#a tale told in three frames…

[tonycries]

The Heir - G.S.

Synopsis. No, your clan leader husband won’t stop until he gives you an heir. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, established relationship, he’s cray-cray (for you), bréeding - like a LOT, oral (fem receiving), unprotected, creampíe, marathon, séx, running from it, use of “my wife”, overstim, FÉRAL Satoru, absolutely heinous, mentions of kníves and bIood, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.3k

A/N. Guess what ya girlie is back with clan leader Gojo hehe.

An heir to the Gojo clan - no matter how small, how weak - could eradicate all three of the big clans before even being born. Much like their father. 

You knew that. Satoru knew that. And, unfortunately for him, so did the stuck-up old toad currently sputtering across from him. 

“I am not asking for permission.” Satoru smiles, deathly calm. “Simply that everyone vacates the Estate. After all, what the madam wants, the madam shall get.”

“But- but young master! It’s madness- An heir can tip the scales of power like never before!” The elder lunges frantically over the meeting room table. “I cannot allow- a-and considering the madam’s lowly lineage-”

Schwing!

They say that the infamous young head of the Gojo clan has a katana as hauntingly beautiful as he is - a blade of pure white, with a sapphire hilt. Though, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale - and Satoru wasn’t about to let that change anytime soon. 

The long, deceptively delicate sword glints sharply against Satoru’s humorless grin, and those cold, cold eyes. Unblinking - crazed, as he hums, “What did you say about my wife?”

The man in front of him can do nothing but yelp in fear, “I- it could- the scale of ah-”

“No.” The freezing cold blade presses deeper against skin. And Satoru’s tutting, “Try again.”

“Th-the madam!” Pathetic tears stain those expensive tatami mats below, every shred of previous ego wiped away as the elder’s forced to echo his words. “It is no lie that her b-background is��unsuitable-”

Oh this was why Satoru hated these meetings - and for once in his life he’d been the one to summon it instead of being forced to attend. What a joke. If only this elder had agreed to vacate everyone in the Estate like he’d wanted, then none of this would’ve happened. Seriously, how hard was it to get some alone time with you? 

Satoru sighs, blue yukata rustling as he grips the hilt tighter. “Do you know why you’re here, advisor? Why any of you little council of elders are still here?” And he doesn’t wait for an answer - couldn’t care less about it anyway. Plowing on in that same sweet, dangerous tone - as if scolding a stubborn child, “My lovely wife is kind, you see. Too kind. Doesn’t like for me to get my hands dirty.”

He lets his arm retract slightly, as if giving up on the conversation topic at hand. And oh for all his wisdom, the elder should’ve known better than to let the silence lull into one of safety. Should’ve known better than to let out a breath of relief. Relaxing - ever-so-slightly, to be stupid enough to mutter, “S-see young master. I told- you-”

Because this was Gojo Satoru, and he’s chuckling - and that was never a good sign for anyone but you. “She’d make such a perfect mother, don’t you think?”

---

SLAM!

You startle - there was only ever one person that dared to kick open the doors of the Gojo Estate that way, like he was out for blood.

Eyes tearing from your window towards the now-splintered doorway and-

Oh. Oh shit. 

Your voice dies in your throat as the metallic tang of blood hits your nose - followed very shortly by the realization that this was your husband. Towering figure leaning against the frame, gaze frantic - bouncing off everywhere but you, fingers twitching on the stained handle of his katana, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost. 

What the fuck happened?

“Satoru?” you breathe. And the sound of your voice his eyes finally snap to you - widening, like he’d finally noticed your figure standing there. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. Stepping forward in concern, “Are you o-”

You’ve barely made it two steps before Satoru’s closing the distance in a split-second, dropping to his knees before you with a harsh thump!

You wince at the sound, but if it hurt then he doesn’t show it. Anything but - in fact, looking more blissed out than you’ve ever seen him as he lets his prized katana clatter to the floor, looping two powerful arms around your waist.

And it’s times like this - when he nuzzles his cheek against your stomach, sighing in contentment - that you forget about those blossoming stains of red on his yukata. None of his, you bet. 

Threading your fingers through his soft hair, you repeat, “Are you okay, Toru?”

And oh. 

Oh, it only takes those words - and your sweet sweet voice - before Satoru’s entire body jolts. Taking a sharp inhale, fingers trembling as they clutch onto the fabric of your yukata. “An heir.” Words strained, ragged. Some deep, visceral part of himself peaking up at you through those hazy, half-lidded eyes, “Would you give me an heir, my wife?”

You weren’t making it out alive. 

You’re gasping - partially because of his words, partially because that’s all it takes for him to yank you down. Sprawling you out like such a slut on the floor. “Wha- an heir?”

It’s not something you expected him to even consider - that sleepy, quiet little pillowtalk from earlier today where you’d mindlessly wondered out loud whether your husband was ready for kids. Hell, Satoru was never a morning person, so you didn’t expect him to even have heard the question let alone this. 

Nosing at your racing pulse, whispering, “An heir. You think I’d ever deny you, pretty?” Like he couldn’t believe it himself - sharp canines nipping at your neck, “My heir.”

It’s like it was the only thing he could say - could even think about right now as his lips burned a path down your jaw, into the valley of your breasts. Muffled, “N’ now we have the Estate all to ourselves, so I can ruin you as much as I hah- want.”

And for the second time today, you’re actually registering that this wasn’t the same yukata your husband had kissed senseless in before the meeting. Or, at least, those patches of red were new.

“Satoru…” You pull his face back.

“No- no no please- Come back-” you squeal when he just drags you across the floor by the hips, pressing you up against that massive bulge, back to sloppily kissing the underside of your jaw. “Was jus’ one I swear- m’sorry about gettin’ the fabric dirty.”

“Satoru.”

“Wasn’t gonna break you where everyone could hear right?” 

And fuck he doesn’t wait to hear a response, no - it’s been far too long, and every little scold from you has all the blood in Satoru’s body rushing to his aching cock. His lips are crashing onto yours, so desperate and needy. 

“Sa-toru!” you manage to squeal through the way he sips at your candied lips. Letting out pained, breathless little grunts like each swipe of his tongue against your mouth was driving him insane. 

“Shhh shhh, m’here m’here.” he pants into your open mouth, hands wandering everywhere. Cupping your ass, your breasts, nudging open your jaw to let him suck so filthily on your tongue. “Fuck- m’here.” He’s licking up the drool pooling at the corner of your mouth already, “N’ m’gonna ruin-” One hand makes its way to palm your clothed cunt, “-her.”

But, alas, no matter how many times Satoru’s done this before - it never gets any easier, or as less heavenly of a sight for him. 

With you all disheveled and splayed out for him, your tits almost spilling out of your yukata with the way his hands have been so greedy. So thoughtless. 

Satoru groans, dipping his head forward to peck messily at your lips. “Mmm- ” Pulling back just enough to mutter, “Gonna let me breed this pretty cunt, hm?” 

It’s all you can do to give him a half-delirious little nod of agreement, lower lip wobbling at just how hungrily he was looking at you. Eyes wide, lips curling into a crazed smile, fingers trembling with anticipation as he deftly works on untying your robe. 

“Is my wife gonna give me a pretty baby?” He gasps out, strangled. “An heir?” He presses a sloppy peck to your glossy lips, strings of spit snapping when he breaks apart to whisper. “One to take out all these dumb fucks?” Again, so dizzyingly. And again. “Oh how I’d love to see their fuckin’ faces.” And again and again and again. Kisses punctuated by that little mantra - “An heir. My heir. I need you to give me a baby, pretty.”

And then your yukata’s being pulled down your shoulders, the expensive fabric ripping down the side with the way he was so ravenous. Goosebumps prickling down your skin as fast as Satoru can get his hands on every inch of you.

“Oh, look at you.” his jaw falls slack, palms kneading at your soft breasts. “Fuck- the mother of my kids.” He rolls his thumb over your hardened nipples, rubbing lazy little circles, “I need to- fuck!” 

Before you know it he’s pinning your arching body down onto the floor. One hand easily pinning down both of yours, the other angling your lips back onto his, a knee wedged between your damp thighs. 

You whine at the feeling of Satoru’s thigh rubbing up against your drenched panties.

But he could barely hear - fuck, you didn’t even know if Satoru was breathing with the way he wraps his pretty pink lips around one of your pert nipples. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, cheeks hollowing as he sucks - harsh.

“Need to fill these up- s’gonna be so sweet. So full.” he’s blabbering into your tits, tongue rolling around your sensitive nipples. Incessant, like he was somehow trying to draw out milk. “I can only hope they hah- share, right?”

You buck your hips up, mewling as your throbbing clit catches on the dips and curves of the muscles on Satoru’s leg. “P-please, Toru. Don’t tease.”

And oh, when has he ever denied you? Hell, Satoru would burn down this entire world and himself if it meant giving his wife anything and everything. Especially the future mother of his kids. 

With a final, playful bite, you watch with glassy eyes at the way he dances his lips down. Slow. Teasing. Eyes locked with you all the while like some sort of predator cornering his prey. 

“And this-” Satoru stops halfway down, pressing a deep, sultry kiss onto your bare stomach, “Oh this. Gonna be so round n’ pretty. Absolutely glowing f’me, right? Fuck!” 

Snapping his head down at the feeling of your grinding your hips so sluttily onto his legs, slick seeping through your panties and onto his skin. 

“Oh.” he sighs, awe-struck. More to himself than you at this point, “You can kill me if you’re not with my heir by the time we’re done, pretty.”

A promise.

And with it went whatever was left of Satoru’s poor sanity - and whatever pathetic chance there was of you making it out of this alive. 

Immediately, Satoru fists your flimsy panties in his grasp. So see-through they were practically useless anyway. Reveling in your panicked little gaze as he pulls - rips them clean off your dripping cunt. 

“Oh god- There we go.” he moans, hooking two arms underneath your legs and pushing up, up, up - all the way until your knees were pressing up against your tits. Your lips wobble when Satoru takes the time to admire your pussy, breaths coming out in feverish little puffs to watch the way you glisten and clench at nothing. Licking his lips - salivating even - at the sight of your slick beading through your puffy folds. He runs a thumb along your sopping wet slit, “Better wish her good luck tonight.”

And, usually, your husband was refined - he teased and toyed with your poor cunt until you were begging to have an ounce of friction. But right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash with how fast he’s pushing his face into your pussy.

“Mm-” Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as his tongue laps at your dripping wet cunt. Tipping his head back, back, back to let your sweet sweet juices slide down his throat. “Fuck that. Even luck won’t save you from me- hah-”

“Toru!” you arch off the cool floor as he cards the tip of his tongue between your puffy folds. From the base of your sloppy entrance, all the way up to your throbbing clit. “Hngh- s’too-”

He was going too fast too soon. 

You whine at the palm pushing your unstable hips flat onto the ground, holding you still while Satoru licks all over as he pleases. “Now now, how are ya gonna ngh- fuck so sweet- handle later if ya can’t even handle this, pretty?”

Sucking on your clit in such a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck. Shouldn’t have told me about an heir.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Harsh - rolling his tongue against the sensitive nub in a way he knows will have you crying out so prettily. “Fuuuck you shouldn’t h- oh- Ohhh, look at you, my wife.”, breathing in deep, ragged gasps of air only to go deeper. “Fuck- just look at you. You’re so wet I could fuck you just like this.”

As if to prove his point, he’s urgently bullying the tip of his tongue between your plushy walls. And it was true - so pathetically true. You take him in so easily. 

Somehow, you manage to crack an eye open to spy downwards - only to be met with Satoru’s eyes already on yours. Hazy, curtained by his messy hair, swollen lips curving up to flash you such a devilish grin as he squeezes his tongue past that feeble, first ring of resistance. In and out in and out in and-

“Ohh. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight.” His jaw grinds deeper, nose flush against your clit. “Ya like that idea? Like the thought of me p-painting ah- slutty pussy white already?”

Your embarrassed little whine isn’t enough of an answer for your husband. No, he’s pressing his fingers - all glossy and covered with a sheen of your slick - onto your pulsing clit. Just barely grazing in a way that has you crying out. 

Making out with your cunt so sloppily, “Tha’s more like it.” Heavy eyes boring into yours - goading, even, for you to give more of a reaction. “Fuck- use those words, pretty. Scream.” Satoru’s fucking into your sloppy hole the way he’s been dreaming to do with his rock-hard cock. “After all, we h-have the Estate all to ourselves, right?”

Faster. Sloppier. 

Pushing and pulling his tongue in a way that has you sobbing, “Yes! Please- wan’- ngh” Thighs squeezing around Satoru’s fervent head, “W-wan you to jus’ breed me, Toru-”

Oh.

Fuck, you might’ve just signed your will away at this point. 

Because in a split-second, you’re cumming. 

Shit, were you glad that there was no one in the house. Sobbing out a broken whine of his name, fingers white-knuckled on Satoru’s hair while you gush all over his pretty face. Just dragging your sloppy cunt all over his mouth - using him through your high. 

And he’s more than happy to be dragged and angled all you please. Greedily lapping up your syrupy sweet juices, just dipping his tongue into your hole to feel the way you clench around him. 

But it’s not long before Satoru’s pulling away. Swallowing a disappointed whine, you gape up at the absolutely feral man looming above you. 

Lips plump and glossy, your juices dripping all the way down his chin, his jaw. Teeth bared, a pretty pink blush dusting over those cheeks - and you have half the mind to wonder how high the kill count actually is. Whether you’d be on it, too. 

“Heh, kill count?” Satoru grins, teeth grazing so dangerously over your racing pulse. Shit, did you say that out loud? “Funny, real funny.” And with that, he’s thumbing apart your swollen folds, biting his lips at the sight of your quivering hole. “Wonder if our- hah- kid’s gonna have your-” Without warning, he spits. Once. Twice. Gliding the pads of his fingers along the thick globs of spit on your cunt, “-humor?”

And oh how ironic it was for Satoru to be groaning out sweet little spiels of what your kids might look like, when his fingers were anything but. 

Stretching out your gummy entrance, having the audacity to laugh - laugh - at how desperately your pussy was trying to milk his fingers. 

“Y-you’re so mean-”

“And yer killin’ me- ohhh you’re gonna be the death of me.” he mutters - strained. Depraved. Hastily pushing apart his yukata. He hisses, “Fuck-”

You can’t help but gasp at the sinful sight before you - Satoru’s blush reaches down his sculpted chest, down, down, down all the way to his painfully hard cock. Curved against his abs, already so angry and soaked with precum. Giving you a pretty little peak of those veins glistening against the dim lighting. 

Before you even know what’s happening, he’s circling his fat, weepy head around your sloppy hole. Slow, lazy patterns to tease your cunt. “Can only pray m’not dead before I see ngh- fuck- my heir.”

It’s like something breaks. And Satoru’s remembering that no, this isn’t just any child - it’s the next Gojo. That grip on the base of his swollen cock tightening when he slips past your pussy lips. 

“Oh! Toru- f-fuck wait s’too big-” you keen, nails digging into where his yukata was sliding off his milky, sculpted shoulders. Hard enough to break skin. “It’s ah-”

“No.” he spits into your sagging mouth. “No no no no- wait fuck- ngh squeezing so fucking- tight.” Hips pushing in quick, shallow little thrusts to squeeze more of his achy head inside. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck hold on. Need this. Need this so bad- please!”

And you can’t do anything but arch into his touch, scrambling up onto your elbows to- shit, that was a bad idea. 

Because one look at the sight of your poor cunt, all bulging and stretched out on Satoru’s massive cock was enough to have you running away. 

You’d barely made a movement to escape, feet flattening on the floor to buck your hips because shit it was too much. And it was a useless effort, anyway, because Satoru’s dragging you back so easily, pulling your limp body deeper down his swollen cock. 

“Need this. Need this need this so bad, pretty.” he groans, barely even halfway in yet. Still pushing, still relentless. “Need to breed this cunt so bad.”

Some tiny, useless part of Satoru’s rationality knows that he should slow down - maybe give you a second to relax. To maybe even breathe. But he was out of control now, hips stuttering and wrenching forwards like he couldn’t stop. 

So he’s simply gripping onto your shaky thighs harder, sure to leave neat little indents of his nails to admire tomorrow - or, whenever he gets back his sanity, that is. 

Satoru hisses at the way you’re so pliant below him. Limp, letting him rest your legs on his muscled shoulders. “Think I needa manhandle ya more often, pretty.” Pressing down, down - all the way until you were folded in half beneath him in such a mean mating press. “Can’t- can’t stop-”

The change in angle makes you scream out Satoru’s name - and it makes him bottom out. Finally. 

Fuck, you weren’t making it out alive.

“Oh.” he grunts at the feeling of his heavy balls smacking against your ass, his fat, leaky tip kissing against your cervix. God, if Satoru was any less of a man he thinks he could’ve cum just from the feeling of you trying to suck him up already. 

“Oh- oh my god-” you gasp when he presses down about halfway down your stomach, Pressing down for that bulge, hard. “You’re in s-so deep ngh- S’like you’re pushing into my ngh- lungs.”

Fuck, if you talked any more with that pretty mouth then Satoru was bound to pass out. Blindly, he’s feeling for your pouty mouth, kissing and nibbling at your wobbling lips like a subconscious apology. For what was to come, that is.

