrassed to face him, sniffling. "I wasn't crying" you muttered defensively, though your shaky voice and tear-stained cheeks said otherwise. He squatted beside you, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Miss me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur. You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, your chest tightening as the weight of his presence filled the air between you.

"Then kiss me." he whispered.

Your breath hitched again, the world narrowing until it was just the two of you, the snowy evening wrapping around you just like that same day you’ve met him for the first time. And before you could think, before you could second-guess, your heart answered for you.

[bjlipss]

— 00:11, worms, dreams, and other emergencies;

your daughter asks wild, hilarious questions neither you nor nanami can answer—until she asks the one that matters most.

1. “how do i know my dreams aren’t the real world and this is the dream?”

the morning is barely happening. the sun hasn’t even fully made up its mind about rising. you’re in the kitchen, groggy and squinting at the cereal box like it personally wronged you. nanami’s walking in from the shower, towel around his neck, and your daughter is already up—too awake—swinging her legs at the kitchen table, biting into toast like she’s lived three lives.

then she says it.

“how do i know my dreams aren’t the real world and this is the dream?”

you stop mid-pour, nearly drowning your cereal.

“what?” you croak.

“like—when i’m asleep, everything’s weird, but also it feels real. and maybe when i’m awake, this is the fake part, and i’m actually sleeping in the dream world.”

nanami stops in the doorway. “it’s too early for existential dread.”

she blinks innocently. “what’s dread?”

“something you feel when you realize your five-year-old might be more philosophical than you,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair, but she doesn’t catch it.

“huh?”

“nothing,” you both say at the same time, glancing at each other.

she purses her lips in confusion, much like her father does when he is deep in thought.

you set the cereal down slowly. “sweetie, dreams are like… brain movies. they’re fun, or strange, but they’re not real. this is the real world.”

“but how do you know?” she says, wide-eyed. “what if you’re in my dream right now?”

“i—” you start, then shut your mouth.

she leans in, whispering: “what if i made you both up?”

nanami sits down, rubbing his temples. “this is worse than the time she asked if the moon had feelings.”

she shrugs and goes back to munching her toast as if nothing happened.

“if i wake up and you disappear,” she adds between bites, “i’ll miss you.”

you stare at her, deeply unsettled, while nanami wordlessly pushes the coffee toward you like a peace offering.

2. “do worms know they’re worms?”

it’s early spring, the kind where everything still smells a little like mud and thawing grass.

the three of you are walking home from a nearby café, your daughter holding both your and nanami’s hands, swinging her legs with each step. puddles glitter on the pavement, and the clouds look like someone wrung out the sky.

she suddenly stops, tugging your hand. “look!! worm!!”

she crouches dramatically on the path, face inches away from a wriggling earthworm.

“sweetheart,” nanami says, tone wary, “don’t put your face that close to—”

“shhh,” she hisses, waving a tiny hand. “i’m listening.”

“to the worm?” you ask, pausing beside her.

she nods solemnly. “he’s on a mission.”

you squat down beside her. the worm is, in fact, just trying to not die. “what kind of mission?”

“i think he’s going to his worm job. maybe he’s late.” she tilts her head. “do you think worms know they’re worms?”

you blink. “um… what?”

“do they know? do they wake up and think, ‘i’m a worm and i have worm things to do today’?” she glances up at you, completely serious.

“i don’t… think they wake up,” you say slowly. “they don’t really sleep like we do. or have—alarm clocks.”

“but maybe he has a worm watch,” she whispers.

nanami, still standing with his hands in his coat pockets, sighs. “then we’re probably interrupting his commute.”

she gasps, scandalized. “we have to help him get home!” she starts scooping up the worm with a stick, incredibly gentle for someone who once bit a crayon in half out of rage.

so the three of you spend ten minutes hunched over wet pavement, relocating a single worm into the safety of the grass like it’s a royal procession. at one point, nanami mutters something about “early retirement” and “this is not how i pictured fatherhood,” but he’s crouched beside you, doing it anyway.

an older couple passes by, gives you a look.

you pretend not to see it.

your daughter waves at the worm. “good luck at your job!”

3. “if i can’t see my brain, how do i know it’s there?”

it’s bedtime, and your daughter is nestled under the covers, her favorite stuffed animal tucked under her arm. the room is quiet, the only light coming from the soft glow of the nightlight you’ve had to replace twice now because it always ends up in her bed somehow. she snuggles into the pillows, a slight frown tugging at her lips as she stares up at the ceiling.

“if i can’t see my brain,” she asks, her voice unusually serious for such a late hour, “how do i know it’s there?”

you pause mid-yawn, your eyes blinking as you try to come up with a way to answer. nanami glances at you, but he looks just as stumped.

“well,” you begin, “your brain is inside your head. it controls everything you do.”

“but i can’t see it,” she insists, her little voice quiet but firm. “so how do i know it’s really there? what if it’s just pretending?”

you look over at nanami, who seems to be thinking just as hard. this is no ordinary five-year-old. you feel like you’re about to enter into an existential debate with a toddler.

“um…” nanami sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s like… trust. you can’t see the air, but you know it’s there because you breathe it.”

she stares at him, processing the comparison for a moment. “so… i can’t see the air either, but i know it’s in my lungs?”

“yes,” you say, nodding vigorously as though you’ve figured it out. “exactly. and your brain is the same way.”

she thinks about this, her little face scrunching up as she turns it over in her mind. then, without warning, she turns to you with a completely different thought.

“but what if my brain is just hiding?” she asks, her voice dripping with suspicion, as though your brain is the biggest trickster in the world, sneaking around behind her back.

you and nanami look at each other, unsure if you should be worried or impressed with how deeply she’s thought about this.

+ 1. “will you love me when i’m older, like a grown-up?”

it’s a quiet night. the house is calm, and the only sound in the air is the soft ticking of the clock and the low hum of the refrigerator in the background. your daughter has crawled into your lap, her hair soft and smelling faintly of lavender shampoo, her favorite scent. she curls up there as if nothing in the world matters more than the security of this moment.

you’re about to speak when she lifts her head from your chest and looks up at you both, her little face uncharacteristically serious.

“will you love me when i’m older, like a grown-up?” she asks, her voice soft but full of an emotion you hadn’t expected.

there’s a weight to her question that catches you off guard. nanami pauses, his hand stilling in her hair as he looks down at her, then at you.

you both know that this is one of those questions that goes beyond the usual curiosity. it’s the first sign of a child thinking about the future, about change, about the passage of time.

you swallow thickly, your heart tightening at the thought of her growing up. you lean down and kiss the top of her head, your voice gentle but firm.

“we will always love you,” you say, the words feeling more important than they ever have before. “no matter how old you get. even when you’re grown-up.”

“even when i’m a really old grown-up?” she asks, her voice filled with that same curiosity, the kind that comes from wanting reassurance.

“especially then.” nanami says, his tone unusually soft as he brushes her hair from her face, his voice a low promise.

“you’ll always be our little girl, baby.” you add, your heart full as you wrap your arms around her a little tighter.

she smiles then, a small, peaceful smile, before she snuggles into your arms, content for the night. no more questions. no more worries.

for now, the world is perfect.

[badgertracksart]

Portfolio advice, from a lead who hires Concept Artists

(This was originally a twitter thread I wrote before the site self imolated, hense it's strange structure.) I wrote this after a weekend of portfolio reviews - 1. Like a maths exam, please please show your working. I want to see thumbs options, mid options and of course a final design.

2. Arrange your portfolio, I don't want to bounce about between subject matter and pipeline. Your portfolio's narrative should be as strong as your work... 3. Please make worlds that excite the viewer, make them want to go in and explore them, explain to them the interesting parts of the town, or the way the character's hat unfolds. How will this draw the viewer in? 4. As I've said before the majority of your project work is explanatory not mood, make sure your portfolio contains explanatory work. Explained here -

5. A lot of beautiful post apocolyptic paintings, , but 80% of realistic games and film, we just give the environment artists photo ref, they are capable artists in their own right. Different work in stylised where you do need to create rules for how things can be translated. 6. Production art contains call out sheets, material references and flat graphics. This doesn't have to be your final image, but it should support it.

7. Design characters on a swatch(es) of the environment they will be viewed in. Not on white. I make swatch backgrounds from screenshots, it avoids assumptions that damage readability. 8. Reverse of this, put people in your environments, show me the scale.

9. It's not a deal breaker for a review, but if you intend to get a job, please show me your work on a screen larger than a smartphone (print outs probably the cheapest option with the best battery life). 10. Please have your contact details clearly visible, and by that I mean email address, I will not pass your social media contact on, I cannot input your form into my tracking system. EMAIL ADDRESS emblazoned and bake it in, sometimes recruiters do funky stuff to pdfs

11. Your portfolio will never feel done, not to you anyway. You will have learnt from your latest pieces and want to apply it to older work. But we know art is a journey. Send your portfolio anyway. I've been in the industry 10+ years and my portfolio is still not 'finished'. 12. If you are applying to an environment centric Concept Art position then please vary your times of day! Golden hour is cool but show me some happy sunny days, looming overcast days, what about at night? Vary your weather too! Sunny snowy day? Rainy Spring day? Stormy night?

13. If you are applying for a character centric Concept Art role then please ensure your portfolio shows a variety of body types and ethnicities. 14. Designing characters for games? Please show back views and feet (!) Many potfolios contain only front views. This is a problem because:

You haven't shown you are considering the design from all angles.

In many games rear view is the main view.

Stop cropping feet.

15. If you are entry / graduating and looking at Portfolios to compare content and standard of yr own work too, look at hired grad/junior artists as opposed to seniors Seniors and leads often have old or personal work in their portfolio which isnt representative of the day job. 16a. Show clearly the intended use case for your Concept Art. Mention the game type in the description. Are these player character designs for a 3rd person adventure game? Then more back views please. Bonus points for diagetic ways of showing health / equipment / role etc.