Because Satoru Gojo spares no apologies when he starts moving - finally. Finally fucking you the way he’s been dreaming of all throughout that droning meeting. 

And he says so - a little over fifteen times, in fact, while he splits you apart on his cock. 

“-n’ when I was negotiating those ngh- c-clan deals. N’ when I was at that meeting-” he gasps, shoving your legs so far apart it burned. “S’all I could hah- think of. Everything - don’t give a fuck if I got a contract wrong.”

Each word was punctuated by a rough, harsh ram of his cock, stretching out your gummy walls so far apart like he wanted to make his mark there. Pushing - even when he could feel his aching tip nudging at your cervix.

So merciless - violent even - with the way he’s slamming back into you. Molding your plushy walls to every ridge and curve of his massive cock. It was impossible to even form coherent sentences with his harsh pace. 

A large hand flattens beside your head as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper. More purposeful. You almost sob at the sheer pressure when he dances his fingers down to rub quick, methodical little circles on your clit. “Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. “M-more.”

But it wasn’t enough.

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. And shit at that very moment you almost understood why even the most hardened of clan leaders feared to even look at Gojo Satoru wrong. Because he was giving you a sopping, fucked-out smile, eyes widened, voice trembling, “You want more?”

And of course this was the strongest. Of course, he was ruthless. 

Of course, it takes him exactly two seconds to pull out of your heavenly cunt and flip you onto your stomach. One hand coming under you to angle your hips up until you were on all fours - like some ragdoll. The other feverish, distracting on your clit while he bullies his achingly hard cock past your sopping entrance once more. 

“Fuck!” your voice is hoarse when you scream. Teeth gritting because fuck the stretch was too sinful and Satoru’s hips were too harsh. Too hellbent on fucking into you like he’d lost control. “O-oh please, Toru-”

He doesn’t waste time easing you into it this time, picking up where he left off with that maddening cadence. And you were glad he had an arm on your hips because your knees were weakening with each thrust, slowly sliding down the floor before-

“Aw, my poor girl.” you hear Satoru coo from above you. Muscled chest rubbing up against your back, “S’alright. M’gonna take care of it. You jus’ hafta take it- jus’ take it like the good lil’ wife you are.” his body bows into yours, strands of white sticking to his forehead. “N’ I’ll take fuck fuck fuck- care of everything.” So sloppy with his rhythm, pushing you further and further up the floor with each movement - only to reel you right back so easily. “I’ll wash ‘em and hah- clothe ‘em n’ t-teach ‘em to take over this godforsaken society. To protect their momma.”

“T-Toru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic. “I’m…”

“Hm?”

He didn’t even have to ask - he could feel the way you were squeezing so hard around him, like you were trying to suck the fucking soul out of him. The way the only thing you could get out was his name. 

His perfect wife. 

Sobbing out, “Close! So close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

He was losing his fucking mind. 

Biting down so hard at the crook of your neck to keep himself from cumming before you, he moans deliciously, “Then cum. Fucking cum. Please- wan’ you to cum on my cock.” Wrists aching with how desperate he was moving, “Cum- yeah yeah yeah fucking- cum- Cum for your husband.”

Oh, if heaven was real then whatever was left of that part of Satoru that could still form coherent thoughts knew that this was it. 

Watching you fall apart like such a slut all over his cock. Not even realizing it at first - just that your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, swollen lips falling slack, letting out such a pretty cry of his name that he can’t help but cum, too. 

You don’t know who’s more far gone - you, with your head spinning, a lewd little ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time Satoru fucks you through your high. 

Or him, gushing out in thick, hot ropes of cum that overspill from your snug cunt. 

“So muchhh.” you whine, heavy head being held up by your husband. “S’too much.”

And he knew what you were talking about - because Satoru was cumming and cumming and cumming so hard it was like he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Because he was mesmerized by that creamy trail of white drooling down your folds, forming an obscene ring at those tufts of white at his base. 

“Too much?” Satoru hisses. “Too much?”

You can only give a barely-lucid nod, whimpering when he doesn’t ease up. Not one bit, in fact, Satoru was only abandoning the hand playing with your ravaged clit to press down on your abdomen. Hard. 

“There we hah- go. Better now?” The hand supporting your head forced you to look down below, at the sticky mess of white covering your cunt. Slobbering all over Satoru’s cock - even down to his thighs. “Now we got fuck- more space.”

You don’t even realize you’re scrambling away until Satoru gasps, panicked, “No no no- we’re not done, pretty. Fuckkk we’re far from done.” Fingers tightening around your neck to pull you deeper down his cock, holding you in place. Just dragging you along his length. “Gotta make sure it takes. Why else d’you think no one in the Estate will be back until tomorrow?”

He doesn’t wait for a response - not that you could give one, anyway, with how you were being fucked dumb on his cock again. 

A strong, powerful leg hooks around yours, pushing you down with his body weight. “So that we ngh- h-have enough time to prepare for my heir.” Weeping head grazing all those sensitive spots so expertly. “T-to plan and and- ruin you and- fuck you feel so good. They’ll be the most powerful- hah- jus’ watch. Those fuckers better w-wait and see.”

So debauched and fucked-out that you don’t even know what he’s running his mouth about now, just heavy, urgent words slurred into your neck while he fucks you just as sloppily. 

“Don’t know?”

Fuck. You said it out loud again. 

And the embarrassing realization has your eyes screwing open, gazing tearily back at an amused Satoru. Well, as amused as he could be when he was just as wrecked as you. 

Kissing your sweaty forehead, hips reeling back all the way until your cunt was missing the stretch - bucking traitorously against the fat mushroom tip grazing your entrance. Making a mess of precum down below.

“S’alright, pretty.” he groans, sandwiching his cock between your puffy folds. “Because you just have to sit there n’ ngh- take- it.”

If you thought that Satoru was broken before then he was absolutely ruined now. 

Because there was no reason or rhythm to his actions now - just mindless, feral movements to milk his cock as much as he physically could on your pussy. Running only on pure need and the thought of you round and so full with his kid. 

“Ah!” you’re startled out of your reverie by something wet. Whirling sluggishly to catch the tears of overstimulation brimming at Satoru’s heavy eyes - shit, you wondered if he even knew what he was doing at this point. “T-Toru…you- ngh- o-okay?”

The only response you get is an unsteady nod. 

“-the best.” he whispers, twitching balls squeezing so painfully with each slap against your ass. Faster. Absolutely soaked with the sinful concoction of your juices and his cum. “We’ll be the best parents- ngh-” And fuck it was so much - too much. Too good. Painful pleasure.

Enough that all it takes is another, sloppy thrust before he’s seeing stars behind his eyes again. Cock twitching wildly inside your cunt as Satoru shoots load after load of cum to paint your pussy white. 

So warm with his cum - him - that Satoru’s body moves before his mind. Pooling the mess down below to nudge back into your cunt. “C’mon, pretty, c-can’t get ngh pregnant if ya don’t oh- cum.”

And it’s so embarrassing how that’’s all it takes for you to reach your high with a strained, barely audible moan. Voice shot, your own orgasm nothing but a few tingles that have your thighs fucking back into Satoru’s. 

“Satoru- Satoru Satoru Satoru.” you mewl, big fat tears streaming down your cheeks. Birds of a feather, they say. 

Hypnotized. Drunk off the feeling.

And, evidently, Satoru was, too. 

“Pretty…” his voice rings in your ear. Tinged with a tone you know didn’t bode well for you - or your poor, overfilled cunt. Bloated and dribbling already. “Are- sure- ngh-” 

And with a jolt, you realize he’s still moving. Still pushing and pulling in languid, slow strokes. Thighs shaking as the fatigue wears on him. 

If anyone saw Satoru like this, they’d have a heart attack. Flushed your favorite shade of pink, the lower half of his body well covered with a sheen of your obscenities. Eyes teary with sensitivity, cock still twitching and so angry as he clears his throat and tries again, “Are we- hah- sure it took?”

“Wh-what-” you gasp, breathing in big, deep inhales. “Yes- yes yes- oh my god it’won’t-”

“It will.” Satoru’s interruption almost comes out as a whine. And he’s more sluggish, dazed when he flips you over onto your back again - not too difficult, with the way you were practically splayed out already. “Th-this pussy is made to take it, right? T-to be bred by me?”

It’s almost like Satoru was begging for confirmation, plugging back in the excess of what was leaking out of your abused pussy. It was spreading in a lewd little pool now, seeping into the non-existent space between you two.

But oh how Satoru loved it. Couldn’t tear his eyes off of it, in fact as he noses at your neck. Barely even thrusting anymore, just raw grinds, “Right? Gotta make sure- ngh- heir. Oh-”

He’s darting his tongue out to lick at the beads of tears streaming down your cheek. The salty taste on his tongue having Satoru’s hips stuttering forwards. Again. And again - alternating, not on purpose - between hitting your cervix and that bruised g-spot. “Gonna give me an heir? Ohhh fuck fuck fuck- lemme breed this cunt?”

You’re using up every bit of energy left in your body to give that slow, shallow nod. Which is all the time it takes for the pool to spread even wider. For Satoru’s fingers to stumble their way back to play with your clit. 

Rolling his thumb over in a harsh, uncalculated pattern - if you could even call it that, just jerky, obscene movements to get you off. 

And it works. Hell, the two of you are barely in the state of mind to even feel it. But he’s finally cumming again, and so are you. 

“Ngh- Fuck-”

With a loud, pained cry Satoru tightens his grip on your body like a vice. Raw, sensitive, overusing his cock until it felt so empty. Until you felt so bloated it was like you could explode - or maybe that was your own orgasm. “Toru- c-cumming.”

You’re not sure, anymore. And you don’t know if either of you could bring yourselves to care at this moment, not when your eyelids grow heavy. Vision tinging with black in the corners, and the only thing you could see was your husbands face - sweaty, eyes almost closed, kiss-bitten lips moving in a soundless whisper.  “-the best- momma.”

A/N. CLAN LEADER GOJO SAVE MEE. Oh yeah the “can’t get pregnant without the momma cumming” bit was based on this old tale I’d heard where people used to gen believe that. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Seven

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

Smoke leaned against the frame of Stack’s office door, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as the conversation behind him dragged on about routes and pick-ups and who owed what from Crossett to Bastrop.

He wasn’t hearing much.

Not anymore.

Because there she was.

Violet.

Barefoot as usual, silk swaying at her hips, a pitcher of water cradled in her arms as she moved through the parlor toward the kitchen.

She didn’t see him yet.

And he was grateful for it.

It let him watch.

The gentle curve of her thighs. The way her slip clung when she leaned, adjusted, paused. The ribbon at her throat glinted faint in the warm light—that same ribbon, always the same. Tied neat. Untouched.

Just like her.

Smoke exhaled slow through his nose.

It’d been a week. No—longer. Since he’d had his hands on her.

Since he’d tasted the softness between her thighs.

Since she’d cried his name into the pillow.

Business had kept him locked up in the back with Stack and the men. Talks of shipments, weapons, Felix, risk.

And still…

He couldn’t stop looking at her like she was the only thing in the building that could burn him.

She passed by again ten minutes later.

Caught his eye this time.

She didn’t flinch or scurry off like she used to.

No, now…she looked right at him.

Soft smile. Little wave.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t wink.

But his eyes burned like a match held too close to paper. And he dipped his chin—just a little—like a warning and a promise all in one.

Keep walkin’, little one. Or I’ll have you against that wall so quick you forget what room you in.

She disappeared down the hall.

Smoke shifted against the doorframe, adjusting his slacks slightly. Tension curled low in his gut.

He needed five more minutes in this meeting, and then he was going to find her.

He hadn’t touched her in over a week.

Not a kiss. Not a brush of his hand. Not even a pull of her ribbon.

Violet understood. Business had swallowed him—men in and out of Stack’s office at all hours, whispers about weapons, routes, danger—but still…it made her ache.

Not from need alone.

From the watching.

And God, had she been watching.

Every time they crossed paths in the house—her carrying laundry, lighting lamps, humming soft in the kitchen—he was there.

Leaning against the banister. Walking down the hall. Sitting in the corner with his legs spread wide, cigar between his fingers, watching her like he was starving and she was a meal that wouldn’t hold still.

Their eyes always met.

And when they did, it was like the world stopped breathing.

His gaze would trail down her body—slow, dark, possessive—until she had to grip the edge of the table or shift her legs just to stop the pulse between her thighs from becoming unbearable.

What made it worse—what made it delicious—was how tense he looked lately.

Not sloppy. Not angry.

Coiled.

She’d seen him talking with Stack in the side parlor two days ago, voices low, but his body language sharp. Smoke stood with his head tilted low, speaking through his teeth, his back straight as a board.

Then he’d slapped the backside of his hand into his palm—hard, punctuating his words with that low snarl of his.

“I told you. We ain’t movin’ on nobody unless I say so.”

Violet’s knees had damn near buckled behind the curtain.

She should’ve been afraid, maybe.

But instead?

She felt her breath hitch.

She’d pressed her thighs together so tight her calves cramped.

She’d watched him again the next day.

Saw the way he walked—shoulders wide, coat open, that slow, easy gait like he owned the hallway, like the walls should move for him.

And when he stopped to light a cigar?

He licked his lips first—a slow drag of tongue across the bottom, just before the match flared.

She had to look away. Had to. But didn’t.

He hadn’t even looked at her that time.

Still, she was damp the rest of the day.

It wasn’t just the tension building in him.

It was the way it stirred something in her—something quiet but blooming.

She liked seeing him on edge.

Liked knowing he was holding back.

And more than anything?

She liked knowing the only reason he hadn’t dragged her into her room yet was because he was trying to be good.

Trying not to break her.

And oh…the way she hoped he would.

In the early evening, the bathwater had gone lukewarm by the time she stepped out. Violet dried off slow, patting her skin gently with the towel, careful not to pull at her ribbon. Her body still tingled from earlier—not from touch, but from the memory of it.

From the way Smoke had looked at her that afternoon, when she passed by the parlor carrying a tray. His eyes had tracked her like smoke curling around a flame.

She should’ve been used to it by now.

But every time it happened, it still felt like something inside her got pulled tighter. Like he was stringing her up on invisible thread, slow, teasing, until she didn’t know whether she wanted to run or drop to her knees and beg. She stood in front of the mirror now, her towel tucked under her arms, hair still damp, steam fogging the corners of the glass.

I can't stop thinking about him.

She couldn't.

The curve of his mouth.

The rasp of his voice.

The way he licked his lips before taking a hit of that damn cigar.

Her thighs clenched.

She took a sharp breath.

Get it together.

She pulled on her thin silk slip—no stockings, no shoes—and slipped into the hall, towel still in hand. Just a few steps to her room.

She never made it.

Smoke had just come upstairs when he saw her.

Fresh from the bath. Skin glowing. That thin silk clinging to her still-damp body like a second skin.

She didn’t see him at first.

But when she turned and caught his eyes?

It was done.

Whatever leash he’d been straining under snapped.

He was on her in three strides, pinning her back against the hallway wall with one arm braced beside her head. His chest heaved like he’d just come off a run. His eyes? Black fire.

“You tryin’ to kill me, little one?”

She gasped—startled, but her hands flew up to his chest.

“Smoke—someone might see—”

“Let ‘em.”

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the hallway.

Hooked her leg up, draped it over his shoulder, hand sliding under her slip to drag her soaked panties aside.

“I ain’t touched you in seven days,” he growled, voice hot against her thigh, “Ain’t tasted you in nine.”

He didn’t give her time to answer.

His mouth was on her—tongue deep, slow, obscene.

Her back hit the wall hard, one hand slapping over her mouth to muffle the cry that spilled out.

“Smoke—please—”

“You beg real sweet when you wet, you know that?”

He sucked her clit between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make her squirm. She tried to close her legs—he growled and pressed her thigh wider.

“Don’t run now. You walked past me in that silk. You knew what this was.”

She whimpered.

He kept licking.

Deep, slow, nasty.

Fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to memorize the tremble.

“Give it to me,” he whispered against her, mouth slick with her arousal, “Let me taste what I been dreamin’ ‘bout.”

Her head rolled back. Her leg shook.

And when she came, crying into her own hand, he didn’t stop. He licked her through it, eyes locked on her face, dragging her climax out like a punishment.

When he finally pulled back, her silk was soaked, her lips red, her ribbon askew.

He stood slowly.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then leaned in and whispered.

“You mine, little one. Storm’s comin’. But you? You gon’ be my calm.”

And with one last kiss to her damp cheek, he walked away.

She stayed pressed against the wall even after he left.

Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts. Her silk slip clung between her thighs, soaked, the air cool now against skin he’d left hot and trembling.

Her leg was still raised, foot barely touching the floor. Her fingers trembled at her sides.

Then she slid down—slow, knees giving out—not from pain, but from pleasure so thick it took her bones.

She sat there on the floor, heart hammering in her ears, one hand still curled at her chest like it might stop the ache in her ribs.

He hadn’t even kissed her mouth.

He’d kissed every other part of her.

Marked her.

Claimed her.

And then left.

Like a storm passing through. Like thunder that didn’t need to explain itself.

She didn’t move for a long while.

She just whispered to herself, “I’m his.”

The stage lights were dimmed to a dusky gold, casting soft shadows on the velvet-draped set being prepped for the Velvet and Vice showcase. Feathers dusted the floor from boa sheds. The faint sound of a blues melody played on loop from the Victrola near the wings—just enough rhythm to rehearse the sequence Odessa had insisted on changing for the third time this week.

“I said pivot, not plod,” Odessa snapped, her arms slicing the air as she turned sharply on her heels,“You keep missing the downbeat.”

Cordelia—already flushed from exertion, her silk slip clinging to her—bit her tongue. Then she exhaled slowly through her nose.

“I didn’t miss it. I adjusted. Like we agreed yesterday.”

Odessa scoffed and tossed her feather fan onto a nearby stool. “You adjusted it for yourself. That’s not the same thing as adjusting for the show. You might want to remember it ain’t just your silhouette that’s going on display.”

Cordelia’s eyes flashed.

“Last I checked, I was brought in to run the damn production, not be micromanaged by a woman who can’t even stay on beat unless she’s center stage.”

That did it.

Odessa took one long step forward, standing toe to toe with Cordelia, their breath mingling, silk and satin brushing like armor.

“Careful, baby. You might be older, but that don’t mean you wiser.”

Cordelia leaned in, voice low and razor sharp, “And you might be younger, but you’ve got years of catching up to do before you can talk to me about poise.”

The tension sizzled between them—hands clenched, fans forgotten, the music looping on unnoticed.

From behind the curtain, a voice cut through like a hot knife.

“The fuck’s goin’ on in here?!”

Both women turned in unison as Stack stalked in from stage left, sleeves rolled, tie undone, and a scowl already in place. He had that look—mouth tight, eyes harder than usual, dimples flared.

“We’re rehearsing,” Odessa said, smoothing the silk over her hips, suddenly less defiant.

“Looks more like you tryna rip each other’s faces off,” Stack said, “This shit needs to be locked in. Y’all keep bumpin’ heads and I swear—”

Cordelia opened her mouth to speak, but Stack held up a finger.

“Nah. I ain’t got the time. You get it in order or I’ll start makin’ cuts. Simple.”

Then he turned, storming off toward the stairs that led to his office. The thump of his boots echoed louder than the Victrola now.

As the door to the stage creaked shut behind him, a soft laugh followed in his wake.

Peaches.

She was seated on a barstool near the wings, one stocking rolled halfway up her thigh and a drink in hand. She hadn’t missed a second.

“Well,” she said, grinning as she stood, “That was fun.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

Odessa looked like she was about to spit nails.

Peaches didn’t care. She set her glass down, adjusted her garter, and began strolling toward the exit Stack had taken. With her curves moving like molasses and her perfume trailing behind, she gave Cordelia a wink.

“I’ll go calm him down,” she said sweetly, “Y’all keep rehearsin’.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hallway, her laughter soft but wicked.

Stack was already behind his desk, a hand braced against the edge as he leaned forward, jaw tight and ticking with frustration. Papers were scattered where he’d swiped aside an ashtray, and the window blinds cast angled shadows across his chest. He didn’t even look up when the door clicked open.

“You got about three seconds to say what you want before I send you back to rehearsal,” he said, voice low, sharp.

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Peaches didn’t say a word at first. Just let her heels carry her slowly across the room—click, click—until she reached the bar cart. She poured a splash of bourbon into a crystal glass and turned, offering it to him.

Stack gave her a side glance, jaw still tight. But he took the drink.

“I ain’t here to talk choreography,” she said, her voice like silk drawn over a knife, “I saw the steam comin’ off your back before you even reached the stairs.”

He took a sip, then lowered the glass and finally looked at her.

“Odessa and Cordelia been at each other’s throats for a week. Got no damn sense of priority.”

Peaches walked around the side of his desk, perched herself on the edge.

“I got eyes, sugar. I also got ears. Sounded like you was itchin’ to put your fist through the stage.”

Stack didn’t smile, but something in his gaze shifted. His eyes flicked down her legs, up the line of her garter showing beneath her robe.

She leaned closer, voice low.

“You need a minute to breathe or a minute to let it out?”

Stack raised a brow.

“You offerin’?”

Peaches smirked, brushing a finger along the back of his hand still resting on the desk.

“Only what you need, baby.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he drained the glass, set it down with a soft clink, and stood. Not touching her yet—but close. His presence was heat and gravity.

“I need this shit to run clean,” he spoke, his voice rough, “We got more comin’ down on us than feathers and fishnets.”

“I know.” Peaches traced her finger up his shirt buttons, “But you run better when you ain’t this wound up.”

For a beat, it felt like he might cave—might yank her forward, kiss her, press her up against the desk like he had before on long, hot nights when the club emptied out.

But Stack just exhaled slow.

“Later,” he muttered, brushing her thigh as he moved past her, “I got too much on my plate right now.”

Peaches didn’t pout. She just let him go, eyes following the tight line of his shoulders as he picked up a fresh cigar and lit it with slow precision.

As the smoke curled into the air, she stood, adjusting her robe with a little roll of her hips.

“I’ll be around,” she said softly, “Try not to bite nobody’s head off before then.”

Stack didn’t answer, just watched the smoke rise and let the door close behind her.

Stack sat in silence after Peaches left, the low rumble of music from the floor below vibrating faintly through the wood beneath his oxfords.

He took another drag off his cigar and stared at the thin stream of smoke curling toward the ceiling. For a long time, he didn’t move. Just sat there, thinking. Regretting.

He shouldn’t’ve let her walk out that easy. Should’ve took what she was offering.

But it wasn’t just Peaches pulling at the threads of his nerves. It was everything—the unease, the buildup. The way Smoke had been running himself ragged chasing ghosts. And that woman…that Séraphine.

He tilted his head back and rubbed a hand over his face.

Then came the footsteps. Firm. Frustrated. The click of the door opening without a knock. Smoke entered with his jaw locked, a storm behind his eyes. His shoulders were still damp from the morning mist, hat tucked under one arm, and he looked like he’d walked through hell and hadn’t found what he was looking for.

“Still no damn word,” he muttered, closing the door behind him, “Spent all night knockin’ on doors and callin’ in favors. Even talked to a rootworker down off McLemore. Same answer every time.”

He threw his coat over the chair, “She ain’t in nobody’s books. Don’t show up in visions. Not even the old priestess on Basin Street remembered her name.”

“She real, then,” Stack said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “Too real to trace.”

Smoke paced the room, his boots heavy against the wood, “She’s hidin’ behind Felix like a shadow. And no matter how many folks I ask, I get the same thing. Smoke, mirrors, nothin’ concrete.”

Stack just watched him.

Then something slipped.

A soft flick against the floorboards.

A scrap of pale silk drifted down from Smoke’s coat pocket—a pair of delicate panties, cream-colored, with a tiny bow at the hip.

Stack stilled.

His brow rose. His eyes flicked from the silk to Smoke, then back again.

“Well, well,” Stack drawled, slow and smooth, “You huntin’ ghosts—or just leavin’ proof behind?”

Smoke froze. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he snatched the panties off the floor and stuffed them back in his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he said, tone low.

Stack leaned back in his chair, smirk spreading across his face like honey over heat.

“Didn’t say a word.”

Smoke turned away, jaw flexing, “You smirkin’. That’s speakin’ enough.”

Stack exhaled smoke through his nose, watching his brother’s back.

“She your woman now? Officially?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He stood facing the window, shoulders tight, breath slow.

“She mine,” he finally said. Quiet. Firm, “I told her.”

Stack’s smirk softened into something more serious.

“She know what that means?”

“I’ll show her.”

There was a long pause between them. The air heavy with smoke, silk, and what was coming next.

“Just hope she’s ready,” Stack said, “Things ‘bout to get worse before they get better.”

Smoke turned, eyes sharp, “That’s why I need her close. I want her safe, Stack. Can’t afford nothin’ happening to my sweet baby.”

Stack nodded once. Then motioned to the chair across from him.

“Sit. Let’s talk Chicago. And this mystery woman.”

Smoke pulled out the chair, the silk tucked back in his pocket like a secret no one else would know. Except his brother. And maybe—eventually—her.

The night air is thick with honeysuckle and heat.

Violet stands in a clearing surrounded by tall cypress trees, the moon hanging low and golden like a ripe peach. The ground beneath her feet is soft with moss, and the hum of bees echoes through the trees—not loud, not menacing—just present. Steady. Familiar.

She looks down and sees that she’s barefoot, wrapped in a pale lavender shift that clings to her like mist. Her ribbon is tied around her thigh, just above the knee. She doesn’t remember putting it there, but it feels right.

From the shadows, a figure steps forward.

Grandmother.

Her skin is dark and glowing, wrapped in white. Her hair is long and silver, braided with wildflowers and hummingbird feathers. She looks younger than Violet remembers—stronger, too. Like she could hold the whole world in her arms and rock it to sleep.

“Come here, Lula-Bee,” her voice says, rich as cane syrup, “Lemme look at you.”

Violet walks forward, and her grandmother cups her face. Her hands are warm and grounding.

“You’re hummin’, baby. That ribbon of yours? Been buzzin’ with want.”

Violet blinks, but doesn’t flinch. She’s not ashamed. Just full.

“Do you think I’m ready?” she whispers.

Her grandmother smiles, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“The bees know. They always know. You think that ache is somethin’ wrong? Naw. That’s your body singin’. That’s your spirit makin’ space.”

A soft breeze lifts Violet’s hair. All around her, the bees rise, floating in gentle spirals, glowing faintly like little lanterns.

Her grandmother steps back, and suddenly there’s a bed of flowers behind her—honeysuckle, jasmine, lavender. Violet’s ribbon unties itself and floats, soft as a sigh, to the ground.

“When you give yourself,” her grandmother says, “do it whole. Don’t hold back pieces to protect the rest. Let him see you—all of you.”

Violet looks down at her hands. They’re glowing. Her skin hums with light.

She lies back in the flowers and closes her eyes.

And in the distance, she hears a man’s voice—Smoke’s voice—low and reverent.

“I’ll be gentle, baby.”

The dream fades with that promise.

And when she wakes, her thighs are damp, her lips parted, and her ribbon has slid from her neck to rest at her thigh…

The morning sun draped itself across the garden in soft, golden stripes. Dew clung to the leaves like secrets, and somewhere near the fence line, a bee hovered lazily over a bloom of jasmine, circling the petals without landing.

Violet sat cross-legged on a patch of warm stone, her dream journal balanced on her knees. The little leather-bound book had swollen over time with scribbled pages and pressed flowers, its spine softened from handling. A twig of lavender from her ribbon was tucked between the last two entries.

She dipped her pen and began to write, slow and careful.

June 1929

Dream No. 27—The Bees Know

I was barefoot in the trees. The air smelled like honeysuckle and the ground was soft like my grandmother’s apron. The moon hung low like it was waiting on me.

Grandmother was there—young, but still her. She called me Lula-Bee. She said my ribbon was buzzing with want.

She told me I was hummin’.

She told me the ache wasn’t shameful.

She said: “The bees know when you’re ready.”

There were flowers behind me. The ribbon slipped from my thigh like it had a mind of its own. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t want to.

She said if I give myself, I gotta do it whole.

No pieces left behind. No fear.

And I heard his voice—Smoke’s voice—saying he’d be gentle.

I woke up wet. I ain’t ashamed of that either.

Violet paused. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of her dress. A bee flitted past her cheek, circled once, then moved on. She smiled softly.

“I’m ready,” she whispered, the words barely leaving her mouth but sinking deep into her chest.

She closed the journal and hugged it to her stomach. Then leaned back on her elbows, head tilted to the sun.

Her ribbon was tied around her thigh again today. Not to hide. Not to protect.

Just to honor something sacred.

A promise made to herself in a dream.

The Blackline stirred like a woman getting dressed for seduction.

Late morning sunlight slanted through the stained glass above the main stairwell, casting flickers of ruby and amethyst across the black-and-gold tiled floor. Downstairs, voices lifted—laughter, swearing, the rhythmic thump of crates being shuffled, the low drawl of Odessa snapping directions. Fabric rustled like feathers in flight. Perfume bottles clinked against marble. Someone—probably Peaches—was humming something dirty and slow beneath her breath while polishing silver trays with a rhythm that was nearly obscene.

Violet slipped quietly past them all, unseen.

She moved like a ribbon caught on the wind. Pale and soft in her stockings and a simple cotton slip, curls still damp from her bath. Her hands were folded, then fidgeting, then still again. She didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t need to. She had something to do.

Something just for her.

The courtyard was first.

Sun-drenched and quiet, all honeysuckle and humidity. The garden walls hugged close with climbing vines and scatterings of pink crepe myrtle petals. A rusted wrought-iron bench waited beneath a canopy of shade, and the wooden fence creaked when the breeze moved through it. There were whispers of earth here. Something ancient. Violet pressed her hand to a tree’s bark, just to feel something grounded.

But she kept walking.

Then the carriage house.

Dust motes danced in shafts of light. The air inside smelled like hay and leather, smoke and salt. Saddles hung from pegs. An old chaise rested in the corner like it had been forgotten but not unloved. She stepped in, fingers trailing along the wooden wall, touching a faded horseshoe nailed above the door. She stood still and imagined the creak of wood beneath knees. The sound of breath fogging in shadows. The feel of straw sticking to damp skin.

She lingered…but then turned away.

Last, she climbed.

The back stairs to the attic curved narrow and steep, like a secret only the house knew. The silk sheers that hung in strips along the hallway brushed her arms as she passed—red, violet, gold, whispering over her skin like murmured promises. She passed closed doors. Heard faint, hidden sounds: a distant moan. A burst of laughter. A bedpost hitting the wall.

She didn’t stop.

Her hand found the old doorknob at the top of the staircase, brass warmed by sunlight. She turned it slow.

The door creaked open.

Dust. Velvet. The scent of cedar and time.

She stepped inside.

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

Just stood there in the hush of the loft, staring at the soft flood of golden light breaking through the stained glass porthole window. A sheer curtain swayed gently in the breeze, brushing her bare arm. There were draped linens over old trunks, a freestanding mirror in the corner, and bolts of fabric spilling like forgotten gowns across the floorboards. The whole room felt like a secret kept between silk and shadow.

She let her hand press to her belly, where that ache had been humming for days.

It fluttered now.

Violet closed her eyes.

She could see it.

Not a place for performance. Not even a stage.

A place to begin.

To unfold.

To be made into something she didn’t yet have words for.

When she opened her eyes, there was a new softness in her expression. A decision made behind her lashes.

But she didn’t say it aloud.

She just turned quietly, and slipped back out, letting the door whisper closed behind her.

The knock came fast—sharp nails rapping like gunfire on Stack’s office door. He didn’t even look up from the papers spread across his desk.

“Don’t,” he warned, pen still moving, “Don’t bring me no foolishness right now.”

But the door creaked open anyway.

Cordelia stepped in, hips leading like always, velvet hugging her in ways the Lord wouldn’t approve of. She looked amused, but she didn’t smile yet.

“Sorry, baby,” she said, “But the Bible thumpers back.”

Smoke sat in the chair by the window, one leg over the other, black slacks creased sharp, white shirt rolled to the elbows. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Just tapped ash into a dish, eyes fixed on the street beyond the glass.

Stack sighed, leaned back, and tossed the pen onto the desk, “On today of all days?”

Cordelia nodded, “Got their signs and sanctified scowls. Same crew. And your favorite saint standin’ front and center.”

That got him up.

Stack rolled his neck, buttoned nothing, just grabbed his vest and threw it over his slick, bare chest. His shirt hung open beneath it, chest still dewed with sweat from prep work. He lit a cigarette and looked over at his brother.

“You comin’?”

Smoke didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

“They ain’t here for me.”

Stack snorted, “No, but she damn sure is.”

“Shut ya’ fool ass up.” Smoke fired back.

He turned and walked out, Cordelia trailing behind him like perfume with attitude.

Outside, the late afternoon light glazed everything in gold and sweat. The Blackline throbbed with the low rhythm of early prep—music warming up, glasses clinking, bodies gleaming in velvet and vice.

But outside?

They stood.

Six women dressed in full Sunday righteousness. Long sleeves. Modest shoes. Signs held high like shields. And front and center: Sister Marigold Baptiste, firm in her navy blouse, her gray skirt brushing the ground like sin avoidance. Stack stepped out slow, shirt flapping open in the breeze. His cigarette glowed between his fingers. Behind him, Cordelia, Peaches, and Mirabel fanned out like a petty choir.

He took one look at Marigold and grinned.

“I see y’all made it to service early.”

Sister Baptiste stood tall. Her Bible clutched in one hand, her sign in the other:

REPENT. THE DEVIL PLAYS THE BLUES.

“We came to bear witness,” she said, “The Lord sees all.”

Stack cocked his head, tongue pressed behind his teeth, then rolled his hips in a slow, deep circle—like he was already inside something warm.

Cordelia cackled, “Mmm, see? That’s the gospel I like.”

Mirabel popped a hip, “We came to testify too. With moans and heels on.”

Stack took a drag and looked straight at Marigold.

“Don’t act like you don’t stare, Sister. You lookin’ harder than your husband ever did.”