16b. Are these designs for an FPS? Then really the player view of the gun needs to sell the player style/ choices, in an FPS your weapons are almost your character. Are these world designs? What's the view distance? For an RTS your shapes need to read from above & a distance. 16c. The lack of clarification means I am judging the design in isolation, which both harms the design (you might be considering the backview of a char as the main adventure character.) Or an NPC, their waist up expressions may be important for conveying exposition and mechanics.

16d. Concept art is not separate from gameplay, great concept art serves the game team before it is a good illustration.

17. Play games. A variety of games. Think about them. IMO to be a good concept artist you need to understand the common language & references used by your peers. Also understand the principles and common language your audience are used to. FPS design rules are v.diff from RTS.

18. There are many skills that are needed in concept art, please show them. For example: Graphic design - logos, liveries, typographic use etc. VFX concepts - Abilities, Ambience, motion concepts. Architectural knowledge - How buildings are built! & more but I'm out of space :O

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

can you tell me the timeline of twisted wonderland I know the game timeline started in September or august now the timeline is january or febary

The timeline for the main story is as follows:

Prologue - Based on book 1’s timing, probably very late August or very early September.

Book 1 - Crewel states that start of the school year is in September; other students like Cater drop hints that the new students are still getting acclimated to the routine of school. The light novel is even more specific; the OB fight is stated to happen within the first week of school.

Book 2 - Crowley states that the interdorm spelldrive/magift tournament takes place in October.

Book 3 - Final exams of the fall semester are mentioned, so this is before winter break. Most likely occurs in November.

Book 4 - Begins on the last day of the fall semester and continues through winter break (late December) and into the new year (January). This is pretty explicitly stated in various characters’ dialogue (Jamil, Crowley, Ramshackle Ghosts, Lilia, Octavinelle, etc.) or by in-game omnipotent narration.

Book 5 - Begins in the new year (January) and factoring in ~1 months’ worth of training, we end book 5 in mid-February, when VDC/SDC takes place. Mid-February is explicitly mentioned by Crewel.

Book 6 - Takes place literally a few days after book 5, so presumably still in February. Idia states that 5 Overblots (not counting himself) occurred in less than 6 months.

Book 7 - Estimated to be in March due to a variety of factors. It must be spring because Yuu is surprised to see (Malleus’s magically produced) snow when wandering outside of Ramshackle + says “I thought it’s supposed to be spring.” The interscholastic spelldrive/magift tournament takes place in May, but presumably has not occurred yet + Silver states his birthday (May 15) is still “a little ways away”. Assuming NRC has a spring break in April or mid/late March, it must not have happened yet because 1) no students mention a break and 2) the third years would need to apply for their internships early in the semester to allow time for their paperwork to be processed and to do additional tests and interviews. Lilia does say at his farewell party that a full 6 months have passed since the start of the school year; he would have said 7 if it was April. UPDATE: book 7 ends on Silver's birthday, May 15.

I have added this information (or at least a link to it) in my pinned post, which already contains a FAQ section. I highly recommend to my readers to look at the FAQ first before sending in their question(s), as there is a good chance that your question may have already been answered there. Any questions that are repeats of the ones shown in the FAQ will go ignored/unanswered moving forward.

[what-the-floofin]

So how do baby taurs work for the equitaurs and cervitaurs in your stuff?

Oh that's a good one actually - lots to talk about! Too much for one post, but gotta start somewhere. Enjoy some messy micro scribbles peppered throughout. They were originally very very tiny so, pardon blurriness.

I've got my Taurs running overall pretty similar to equine cycles and gestations - meaning they are what you call 'long-day triggered' by the spring and summer seasons.

(Though they do cycle throughout the year, just at slower rates and less consistently over cooler seasons)

This goes for the cervitaurs too - rather than using the shorter gestation of their deer alikes - as they and their foals are a bit bigger and more complex to deal with. Which also goes to suggest that twins/multiples are not a frequent occurrence for cervitaurs in comparison to actual deer, and inherently poses as much danger as it does for equines instead. Possible, but high risk and incredibly demanding.

So, you're looking at an 11 month gestation on average, and typically starting in a mid-spring to late-summer window. Which places most taurs at being born early-spring to mid-summer. It's most uncommon to be winter born, but not weird tbh.

Foals are super awkward, there's no getting around that, and in the first year they have a ridiculous growth rate when compared to other sentient creatures of similar lifespans.

These things are weeds - the difference from one day old to three months old is phenomenal alone. They are, however, cooked a little further along than what you'd be comparing to for a newborn human. They're able to support themselves enough to avoid outright injury (think like a 3-4 month old baby), but gaining actual control of all those limbs takes a bit more time. The equine half however would be a touch undercooked for a horse. Just physically, in size. No worries about comparative internal developments, that's all good and ready to go.

So they're typically gonna spend shy of their first month feeding and sleeping, practicing rolling up, sitting and limb coordination to build strength for self-standing. If mama has places to be, that baby is getting carried.

I also absolutely subscribe to the idea of arms being naturally held close to torso prior to having balance and coordination. It would support them a lot! Then it becomes a self-soothing gesture seen in the anxious, and an instinctive positional response when badly startled. Tuck in!

By three months you can expect them to be racing on their little stilt legs - albeit still with the occasional wobble and spill. And wowee did that happen fast when you think about it.

While the zoomies are a lot, they're balanced out by the fact that so much oncoming growth means foals crash nap very frequently. These buggers sleep a lot. It's go hard and sleep hard on endless rotation. Play, snack, nap, rinse and repeat.

This accelerated growth races away throughout their first year, and then drops right back into something a bit more reasonable - at least when you're considering it from the human perspective!

Yet in comparison to how they first started out, it's practically snail paced.

I'm meaning, you look at the size of a 3 month old horse foal, and that's the closest comparison to a 2 year old taur foal in body. Every 'horse foal month' thereafter starts guiding the next 'taur foal year' visual until you hit that yearling horse look for a taur when they're 10-11 years old. Then by that point, they've reached most of their full leg length, and the next 10 years is focused on finishing the bulking out of their frame.

(click to enlarge I hope) - Featuring my lass Thalo here haha

By rule of thumb I just have both equid and humanoid aspects grow in relative balance to each other, lanky stages and all. From the human perspective, the humanoid half grows crazy fast at first and then becomes comparatively similar. From the horse perspective, the equine half is crazy slow and always is. It would also give credit to having a higher physical durability than their animal counterparts. More time was spent growing!

It's worth noting that a lot of perceived 'weirdness' only comes from trying to compare them purely 1 to 1 with either horse, deer or human kids. Taurs are their own thing though! And nature's most consistent attitude is to Find What Works and Do it. No matter how wack, if it works it's used.

So, a rapid starting growth tapered into a much slower rate once they're stabilised and running was just the path that worked best for this Taur survival. Keep it simple!

There's always more to cover, but this is chunky enough for now. Whew!

[sylusslittlekitten]

30 Days of Sylus: Birthday Advent Calendar - Luke and Kieran Style

Hosted by ©Sylusslittlekitten - All rights reserved

Crack Post Masterlist here

Presented by Luke and Kieran

LUKE: Welcome to what may or may not be the most intense emotional hostage situation of the year—also known as Sylus’ Birthday Month.

KIERAN: That’s right. We don’t know when the man was born. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. Could’ve crawled out of an ancient crater. Who’s to say?

LUKE: So instead of not celebrating, like normal people, we decided to take the completely rational route and throw him a birthday... every single goddamn day.

KIERAN: You’re welcome.

LUKE: Some say it’s overkill. Some say it’s harassment.

KIERAN: He deserves to be celebrated. Loudly. Repeatedly. Until he admits which day it is. Or files a restraining order. Whichever comes first.

LUKE: From surprise parties to emotionally destabilising photo albums, we went all in—because subtlety is for people who don’t cry when Sylus says “thank you” under his breath.

KIERAN: Scroll down. Witness the madness. Pick your favourite day of mayhem. And remember:

LUKE: Every day could be Sylus’ birthday. KIERAN: But every day should be a reason to love him harder.

Day 1 - Cake in the Face

Kieran shouts “SURPRISE!” and absolutely obliterates Sylus with a strawberry sponge.

Sylus: “...You’re cleaning that.”

Luke: “It’s symbolic. Like rebirth. Through cake.”

Day 2 - “Pin the Knife on the Target” Party Game

Actual knives. Actual target. It’s Luke.

Kieran is crying with joy. Sylus is annoyingly accurate.

Luke: “I saw God, and she said ‘do it again.’”

Day 3 - Custom “Best Boss” Mug

It’s hideous. Glittery. Spells “Slay Boss” on the back.

Sylus drinks from it every morning now.

Kieran faints from pride.

Day 4 - Choreographed Dance Battle

Kieran in sequins. Luke is wearing cargo pants and shame.

Music: "Toxic" by Britney Spears.

Sylus walks away. They follow him. Still dancing.

Day 5 - Themed Breakfast: “You’re My Favourite Mistake”

Black coffee. Toast burned into the shape of a gun.

Eggs scrambled like their emotional state.

Kieran made pancakes shaped like Sylus’ face. They’re terrifying.

Day 6 - A Dramatic Reading of His Texts

Luke performs it in Shakespearean dialect.

Kieran plays a violin out of tune.

Sylus: “If I murder you, is that still birthday behaviour?”

Day 7 - Surprise Parade

Three bystanders. One stolen marching drum.

Banner reads: “Happy Maybe-Born Day, Our Brooding Boss”

Sylus vanishes mid-parade. Leaves behind confetti and contempt.

Day 8 - Hot Springs Trip

Kieran books the whole place. Luke forgets towels.