Her nostrils flared, jaw clenching—but she didn’t look away. That’s when Liza June leaned halfway out a side window, breasts barely held by a black corset, and shouted,

“God gave me titties and rhythm. I use ‘em both!”

Peaches hummed a blues riff and smacked her own thigh.

Cordelia licked her lips, slow and exaggerated, “Wanna see the Holy Spirit? Watch me ride.”

Stack flicked his cigarette and stepped forward just enough to let his open shirt fall wider, sweat glistening across muscle and mischief.

“You showin’ up week after week, Sister. That’s not conviction—that’s curiosity. You keep this up, and I’ma have to put a tip jar out for your front row seat.”

Cordelia leaned against him and laughed, “You takin’ confessions now, Stack?”

“Hell yeah. From the mouth or the knees.”

The church women gasped, one of them snatching at Sister Baptiste’s arm like she might burst into flames.

But Marigold didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

Her eyes slipped down his torso—just a flick, but enough.

Stack saw it. Felt it. And smiled slow.

“I’ll save you a seat inside, Sister. Near the stage. Front pew. No judgment. Just hips and hallelujahs.”

He turned to walked back inside, smoke trailing behind him. The girls followed, laughing, fanning themselves, drunk on mischief.

And from the window upstairs, Smoke watched.

Didn’t say a word.

Just pressed his thumb to the glass and whispered to no one,

One of these nights, she ain’t gon’ walk away.

As Stack turned to go, cigarette trailing smoke behind him, open shirt catching the wind, Marigold’s voice rang out.

Clear. Controlled. Southern syrup over steel.

“You talk a lot about sin, Elias. But all I see is a man beggin’ to be touched…and never loved.”

Stack froze mid-step.

The girls behind him let out a collective gasp. Peaches gripped Cordelia’s arm. Even Liza June clutched her pearls like she meant it.

Stack turned back around slow.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t smile.

He grinned—all dimples and menace. Then stepped down one stair toward her. Just enough to let the full heat of him loom.

“Don’t need love to make you squirt, Sister.”

The girls shrieked.

Cordelia nearly fell against the doorframe, hollerin’, “Lord have mercy!”

Stack wasn’t done.

He flicked the tip of his tongue between his fingers—two held tight together, then spread slow.

“Tongue holy enough to make you confess with your whole body, don’t it?” Stack teased.

Then he palmed himself through his slacks, gripping slow, grinding his hips just enough to show he wasn’t bluffing. His dick shifted heavy to the side—and he let it.

“Come back in five minutes, I’ll show you what the Book forgot to teach.”

Marigold’s face didn’t change. But her throat fluttered. One sharp swallow. And her eyes—God help her—they dropped for just a beat. She turned hard and walked away, fast, straight-backed, but her hips? Swayed like temptation had hands on her already.

Stack watched every step.

Tracked the rhythm of her walk like he was memorizing it for later.

Then he called out after her, “Don’t walk like that if you don’t want me thinkin’ ‘bout bendin’ you over pews, Sister.”

The girls lost it.

Mirabel collapsed into Cordelia’s arms. Peaches ran back inside, laughing so hard she nearly tripped. Liza June screamed, “YOU GOIN’ TO HELL, STACK!” while fanning herself with a cocktail menu.

Stack didn’t flinch.

He stood there, still palming his dick through his slacks, dimples carved deep.

Watching Marigold disappear up the street like a sermon undone.

The doors swung open as Stack strolled back into The Blackline, cigarette dangling, shirt still open, chest shining with heat and holy warfare. His dimples were deeper now—satisfied.

The girls were howling.

Cordelia was doubled over, holding her sides. Mirabel had tears in her eyes. Peaches fanned herself with a drink menu. Liza June was wiping her smudged lipstick and still wheezing.

“Lawd,” Cordelia gasped, straightening up, “Stack, you had them six women gagged. Like they’d just seen the devil pull his dick out and call it communion.”

The room exploded again.

Stack just grinned and tossed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bar.

“Ain’t my fault they came lookin’ for salvation and found temptation wearin’ slacks.”

Peaches hooted, “You mean wearin’ a print, baby.”

“Marigold saw it,” Cordelia said, “Clear as day. That woman stared at your dick like she was tryin’ to remember the shape for later.”

“Sketchin’ it in her prayer journal,” Mirabel giggled. “Right next to ‘Forgive me, Lord.’”

Liza June leaned back in her chair, lips slick with brandy, and moaned dramatic.

“Stack pull that thing out on her and she’d be recitin’ Genesis backward, baby. In the beginning’ be turnin’ into ‘Goddamn, Elias!’”

Screams.

Cordelia clapped her hands, tears rolling, “Y’all stupid!”

“Naw, for real,” Peaches said, walking her fingers up her glass like a sermon, “He’d have her singin’ hymns with her legs spread and tongue workin’.”

Liza June added, “That woman built like a secret. He’d crack her open and find a whole damn choir inside.”

Stack leaned against the bar, poured himself a drink.

He spoke low, “She keep watchin’ me like that…I’mma give her somethin’ worth speakin’ in tongues over.”

Cordelia raised her glass, “To Sister Marigold!”

The girls toasted mid-laughter, clinking glasses like good little sinners.

And Stack?

He didn’t smile this time.

Just took his drink, glanced back at the door she’d disappeared through, and muttered,

“She comin’ back. She just don’t know it yet.”

The door burst open with a whoosh of silk and perfume.

“Girl—get up!” Minnie declared, arms full of feathers and fabric.

Cordelia and Peaches swept in behind her, all three of them swathed in decadent silk robes cinched tight at the waist, their hair pinned up and shimmering in the late afternoon light. Their feet were bare, but their spirits were already dancing.

Violet sat on the edge of her bed, holding one of Smoke’s shirts against her chest, the hem brushing her thighs. She blinked at them, startled and shy.

“Is it time?” she asked quietly, her voice a tremble.

Peaches grinned, “Oh baby, it’s more than time.”

Cordelia closed the door behind them with a snap and said, “You ready for your surprise?”

“I…I think so,” Violet whispered, heart beginning to thrum.

Minnie stepped forward, dramatically tossing her feather boa around her shoulders and reaching for the small garment bag draped over her arm. She held it up like a showgirl presenting the grand prize.

“From me to you,” she said with pride, “Custom made. Had it altered just for that little bitty waist of yours.”

She unzipped the bag with a flourish—and revealed the gown.

A whisper of white velvet, cut to drape like a lover’s hands over Violet’s curves. It shimmered in the light with a soft sheen, catching on the feathers and dust in the air like moonlight on snow. The back was low, scandalously low, with delicate satin ties and a small hidden clasp. Across the collarbone sat a single delicate band that held the entire dress in place, leaving her shoulders bare.

Violet gasped.

“And this,” Cordelia said, pulling a small satin box from her robe pocket. She opened it to reveal a pearl-tulle mask, delicate and sheer, meant to tie around her head with ribbon. The kind of thing that whispered secrets instead of shouting them.

“For the ‘Vice,’” Cordelia teased, “You already got the velvet.”

“I—” Violet’s hand went to her throat, “I don’t know what to say.”

Peaches dropped beside her on the bed, squeezing her hand,“Don’t say anything. Just let us spoil you tonight.”

“You got plans, don’t you?” Minnie said, waggling her brows. “With him.”

Violet’s cheeks flushed deep. She nodded once, bashful, the weight of the night settling in.

“I want it to be tonight,” she whispered, “But I’m nervous.”

Cordelia sat on the other side of her. “That’s natural. But listen, baby—nobody deserves to be treated soft and slow and sweet like you do. And ain’t nobody better for it than Smoke.”

“He watches you like you hung the stars,” Peaches said, fanning herself by, “You think we don’t notice? That man’s been looking like he got a fever every time you so much as walk by.”

They all laughed, and Violet gave a breathless little smile, the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Come on now,” Minnie said, standing. “Enough chatter. We gotta get your hair curled and your lips slicked.”

They pulled her up from the bed and led her down the back corridor to the dressing room — a space filled with vanities, perfume bottles, curlers, and vintage jazz humming on the record player. The air was thick with powder and laughter.

Cordelia worked on her hair, gently finger-waving sections before setting them with soft clips. Peaches handled her skin, smoothing cream and pearl-shimmer over her shoulders and décolletage. Minnie did her lips last, painting them a soft berry color with careful strokes.

All the while, the women danced around her, occasionally pausing to sing along with the music or sip from glasses of sweet wine. Their laughter echoed like bells through the room, but every so often, they’d pause and touch Violet’s shoulder, whisper encouragement.

“You deserve everything good.”

“Let him take care of you tonight, sugar.”

“Remember—you’re his, but this body? This pleasure? That’s still yours to give.”

When they were done, they stepped back in unison.

Violet stood in front of the mirror, breath catching.

The velvet gown clung like a memory. The pearl-tulle mask made her eyes look like they held secrets. Her curls had softened and shone like wet silk, pinned just behind her ears, exposing the vulnerable line of her neck.

“You look like temptation bottled,” Minnie whispered.

“You look like you,” Cordelia added.

Peaches wrapped her arms around her waist from behind and laid her head on her shoulder. “Now go out there and let him see you.”

Violet blinked away sudden tears, overwhelmed by the love, the attention, the weight of what this night meant. She hugged each of them tightly, holding them for a long moment.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve y’all,” she whispered.

“You don’t gotta do nothin’,” Minnie said. “Just let us be part of your story.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by low wall sconces and the amber spill of evening sun through frosted glass. The sounds of The Blackline—the hum of laughter, the clink of glasses, the swell of old jazz from the main room—felt far away now. Distant. Faded behind the soft thrum of Violet’s own heartbeat.

She walked slowly.

Each step whispered across the floorboards, the hem of her white velvet gown skimming the tops of her bare feet. She hadn’t dared wear shoes. Not tonight. She wanted to feel everything. The grain of the wood beneath her toes, the delicate cling of the gown to her thighs, the weight of her own decision. The pearl-tulle mask was still tied at the base of her neck. Her ribbon—lavender satin—hung in a gentle loop along her throat like a promise yet to be spoken.

Violet’s fingers trailed along the wall as she walked.

Her mind replayed the laughter from earlier—the way Minnie squealed when she saw her in the gown, the way Peaches danced around the dressing room with a glass of wine in one hand and a makeup brush in the other, the way Cordelia quietly reached for her hand and squeezed it in silent support before they all left her to dress.

Those girls had treated her like family. Like sisters. Not with jealousy or mockery—but with real, radiant joy. As if her moment, her night, belonged to all of them.

And in a way—it did.

She’d never had that before. Not from women. Not without some catch in it. But those girls had pulled her into their circle and never asked for anything but honesty and laughter in return.

She felt the warmth of that now. In her ribs. In her throat.

They saw her.

And now he would.

She slowed as she approached the last stretch of hallway, the one that curved toward Smoke’s private quarters. Her breath caught in her chest.

She thought of his voice, the way he rumbled her name low and rough like it was something sweet to taste. She thought of the nights they’d spent hidden away. Of his mouth, his hands, the way he touched her like he was memorizing. Teaching. Devouring.

But tonight wouldn’t be like the others.

Tonight, she was going to give him something new. Something more.

Her.

Violet paused beneath one of the sconces. Closed her eyes. Let herself feel the weight of it. The beauty of it. Not just nerves, but readiness. She was shy, yes. But she wasn’t afraid.

He made her feel safe.

She reached up and adjusted her mask slightly, smoothing the ribbon at her throat. Then she took a breath.

And walked on.

Smoke stood in the hush of his room with the door locked and the light low.

The walls were kissed by late afternoon sun, slashed gold through the slats of the shuttered window, setting the edges of his shoulders aglow like the burn of slow whiskey. The air smelled of cedar soap and old tobacco, of starch and aftershave, of something warmer beneath the skin. His shirt hung open, chest bare, hair still damp from the bath. A single glass of bourbon sat untouched on the dresser, sweating slowly.

He moved with ritual.

Each piece of clothing was folded, then worn with care: black trousers, ironed crisp. The white undershirt pulled down tight over his broad chest and flat abdomen. He tucked it in with a slow drag of his palms. Then the vest—deep charcoal with a faint pinstripe, back slick like a whisper. The pocket watch slid into place. Chain caught the light.

Button by button, he sealed himself into the man they all expected him to be.

His eyes drifted to the side table, where he’d laid out his cufflinks, his tie, his pistol.

And just beside them…

a pair of cream-colored panties.

Soft cotton, a delicate lace trim. A tiny bow at the center of the waistband.

Violet’s.

He hadn’t meant to take them. Not at first.

They’d been left in the wash pile with the others—folded in among her silks and slips—and when he picked them up, something about the warmth of them still clinging, the faint scent of her skin, had frozen him in place. He’d taken them without a word. Pocketed them like a thief.

They hadn’t left his room since.

Now, he picked them up again. Held them in one hand, the fabric falling over his knuckles like water.

He didn’t press them to his face this time. He didn’t need to.

The memory of her scent, her softness, was already written into his bones.

“Little thing,” he spoke under his breath, voice rough,“Don’t even know what you do to me.”

He laid them back down.

Not folded. Just…waiting.

Smoke fastened his tie. Slipped the holster beneath his vest. Smoothed a hand down the line of his coat. Checked the watch. A final breath before the door opened.

He didn’t know what was coming.

Didn’t know she’d choose tonight.

But something in the air had already changed.

He felt it.

And it smelled like cream and cotton, like heat and honey, like the hush before a flame catches and devours it all.

The kitchen at The Blackline was alive with rhythm — not from music, but from movement. Chopping, stirring, wiping, slicing. Steam curled up from a pot of greens. Cornbread cooled on the windowsill. Aunt Pearl’s hands moved with the grace of someone who’d been commanding kitchens longer than most had been alive.

She didn’t look up when Smoke stepped in. She didn’t have to.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d come sniffin’ in here,” she said, voice steady as a slow boil.

Smoke leaned in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed, eyes soft with something rare—ease.

“Didn’t come lookin’ for food this time,” he said, a low rumble in his throat, “Just you.”

Aunt Pearl paused, one hand on a jar of pepper vinegar. She turned to him with a look that knew more than it said.

“That right?”

He stepped in, boots clicking soft against the tile. “Whole place movin’. You the only one stayin’ still.”

“Somebody got to hold the bones together,” she said. Then added, “You look tired, baby.”

He smiled faintly and shrugged, “Ain’t slept right in days.”

She nodded, stirring the pot, “Mmm. And still runnin’ around after that girl.”

Smoke didn’t say anything.

Aunt Pearl chuckled, just a little, “She got you in a twist. That sweet thing been glowin’ lately. Whole face soft. You got her blushin’ in the morning, floatin’ by afternoon.”

He glanced down, jaw ticking with the hint of a smile.

“She been good to me,” he said quietly.

“I know she has,” Pearl replied, turning to him fully, “And you been good to her. Lord knows she needed a man who ain’t just lookin’ to take somethin’. You treat her like she’s made of silk and stars, and she’ll open up for you like nothin’ you ever seen.”

Smoke looked at the floor for a beat. Then at Aunt Pearl.

“She scares me a little,” he admitted, “How soft she is. How much I want to hold it all.”

Pearl stepped closer, her hand resting gently on his arm.

“Then hold her right, baby. Hold her like you know it’s a gift.”

Smoke nodded once, his eyes dropping for a flicker. Then he leaned down and kissed Aunt Pearl’s cheek.

“You somethin’ else,” he muttered.

Aunt Pearl gave him a light swat on the arm and turned back to her stove, “Yeah, yeah. Go on now. Before I put you to work shellin’ peas.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath, backing away, “I’ll be back later.”

“Tell that girl to keep her curls pinned up. Humidity comin’ tonight.”

He raised two fingers in a salute as he slipped out of the kitchen, her voice still warm in his ears.

The password whispered through velvet lips at the unmarked door.

Wicked tastes better

Little Rock breathed heavy that night. The heat clung to the skin like a secret, and The Blackline pulsed like a heartbeat just beneath the city’s ribs—hidden but alive. The bouncer, a thick-necked man named Briggs with brass rings on each finger, stepped aside. And the moment that door opened, the world changed.

Inside, it was all smoke and sin.

The air smelled like perfume and danger—spiced rum, vanilla pipe tobacco, musked sweat, and the sharp, near-metal sting of lust. Velvet drapes hung in deep crimsons and black plums, glinting under golden lamplight. The entire place was dressed like a mouthful of dark cherries and blood-warm wine—drenched in glamour and soaked in heat.

The theme was Velvet and Vice, and vice was winning. The women moved like temptations dressed in velvet. Cordelia, ever the siren, wore a curve-hugging wine-colored gown with a low drape that skimmed the base of her spine, her skin dewy and powdered with shimmer. Her throat glittered with a choker of garnet beads, and her cigarette holder glowed at the tip like a smoldering secret. She prowled the main floor with a drink in hand, checking on guests with a sly smile, brushing her fingers against lapels and lapels only.

Odessa, in midnight blue velvet trimmed with black feathers, had taken up her post by the bar. Her hair was waved to perfection, pinned with a rhinestone dagger clip. She worked the crowd with a cool, almost bored elegance—taking whispered requests, collecting tips folded into crisp fans, and raising a brow at anyone who lingered too long without a purpose. Behind her, the bar gleamed with bottles from floor to ceiling: honeyed whiskey, brandied cherries, bourbon with names carved in sin.