Sylus sulks in the water but secretly enjoys the quiet.

Kieran wears a crown made of loofahs. No one asks why.

Day 9 - 10-Minute Therapy Session with a Goat

Kieran swears animals are healing.

Goat headbutts Luke. Kieran cheers.

Sylus feeds it quietly for 20 minutes.

Day 10 - Airhorn Wake-Up Call

At 10pm.

Luke records Sylus' scream. Makes it his ringtone.

Kieran bakes an apology pie shaped like a crow.

Day 11 - DIY Spa Night

Sylus gets cucumber eye masks and absolutely nothing else.

Luke nearly burns down the bathroom with scented candles.

Kieran offers a massage. Sylus threatens dismissal.

Day 12 - “Dress Like Sylus” Day

Luke wears all black. Kieran wears less and claims it’s accurate.

They follow him whispering, “Brooding is power.”

Sylus vanishes. Again.

Day 13 - Personalised Gun Range Session

Targets: Luke’s face.

Kieran writes “Emotions” on a target.

Sylus shoots it clean through.

Emotional breakthrough? Maybe. Everyone cries anyway.

Day 14 - Emotional Support Plushie Gifted

It’s a tiny plush dragon holding a dagger.

Luke: “It’s you, but huggable.”

Sylus: sleeps with it tucked under his arm. Never mentions it again.

Day 15 - Birthday Lullaby, Screamed

Kieran sings. Luke plays backup on a kazoo.

Neighbours file a noise complaint. Sylus bribes them to let it continue.

Day 16 - Mystery Box Day

Every hour, a new box. Could be a trinket. Could be a live crab.

Sylus opens 16 before he gives up. Luke opens the rest.

The 18th contains coffee. Sylus smiles.

Day 17 - Midnight Confessions

Luke: “You intimidate me but also I’d die for you.”

Kieran: “You’re not hard to love, Sylus. You’re just scared.”

Sylus: doesn’t speak for five minutes. Then says, “Thanks.”

Day 18 - Dragon-Themed Birthday Ball

Kieran wears wings. Luke is shirtless with red glitter.

Sylus is dragged in wearing a red, velvet suit and quiet rage.

He dances with them anyway. No one brings it up again.

Day 19 - “Things You Never Say But We Know Anyway” List

53 entries.

“You check on us even when you say you won’t.”

“You love deeply. That’s why you stay distant.”

Sylus reads the whole thing in silence. Folds it. Keeps it.

Day 20 - Mock Trial: Is Sylus Capable of Love?

Luke plays prosecution. Kieran defends.

Jury is plushies and Mephisto.

Verdict: Absolutely, tragically yes.

Day 21 - "Unsolicited Compliments Hour"

Every 5 minutes.

Kieran with a megaphone: “Your eyes look like murder. I’d die in them.”

Sylus: “I will break that megaphone.”

Kieran: “So strong. So alpha.”

Day 22 - Custom Fragrance: “Gunpowder & Longing”

Actually smells so good.

Sylus wears it. Kieran notices. Writes fanfic about it.

Luke sells bootleg versions.

Day 23 - Build-a-Weapon Workshop

Kieran bedazzles his. Luke chooses an axe.

Sylus forges a blade in silence.

It glows. Everyone agrees not to ask why.

Day 24 - Silent Movie Night: “The Tragedy of a Man Who Feels Too Much”

They reenact it live.

Sylus is portrayed by a potted plant with a stern expression.

He claps once. That’s the highest praise they’ve EVER received.

Day 25 - Spontaneous Hug Ambushes

Kieran tackles. Luke distracts.

Sylus fights them off to start.

After the 35th one, he reluctantly accepts every single one but growls during.

At the end of the day, he initiates one.

Day 26 - “Interview With the Birthday Boy”

Questions include: “Do you think you're loveable?”

Sylus: “No.”

Kieran: “Wrong. You lose. Try again.”

Day 27 - Late Night Drive to Nowhere

No plan. Just music, stars, and long silences that mean everything.

Kieran falls asleep on Sylus’ shoulder.

Luke drives. Sylus doesn't move an inch.

Day 28 - Surprise Photo Album

Polaroids. Stolen moments. Smiles he never knew he made.

One of him asleep with the new plushie.

Caption: "Proof: He does rest."

Day 29 - Night Under the Stars

They lay on a rooftop.

Luke points out fake constellations. Kieran holds Sylus’ hand.

“We don’t need to know the date,” he says. “You were born. That’s enough.”

It's awkward.

Day 30 - No surprises. Just peace.

No glitter. No screams. Just coffee.

Sylus wakes up to a quiet room.

A note: “You are loved. Even when we’re quiet about it.”

He doesn’t throw it away. Sticks it to the fridge in the armoury.

Hosted by ©Sylusslittlekitten - All rights reserved

Crack Post Masterlist here

[roc-haze]

your Will fics are giving me LIFE 💓 obsessed with the latest one, and might need a part 2 🫢 I just love the idea of them getting together, and whenever they’re having problems (individually or as a couple) they sit in the bath again and figure it out as a team 🥹

Spring Into Summer | WillNE

Pushing It Down And Praying - established reader. You can find all other parts here. Can be read as a standalone fic (but would make more sense with the series) 🤍

—

January 1st

The apartment was covered in streamers, glitter and bottle top lids. Will and Y/N had been brave enough to offer up their place for the group’s New Years celebrations.

So far this year, they had witnessed Arthur Hill and George kiss during the ball drop, they’d caught Chip mid tactical vomit in their outdoor plants and Chris had somehow ended up covered in Becky’s bright red lippy.

It was about 3am when the crew had finally emptied out, the couple pottering around their living room with garbage bags and cleaning up before finally deciding to call it a night. They had gotten to work removing copious amounts of glitter from their faces, taking turns sliding the makeup wipes across the his and hers sinks in the bathroom.

Y/N turned to Will, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Sweetheart, just sit on the edge of the bath and I’ll help.”

She stood between his legs, gingerly wiping his face. Will’s hands lay happily on either side of her waist, looking up at her. “Happy new year, darling.”

He was met with a soft smile and a gentle kiss. “Happy new year.”

——

March 11th

Will had asked for one thing for his birthday - a hot bath with his hot girlfriend.

It was about 7pm when they each put their phones on do not disturb and found themselves taking refuge in the bathroom. Somehow, the ensuite had become the cornerstone of their relationship - a no yelling, judgement free space. Anger was welcome on the condition that it was productive and kind in its delivery.

Will had learned that Y/N was a practical woman. They had been friends for years and had known each other throughout each of their respective relationships, but he hadn’t expected her to be the type of partner she was. Having seen her drunkenly yell at her friends shitty boyfriends and put her foot down when Alex’s tongue was a little too sharp, Will had expected her to be slightly impatient and a little quick to anger. He couldn’t be more wrong. Y/N was soft, patient, and practical. She was emotionally intelligent and communicated better than most of the adults he knew (himself included).

On the occasion she would come home from work frustrated, she would tell him “I’m just going to get in the bath. Give me an hour to work through some shit.” And so began their tradition. Angry? Go have some time out in the bath. Need to say something without being interrupted? Let’s go sit on the floor of the bathroom. The drunken chat in George’s bathroom that had started their relationship flowed through it - both of them practicing kindness and tact, forever forthcoming with each other.

Will would text. It’s a bad day. Would love a quiet evening.

Alright. I’ll order a Chinese and get the bath bombs out for you. She knew exactly what he needed.

His birthday was no different.

Candles scattered the bathroom and a Noah Kahan vinyl was playing softly. As requested, Y/N had found a nice chilled red for them to share. She sat behind Will, his back flush against her chest and his hands resting softly on her thighs. She ran her fingers through his hair as he spoke about his day, scratching his scalp from time to time.

“You know, I think this has been my favourite birthday ever.” He mumbled, eyes closed.

She hummed. “Is that so?”.

“Yeah. I got to spend the day with the boys, playing football and having a nice pub meal. Had friends calling me all day to tell me they love me.” She squeezed his shoulder as he spoke. “And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve come home to find the most beautiful girl in the world making my favourite dinner and running us a bath.”

Y/N smirked. “She sounds like she’s pretty great.”

“You can’t have her. She’s pretty fuckin’ hot.” He laughed, leaning backwards. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing his temple.

“You’re pretty good looking for an old man.” A cheeky grin was plastered across her face.

He laughed heartily, his chest vibrating. “Oh, fuck off! You won’t be getting any of my pension.”

——

June 23rd

The tension was palpable. The minute Y/N had walked into the apartment, Will could tell a breakdown was imminent.

“You’ve had a shit day, haven’t you?” he asked from across the living room.

“I love you but I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m like fucking vibrating with anger and I’m not about to take that out on you.” She stated, calmly putting away her work bag and hanging up her coat. “Hi boys.”

Freezy, Lux, Josh and Harry were visiting Will for a few quiet afternoon drinks (secretly also wanting to catch up with Y/N). Y/N would normally love to sit and indulge in a glass of wine with them all, probing them all for the gossip they usually wouldn’t share with the wider group.

Y/N had been through the door for all of 2 minutes before Freya walked in, bottle of rosé in one hand and a bag of treats in the other.

“I have brought bathers, alcohol and snacks. Let’s go rot in the bath.” Freya kissed Y/N’s cheek and they made their way to the ensuite bathroom.

Josh grinned watching the two women interact. “I’m glad Frey and Y/N are such good mates.”

Will nodded. “Me too. They had me in stitches when they got on the piss last weekend.”

“I heard you got kicked out of your bed!” Freezy laughed.

“Yeah, they wanted to have a girls night so I set up shop in the spare room.” Will explained, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

“You should’ve come over to my place, Frey wasn’t there to spoon me so there was plenty of room.” Josh winked at Will, the room erupting in giggles.

A loud ‘oh, fuck off! What a cunt!’ could be heard from a few rooms over, sounding distinctly like Freya. Laughter then ensued.

About an hour later, the two girls emerged in matching pyjamas, each holding a half finished bottle of wine.

Josh quirked an eyebrow. “Where’d you get your pjs from, Frey?”.

She looked back at him, puzzled. “Y/N bought a pair to keep in my room.”

Will laughed. “Sorry, your room?”.

“I just keep some cozy clothes and toiletries in the spare room for Freya,” Y/N explained. “There’s a drawer there for Talia too.”

“You normally end up having sleepovers in our room anyways.” Will explained.

“Oh, would you prefer I give Freya one of your drawers?”. Y/N grinned cheekily.

——

October 5th

The sun was going down as Y/N arrived home. “Honey, I’m home!” She called out.

“We’re in the bathroom!” Will yelled back.

Y/N walked through the apartment and into the bathroom, finding Will laying in a tub full of ice. He was yapping to Ieuan and Mikey, who were deep in conversation about the latest, most controversial football player signing. Mikey sat on the edge of the bath while Ieuan was sitting on the floor, up against the vanity.

“Y/N! We haven’t seen you in forever!” Ieuan rose to his feet, pulling her into a quick hug.

“I know, right! I’ve been saying to Will that I’d love to have all of you guys round for dinner once this shoot is over.” She smiled at him, squeezing his arm gently.

Mikey piped up. “I’ll come if Will’s not invited.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “You’re literally sat on the edge of me bath, staring straight at us.”

Y/N smirked. “You two do look a bit intimate over there.”

Ieuan, Mikey and Y/N opted to leave Will to rot in ice cold misery and have a cup of tea instead. The three of them were spread across the couches, each clutching a blanket and exchanging stories from their week.

“The sidemen have asked me to do a huge shoot with them, but it overlaps with the football video Will’s doing for Chris. They’re going to Australia and doing a shit load of content while they’re there.” Ieuan relayed, clutching his mug between his hands. “I don’t wanna turn the opportunity down but I promised Will that I’d help out.”

“You should go to Australia. He’ll get over it.” Y/N spoke matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on Will’s side? You’re his girlfriend.” Mikey quizzed.

“I am. He would be disappointed if he found out you turned down a huge opportunity like that to film for him and Chris.” She spoke clearly. “I know he’s your employer, but Will thinks the world of you guys and he’s not about to stand in the way of your professional development.”

As if his ears were burning, Will entered the room. “What are you all talking about?”.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Ieuan.

“I’ve had a cool opportunity pop up at the same time as the Chris shoot, and Y/N was just telling me that I should ditch the Chris job and do this other thing instead.” Ieuan nervously spoke.

Will sat down on the couch next to Y/N, manoeuvring her blanket to cover his legs. “What’s the opportunity?”.

“It’s 2 weeks in Australia with the sidemen. James put me up for the job.”

“Yeah, fuck Chris. Go to Australia.” The lanky Geordie stole a sip of his girlfriend’s tea. He looked to her, nodding approvingly. “This shit is good.”

“Wait, are you sure? I don’t wanna leave you in the lurch.” Ieuan’s eyes were pleading.

Will looked at the man, his gaze softening. “Go to Australia. Y/N was right. There will always be another Chris video, but this thing in Australia could be a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Ieuan nodded softly, turning to look at Y/N. Thank you, he mouthed.

Mikey looked to Will, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We should put you in an ice bath more often, it softens you up.”

“Can we please stop filming videos where I have to run all of the time? My bones feel fucking brittle and frail after laying in all of that ice.” Will exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. “Must be elder abuse or something.”

——

December 30th

Will and Y/N had been having a slight disagreement in the kitchen, their voices raised and jaws clenched.

Y/N wordlessly put her phone on do not disturb, placed it on the counter and picked up her glass of wine, making her way to the bathroom. Will got the hint and followed.

The two sat in the bath, their knees tucked in but touching slightly as Will shuffled to fit his tall frame comfortably.

“Okay, let’s reset,” She began. “What’s bothering you?”.

“I just feel a little riled up after the trip away. I realise that you and Alex are from the same hometown, you know the same people and that your old friends don’t give a second thought to mentioning him - but I want it to be clear that I am committed to you. I’m not the consolation prize for him.” He spoke clearly, rather monotone to avoid swaying one way emotionally.

“I don’t think you’re a consolation prize at all. I truly do think it is just small town mentality for them to continue talking about him.” She sighed, having a mouthful of wine.

“I heard you defending me. I just wanna know you actually think those things.” He was timid, not wanting to meet her eyes.

Will’s the one. He doesn’t even compare to Alex. He’s what I’ve always wanted.

“Will, I love you. I will go wherever you go. You’re my person.” She stated, holding her free hand out for his.

He gently intertwined their fingers. “How do you feel about doing the whole domestic, married life thing?”.

“I’d marry you tomorrow. I’m in it for the long haul.” She smiled softly. “Spring into summer, I’m here.”

“Okay, so if I ask?”. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“It’ll be a yes.”

I hope he asks. I wanna be with him forever.

There was a comfortable silence between the two of them, before he spoke. “Do you feel like you have a bit of deja vu?”.

“I do, actually.” They each sipped their wine, enjoying the stillness. Her face lit up, remembering that same conversation they’d had in George’s bathtub so long ago. “Hey, sweetheart?”.

“Yeah, darling?”.

“Don’t forget to call.” She smiled.

His eyes softened. “Don’t forget to answer.”

——

A/N: Hi lovely anon, I hope this is what you were after? It was hard to write something that was totally based on them having disagreements or going through hardship, so I thought the changing seasons might be a better option (very open to feedback here!!).

My apologies friends - this is yet another scheduled post. I have seen a couple of requests come through and am slowly chipping away at them during my downtime. Please keep them coming (I especially love the ones based around songs/musicians as it is kinda the whole style of this blog).

Love you all, have a fabulous week ahead ❤️❤️

Roc xx

[saymonsays]

‎Play, Pause, Repeat —

pairing: choi seunghyun x reader

Summary: You’ve known Choi Seunghyun your entire life—sharing secrets, inside jokes, and a seven-minute walk between houses. But everything changes when an innocent hangout turns into accidentally discovering his very personal side hustle—one that features his familiar moans, his bedroom, and, well… him. What starts with awkward questions and teasing spirals into something you both can’t walk back from. The only solution? Another seven-minute walk. And a promise to finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for years.

‎warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex, squirting, oral sex, m & f receiving, slight public risk (parents nearly catch them)

wordcount: 24k

‎Saturday – 2:14 PM

‎Your room smells like fabric softener and regret.

‎

‎You’re half-splayed across your bed in the least flattering position known to man—one sock on, one sock missing, a mechanical pencil stabbing your thigh, and some half-finished math homework open in front of you like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

‎

‎You stab a problem set with your eraser. “Why are numbers allowed to have letters in them.”

‎

‎Your phone buzzes beside your head. You groan, blindly reaching for it like it owes you money.

‎

‎[Seunghyun 🧠]

‎‎come over.

‎parents not home.

‎i have snacks.

‎we can rot together.

‎

‎[Seunghyun 🧠]

‎‎also ur dumb if u say no 😐

‎

‎You blink at the screen.

‎

‎Rotting with Seunghyun usually meant one of three things:

‎‎Watching horror movies too late and accusing each other of sleep paralysis demons.

‎‎Dramatically reading fanfics in British accents until one of you fake gags.

‎‎Falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch mid-snack, then waking up in weird yoga poses.

‎

‎You stare at your homework again. It stares back, menacingly.

‎

‎You reply:

‎‎on my way dumbass.

‎if u eat all the chips before i get there i’m keying ur bike

‎

‎[Seunghyun 🧠]

‎‎bring ur charger i lost mine

‎again

‎also ur toxic lol

‎

‎You snort, rolling out of bed with all the grace of a dying sea lion, grabbing your hoodie, earbuds, and—because you’ve known him since you were five—your backup hoodie. He never has clean ones.

‎

‎The walk to Seunghyun’s house is muscle memory at this point. You could do it blindfolded, backward, and probably drunk, not that you've ever tried. The spring sun is out but being annoying about it—just hot enough to make you regret the hoodie, but not hot enough to justify going back for a t-shirt.

‎

‎By the time you reach his front gate, it’s already open, like always. The “Beware of Dog” sign is still taped to it, even though the only dog in this house is Seunghyun when he eats chips too fast and chokes.

‎

‎You don’t bother knocking.

‎

‎“YO,” you call out, kicking your shoes off as you enter. “I’m here. Hide your shits.”

‎

‎“Kitchen,” his voice echoes faintly.

‎

‎You find him by the fridge, halfway through dumping a family-sized bag of chips into a mixing bowl like it’s cereal. He’s in sweats, hair still kind of fluffy from sleep, and wearing the ugliest Garfield t-shirt you’ve ever seen in your life.

‎

‎“You look like a man who has made peace with failure,” you say, pointing at his shirt.

‎

‎He shrugs. “Garfield’s right. Mondays suck. You’re here. Coincidence?”

‎

‎“Wow.” You drop your charger on the table and grab a chip. “This is how you treat someone who generously walked seven minutes in the heat for your company?”

‎

‎“You did that because you were bored and hate math.”

‎

‎“Don’t psychoanalyze me before 3 p.m., thanks.”

‎

‎He grins and tilts the bowl toward you in apology. “Truce?”

‎

‎You take another chip and nod. “Truce. Now let me rot on your couch in peace.”

‎

‎You flop onto the familiar worn-out couch in the living room, legs sprawled, phone already in hand. He follows behind, grabbing two sodas and tossing one at you without looking. It lands near your ribs. You don’t flinch—he always misses by just a little.