The house drink that night was called Velvet Vice—a concoction of blackberry liqueur, dark rum, and absinthe misted over the rim. Each glass came with a bite of cocoa-dusted cayenne truffle and a sprig of mint to confuse the tongue.

Peaches danced barefoot on the stage in a blush velvet romper that tied in a bow at the base of her spine. Her skin was oiled, her thighs gleaming, and her voice—smoky, raw, golden—poured over the room like hot syrup. She sang “I Put a Spell on You” with a slow, grinding rhythm that had patrons leaning forward in their seats, sweat beading at their temples. The band behind her—upright bass, brushed snare, trumpet slick as sin—carried her voice on silver rails.

Lana, in olive green with gold accents and matching velvet gloves, was giving private readings in the corner lounge. Her table was draped in black lace and candle wax. Cards splayed like limbs across velvet. Patrons lined up, drawn to her voice like moths, begging to know who they’d leave with—or what secrets they’d spill before the night was done.

Minnie, ever sweet but sly, wore deep plum velvet with delicate lace sleeves. She floated from booth to booth carrying trays of rum-glazed short ribs, bacon-wrapped dates, and chocolate tarts filled with espresso cream. She whispered innuendos with a doll-like smile, eyes glimmering as she caught snatches of gossip and desire on the wind.

Every table had its own flickering candle. Every booth felt like a secret. The music was live, lush, and indulgent. Saxophones moaned. The upright bass thrummed like a pulse. Drums ticked like a watch held too close to a lover’s throat. Each new number sent bodies swaying in their seats and dancers twirling on the floor—skirts flaring, velvet brushing velvet, perfume mixing in the heat.

Men came dressed in fitted three-piece suits, hats tilted low, mouths slick with gin and need. Women wore velvet in every shade: merlot, onyx, emerald, sapphire, rose. Thighs peeped through slits. Corsets cinched waists. Stockings glinted behind garters when they climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall.

Upstairs, the vice deepened.

The brothel wing was curtained in black lace. Each room had its own fantasy, its own rhythm. Beds creaked. Laughter turned to moans. Velvet ropes hung from brass hooks. Mirrors caught glimpses of thigh and mouth, hand and hip. One door was cracked open just enough to reveal a silhouette—a woman bent forward, her velvet gloves braced against the headboard while a man, still wearing his suspenders, took her from behind with his face buried in her neck. Another door stayed shut, but from behind it came music—a phonograph playing something slow and mournful, and the distinct sound of someone being spanked between whispered praises.

Smoke lingered everywhere. The smell of cigars, of burning clove cigarettes, of bodies and heat. Even the walls seemed to sweat. And below it all was a bassline of something darker—want, ache, and the promise that the night wouldn’t end until the candles burned low and someone forgot their name.

There were no clocks. Time didn’t exist at The Blackline—not on Velvet and Vice night.

Only glances held too long. Kisses stolen in hallways. The bite of lace. The brush of velvet. And sins too sweet to regret.

Up the narrow velvet-carpeted staircase—roped off for only the most discreet patrons—waited another world entirely. The hum of jazz still reached the ears, but it was softened here, blurred like lipstick after a kiss. What replaced it was heavier: the drag of breath, the creak of bedposts, the low moan of sin made manifest.

Cordelia called them the Seven Rooms, though there were more than seven, and none bore numbers. They had names instead—etched in brass above each velvet-draped entrance. Guests who reached this level did not ask for a room. The room chose them. And tonight, for Velvet and Vice, each had been transformed to match the vices most aching beneath velvet skin.

The Confessional Room

Black-painted walls lined with red velvet curtains. A confessional booth in the corner—wrought iron and wood, stolen from a burned-out church downriver and repurposed for salvation of the flesh. Guests entered alone or in pairs. They knelt. They confessed.

Behind the screen: not a priest, but a velvet-masked woman with soft hands and a sharper mouth. She listened, and sometimes, she punished. Paddle, crop, or whispered humiliation—whatever the soul required. There was a leather-bound book beside her, filled with anonymous sins scrawled in lipstick and ink. “I touched myself to my sister’s husband.” “I want to be used.” “I need to be ruined.” Each sin, a psalm in a new gospel of heat.

Sometimes, the confessional ended in forgiveness. Sometimes, it ended with a door opening behind the kneeling guest—and someone entering to drag them into deeper shadows.

The Mirrored Room

No light but candlelight.

The entire room was paneled in mirrors—walls, ceiling, floor. Plush cushions and fainting sofas filled the space like a harem built for self-worship. Lovers were brought here when vanity or voyeurism pulsed in their blood. You could not move without seeing yourself. Every gasp, every arch of the back, every shiver of pleasure was reflected a hundredfold.

Tonight, two women danced in the center—one in emerald velvet, the other in cream. They kissed in slow circles, tangled in silk scarves, their reflection spinning endlessly in candle-flicker. Around them, others watched from the mirrored walls, stroking themselves, mouths open, sweat beading beneath masks.

Some guests wore nothing but velvet gloves. Others wore collars. No one hid. Not here.

The Powder Room

A parlor for indulgence and softness. Pink velvet and ivory lace. Tables of sweet liquors, candied violets, and bowls of hand-rolled cigarettes laced with opium and honey. The girls who worked this room wore only corsets and pearls. They offered guests a place to rest, to taste, to drift.

Minnie came here to unwind between tray runs. She curled on a velvet chaise with a candy cigarette tucked between her lips, her garters loose and her perfume blooming like orange blossom on warm skin. She liked this room. It made her feel like a doll someone wanted to wind up again and again. A couple in the corner fed each other spoonfuls of absinthe-soaked cherries while a man downed brandy from the curve of a woman’s bare back.

The Serpent Room

Dark. Sultry. Lit only by green lanterns shaped like coiled snakes. A bed shaped like a nest sat in the center, ringed by silk ropes and cushions. This room was not for the faint of heart.

Tonight, Odessa herself watched from the corner as a couple explored restraint and permission—her gaze cool, one leg crossed over the other. She sipped from a glass of straight gin and said nothing as the woman on the bed begged her lover to go slower, rougher, deeper. Here, dominance reigned. Behind a sheer screen, a woman knelt with a blindfold on, her hands bound in soft velvet. Each moan made the serpents on the lanterns seem to flicker and move, as if the walls themselves watched with hungry eyes.

The Tarot Room

Lana’s domain. Deeper still, tucked in the back. Velvet-lined and thick with incense and mystery. Guests stepped into a dream of candlelight and cards. But tonight, Velvet and Vice twisted the magic.

Each card pulled came with a kiss, a touch, a command.

“The Lovers,” she said, and two strangers were asked to remove one piece of clothing each. “The Tower,” and a man was told to bend, to confess how he’d been broken before. “The Moon,” and the lights dimmed. Something shifted. Lana whispered: “You’ll fuck before midnight, or the spell will find you in your sleep.”

Whether it was showmanship or something deeper, no one left the Tarot Room unchanged.

The Hall of Silk

Between each room, the hallway itself became a slow seduction. Silk streamers brushed shoulders and thighs. Perfumed mist curled from hidden diffusers. Soft hands reached through parted curtains. Laughter echoed—sweet, sharp, or soaked in heat.

Every now and then, Stack Moore appeared in the hallway—watchful, shirt collar open, suspenders hanging. He checked in on rooms without knocking. Said nothing. Sometimes offered a knowing smirk to a girl in disarray. Sometimes stared too long at someone in a mirror. And sometimes, when the mood took him, he followed the silk down a hallway and disappeared into a room himself.

The music hit Violet before she reached the threshold—low, gritty, oozing up from the floorboards like smoke. The juke’s velvet-lined heart beat with sin, and she stepped into it like stepping into a dream.

She wore white velvet—soft, clinging, low off her shoulders, with nothing beneath it. A sheer pearl-tulle mask covered her eyes, tied with satin ribbon at the base of her neck. Lavender ribbon. Her back exposed. Her hips swayed naturally as she moved through the room, and every gaze followed her.

But Smoke’s found her first.

He was standing near the bar, dark and slick in a charcoal vest and open collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a cigarette burning forgotten in his hand. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened.

He moved to her without a word.

“Dance with me,” Violet whispered, her voice feather-light against the music.

He took her hand.

The band played slow and dirty—a slide guitar moaning, the bass thick and heavy, and the singer’s voice dragged across the room like hot molasses:

🎶Slide your hands down my back, take your time,

Grip my hips, say you want what’s mine…🎶

Smoke pulled Violet in—close, one hand firm at her lower back, the other lacing with hers. Her body molded to his like it already belonged there, their hips nearly touching, her breasts grazing his chest as they began to sway.

It wasn’t polite dancing.

It wasn’t for show.

It was slow, sticky, filthy with restraint.

He dipped his head to her ear.

“You’re gonna be the death of me tonight,” he spoke low and sultry, “You know that?”

Violet smiled behind the mask, “Maybe I want to be.”

Smoke’s hand slid lower on her back. Her chest brushed fully against his, and he groaned—quiet, tight, barely contained. They moved together to the pulse of the song, hips grinding subtly, their breath mingling in the charged air. Violet turned in his arms, pressing her back to his front, letting her ass roll against his thighs as she rocked.

Smoke’s hands spread over her hips.

“Mmmn, look at you,” he whispered into her hair, “Movin’ like sin wrapped in velvet.”

She turned back toward him—facing him now, breathless—and took his hands, placed them at her waist. Their hips began to move in tandem again, and she tipped her head up, eyes wide behind the mask.

His thumbs stroked slow circles at her waist.

“You feel what you doin’ to me?” he asked.

She nodded, inching closer until their foreheads almost touched.

Then—he dipped her.

Slow.

Sensual.

Like the music had taken their bones and melted them into rhythm.

His hand slid up her spine, guiding her backward, his other cradling the curve of her waist as her hair soft, finger waved hair fell toward the floor, the candlelight catching in the pearls of her mask.

Their eyes stayed locked.

The music groaned low around them:

🎶 Lay me down slow, not a word, just heat—

Make the devil jealous with the way you eat.🎶

Smoke leaned over her, his face hovering just above hers.

“I could eat you right here in the middle of this goddamn floor.”

Violet gasped softly, her lips parting, her breath catching.

“Then do it.”

He brought her back up, slowly, letting every inch of her body glide against his until she was flush to him again.

“Not here,” he growled against her ear, “But soon. Very soon.”

And then they danced—filthy, hungry, and already half-undone by the promise of what the night would bring.

The room was dripping with heat.

Velvet curtains lined the walls like skin—deep burgundy, soft black, and gold threaded at the seams. Candlelight flickered from wrought iron sconces, casting moving shadows across the smoke-swirled air. The scent of rose oil, liquor, and sweat clung to the walls like a second skin. The band in the corner played a dirty, low-down blues—the kind that wasn’t meant for the radio, the kind that was made for hips and hands and dark corners. The upright bass thumped slow, the snare whispered like lace against thigh, and the woman at the mic sang with a voice that dragged across your spine.

🎶I don’t want no preacher boy, I want one who bites—

Kiss me hard, pull my hair, take my soul tonight…

The dance floor was full. 🎶

Bodies swayed in a molten pulse, each pair dancing like the music was happening inside them. Hands roamed. Breasts pressed to chests. Hips rolled and ground and snapped in time. Someone in the far corner let out a loud, high-pitched moan, barely masked by a burst of laughter and the clash of glass against wood.

Whistles cut through the crowd.

Glasses tipped.

Lips dragged across sweat-slick necks.

Stack was there, too—slick in suspenders and a smirk, spinning a girl in blue sequins with easy charm. He pulled her close, whispered something that made her knees buckle, then caught her waist and dipped her like it was a game of power he always won.

But across the floor, it was Violet that drew every secret eye. The white velvet clung to her body like desire made fabric. Her bare back glowed in the low light. Her ribbon hung loose, the sheer pearl mask catching the flicker of candlelight like wet silk. She moved with Smoke, pressed chest to chest, and the air between them felt liquid. Heavy. Ancient.

She could feel everything.

Smoke’s hand on her back was a brand. His fingers gripped low, guiding her hips with each slow, grinding sway. And between them—hard, thick, impossible to ignore—was his dick, stiff and pressed against her belly.

Her heart raced.

The beat of the music was in her throat, her blood, her thighs. Every sway of her hips dragged her against him. Every breath he exhaled touched her like a promise. He dipped her again—slow, obscene, like peeling away a layer of modesty—and the room spun upside down for half a second before he brought her up against him again, lips brushing her cheek.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he whispered, “That’s what you do to me. Just from movin’. Just from lookin’.”

Violet moaned quietly, breath catching in her throat.

“It’s not just me,” she whispered back, “Everyone here wants to be touched.”

She was right.

Around them, hands roamed lower, mouths moved dirtier, eyes lingered longer. The floor pulsed with sex—a crowd hypnotized, lovers moving like dancers, dancers moving like sinners. Someone was already moaning behind a curtain near the back. The shadows trembled with unseen bodies. A man shouted something crude and was answered with a breathy laugh. The smell of gin, rosewater, and sweat hung thick.

Violet’s nipples hardened beneath her dress. Her thighs clenched. Her whole body was burning.

“You gonna take me upstairs?” she asked, voice soft but bold.

Smoke’s lips hovered near hers, not quite kissing.

“Only if you keep dancin’ like this. Just a little longer. Let me feel you melt for me.”

So she did.

She moved with him—slow, grinding, burning—in a room full of people, yet only for him.

And the world blurred around them.

Smoke’s hand was at the small of her back, pulling her into every slow grind of the music. Violet’s body was molten now—hips rolling, eyes half-lidded, her breath catching each time she brushed against the thick, hard heat straining beneath his trousers. The sweat on his neck glistened. His jaw flexed. His fingers kept tightening at her waist like he was barely holding on.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered against her cheek, “You look too good in that dress to be innocent.”

Violet leaned in, lips grazing the edge of his jaw.

“I’m not innocent.”

Then—without warning—

She reached up.

Fisted the front of his vest.

Tugged him down a fraction. She pressed her lips near his ear. Her breath ghosted over his neck like silk. And in that soft little voice he couldn’t ever seem to shake—his favorite weakness—she whispered:

“If you want to know how wet I am…you’ll have to follow me upstairs and find out.”

Smoke stilled, eyes dropping to where her fingers curled in the fabric, pulling him close with purpose, not pleading.

She rose to her tiptoes, pressed her mouth to his ear.

She whispered, voice trembling and bold, like lace soaked in bourbon, “I want you to touch every inch of me. I want you to fuck me so slow it feels like burnin’. I’m ready.”

His breath hitched—a curse half-swallowed, a growl trapped in his chest. She stepped back then—just a little—still gripping his vest, pulling him with her, then letting go.

She walked away without looking back.

But halfway across the floor, she paused.

Turned her head.

Looked over her shoulder.

That sheer mask still shimmered across her eyes. Her lips were parted. Her breath came fast.

“You comin’, or you just gonna stand there and ache?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

He followed.

The crowd seemed to part without a word, as if the heat between them had made space. Velvet curtains brushed their shoulders in the hallway. The silk lining whispered against Violet’s skin as she led the way toward the stairwell, heels clicking, heart pounding.

The deeper they moved into the corridor, the thicker the air became.

From behind one of the closed doors came a low moan, a sharp gasp, a laugh.

The music from downstairs drifted up like steam—lazy, dirty, thick with sin:

🎶He laid me down and said, “You’re mine tonight,”

Tied my ribbon, kissed me right…🎶

Smoke was behind her now, watching the sway of her hips as they climbed the stairs—the way her dress clung, the curve of her ass, the ribbon bouncing at her neck.

He was hard enough to ache.

She was soft enough to ruin.

And the hallway—

It was lined in silk.

Scarlet and black strips of fabric hanging from the ceiling, brushing their skin as they passed. It clung to Violet’s arms, kissed her thighs, caught Smoke’s fingers as he pushed it aside. The silk was soft. Slippery. Like tongue and promise.

Violet didn’t falter. She walked ahead, bare shoulders gleaming.

Smoke followed, his eyes locked to the way her body moved, how the gown shifted with her heat, how her ribbon bounced against her spine with every step. He wanted to pull it. Wanted to bite it.

The hallway stretched as Violet walked ahead of him, her heeled feet gliding over creaky old wood, her hips swaying like the silk panels brushing her thighs. Smoke followed—drawn, breath shallow, heart hammering beneath his ribs like a man walking straight into the flame. At the end of the corridor, beyond the guest rooms and pleasure suites, there was a narrow stairwell. Few knew where it led—a tucked-away attic above the main floor, used once for costumes and props, now forgotten by most but not completely abandoned.

Violet reached it first, pushing the half-cracked door open with a soft creak. Moonlight spilled down from the opening like milk.

She didn’t speak.

Just slipped up the stairs, one hand grazing the worn banister, the other trailing the satin ribbon at her throat. The sound of the dirty blues below followed faintly—distant horns, a slinking rhythm soaked in sex and smoke.

Smoke trailed her, oxfords slow on the steps.