‎

‎“Wanna watch something dumb?” he asks, already grabbing the TV remote.

‎

‎“Obviously. Put on that one where the guy falls in love with a sentient GPS.”

‎

‎“Oh god, that movie is so bad.”

‎

‎“Exactly. Art.”

‎—

‎You’re halfway through the movie—if it can be called that—when Seunghyun starts shifting around like he’s sitting on a cactus.

‎

‎You glance over. “You good?”

‎

‎“I need to shower,” he says like it’s a tragic confession. “I smell like stress and ramen.”

‎

‎“Then shower,” you say, deadpan. “I’m not holding you hostage.”

‎

‎“I just hate leaving you unattended in my house.”

‎

‎“Wow. That sounds like your problem.”

‎

‎He sighs like a martyr and pushes himself up from the couch, grabbing a towel from the back of the chair. “Don’t steal my stuff.”

‎

‎“I’m literally not you. I don’t hoard pens and forget I own clothes.”

‎

‎“Touch my hoodie drawer and I’m calling the cops.”

‎

‎“Already did. They said you dress like a divorced dad.”

‎

‎He flips you off on his way down the hall, and you grin, settling deeper into the couch.

‎

‎A minute passes. Two.

‎

‎Then boredom hits like a freight train.

‎

‎You glance around.

‎

‎TV? Boring.

‎Phone? Dead.

‎Snacks? You ate most of them.

‎Seunghyun’s computer? Lit up and unlocked like an open invitation from Satan himself.

‎

‎You crane your neck.

‎

‎The screen shows a mess of tabs—YouTube, Discord, a few half-written school docs titled “maybe essay FINAL FINAL fr this time,” and…

‎A very pink, very adult-looking website sitting right in the middle.

‎

‎You blink.

‎Lean closer.

‎Squint.

‎

‎No. Way.

‎

‎“Seunghyunnnnnn,” you yell toward the bathroom, biting back a grin. “I’m gonna play Fortnite on your computer, okay?”

‎

‎A muffled, “Yeah whatever!” echoes from behind the door. There’s the sound of the shower running and a shampoo bottle falling with a thud.

‎

‎You scoot into the computer chair like a gremlin and close the innocent tabs first.

‎

‎Then you hover over the not-so-innocent one.

‎

‎You shouldn’t.

‎You really shouldn’t.

‎But curiosity is already punching your morals in the throat.

‎

‎You click it open.

‎

‎The page loads.

‎

‎A creator profile.

‎Blurred thumbnails.

‎Username: TopOfTheClass.

‎

‎You choke. "Oh my god."

‎

‎And then you see it.

‎

‎A video titled “Late Night Study Session 🎧💦”.

‎Posted three days ago.

‎You click.

‎

‎Bad decisions are being made in real-time.

‎

‎And the second the video starts—bare skin, familiar room, that groan you’ve heard before but not like this—you freeze. Eyes wide. Mouth hanging open.

‎

‎The voice.

‎The body.

‎The room.

‎ITS DEFINITELY SEUNGHYUN.

‎

‎You slam the spacebar to pause just as the bathroom door swings open.

‎

‎He’s standing in the hallway, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp, expression slowly morphing from relaxed to what the fuck.

‎

‎“What are you doing on my—”

‎

‎You turn in the chair like the guilty raccoon you are, blinking at him.

‎

‎There is a full ten seconds of dead silence.

‎

‎Seunghyun stares at you.

‎You stare at Seunghyun.

‎

‎The paused video stares at both of you.

‎

‎You clear your throat like you're rebooting your entire operating system.

‎

‎“So,” you start, voice cracking like a preteen in puberty, “just to confirm… that’s… you?”

‎

‎He raises an eyebrow, towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. “I mean… yeah?”

‎

‎“Like you-you? Choi Seunghyun? My best friend since we were in diapers? The guy who cried during Toy Story 3?”

‎

‎He shrugs. “It was a sad movie.”

‎

‎“That’s not the point, you absolute lunatic!”

‎

‎You shoot up from the chair like it’s electrocuted you, pacing the room now, hands flailing wildly as you process.

‎

‎“How long has this been happening?”

‎“Why are you doing this?”

‎“Do you get paid?”

‎“Do your parents know?”

‎“Do you moan like that on purpose or—”

‎“Is your username supposed to be ironic or is this a weird flex?”

‎“Wait—did you film that in your bedroom? While I was probably texting you?!”

‎

‎Seunghyun rubs the back of his neck, unfazed. “Uh. Since summer. Yeah. Yes. No. I guess? And it was a Tuesday.”

‎

‎You whirl around. “A TUESDAY?”

‎

‎He smirks. “You were at Chae’s house that day, remember? You sent me, like, 12 selfies of you guys wearing face masks and eating cereal.”

‎

‎You gape at him like he just confessed to murder.

‎

‎“I was sending you memes while you were filming amateur porn in the same zip code?!”

‎

‎“Pretty much.”

‎

‎“Are you hearing yourself?!”

‎

‎He shrugs again, like you just asked if he wants orange juice. “I don’t see the big deal.”

‎

‎You make a high-pitched sound that could kill dogs. “OF COURSE YOU DON’T, YOU’RE NAKED ON THE INTERNET.”

‎

‎He finally cracks a grin, towel still casually riding his hips like it paid rent there. “Well, not fully naked. I crop the face.”

‎

‎You make eye contact with him. Then with the screen. Then back to him.

‎

‎Your voice is flat. “Seunghyun. You literally moaned your own name.”

‎

‎“…Oh.”

‎

‎“I’M TRAUMATIZED.”

‎

‎You throw a couch pillow at his chest with the force of a thousand suns. He catches it, still grinning like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all week.

‎

‎“Why are you not embarrassed?!”

‎

‎He plops onto the couch with absolutely no shame, towel riding way too high up his thigh now. “Because I look good. And the lighting was nice. And you’re the one who watched it.”

‎

‎“I WAS CURIOUS—NOT HORNY.”

‎

‎He raises a hand in surrender. “Hey, you do you. Or, well. Me. Technically.”

‎

‎You grab another pillow and scream into it.

‎

‎You're still holding the pillow like it’s a lifeline, staring at him like he just announced he’s an alien. Which, at this point, wouldn’t surprise you.

‎

‎“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter into the fabric.

‎

‎“Thanks,” he says casually, propping one arm on the couch like this is just a Tuesday afternoon with trauma.

‎

‎You sit there for a moment. Still. Staring at him.

‎

‎At the smug expression on his face. At the damp collarbone glistening under the light. At the way the towel is still defying gravity in ways science can’t explain.

‎

‎Unfortunately, your eyes flicker lower for one—one—second too long.

‎

‎And he catches it.

‎

‎His smirk curls higher.

‎

‎“See something you like?”

‎

‎Your soul leaves your body.

‎

‎“I—NO. I was—shut up. I wasn’t looking. I was—panicking.”

‎

‎He stretches, arms over his head like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and lets out the most unnecessary sigh. “Mmm. You sure? ‘Cause you were really analyzing video earlier.”

‎

‎You scream into the pillow again.

‎

‎“STOP BRINGING THAT UP.”

‎

‎“I’m just saying.” His voice drops just slightly, teasing. “Not everyone gets to see that angle.”

‎

‎You glance at him through your fingers.

‎

‎“Do you… always talk like that after someone finds your sex tapes, or am I just special?”

‎

‎He hums, eyes half-lidded now, like he’s enjoying this way too much. “You’re the first person to ever catch me.”

‎

‎“Lucky me,” you deadpan. “Is there a loyalty card or something?”

‎

‎He laughs—low, warm, familiar. It’s still Seunghyun. But now your brain won’t shut up about the other version of him too.

‎

‎And then it happens.

‎

‎The shift.

‎

‎You’re both quiet.

‎

‎Not like awkward quiet, but the kind where something just clicked into place and neither of you knows what to do with it.

‎

‎His eyes linger on yours a beat too long. Your heart stumbles.

‎

‎He tilts his head, still watching you.

‎

‎“...You wanna ask anything else?”

‎

‎You swallow. “Are you seriously opening the floor for a Q&A about your porn career?”

‎

‎“Sure,” he shrugs. “You already saw the goods.”

‎

‎“SEUNGHYUN.”

‎

‎He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, towel riding even lower now. His voice drops again, smooth and a little too calm.

‎

‎“You really didn’t think about it before?”

‎

‎You blink. “What?”

‎

‎“Me,” he says simply. “Like that.”

‎

‎Your breath catches.

‎

‎For the first time all afternoon, you don’t have a snappy comeback.

‎

‎He grins again, this time a little softer. A little more dangerous.

‎

‎“That’s what I thought.”

‎

‎You don’t answer him right away.

‎

‎Because what even is the right response to your best friend sitting half-naked across from you, casually asking if you’ve ever thought about him like that—right after you watched him moan his own name into a camera?

‎

‎You can feel your brain buffering.

‎

‎So, naturally, you go with the dumbest possible response.

‎

‎“…Have you ever thought about me like that?”

‎

‎He doesn’t even blink. “Obviously.”

‎

‎Your entire spine short-circuits. “WHAT—”

‎

‎“I mean,” he says casually, like you just asked if he likes ramen, “you’re hot. It’s not exactly classified information.”

‎

‎“I—I—HOT?!” You sound like a broken microwave.

‎

‎“Yeah. Why are you acting like that’s shocking?”

‎

‎“I don’t know,” you flail, “maybe because you’ve seen me with toothpaste on my face and cry-laughed when I dropped my phone on it.”

‎

‎“Still hot.”

‎

‎“You need professional help.”

‎

‎He leans back against the couch, the towel riding scandalously low now, like it’s in a committed relationship with gravity. His eyes drag over you in a way they never have before—not like a joke, not like your goofy best friend teasing you. Like he’s really looking.

‎

‎“...You ever kissed someone before?” he asks suddenly.

‎

‎You freeze. “What?”

‎

‎“You know. Just curious.” He shrugs. “You don’t have to answer if—”

‎

‎“I haven’t,” you blurt. “I mean—not, like, for real. Just dumb school dares.”

‎

‎He pauses. “Huh.”

‎

‎You squint. “Why ‘huh’?”

‎

‎He shrugs again. “Me neither.”

‎

‎Your brain does the math.

‎

‎Choi Seunghyun. The guy with the porn account. The guy whose body you just accidentally studied like a science project. Also a virgin?

‎

‎“But—then—why the—”

‎

‎“I was curious,” he says, a bit quieter now. “And it was kinda fun to mess around. Just didn’t wanna do stuff with someone I didn’t actually... care about, y’know?”

‎

‎You blink.

‎

‎And suddenly everything feels louder. The clock ticking. The silence between you. The air buzzing with something sharp and sweet and terrifying.

‎

‎You’re still sitting across from each other—but now it feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff, one more step from something you can’t undo.

‎

‎Seunghyun’s voice cuts through the quiet.

‎

‎“...Do you wanna try?”

‎

‎You blink again. “Try what?”

‎

‎He looks at you. Really looks.

‎

‎“Kissing. With someone you actually care about.”

‎

‎Your heart slams against your ribs.

‎

‎He’s not smirking now. He’s not teasing. He’s just... waiting. Soft. Real. Bare.

‎

‎You swallow.

‎

‎“You're weird..But…Okay.”

‎

‎The tension is thick, clinging to the air between you like smoke.

‎

‎Your heart is beating too fast, like it’s trying to run away from you, but your body is frozen in place. Seunghyun’s still watching you, calm and steady, but his eyes are darker now—like he’s thinking too much about the words he just said.

‎

‎You lick your lips, trying to steady your breath, but it doesn’t help. It only makes you more aware of how close he is, of how the room suddenly feels too small, too intimate, and the space between you feels like it’s buzzing with this wild energy.

‎

‎“Are you…” you start, but your voice is hoarse, caught in your throat. “Are you sure?”

‎

‎Seunghyun leans in a little, just enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand shifts on the couch beside him like he’s trying to control himself too, but his fingers twitch—almost brushing yours. But not quite. He’s teasing, even in this moment.

‎

‎“I’m sure,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady, like he’s trying to pull you into this new reality between you. “We don’t have to rush it, though. I can just—”

‎

‎He stops. His gaze drops to your lips for a second. Then he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the soft light. And that’s when the energy shifts. He’s the one leaning in now, his knee brushing against yours, and you can feel it—that spark—the need, the want, everything building up.

‎

‎Seunghyun’s fingers barely graze the side of your face, and the touch is electric. He pauses, as if waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. You don’t move.

‎

‎“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, his voice just a whisper now.

‎

‎You nod, a little breathless. “Yes.”

‎

‎That’s all the permission he needs.

‎

‎His hand moves from your face to the back of your neck, his touch firm but gentle, guiding you closer. You can feel the heat of his skin on yours, the way his thumb softly brushes against your jaw, and your heart skips a beat.

‎

‎The first kiss is soft—tentative. You close your eyes, and his lips meet yours in a way that’s almost too sweet, too innocent. It’s like both of you are testing the waters, trying to figure out what comes next.

‎

‎Then, without warning, Seunghyun pulls you a little closer. His hand at your neck tightens just enough that you’re drawn in, your lips parting instinctively. And that’s when he deepens the kiss, just slightly—gently at first, but then more insistent, like he can’t help himself. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and that’s when you feel it—the pressure, the way his body fits against yours, how it feels too natural, too right.

‎

‎You let out a soft gasp, and Seunghyun takes advantage of it, his lips moving against yours with more urgency now. One of his hands slides lower, skimming the edge of your shirt before stopping, like he’s unsure, like he’s waiting for you to pull away or tell him to stop.

‎

‎But you don’t. You don’t pull away.

‎

‎Instead, you shift a little closer, your own hand resting on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s different—faster, deeper, the pressure building between you, and you can’t even think straight anymore. All you can feel is the heat, the electric pull of his touch, the way his hands are so gentle and yet so insistent, like he’s trying to pull you into him.

‎

‎His fingers press against the curve of your waist, and you gasp as his touch slides a little lower. It’s innocent, and yet not at all. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, like you’re both testing boundaries, seeing how far this can go.

‎

‎“Seunghyun,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just for a moment. “Wait…”

‎

‎He pulls back slightly, eyes clouded with need and curiosity. He doesn’t speak, just waits, his hands hovering at your waist as if asking for permission to go further.

‎

‎You don’t know what you’re doing—you have no idea. But you’re so close now, both of you, standing on the edge of something new, something that feels like it could break everything between you.

‎

‎But you don’t want it to break. You want to fall. Together.

‎

‎You tug him back in, kissing him with a newfound urgency. And this time, there’s no question—everything you’ve been holding back comes rushing forward. His hands trail lower, his touch is everywhere, and there’s no going back now.

‎

‎Your shirt comes off first.

‎

‎Neither of you really says anything. It just happens—your hands tugging at the hem because the air is too thick, and you’re too warm, and Seunghyun’s kiss is burning you alive. He pulls back just enough to help you, his fingers trembling a little as they slide under the fabric.

‎

‎It’s the first time he’s seen you like this. Really seen you.

‎

‎And for a second, he just stares.

‎

‎You try to cross your arms instinctively, self-conscious—but he catches your wrists before you can.

‎

‎“Don’t,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “Don’t hide from me.”

‎

‎You swallow, heart thudding hard, and he leans in again—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His hands roam like he’s memorizing you, like he’s waited years to touch you but didn’t realize it until now.

‎

‎He kisses down your body like he’s on a mission—slow, purposeful, dragging his mouth over your chest, your stomach, until he’s between your thighs and your brain short-circuits.

‎

‎“Wait—Seunghyun—” you gasp as he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Y-you don’t have to—”

‎

‎He looks up, already flushed, lips slightly parted. “I want to. Just… let me?”

‎

‎And before you can answer, his mouth is on you.

‎

‎Hot. Wet. Unreal.

‎

‎His tongue moves in slow, steady strokes through your folds, pausing to suck on your clit like he knows exactly what he’s doing—which makes no sense because he shouldn’t. But his hands are firm on your thighs, keeping them spread, his mouth locked onto you with messy, filthy dedication.

‎

‎“F–fuck,” you moan, your hand flying to his hair. “S-Seunghyun—”

‎

‎He hums into you, the vibration making you jolt. His tongue circles, flicks, presses, and then—without warning—he slides one finger inside you.

‎

‎You let out a choked cry, hips bucking. He groans.

‎

‎“So wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “God, baby, you taste so fucking good.”

‎

‎“D-don’t say that—” you whimper.

‎

‎But he’s not listening. He’s locked in, eating you like it’s the only thing that matters. His finger curls inside you and his mouth focuses on your clit—lips soft, tongue relentless—and the pressure builds fast.

‎

‎Your legs start to tremble, a scream bubbling in your throat.

‎

‎“I’m gonna—oh my god—Seunghyun, I—I think—”

‎

‎You’ve never done this before. Never even thought you could. But the way his mouth works you, how he fingers you deeper, faster—something snaps inside.

‎

‎And you squirt.

‎

‎With a loud, helpless moan, your body jerks, back arching off the couch as a rush of liquid spills out of you, coating his mouth, his hand, the couch cushion under you. Your vision goes white for a second—your brain short-circuiting from sheer intensity.

‎

‎Seunghyun pulls back, soaked and panting, staring at you like you just performed a magic trick.

‎

‎“…Did you just—” he breathes, licking his lips, “—fuck. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

‎

‎You cover your face with both hands, mortified. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to—what even was that—?!”

‎

‎“That,” he says, voice low and way too satisfied, “was you squirting all over my face.”

‎

‎You groan into your hands. “I’m gonna die.”

‎

‎He grins, kissing up your body, his face still damp. “You’re not dying. I won’t let you. Not until I fuck you—”

‎

‎Your heart’s still racing, your body buzzing, your thighs sore in the best way. His cock flushed and leaking, and positions himself between your legs.

‎

‎“You sure?” he asks, breathless.

‎

‎You nod. “Seunghyun, please—”

‎

‎And just as he’s about to slide in—

‎

‎A car door slams outside.

‎

‎You both freeze.

‎

‎“…No,” he whispers.

‎

‎Footsteps. Keys jangling.

‎

‎You both look at each other, wide-eyed.

‎

‎“No no no no no—” you whisper, scrambling to grab your clothes.

‎

‎Seunghyun’s already off the couch, tripping over his towel. “Why are they home early?!”

‎

‎You grab your shirt backwards, underwear? God knows where, your legs still literally soaked. The condom’s on the floor. Seunghyun tosses it in the drawer in a panic.

‎

‎And just as the front door opens—

‎

‎You dive behind his bed, shirt barely on, heart racing like a siren.

‎

‎7:02PM

‎‎Seunghyun’s mom calls out from downstairs, keys jingling as she drops them in the bowl by the door.

‎

‎“We’re home! Seunghyun, did you remember to—what smells like Febreze in here?”

‎

‎You are barefoot, pantless, and hiding behind his bed like a damn war criminal, still trying to catch your breath while wiping your thighs with the nearest hoodie (his). You hiss-whisper toward him:

‎

‎“Why do you keep Febreze under your desk?!”

‎

‎“In case I microwave fish,” he hisses back.

‎

‎You shoot him a look like boy what.