And then—

She disappeared into the loft.

He reached the top…and stopped.

The room stretched wide and shadow-drenched, roof sloped low in places. Heavy velvet curtains hung from exposed beams, swaying gently like they still remembered applause. Scents lingered—cedarwood, dust, faded perfume—and a single antique lamp cast a golden glow across worn floorboards, illuminating her silhouette like something out of a fevered dream.

She stood near the center.

Violet.

Back still to him, hips tilted, ribbon fluttering at her neck, the curve of her ass outlined in moonlight.

Smoke didn’t say a word.

He stepped forward, slow and seductive.

Then she turned.

Half-spin. Bare feet whispering on the floor.

Her eyes met his through the mask—soft, shy, but blooming full of fire. Her lips parted. Her chest rose in a trembling breath.

“Come in, sir…”

A pause.

“I’m ready for my daddy to take me on a ride. Make me bloom.”

His breath caught. His eyes darkened.

He stepped inside.

Shut the door.

It clicked like the start of something irreversible.

And this—this was only the beginning.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[rafeandonlyrafe]

playroom

words: 600

warnings: 18+ only, smut, dom!rafe, sub!reader, mentions of rafes past hookups, light bdsm, bondage, blindfold, p in v sex, multiple orgasms, pussy slapping, anal, dildos/other toys, edging, unprotected sex, established relationship

rafe made sure you knew your safe word. confirmed three times before he would even try anything. you're his sweetheart, his precious girlfriend too pure for him to taint, but you were sullied anyways. contaminated with the whisperings of your friends, retellings of gossips heard about rafe inside the bedroom. tales told and spun as they are whispered from ear to ear until they got back to you.

“we don't have to do blindfolded for your first time.” rafe said.

“i want to.” you said, like you did over and over when expressing your desire to go further. you loved the soft sweet sex that you were having with rafe, the gentle kisses and hand holding with whispered love confessions, but you wanted to show him you could handle more, could take whatever he threw at other girls.

“okay.” rafe pressed a kiss over each of your eyelids. you kept them closed as he lowered the cloth around your face. just an old headband of yours, nothing too tight or non removable if you suddenly changed your mind.

“hands by your side.” rafe said.

you dropped your nervously fidgeting hands and waited for his next command. you're not sure how long it actually was before he spoke again, but it felt excruciatingly long to you at the time. 

“im going to touch your chest.” rafe said. usually he wouldn't give any warning to his partners, but you're not just any random hookup. those have all stopped since meeting you, canceling on girls even before you were officially dating, knowing he found his one.

you gasped when rafes hands touched you, playing with your already hard nipples, having exposed them to the air when rafe first took you into his playroom. despite knowing no one had been in there since you started dating, you couldn't help the pang of jealousy that went through you when looking at all the various toys hung on the wall or carefully placed on shelves.

rafe waited until he could see you shaking in anticipation before he moved on, his hands dropped down to your waist before you could anticipate the movement.

he placed you in all sorts of positions before he touched your pussy. having you raise your arms above your head and push your chest forward until your muscles were sore.

forcing you onto your knees to have your mouth open and waiting for something to fill it, only for it to never come as he moved you again.

the game kept up for hours until a sudden slap was delivered between your thighs. certainly the gentlest slap ever delivered in that darkly covered room, but it still hard you squealing in surprise, so unused to the feeling.

“if you can't handle it when can stop.” rafe said, his voice taunting.

little did he know that you'd never utter your safe word. not when he bent you over a chair and fucked you so hard your pussy was left raw and red to match the spankings left on your ass.

not when he tied you up so intricately and tightly it took him a full 30 minutes to undo the ropes after making you cum several times.

not when he had you ride a dildo while he fucked your ass, filling you from every hole as his fingers shoved into your mouth, drool dripping down your chin.

not even now, as you're standing blindfolded just like the first day. 

waiting for a touch. 

a touch that doesn't come for hours.

you are seconds away from collapsing onto the floor, into your own puddle of wetness, worried rafe had abandoned you in your playroom, when you hear his dark chuckle as your knees buckle.

he doesn't help you up. he pushes you down flat against the ground as he lays on top of you, putting his full weight onto your smaller frame.

“good job not giving in baby.” rafe says, his dark tone contrasting his sweet words as his cock shoves inside of you.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Maybe, yes :)

I always found it ambiguous and I think that is why there‘s this interpretation of it in the movie(s). BUT, in any case, Oscar Wilde being an inspiration for Renfield is by far the more… notorious connection 😜 (at least according to the Bram Stoker biography “Something in the blood“):

((That would underline your point though, as Oscar Wilde … would fit that description (of yours, above) way better ^^))

Sheridan Le Fanu writing “Carmilla“, naming the first victim we hear of “Bertha Rheinfeldt“

Bram Stoker, a few decades later, writing “Dracula“:

“Now what do I call Dracula‘s first victim we hear of? Right, Renfield.“

My dude.

[thebumblebeesworld]

A • BLOSSOMING • LOVE

part two • annie x fem reader

summary: annie is new in town, but she is quick to be roped into the world of our reader.

cw: use of nword, smoke slander, mentions of internalized homophobia, mentions of racism and Jim Crow, mentions of hoodoo

a/n: I WRITE BLACK CHARACTERS AND EXPERIENCES. inspired by that one scene in the color purple (2023) where shug and celie go to the movie theater and kiss cause they're gay and in loveeee

part one; part three; part four; part five.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mm,” Smoke grumbled as you got back in the truck, watching as Annie entered her home. You settled into your seat comfortably with a soft smile before backing out of her long driveway. Your peace was interrupted as Smoke continued to grunt in your direction, trying to rile you up on purpose.

“What the fuck is yo’ problem, nigga,” you furrowed at him, confused as to why he couldn't just accept the fact that someone wanted you and not him. “You can’t be happy for you?”

“I’m happy,” he folded his arms, looking out the window as a sign to stop the conversation before it truly began. Y'all had grown up together, so you both knew when to stop while you were ahead. The fights you had in your youth were proof of that.

“Whatever,” you huffed, barreling down the road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a long morning of working out on the farm, you returned home. It had been a relatively easy shift, and like usual, you finished up before the noon sun could even reach its highest point. You were always an early riser, especially when you have things to look forward to.

Tonight was your date with Annie, and you aimed to make it special. There wasn't much for you to go off of since you didn’t get to ask her much about herself the day prior, but you thought something simple would be good for a first date.

You arranged everything, figuring out small details like arrival time and what you were going to wear. While at work, you picked her a large bouquet of long stem roses, hoping she’d enjoy them. As the sun was on the verge of setting, you drove to Annie’s home.

Raising your hand to knock politely on her front door, you were stunned as it swung open. You expected to meet the face of Annie, but looking down, you saw a child that looked fairly similar to her.

"Hello, sweetheart," you crouched down, clutching the roses in your clammy, nervous hands.

"Hi," she waved back, "you here fa’ Annie?"

You nodded, looking up to see two other children running around the front room. The home was fragrant, the same smells of patchouli and shea butter that surrounded Annie with an interesting mix of home cooking. Cornbread, fried okra, and gumbo.

"Terry! Who told you to open up that front door," you heard Annie shout from behind the young girl. You raised up to your feet as you took in her physique. The white dress she wore yesterday was traded for a blue cotton dress, and she wore gold and navy beaded necklaces and bracelets.

Annie's hair was an updo of curls that framed her face perfectly.

"I said she could, Ann," an older woman chastised from a room you couldn't quite see from your position on the other side of the door. "Stop bein' mean to that baby!"

The girl giggled, sticking her tongue out at Annie before running away to play with the others.

Annie let out a small laugh and shamelessly traced her eyes over your body. A day away from each other had you both yearning from the other. When Annie walked into her home after you dropped her off, her grandmother and siblings immediately began asking questions and teasing her for her dazed expression. She couldn't get you out of her mind, and she liked it that way.

When you left her, you couldn't even be upset with Smoke's ridiculous jealousy. You wanted Annie more than you had wanted anything before. The way she smelled swirled around you and clung to your faraway mind. The sound of her calling her name whispered down your neck like a prayer—or a spell.

You'd heard tales of people getting roots put on them, but you already knew that Annie would never have to do that to keep you. Whether it was a conscious thought or not, you were already hers.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hey, lovely," you purred, laughing as she turned her eyes away from you and shielded her face. She was blushing so hard that red showed through her brown skin.

Yours matched.

"You gon' invite the girl in," the woman from earlier walked up behind her, "or you just gon' keep on skinnin' and grinnin' like a fool in love."

Annie stepped aside as her eyes went wide with embarassment. She guided you inside and pointed her head towards the woman.

"Y/n, this is my grandmama Ernestine. Grandmama, this is y/n. And those are my siblings over there." You extended your hand with a small smile, trying not to let your nervousness show, but her grandmother immediately huffed at your gesture and pulled you into a bone-crushing, soul-wrapping hug. You weren't sure how much the woman knew about you and Annie's...friendship? Relationship? Situation?

Either way, she immediately picked up on your nervous energy.

"No need to be scared, sweetheart," she reassured softly, patting your shoulder with a chuckle. "Annie told me all about the pretty girl who paid for her groceries and gave her a ride home." There was a kind knowing in her tone that settled your heart. You met Annie's eyes and all you found was earnestness.

“These are for you,” you handed the bouquet of roses to Annie after her grandmother departed to the kitchen. You both followed. Annie smelled the flowers, smiling with gratitude before grabbing a nearby roll of twine.

“Thank you, suga’,” she sighed pleasantly. You eyed her with a curious smile as Annie wound the twine around the stem of the roses. She sang to herself softly. Securing the flowers tightly with a knot, Annie left a little excess dangling in a loop.

You took in the rest of her home. Candles, dried flowers, and little jars of dirt, twigs, and spices covered most of the surfaces. It rattled with a type of energy you had only felt when near a church house or graveyard.

It was powerful.

Comforting.

It eased your mind as you felt like you heard voices running through your body.

“You one of them hoodoo women,” you questioned. There was no judgement in your voice. Only fascination. Her grandmother who stood just a few feet away at the stove giggled like she knew what was coming next.

“Yea’,” she replied, swallowing thickly on the defense, “you got a problem with that.” Her neck rolled slightly, head tilting to the side. You found it beautiful the way she expressed herself.

“No, I don’t,” you spoke quietly. Your hand reached over to touch the top of the rose petals, brushing timidly against her open palm. “I’m intrigued by you. I wanna know you.”

Annie froze. Her breathing picked up. You couldn’t tell if it was because of your confession for wanting to be involved with her or simply because you didn’t bat an eye at her spiritual practices. But truth be told, both were the reason why.

Annie had lost a lot of friends who just didn’t understand—or didn’t try to understand. People always looked at her family as weird, but when they needed guidance after losing faith in themselves or the things around them, they always sought out her or her grandmama for assistance.

You didn’t have an initial aversion to who she was. And you were intrigued by her. It made her chest swell.

“Well,” she began, grabbing the bound up flowers and placing them on a hook in a nearby doorway, “let’s go on this date so you can get to know me, huh?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where we goin’ to,” Annie asked you as you had been driving for a good while. The sun was setting, casting a litany of orange and purples across you both. Her body shined in a way that made you want to see how she looked in every type of lighting. You looked over and smiled at her perplexed face—bottom lip slightly pouting, forehead a bunch of wrinkles.

“You’ll see, love.”

You could tell she wanted to fight you on it, but as you laid your hand on her thigh, she sat back in her seat with folded arms. Successfully silenced and actually enjoying the ride.

Cotton fields and trees quickly turned into civilization again as buildings and passing cars began to spring up. Annie’s back came up off the seat of your truck, and her eyes opened wide.

“What we doin’ here,” she questioned as you parked your truck outside of a theatre. There were Black and white people walking around the streets of the town. They all had on their night attire, ready to partake in what nightlife had to offer, but you observed the looks traded between both groups. Neither you nor Annie could help but notice the tensions that hung in the air. Pushing it aside, your date let her excitement surge. “We gon’ watch a motion picture?”

“We sure are, lovely,” you grinned, happy to see her ecstatic face. You’d heard about this new theatre opening up by one of your buddies from work. He said it was the best thing to happen in li’l ole Mississippi, so since you got paid just a few days ago, you decided now would be the perfect time to have some fun.

You opened her door and guided you both to the ticket booth. The lady behind the glass eyed you with a look of distain, a hateful glare that you could usually avoid unless you decided to go to Clarksdale’s train station or town center. White folks hated to see you, but they loved taking your money.

“Colored entrance is that way,” she spat, pointing around to the backside of the building that led to a long flight of steps. Reaching the top, you and Annie entered the peanut gallery.

While the racial tensions were draining in their own way, you both gawked at the motion picture screen, unable to believe that you were one of the few Clarksdale inhabitants who had gotten a chance to experience it.

“Wow,” Annie exclaimed. She was on the edge of her seat and looking every bit of beautiful. While you tried your best to pay attention to the silent film rolling in front of you, you couldn’t help but notice Annie. Her wonderment was contagious, and the flash of blue lights across her face from the screen made you fall even further than you already had.

Your breathing stopped as she grabbed your hand, tangling your fingers. She placed your conjoined hands on the top of her thigh and just smiled ahead, not looking at you just yet. You'd never received affection so openly, and by the looks of it, Annie hadn't even thought twice about being affectionate. All of the girls you dated before her liked to act as friends in public and be all over you and up under you in private. It was exhausting, but as you stared at her side profile, you saw a new life laid out in front of you.

One full of open and out love.

You finally faced forward, but you didn’t stop yourself from sparing her a glance every now and then, meeting her eyes under the blue light.

"My God! That was incredible," Annie laughed loudly as you drove back to Clarksdale. The roads were quiet once again. Cicadas chirped in the long grasses near the side of the road, but her voice of pure joy was louder than that and the roar of your truck combined. She clapped her hands with content, and she giggled to herself. "I can't believe you just took me to see a movie."

You briefly looked from the road to enjoy the astonishment on her face.

"I hope you enjoyed it," you sighed with a smile.

"You hope," she questioned with a goofy eye. "That's the best date I've ever been on." The energy shifted as you both took in the night sky and path ahead of you. You didn't drive late at night very often, but were certainly enjoying yourself, mentally preparing another date for you both. "I might just have to keep you around," she winked.

"Mm," you grinned. "I hope you do."

Annie breathed a heavy breath. She spoke with a quiet tone, but she was very sure of herself.

"I want you to know that I don't want to keep you hidden," she guaranteed you, picking up your hand that was sitting idly on the gear shift. "I know you've had unsavory relationships in the past, and I don't even know if you wanna, like, be with me in that way, but I told my grandma 'bout you. And I'll gladly hold your hand while walking down a busy street. You don't have to worry 'bout that with me."

Her confession brought tears to your eyes so much so that you were starting to tremble. You pulled the car over to the side of the road and just turned towards her.

Annie reached up and wiped your face before cradling your head in her warm hands.

In a gust of desire and honesty, you lunged forward, connecting your lips with Annie's. You moaned in each other's mouths, bodies shutting down at the tenderness around you. You longed for a connection that would last far longer than either of you. The strong spiritual current that swirled around her home seemed to be thrusted into your body on account of her plump lips.

Your bodies were one, and even though you didn't want to pull apart, you knew you had to eventually.

"I want that with you," you admitted, probably moving too fast but not giving a damn about timelines or what's appropriate.

Annie's hand drifted down the side of your neck, causing your body to react involuntarily with a soft moan.

"You're so cute," she giggled, biting her bottom lip. "When I first saw you in the store, ain't know what to make of you."

"What you mean," you wondered aloud as you began driving again. Your voices were light and playful once again. You were almost to Clarksdale, but you didn't want the night to end just yet.

"I don't know," she admitted. "There's just somethin' 'bout your energy that I can't sort through just yet."

"That a bad thing?"

She smiled.

"No."

As you entered Clarksdale, a small sign marking your arrival, you asked Annie to extend your evening together:

“My friends are havin’ a li’l get together," you began, lips still tingling from that kiss. "You wanna come wit’ me?”

"It's yo' friends from yesterday," she questioned. Her hands toyed with your fingers idly, and you breathed contently at the contact.

"Mhm."

She hummed back at you, playfully raising her eyebrows and placing a finger on her chin to appear in deep thought. Like turning you down was even a possibility, but you both knew she wanted to come with.

"Fine," she struggled, reminding you of how she had acted yesterday when you offered her a ride. You chuckled at her silliness. "But if yo' mean friend get rowdy again today, I'm gon' have to make good on my promises to cut his ass." She nodded curtly.

"And I'll make good on mine too, lovely," you assured. "I've got you. I promise."

Annie smiled in her seat and sang to herself—and you. You loved her deep voice. It was captivating and warming.

As you turned a corner, Mary's house came into view. You saw the lights were on at the barn, so you knew everyone was still there.