‎

‎Downstairs, footsteps thump closer. Seunghyun throws on some sweats and a hoodie like he wasn't half a second from rawing his best friend, then grabs your shirt and whispers, “I’ll get you out through the garage. Just follow me.”

‎

‎You clutch your clothes and army crawl behind him until you make it to the hallway—silent, stealthy, adrenaline pumping like you’re in a spy movie. He holds the garage door open, signals you to go, then closes it behind you like a damn criminal disposing evidence.

‎

‎You finally make it to the street, panting. Hair messy. Lips swollen. Hoodie ten sizes too big. Underwear = MIA.

‎

‎Seunghyun cracks open the side gate a few minutes later and slips out like a raccoon.

‎

‎You both look at each other, disheveled and wide-eyed, then—

‎

‎burst into hysterical laughter.

‎

‎“I cannot believe that just happened,” you wheeze.

‎

‎“I’m so sorry you had to crawl around my house with post-squirt legs,” he says, tears in his eyes from laughing.

‎

‎“Why’d you say it like that?!” you smack his arm. “You’re so annoying!”

‎

‎Sunday, 3:41PM

‎‎Chae (🌀): u didn't reply last night. r u dead

‎You: No

‎You: I was with Seunghyun

‎Chae (🌀): girl.

‎

‎Later that evening

‎

‎You’re at a convenience store, trying to decide between two types of instant ramen when Seunghyun’s name lights up your phone.

‎

‎Seunghyun 🦖: so are we just not gonna talk about how i made you squirt and then didn’t even get to put it in

‎Seunghyun 🦖: is this the universe’s version of edging

‎You: STOP

‎You: I WAS FINALLY NOT THINKING ABOUT IT FOR 5 MINUTES

‎Seunghyun 🦖: u weren’t thinking about how u soaked my face and moaned my name and almost broke my neck with ur thighs?

‎You: BYE

‎You: actually blocked. report.

‎Seunghyun 🦖: 😏

‎

You: …but also

‎You: what the hell are we now???

‎

‎A beat.

‎

‎Then—

‎

‎Seunghyun 🦖: …do you wanna come over tomorrow?

‎Seunghyun 🦖: for the unfinished business

‎You: ??

‎You: bring the febreze.

‎

‎Monday – 6:39PM

‎

‎You stare at Seunghyun’s text one more time as you stand outside his house:

‎

‎Seunghyun 🦖: doorbell’s working. don’t act shy now.

‎Seunghyun 🦖: and don’t forget to wipe that ‘i squirted on my best friend’s face’ look off your face. my mom’s home.

‎

‎You: 😐

‎Also you: ringing the doorbell anyway like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

‎

‎The door swings open.

‎

‎“y/n!” Seunghyun’s mom beams like sunshine in an apron. “Aigoo, you came again? So pretty, always polite—come in, come in!”

‎

‎You smile with a bow, trying not to visibly sweat guilt. “Hi, Mrs. Choi. I—um—just here to hang out again.”

‎

‎She pats your shoulder and leads you into the house like it’s totally normal to have the boy who made you squirt waiting upstairs. “I just made pizza. Homemade dough! You young people love this Western food, right?”

‎

‎“Of course! Thank you so much,” you say, sitting at the kitchen island like you didn’t almost get your back blown out in this house 48 hours ago.

‎

‎Just as she’s slicing a piece and setting it in front of you—

‎

‎“Yah.”

‎

‎You turn your head and nearly choke.

‎

‎Seunghyun is leaning against the hallway wall in the same grey sweats from his last crime. Black hoodie. Wet hair from a recent shower. Barefoot.

‎‎Unholy.

‎

‎“She’s not here for pizza, Mom” he smirks, eyes on you.

‎

‎“Don’t be rude!” his mom scolds. “She likes my pizza. Sit and eat.”

‎

‎“She likes other things more,” he mutters under his breath.

‎

‎You nearly drop your slice.

‎

‎He leans closer while his mom’s back is turned. “Upstairs. In five.”

‎

‎You nod once, trying not to pass out from anticipation (and dehydration).

‎

‎Upstairs – Seunghyun’s Room – 7:21PM

‎

‎Door clicks shut.

‎

‎You haven’t even turned around yet when he’s already behind you, arms wrapping around your waist.

‎

‎“I missed you,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

‎

‎“You saw me two days ago.”

‎

‎“Yeah, and I dreamed about you twice after that,” he says, lips trailing along your neck. “I woke up hard both times.”

‎

‎You open your mouth—maybe to tease him, maybe to insult him—but it turns into a gasp as his hand slips under your hoodie, fingers stroking your bare skin.

‎

‎“Still warm,” he whispers. “Still soft. Still mine?”

‎

‎You nod. His lips crush yours instantly, devouring, demanding. The kiss is messy this time—urgent and deeper. Your back hits the wall and you feel his thigh between yours, pressing just right. You roll your hips down into it without thinking, chasing friction, chasing him.

‎

‎“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna make me lose it before we even get to the bed.”

‎

‎You laugh, breathless. “So lose it.”

‎

‎He groans and suddenly scoops you up like it’s nothing—one arm under your thighs, the other at your back. He drops you on the bed, crawling over you with his hoodie falling off his shoulders, revealing that long, lean torso you definitely remember tasting.

‎

‎“You sure?” he asks, voice gentler now. “If we start this, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking again.”

‎

‎You stare up at him, heart pounding. “I walked for 7 minutes to get here. again. What do you think?”

‎

‎He grins.

‎

‎“Good,” he says. “Lie back. Let me make you cry a little.”

‎

‎

‎Your clothes come off piece by piece, each one slower than the last. His lips trail every exposed inch of your skin like he’s memorizing it.

‎

‎And when you’re bare beneath him, he kneels between your thighs, palms pushing your knees apart.

‎

‎You squirm.

‎

‎“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low.

‎

‎“No,” you whisper. “Just—don’t tease.”

‎

‎He smirks. “I won’t.”

‎

‎And then his mouth is on you.

‎

‎No warning.

‎

‎Just heat and tongue and pressure—so good it knocks the breath from your lungs. He licks you slow at first, lazy circles that make your hips twitch, then faster, deeper—lips locking around your clit while two fingers slide inside you.

‎

‎You grab the sheets. “S-Seunghyun—”

‎

‎He hums against you, the vibration making your eyes roll back. His fingers curl inside you just right, hitting the spot that makes your toes curl.

‎

‎“You close already?” he murmurs, eyes still locked on you. “Didn’t even take ten minutes.”

‎

‎You whimper. “D-Don’t stop.”

‎

‎“Wasn’t planning to.”

‎

‎He sucks harder and you snap—back arching, body jerking as you squirt again, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

‎

‎“Oh my god—Seunghyun—!”

‎

‎He groans, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re pulling at his hair and gasping for air.

‎

‎He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning.

‎

‎“Still sweet,” he says, leaning in to kiss your lips. “You taste like you missed me.”

‎

‎You’re still trembling when you flip him over.

‎

‎“My turn.”

‎

‎‎You straddle him, tugging off his sweats and boxers in one go. He’s hard, thick, and leaking already.

‎

‎You wrap your fingers around him and his whole body jerks.

‎

‎“You good?” you ask, cocking your head.

‎

‎“Not for long,” he pants.

‎

‎You smile and lower your mouth to his tip, licking him slowly—then all the way down until he hits the back of your throat.

‎

‎“Fuck—” He slaps a hand over his mouth, the other gripping the bed. “Oh my god.”

‎

‎You suck him slow at first, using your hand to stroke what you can’t reach, then faster, wetter, your tongue swirling just under the tip.

He’s whining now—whining, high and breathless.

“You’re—shit, you’re too good at that—”

You pull off just enough to whisper: “Thought I was sweet?”

“You’re evil,” he groans, hips bucking.

You lick him once more and crawl back up, lips slick and swollen.

You’re already dripping, his hands trembling just slightly. Not from fear—no, you’ve seen him hold you steady with the confidence of a boy who’s wanted this forever—but from restraint.

He lines himself up, tip brushing against your entrance, eyes flicking up to yours.

“You sure?” he asks one last time, breathless.

“Seunghyun,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Please.”

He pushes in slowly—inch by inch—until he’s fully buried inside you.

You both freeze.

He’s breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

You’re stretched around him, throbbing, full in a way you’ve never been. The sting is real, but it’s nothing compared to the way your body clutches at him, needy and wet.

“You okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You nod. “Just… don’t move yet.”

His thumb strokes your hip gently as you adjust, heart pounding like a drum.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers. “Better than I ever imagined.”

Your walls flutter around him at the words. Your hand claws at his back. “You imagined this?”

“All the time.” He kisses your jaw. “Especially after you moaned my name in my shower.”

You laugh—then gasp when he thrusts just once, deep and slow.

“Still funny?”

You shake your head, lips parted.

He starts to move—deep strokes, slow but firm, like he’s trying to touch the bottom of your soul. Each time he sinks back in, you feel it in your chest. Like you’re being filled with something more than just his cock—something bigger, something known.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. “Seunghyun—”

“Talk to me,” he pants, pace steady. “Too much?”

“Not enough.”

That does it.

He grabs your thighs and pushes them further apart, tilting your hips up. His rhythm changes—deeper, faster, grinding into you like he’s trying to make you forget everything else.

You moan louder now, the sound echoing off his bedroom walls.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

“God—Seunghyun, I—I can’t—”

“You can.” He leans down, nose brushing yours. “You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking tight.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“Hurts?”

“No,” you breathe. “It’s just—too good.”

He slows again, hips rolling deep and smooth. Your legs tremble from overstimulation, but you’re chasing it now—chasing him. He reaches between you, rubs your clit with gentle, messy circles.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You fall apart under him, body locking up, muscles tightening as your orgasm rips through you like a wave. Your nails dig into his back, your voice catching in your throat.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me—” he groans, losing rhythm as he starts to unravel too.

“I want it,” you whisper. “Come inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He shudders, curses, and buries himself to the hilt as he comes—groaning into your neck, hips twitching through the aftershocks.

The world is silent afterward, save for your tangled breathing.

He doesn’t move right away. Just lays there, still inside you, holding you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known.

Then he whispers against your skin: “...I’m in so much trouble.”

You laugh weakly. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you now.”

—

Author's note: yea.. thats mostly it LOL T°T

[angelwishess]

Well would you look at that! May is right around the corner, and with spring comes the birthday of Ramshackle’s odd prefect! Just imagining her lounging around and staying still might just be even more odd, though! Say— what do you think her special day will be like this year?

Happy Birthday Kyra! - 2025 DTIYS!

(Pinned post) — more info utc!

To celebrate Kyra’s (and my,) birthday as well as reaching another follower milestone, I’ll be having a special birthday DTIYS event!

𝜗𝜚 How to participate?

Pretty simple! Use your imagination and go wild, and draw Kyra either in her sleepwear, or celebrating her birthday in a way you think would be fun or fitting!!

^ Her sleepwear and her main uniform sprite for refs if needed!~ you can draw her in either, or even in an outfit of your choice!

Of course, I’m very open to some Kyra x Floyd submissions too… 👀 So, if you have any ideas including them, go for it!! It can be as silly as you want, or as romantic and soft! Anything goes,

You can draw pretty much anything as long as its all appropriate!! Strictly NO NSFW or 18+ of course!

Use the tag #hbd kyra or #kyra’s bday !! And also please tag/mention me in the post so that I’m sure to see it !

𝜗𝜚 General Rules!

As I said early— Strictly no NSFW !!!

No AI or tracing either, AI is a big no no ☝️(wags finger)

My DMS and Inbox are both open, so if you have any questions or further refs, feel free to reach out to me and I’ll be happy to assist!

Lastly, have fun !! Hehe <3

𝜗𝜚 When is the deadline?

While her birthday is on May 5th— the deadline will be around mid-June! (Of course, this is also subject to change if ever a push-back on the deadline date is needed!)

So that everyone who wishes to participate can have plenty of time to do so, and so that I will hopefully have the time to draw the prizes! Speaking of…

𝜗𝜚 The Prizes !!

There will be three available prizes!!

I am also open to drawing a mini-comic for the first place prize if thats preferred !! Maybe around 1-2 pages with dialog, either black and white or colored !

(Please note that a lot of these are pretty dated and I swear my artstyle is better now LMAO)

Please note, I will only be drawing TWST characters or OCs!! I’ll be doing a limit of 2 characters per piece.

Im open to oc x canon, canon x canon, romantic and platonic!!

Thank you for reading thus far!! To everyone participating— goodluck and have fun! And even if you aren’t, thank you nonetheless!! 💗 Its wonderful to know I get to share Kyra’s, and my, birthday with everyone hehe <33 Take care !!

[lostintransist]

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 2

Shout out to the fabulous @xbirdiex for letting me hit them up in their DM's to beta for this. 😘

CW: Limb Loss, suicide mentioned in passing, thoughts of murder, Emotions™

What does one do when confronted with their unknown sins?

Follow them home of course.

Johnny had lost his left leg at knee due to a bomb going off at a job and Simon had been discharged after repeatedly failing mental health evals. They were both given pensions and discharged with honors. Roach and Gaz had been kept together when moved to a new team and Price had been ‘gifted’ a higher position by command that left him chained to a desk.

The only confirmation they had that your leaving had been somehow their fault was the face down picture on the table. Price had called them to check on you as you had a family emergency. You had been firmly ensconced in a hard airport seat when they reached your flat. If they shared a speaking look about the photo before Johnny slid it from it’s frame and folded into his pocket, they never discussed it.

The discharges were how they finally ended up together. Simon needed something, someone, to care for to keep from eating a bullet and Johnny fighting him tooth and nail to stay alive was the right project. The physical therapists loved seeing Johnny rolled in by Simon because they knew he wouldn’t fight them on exercises today. He would snarl at his “L.T.” and actually work. They had to be careful to not let him overwork himself lest he be unable to work at the next day’s appointment.

Their first kiss had been when Johnny had been fed up with Simon’s sass about physical therapy. He had only been legless for a month and barely started trying to relearn how to balance.

Simon carried him from the car to their shared flat.

“I’m not going back.”

“Mmm, what a surprise it will be when I drag your ass to PT tomorrow then.”

Being carried bridal style rankled somewhere deep in Johnny. He wanted to take a bite of out Simon’s neck and keep ripping but that would have left him stranded in the hall with a dead body and only one working foot.

The look Simon sent him, one of cool acknowledgment and smugness had Johnny gripping both halves of Simon’s face and planting a kiss on him.

That would show the bastard.

Showed him something alright. All Simon could see the remaining few steps to the flat was the subtle shift in Johnny’s gym shorts and rising heat in his cheeks. Simon hadn’t said anything about it. Dinner had been a simple soup. Night fell. When Simon helped Johnny to bed that night, he inserted himself next to the man.

Johnny didn’t question it. Frankly he was relieved. He had flirted for years in front of the man he didn’t think he would ever catch. The press of his dry lips and light fingers had ignited the combustible fumes that swirled between them. Those fumes choked out any hope of anything healthy with anyone else.

When Johnny had ‘graduated’ from therapy and could walk with almost no limp Simon invited Johnny to move with him. They found a medium sized city in a place neither of them had been to but could reach several national parks and an airport relatively quickly. Housing costs were rising but they found an older neighborhood with a good amount of trees in the yards and a little space in the back to grow plants. They could see the mountains when they stood on the second story porch.

The previous owner had mentioned that the school pick-up and drop off point happened at their house for the junior high and the elementary schools. Kids would wait on the corner of their yard away from the cars. That is why the two owners prior had installed the stone benches that sat so close to the sidewalk. Simon had planned on taking them out until he heard that piece of information.

One day, during mid-spring where the mornings were chilled enough to need a jacket but the afternoons would leave you sweating, Johnny saw something that gave him pause. He was in the process of moving bags of clothes into the car to drop off at the shelter when the bus delivered a load of kids. He waved with the bus driver and slammed the trunk of the crossover.

The squeal particular to children had Johnny snapping his back to a pair of children who walked past his parked car.

“Don’t do that Mac!”

A glare he had only ever seen on Simon’s face painted itself across the face of a child who couldn’t be any older than seven. Johnny felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and fall into his ass.

“Don’t yell at me stupid!”

“Mom says you can’t call me stupid! Stupid!”

Stepping into the sidewalk Johnny watches the the children, one with long hair and the other short, bicker until they reached a house five doors up and disappeared behind the front door.

Stumbling into the garage Johnny attempts to call for Simon. All that escapes is a croak. After a hard shake of his head and clearing his throat it works.

“Simon!”

The shout must have had an edge of panic because Simon appears with a hand gun pointed at the floor and the his Ghost eyes staring out. Upon seeing Johnny, unharmed and alarmed Simon tucked his work face and his gun away.

“What happened? Why are you sweating? Are you sick?”

Johnny swatted away that hands that reached for his face.

“I saw a fecking child with your face Si. Kid got off the bus and was arguing with his sister. I need you to come with me.”

Simon blinked at his beloved a few times. The fuck did he say?

“Why would a child in the states have my face? You know it is possible for unrelated people to look alike right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“Listen to me Simon!” Johnny stumbled back, prosthetic catching funny against the concrete floor. “I, never, in all my life have seen a glare that looks exactly like yours. But this kid when yelling at his sister had one of your meanest glares. I could see him in you still after he smiled. I am asking you to come with me and knock on a door to introduce ourselves to the neighbors and find out what the hell is going on.”

Simon hadn’t seen Johnny this riled up in a long time. He searched his husbands face, noting the heaving of his chest and the flex of his fingers as he fought them from curling into fists.

“Okay,” he said gently as if he were speaking to a spooked horse, “let’s go meet the neighbors.”

That is how the found themselves at your door. The waiting after the harsh knock sounded into the space beyond the frame rattled something loose in Simon. Could he have a kid? He had been no prude before settling down with Johnny but he couldn’t remember more than a few women he ever fucked raw. Everyone of them had been on birth control, at least they said they were.

Johnny crossed his arms, drawing Simon’s gaze. They were both freaked out, concerned.

When the door opens there is you. A little older, a little more solid than when you had fled England, a few new piercings, but it’s still you. Simon glances to the wall visible behind you catching sight of two children in photos who wouldn’t look out of place on the walls of his and Johnny’s home. His gaze snaps back to you as you blanch and slam the door shut.

The deadbolt slamming into place solidifies in him the answer that there is something going on here and it absolutely involves them.

Before Johnny can pound his fist into the door to demand answers Simon catches it. Placing a gentle kiss along his knuckles he coaxes him from the door.

“She won’t answer the door. You know she won’t. Let’s all take the evening and try and come back tomorrow while the kids are at school.”

“She owes us answers, Si,” Johnny’s eyes flashed as he snarled.

Simon pulled him down one more step. Once Johnny started moving they walked home, hand in hand.

“She does owe us answers, but we know where she is now and can see about getting them. Right now I suggest we recoup and see what we can find. One of the kids in the photos looked like you Johnny.”

Johnny vibrates with tension until he sees the wisdom in coming at this from another angle. His shoulders drop from his ears as tears prick at his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t she tell us Si?”

Mulling over the answer they complete the walk home.

“Why would she Johnny? You know how we are.”

That sobering statement colored the remainder of the evening. It is late when they decide to call their former captain.

Part 3

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

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