You hoped that they wouldn’t make a big deal about you finally getting a girl, but you knew they’d be on some bullshit like always.

~~~~~~~~~~~

gonna have some fun with part threeee. i must say that i do like smoke, but it must be done for the plot

@bigjh and @theelusivemidnighthoe asked to be tagged :3

[goth-mami-writer]

¤ Sweet, Silver Affliction ¤ (pt.9)

▪︎ King Baldwin × f!Reader arranged marriage work

《 In the hours later, Baldwin was at the head of the long, ornate refectory table where most of his men in the Christian crusades had gathered to share petitions with their king. As the minutes turned to hours, it was steadily becoming a boasting game of tall tales spun by one hand to the next.

The Crusaders were relaxed around him, something that admittedly Baldwin didn't care for. He didn't prefer them to believe that he was friendly in their company but he minded their small talk cordially, knowing that saving face was always the higher road. He found himself more understanding of lower societal issues after immersing himself in their banter.

The king admittedly wasn't paying close attention when one spoke up at him in the silence between chatter,

“Your Grace, we have yet to see your Muslim bride. There are some that say that she is a ghost.”

Baldwin found small, menial offense to this characterization of yourself that was shallow, yet none to his surprise. He tilted his mask and entertained the question monotonically,

“She's neither a ghost nor Muslim. Tuunda’an is newly converted in Christian belief.”

The room became quiet after his informative mention intended to clear any disbelief of your upbringing but another voice seated at the table rose with another question made from rumor in the city,

“I thought she was intended to a nephew of Saladin. One that was in strong camaraderie with her father in Hadjari.”

“Saladin has too many kin within Arabia to make mention- it could have been Saladin himself for all we know of.” Another said, jesting the others around him with a nudge of his elbow.

The room grew in laughter except that of the king. It was true that had you not been married to Jerusalem, Saladin had relatives in line for your marriage. But your father wanted differently in terms of alliance in the great war across the Jordan. There were rebellions taking place near your homeland and finding good trust through either marriages or gold, was wisest.

But you were worth so much more than the gold promised by a king. Or an ally with the strongest army in the world.

He silenced their laughing with a hand raised above his hardened gaze. When man by man became hushed at the sight of the king demanding their quiet respect, he spoke firmly to redirect their intentions,

“I cannot punish your curiosity for the finer details of my wife. But what I can reprimand is loose tongues who choose to misinform others about their future Queen. Should you refrain from slandering the likes of me, do her the same respect or live to regret it.”

~

Meanwhile, before supper, you were in the private ward with the sunset falling low, soaking in one of the baths with the castle girls running about to have you prepared for dinner with the King. You were at peace although your mind was still weighed heavily by Baldwin's previous words. Suddenly, Risha tapped your shoulder to ask whether you wanted a cool blue silk or maybe a taupe velvet for your gown tonight.

You turned in the bath, deciding which one would look better in candlelight since you'd be with the King and you spoke up to say that you'd be fine with the velvet taupe. Yasmeen chimed up after you made your decision and said with a cheeky remark,

“This one is easier to take off, anyhow-”

You giggled with them, feeling the sense of girlish mischief creep into the air upon their mentions of you romancing the King and you turned again in the bath, resting your elbows onto the stone ledge to tell them in secrecy with whispered words in your mother tongue,

“I think I will be with him again tonight.”

All three of them grew loudly in joy, troublemaking smiles framing their mouths as they charged closer. Hana only found it close enough to be in the bath with you, damning her skirt and shawl to the water to hear just exactly what the king had told you.

“What if he shows you his face?”

“I don't think he means that- i think he meant differently.”

They argued the true nature of his intentions but what he meant or didn't mean- meant little. You were so scared of displeasing him even unintentionally and you spoke your fears with a mousey tone, unsure if they'd understand your worries or not.

“What if….the king doesn't like…when I'm with him?”

Their eyes grew wide and Yasmeen spoke up, always being the most surprising when it came to adding her input and she said lowly in contribution to the secrecy in the air now,

“I used to sew dresses for a girl….who worked in a pleasure house. She told me once…that all men, kings or thieves- like the same thing when they are with you.”

Everyone including you stayed silent, feeling the suspense clawing at your throat to know the one thing that could buy his satisfaction forever and she leaned in, knowing this must be said even below that of a whisper.

“Your eyes, Princess. If your eyes tell him that he is the only man in the world- he'll be sated..even on the first try.”

Your cheeks blushed, almost expecting her to say something far, far more vulgar but you were glad for the simpleness behind it. If she was right, maybe your virgin experience wouldn't damn you if he intended….not to show his face after all. The girls giggled louder, egging you on in flattery and timidness that only felt like the beginning of a warm friendship - at last.

~~

At supper, you were surprised to see that the room where you usually took to eating at the King's side was empty. Your long dining table was already set and lit with soft candles. The curtains were drawn to let in the twilighting glow of the sky during sunset, something you would've liked to see with Baldwin.

You were told by his Majesty's servants that the king was kept in his last advisory hearing of the night but that you should begin your meal without him. In the minutes later, thinking that maybe you'd be without the king during your evening meal altogether- the doors clattered open to the royal dining space.

Baldwin felt different when he approached the table and you felt his spirit hang heavy in the air when he asked the cupbearers and other servants to leave at once. He passed by you entirely to stand at the window, lying his palms on the flat half wall while they all made quick to depart from the room.

You felt pulled to him with the silence setting in so loudly now and you stood from your seat. Together your hands writhed as you treaded close to him, nearing his side in the evening breeze that caught the curtains and you asked in meekness as to not hinder his already ignited feelings.

“What troubles thee, My Lord?”

His eyes closed beneath the mask, signaling a haggard inhale meant to gather his composure and his thoughts to try and tell you with a calmness that seemed otherworldly for what he described,

“Something tells me that….the Lord Crusaders do not favor you. Either your heritage or something more... meaningless”

The words hung heavy between you after leaving his lips and he focused his stare towards you when he began explaining with emphasis, realizing that this was the first time in so long that he'd opened up to someone about the harshness of ruling those you didn't care for,

“Their approval couldn't mean lesser its weight in bronze to me. But they are brave. Dare I say conniving-”

You wondered to what resolution this matter of thinking was headed and he said in conclusion with his body turned to face you more intimately,

“When you're crowned, swear to me that their words will never find you. One's perception of talk will either align your morals as a ruler or destroy them.”

You smiled hearing that this sour mood was coming from a place of worry for your feelings and you nodded to give him his promise. But only before explaining that you weren't unaccustomed to unsavory rumors or being disliked by the more provincial side of the caste.

Softly, you entwined his hand into your own and spoke of what knew from your life in Hadjari, remembering to give him your eyes as Yasmeen had described,

“My father's rule did not go unspoken of. I am the one who is worried, your grace. I wanted our union to try and stop some of these undeserving rumors that you receive.”

“They'll always talk of me, angel. It's a life that I'm used to enduring. Undeserving rumors of yourself is what I'd like to avoid entirely.”

Your face became cupped in his gloved hands, making your heart swell as well as your breathing. His gaze swallowed you in, telling you with only a gesture that this was the beginning of his peace being found only within your presence. His twilling fingers stroked down your hair sweetly and he said once he'd taken the needed breath to regain away from his anger,

“Did I interrupt your meal, beloved?”

You shook your head but when he turned to see your plate hardly touched, he moved his eyes in only a silent glance for you to be reseated so that you may continue. He petted your head, nudging the side of his mouth to your temple in a figurative kiss through his mask when you sat down again. He then made his leave to the adjacent side room that sometimes he used as a study.

He always left you alone as you ate, whether it was your morning breakfast or the last evening meal, which perplexed you.

When you made sure to leave a more convincing, empty plate that wouldn't cause him to argue, you stood to find where he'd wandered off. You found him at one of his empty scribing desks. The candles were hardly aflame high enough for you to see through his thick cloud of frankincense but as you approached, you saw now that his left hand was completely unbandaged.

He was changing his coverings and when your presence was finally noticed, you were surprised that he wasn't reprimanding you for sneaking,

“Princess….please do not come closer so soon after eating.”

Your first instinct was to ask if that was to imply that you were meant to be disgusted and the thought alone moved you faster to his side.

Baldwin's eyes noticed your bravery but still quickly hid his wounded and unfortunate limp hand under a silk cloth he used for cleaning his skin. You began reaching forward as to move the delicate silk and he stopped you again- making you say carefully so as to not appear impatient,

“I drank every drop of that awful drink this morning made by the apothecaries. Please- my lord, let me see.”

He sighed heavily from under his mask, in a way that which you hadn't heard from him ever since you arrived in Jerusalem. It was the sound of his desperate grip on his perceived image being let go… but only slightly.

Slowly, with his understood permission, you removed the cloth from his troubled left hand where you saw that he had just begun wrapping his new bandage around his palm. He then turned his wrist, afraid you would reach to do it yourself and you saw then his true skin where the lesions of his leprosy became revealed to your eyes.

After a moment, hearing his heart beginning to drum with such a murderous intent that swelled his veins, he swallowed to then watch your reaction. Your eyes were softened in pity, which he expected, but not of fear….or disgust. His skin was tragic…even if this was the hand that had no feeling from nerve damage. You didn't want to stare, so you asked with your eyes glancing away to find his own, something he hoped wasn't intentional,

“Does it hurt? Even with no feeling?”

“It-..” he said, hating that he was beginning to stammer like a child,

“It takes a great deal…”

You reached forward, knowing he'd most likely tell you to stop- but you slowly raised your hand upon the table. His movements in the hand were slow, you saw it in his languid fingers that were laboriously flicking to the desk as your touch became closer.

Carefully, knowing you couldn't necessarily hurt him, you turned his palm to face upwards- lying his hand flat in a brush. With the gentleness of a breath, you began to intertwine your hand into his own, somehow in amazement that he hadn't protested the idea altogether so far.

His eyes widened to see you willfully touching his bare skin, putting your hands palm-to-palm with little concern of his condition, and what little was known to contract it. You laced his fingers in with your own, but then felt as he locked the demure embrace by squeezing his hand ever so gently against yours.

You turned to find him already staring and you wondered again if he could be smiling under his mask. Gradually, both of you became closer, easing into the tender space where both of your voices would turn to a whisper and he finally broke the silence,

“Kiss me…-please.”

His soft, broken request melted you inside, even as you remained unaware of how deeply he was affected by seeing you pay no reaction at all to take him by the hand….as lovers do.

It was mindless to lean in and you thought he would want just a small sentiment of touch upon his mask but you watched as he slightly adjusted his veneer upwards, remembering he wouldn't be revealed from the candlelight being so dim.

He pulled you to his mouth with his free hand cupping the back of your head, while his other squeezed your careful grip with all the strength he could muster in his wounded limb. Something that made your face burn to know that he was placing effort into the embrace- no matter how menial.

It struck him as you were joined in the kiss that the feelings between you were changing. Of course you were beautiful and rightly, he desired your touch. But it was more now.

Admiration in your marriage would spawn respect- something essential for a King and Queen. Understanding would bring patience, lust would bring children- but what of love? For the first time, as your hand held the back of his head just the same, he felt you to be lovers.

Real lovers instead of two parts of a union luckily attracted to the spouse they were arranged with.

His heart thundered at the thought, never thinking of himself to have a romance that made him feel like a youngling love swept by a girl but he swooned with a nervous breath as the kiss continued, wanting to savor every moment of having butterflies in his stomach at the thought of... being in love for the first time. 》

[virginiaisforvampires]

people are always focusing on Louis not saying 'I love you'' but if i'm not wrong Lestat only say it once and he is only muttering the words.I'm not counting San Francisco because it's not direct and Louis can't hear. We know they love each other and show their love all the time with details but technically neither of them really say to the other a clear 'I LOVE YOU LESTAT - I LOVE YOU LOUIS' . And it's gonna be beautiful when we get there.

While I agree it will be a beautiful moment, it’s not exactly something people are imagining or wrongly focusing upon, because it’s canon within the show that the writer’s have established Louis specifically withholds a verbal “I love you” as a weapon.

Of course, there are other issues at play, but it is a legitimate issue within the relationship.

As for Lestat, he does verbally tell Louis that he loves him, and it seems to be a recurring theme in that Lestat will always profess his love when Louis is in distress.

Namely here:

And here:

And yes, the call counts, because of the implications tying back to the aforementioned examples:

In all three instances, Louis was suicidal, and Lestat was aware of it. There’s just something so touching and poignant in knowing that, when Lestat knows Louis is hurting and going over the edge, he just wants Louis to know he is loved.

Another reason these examples are so important? Louis (via Armand’s influence) was telling the tale in a way to frame Lestat as selfish and monstrous and only out for himself….but Lestat’s love bleeds through the filter.

With that in mind and with the added implications of DreamStat, it’s not a stretch to conclude Lestat likely said “I love you” to Louis a lot more than the few times Louis revealed. The letter scene hints at this even more.

In the event that you are reading this, something dreadful has occurred, which is not my own death, but rather the fact that we both now exist in two different worlds. Do not waste your life seeking revenge on the person or persons who did this. Do not give them the satisfaction of the hunt. Let treachery eat away at them from within. And you? You go carry on with your living. Know only this, mon cher, you are the only being I trust and whom I love above and beyond myself. All my love belongs to you. You are its’ keeper. A veil will now forever separate our union, but it is a thin veil. And I’m always on the other side. Face pressed up against your longing. — Lestat de Lioncourt

And Louis….cannot say it back, because he does. He does LOVE Lestat and not only that, but S2 established Louis felt guilty for never saying it back.

“I told you I loved you and you said nothing!”

It will be the moment to end all moments when Lestat finally gets to hear it, and I would bet serious money Lestat will break down sobbing, because it’s being built-up for quite the climax.

[written-with-clouds]

As The Dove Flies

Osferth x F!Reader

Summary: The story of you and Osferth

CW: Slight nsfw, handjobs (mutual)

Authors note: Hello hello hello! The time has come for the Osferth Fic I teased! I could see this becoming a bigger universe of interconnected fics surrounding yours and Osferths lives together. So if that is something y'all would be interested in please lmk!! (also, I know i've already used this gif... but i love it so shhh)

cross posted on A03

You were just three years old when your first sibling, Young Uhtred, was born. And when your mother called you over to meet him, you were sure you couldn’t love someone more.

And then four years later, when your sister, Stiorra, was born, you thought your younger self silly. Certainly you couldn’t love someone more than your sister. 

But then, at 16, you met Osferth— a young monk and the king’s bastard. He joined your fathers group alongside Finan and Sihtric, but couldn’t have been more different than the dane and the irishman. According to the drunken tales you heard from the Finan, Osferth had thrown up the first time he stabbed a man. He was quiet and bashful unlike the others who were loud and tried to bed any woman that so much as breathed near them. His differences intrigued you and you often found yourself seeking him out to have small conversations about anything you could think of. Just so that his attention was on you, even if just for a fleeting moment. Eventually, you even started to eat meals together, both of you preferring the—slightly—quieter corner of the great hall over the boisterous horde of drunken warriors.  

Your relationship with him quickly turned to one of friendship and you told yourself that was all you wanted from the monk. Even if your heart would beat irregularly whenever his shoulder brushed against yours and your cheeks would flush when he smiled at you or laughed at one of your jokes. Or that it felt as if you couldn’t breathe until he came back safe from fighting alongside your father. You were friends and nothing more. 

For years, you kept your feelings hidden. Telling yourself that nothing could happen between you and Osferth. But no matter how much you lied to yourself, your mind would still drift to him whenever you touched yourself, imagining his hands were bringing you pleasure instead of your own. Your dreams were filled with images of the monk. Visions of him kissing you sweetly when you’d welcome him home. Of him smiling gently at you while placing a hand over your swollen belly. And of the two of you raising a family together. But that’s all they would ever be… dreams and nothing more.

At 20 your mother died giving birth to your youngest brother. 

Your father was gone, fighting yet another war for Alfred, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your siblings.  

Hild and Thyra stood next to you as your mother was buried in the ground, Hild whispering a prayer for her while Thyra grasped your hand tightly and muttered words you couldn’t understand.You didn’t cry. You couldn’t cry, not while your siblings were fragile and your father was gone. You had to be strong for them. At least until he returned.

A week had passed when your father returned, the sounds of hooves and the people of Wintanceaster cheering alerting you to that fact. You watched from a distance as Hild broke the news to your father. Watching as he slumped into her small frame as she hugged him. Your eyes tore away from the scene, unable to look at it any longer, and scanned the crowd of people. 

Osferth sat on his horse still, watching your father carefully and trading looks with Finan and Sihtric. His eyes found yours eventually, and he smiled warmly. You waved back to him weakly and even from a distance you could see his face twist in worry. 

Osferth found you later that evening sitting on an empty bench near the town center. “I didn’t see you at supper.” He said, holding out a bowl of stew. “I thought you might be hungry.” 

You sat unmoving, just staring up at the stars. 

“My lady?” Osferth tried again. And when you didn’t respond or move, he set the bowl down on a nearby stump and sat next to you. He looked at the stars with you quietly, waiting for you to speak or move first. And after what felt like an eternity, you finally spoke. 

“She’s dead..” You whispered. 

“I know,” He replied. You crumpled against yourself, finally letting the tears fall from your eyes. Your arms wrapped tightly around your body but were soon replaced by Osferth’s. His touch was tentative and unsure, but when your hands tightly held onto him and you turned to hide your head against him, his hold became more confident. His arms hugged you to him as one hand rubbed your back. You could hear him whispering soothing words as you finally let yourself experience the grief of losing your mother. 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sat there, but as your sobs died down and your breathing evened out, the moon was high in the sky and the town had quieted down. 

“We should get you home, M’Lady..” Osferth quietly suggested. When you nodded against his chest and hummed your agreement he stood and carefully helped you up as well. 

Osferth saw to it that you made it home safely, going as far as to help you lay down on the bed. Your eyes were already closing as he pulled the blanket over you, but as he turned to leave your hand darted out and grabbed his wrist. 

“Stay… please,” You pleaded. When he hesitated, you quietly added, “I don’t want to be alone..” 

“As you wish..” Osferth replied as he sat down on the floor beside you, his hand covering yours.

When you awoke the next morning, Osferth was gone.

The next month happened in the blink of an eye. Your father became an enemy of Wessex and your brothers and sister were taken from Coccham by order of the king. You would have been taken as well, were it not for Hild. When you had seen the guards entering your home and dragging your siblings out, you had run to the nunnery and begged for her help. She sent you to a nunnery in Wincelcumb. Upon your arrival, you learn that the Lady Aethelflaed was also in hiding at the nunnery. 

You spent your days helping the nuns clean and cook, insisting that you will not be a burden on them and would earn your stay. Just as your mother had raised you. Any spare time you had was spent practicing with an old bow and arrow you had found in a storage shed. Though, not long after your arrival in Wincelcumb, your father, along with his men, arrived. 

“Why are you here and not in Coccham?” Your father asked, crushing you in a hug. 

“Kingsmen,” You managed to wheeze out before your father loosened his grip. “They took Stiorra, Young Uhtred, and Osbert…” 

Your fathers face remained calm, but you could see the worry and panic fill his eyes. “How did you get away? Where were your siblings taken?” 

“I wasn’t home when they stormed in.. Hild sent me here until it was safe.” You responded, averting your fathers gaze as you continued. “I don’t know what’s happened to them though..”

He pulled you against him for another rib cracking hug and whispered against your ear. “That’s okay, Alfred wouldn’t hurt a child.. what matters is that you’re safe.” It sounded more as if he was calming himself than you, but it didn’t matter. All that did matter was that he was here and safe and that he would set things right so you could return to your normal life. 

Osferth found you later that night. You were outside, restringing your bow– or rather, trying to– by a fire, when he sat next to you. “You can use one of those?” 

“I’m learning…” you respond, breaking off into a curse as the string snapped, cutting into the skin of your hand. You hissed, looking at the wound.

Osferth took your hand in his, and examined the fresh cut. On your hand, he found more than just the one scratch. Smaller cuts and bruises in various states of healing surrounded the fresh wound on your hand and wrist. “You’ve a lot of cuts and scratches M’Lady..” 

“I did say I was learning.” You pouted, watching Osferth as he moved your hand this way and that. “How long will you be staying?” 

“In truth, I don’t know.” Osferth said, letting go of your hand and meeting your gaze. “Not until Lord Untred knows for certain that the Lady Aethelflaed is no longer in danger.” 

The danger came less than a full day later in the form of Haesten. His men blocked all the exits except for the main doors, where they waited impatiently. Haesten would call out occasionally, goading your father to react. 

After hours of planning and hushed arguing, your father had finally figured out a way to save Lady Aethelflaed: By offering up Skade in her stead. Haesten, predictably, took the bait. You watched from a window as the group of Danes left, nervously glancing at your father and his men. 

The next morning, you set out with your father, Finan, Sihtric, Osferth, and Aethelflaed for Aegelesburg. You spent most of the trip riding alongside Osferth and joking with Finan. Occasionally, Sihtric would join in, yelling some crude comment over his shoulder.

 As your group grew closer to Aegelesburg, your father dropped back next to you. “Put your hood up and keep your head low until we are inside. I do not need Alfred to notice you were not taken with your siblings.” He ordered sternly, giving you no time to react before pushing his horse forward again.

You brushed your horse's mane absentmindedly. Your thoughts spiraled as you worried about your father and what the King might do when he sees him, regardless of Lady Aethelflaed’s protection. You’re so lost in your mind that you didn’t notice the loose hay crunch beneath someone’s feet as they entered the stables. 

“Does something trouble you, M’Lady?” A gentle voice asked beside you. 

“Osferth!” You startled, “don’t sneak up on me like that!” 

“I was hardly quiet,” He smiled. Your eyes flicked down to his lips before quickly looking back to his eyes. His smile was soft and kind. Like the first warm breeze after winter. His eyes were no different. Looking into them as he looked back at you was akin to being wrapped in a warm fur during the coldest months. 

“Is everything alright?” Osferth asked again, his voice bringing you out of your thoughts. “You were staring off again.” 

You let out a sigh and set down the brush you were using. “I guess, I’m…” you trailed off, shaking your head slightly as your jaw clenched and unclenched. “...I’m worried… My siblings are who knows where and have most likely been separated. They’re probably terrified, Osferth.” 

You said the last part quietly, as if you’re afraid that if it’s said any louder it’ll become true. Osferth placed his hand on either of your arms and gently rubbed them.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine. King Alfred wouldn’t do anything to hurt an innocent child… they are being taken care of, I’m sure of it.” Osferth says, trying to comfort you and unintentionally mirroring your father. 

You scoffed, stepped out of his grasp, turned your back to him, and continued to untangle your horse’s mane with your fingers. “The man you claim wouldn’t hurt an innocent child… is currently the only man capable of condemning my father to death, Osferth.” Your voice grows unsteady and your hands tremble as you begin to cry, “My father.. is currently alone with the one man that could see him killed. It would make my siblings and I orphans…We are already wounded from the death of our mother. What do you think would happen if our father was killed?” 

Osferth placed a hand on your shoulder and lightly pulled to turn you around. Once you were facing him again he pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. One hand stroked your hair soothingly as you cried into his shoulder while clinging onto him desperately. 

“I cannot lose another parent. Not now.. not so soon!” You whimpered between ragged breaths. 

“Shh…” He whispers against your ear, “it’s alright… nothing is going to happen..” 

“How can you be so…so sure?” 

“The king is not a stupid man. And killing your father would be the stupidest decision he could make. He would not risk Edward wearing the crown without Lord Untred by his side to advise him.” Osferth speaks plainly. 

You pulled away slightly, looking up at Osferth. Before you could speak, however, he continued. 

“And besides, you wouldn’t ever be alone. Finan, Sihtric, Hild, and I… None of us would ever leave you or your siblings to fend for yourselves..” 

“You promise?” You asked weakly. 

“I do.” 

You stared into his eyes for a long moment as time stopped around you. Suddenly, the world around the two of you fell away. Leaving nothing but you and Osferth. Before you could think to do otherwise, you pulled Osferth down and planted your lips against his. You felt his hands flex where they had fallen on your waist. He didn’t kiss back, not right away, but after a second or two his lips tentatively pressed into yours. His hands pulled you closer to him as yours slid up around his neck and into his hair. 

The sound of your horse blowing air out through their nose made you jolt. You stepped back from Osferth and quickly gathered your things before rushing out of the stables, leaving Osferth behind.

You avoided Osferth for the rest of the day and most of the next after your kiss in the stables. While he had kissed back, you couldn’t shake the fear of him denying you. You couldn’t risk potentially losing him because of one moment of weakness. And fate had agreed with you, in the form of sending your father off to another battle. And with him, Osferth. 

You remained safe behind the walls of Aegelesburg, though you quickly grew antsy, not used to the lack of chores. Normally, your mother would have had an endless list of tasks for you to do—in between helping her chase down your siblings. It helped to make the wait for your fathers return not feel as long. And kept your mind from wandering to the possibility of him not coming back. 

With the lack of soldiers within the walls, the training yard became quiet and you jumped at the idea of practicing with your bow. The hours bled together as you fired arrow after arrow at the targets, missing most of your shots. Just as you had drawn the arrow back for the millionth time, the remaining guards within the watchtowers yelled for the gate to be opened. You took a deep breath and let your last arrow fly, hitting the target dead center. 

Your celebration, however, was short lived. As line after line of dirty bloodied men entered the walls of Aegelesburg while you watched anxiously for your father. But your nerves didn’t calm when you finally saw him, alive and well. With him came Finan and Sihtric, but you caught no sight of Osferth and your blood ran cold. 

Your father had barely managed to dismount from his horse before you got to him. “Father, where is Osferth? He left with you did he not?” 

“He did.” Your father answered, his expression level and his jaw set. 

“Then where is he?” You could do nothing to stop the panic from seeping out into your voice. 

“He is fine. He will travel back to Aethelflaed’s estate in Saltwic to recover. You will go with him.” 

“What about you? Will you stay here?” 

Your father rested his hands on your shoulders. “I will follow behind you. Same with Finan and Sihtric. Now go gather your things, you will be leaving shortly.”

For the duration of the journey back to Saltwic you rode near the cart carrying Osferth, watching him carefully. He was unconscious for most of the ride, only stirring occasionally during rests when the healer would check his wound. 

Once your group had safely made it to Saltwic, you had settled into the room you were allocated, and had checked on your horse, you sought out Osferth’s room and lightly knocked on the door, not wanting to disturb him if he was still resting. 

“Come in.” Came Osferths voice. He sounded weak and it pulled at your heart. 

You tentatively stepped into the room, letting the door fall shut behind you. Osferth laid on his bed, pillows bunched behind his back to slightly prop up his torso. Although he had been sleeping for most of the day, he still looked seconds away from falling unconscious. 

Leaning against the far wall, you chewed on your bottom lip nervously as your eyes looked anywhere in the room but him. “Are you alright?” 

“I am fine, M’Lady… the sword merely grazed my side.” 

“Good… that’s good.” You cleared your throat, “I am glad you’re okay..” 

“My lady?” Osferth asked and when you hummed in acknowledgment, he continued. “I have a request I’d like to make..” 

“What would that be?” You responded quietly, still not quite looking at him. 

You heard the faint sound of fabric shuffling before Osferth spoke again. “Sit with me for a while?”  

You approached the bed cautiously, as if afraid that Osferth would change his mind, and sat on the edge. Though you still didn’t look at him and kept your eyes on your lap. 

“Why won’t you look at me?” Osferth inquired, breaking the silence that had passed over the two of you. You could hear him inhale sharply as he shifted again. 

You shook your head and swallowed around the lump that had formed in your throat, hating the way your voice cracked when you said “I can’t…” 

“Why…” Osferth paused, the word drawn-out in thought. His hand came up and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You’re crying. Why are you crying?” 

Were you crying? Now that he mentioned it, your cheeks were wet and your vision blurry with unshed tears. 

“Why are you crying?” Osferth asked again, softer this time. His hand on your cheek shifted, making you look at him. His brows were furrowed with concern and his eyes searched yours. 

Finally meeting his gaze, you broke. Your body crumpled against his as you cried against his chest. “I kissed you!”

“You are crying because we kissed?” He asked carefully. 

“I kissed you! And then I avoided you because I couldn’t risk you turning me away. I couldn’t risk losing you because you didn’t like me the way I like you! I avoided you and then you got hurt! You were hurt and I hated myself for being such a coward!” Your hands tightly fisted the fabric of his tunic as your body trembled. “When you didn’t ride in on your horse… when I saw my father and Finan and Sihtric but not you, my heart stopped beating… I–I couldn’t breathe Osferth. I feared you had died.. That you had left me. You promised you wouldn’t leave me! You promised, Osferth!” 

Osferth shushed you and ran his hand through your hair like he had in the stables. You continued, quieter this time, “You can’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Osferth! My heart does not beat without you, my lungs do not draw in air. You are my life Osferth, even if you do not share my feelings, if you do not love me the way I love you…” 

He held you until your body stopped shaking and your sobs lessened, then he cupped your face once more and brought your face up to his. Osferth laid gentle kisses over each of your eyes, on your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and then finally, he kissed your lips.

“I am sorry I scared you,” Osferth rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes, you did the same. 

“Does this mean–”

“I share your feelings, my dove.”

Years had passed since King Alfred’s death and King Edward’s coronation. Your father had been pardoned by King Edward, and had since pledged his loyalty to the throne again. Stiorra and Young Uhtred were returned to your fathers care and while Stiorra now lived in Saltwic, Young Uhtred had decided to remain in Wessex at St. Wilfrid’s Church—much to your father’s dismay. It took a lot of convincing for your father to allow you to return to Coccham, but when he finally caved it was with one condition. You were to contribute to the settlement and help wherever you could, much like your mother had done as lady of the estate. 

It was through this condition that you had managed to become a rather skilled archer. You trained with the hunters so frequently that you had broken twice as many bows as most. 

Your relationship with Osferth flourished as the two of you would bask in the stolen moments you shared. From quiet moments tucked around corners to fleeting kisses when no one was looking or momentarily hooking your pinkies together as you walked past each other. But your favorite moments were late at night while everyone was asleep. When you would lay with your head on his chest, your legs tangled together under a blanket, as he traced nonsensical patterns over your back and side. 

Thinking of those stolen moments were all that kept you sane. Your father had sent Finan, Sihtric, and Osferth to gather information on Bebbanburg. But nearly a year had passed since you last saw Osferth, and you were beginning to go crazy. 

You sit on the riverbank, absentmindedly sharpening an arrow when you hear the telltale sound of a ship coming into dock followed by Finan yelling. You stood hastily and brushed off the dirt from your bottoms before rushing to the dock where a small group of people had gathered. 

You smiled and hugged both Finan—who lifted you off the ground and crushed your lungs— and Sihtric in greeting. Your smile widened slightly as you turned from Sihtric to greet Osferth, hugging him only slightly longer than was necessary and whispering in his ear. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, my dove.” He whispered back before the two of you separated.

You stalk behind Osferth, carefully choosing each step so as not to alert the monk to your presence. Concealed behind a tree, you watch as he begins to strip off his dirty clothes before wading into the water of a secluded section of river. 

Carefully, you remove your own clothing, setting them in a neat pile on the ground. You make yourself known as you step into the water, wading over to him. “You will be riding to Wintanceaster?” 

Osferth faces you, the tips of his ears blushing at the sight of you naked, no matter how many times he had seen your body. “It would seem so.” 

When you finally reach him his hands find your hips as yours circle around his neck, your bodies slotting together naturally. You sigh into him as Osferth kisses your lips, your eyes falling shut and your lips spreading into a satisfied grin. 

“How long do I have you for?” You ask in a whisper when he finally pulls away. 

Osferth sets his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as your hands move from his neck to start scooping up water to wash the dirt from his body. “Not long. Your father wishes to leave as soon as possible… it was a fight to get him to agree to let us wash up first.” 

“We’ll have to be quick then..” Before Osferth can respond, you smash your mouth to his. Your tongue prods against his bottom lip and he opens his mouth in response, his tongue sliding over yours. You slide one hand down his front and grasp his hardening cock, smirking at the moan Osferth lets out. His hands find your rear, squeezing and massaging the flesh.

You break the kiss, pulling his head down to nip at his earlobe before whispering, “Will you still resist properly fucking me?” You give a deliberately slow tug to his cock, wringing him from base to tip, as you moan into Osferth’s ear before continuing. “Even after so many months apart?” 

Osferth trails his lips over the skin of your shoulder, “I will not take your virtue, I cannot take what is not mine… that is reserved for your husband.” 

Your groan of frustration turns to a moan of pleasure as his hand snakes down between your bodies and his fingers find your clit. He slowly circles the pads of his fingers against you, relishing in the way your hips twitch at the feeling. You recapture Osferths mouth in a needy kiss, your hand speeding up as you continue to jerk him off. 

You moan into his mouth, panting harshly as his fingers quicken over you, matching the pace of your strokes. 

With how long you both were apart, it’s no surprise when Osferth groans. You can feel his cock twitch in your hand as he cums, his hand momentarily stilling between your legs. He spins you so that you’re now facing him. Osferth dips, his mouth latching onto one of your breasts while his fingers continue to pleasure you. He alternates between swirling his tongue around your nipple and lightly grazing his teeth over it. 

Your hands claw at his shoulders as you moan, your body arching into his as Osferth brings you to orgasm. He continues to pleasure you until you push in his shoulders lightly and your hips jerk away in overstimulation. Osferth releases your nipple and trails gentle kisses up your chest, neck, and along your jaw before finally settling against your lips for one last kiss. 

The two of you finish washing in comfortable silence, with the only sound coming from the water sloshing around you. Osferth helps you with the laces of your dress once you both are mostly dry. When he is done you help with his leather vambraces. 

Osferth leans his forehead against yours once more before parting and turning to leave. But before he gets far, you reach out and grab his wrist. 

“Marry me.” You say before you can think better of it. 

Osferth turns to look at you, shock written on his face. “What?” 

“Marry me, Osferth. There is no other man for me, there hasn’t been… not since the moment I saw you.” 

“How-“ 

“Hild is in Wintanceaster… I can make up a reason to come along when you depart.. while my father is speaking with the king, Hild can marry us..” 

Osferth chuckles slightly and smiles at you fondly. His hands grip onto your forearms as he looks at you, “You’ve seemingly been planning.. but we would still need to find a way to tell-“ 

“Hild already knows,” You say, cutting Osferth off. “She figured it out not long after you left..” 

“We still haven’t told your father, my dove.” He says carefully. 

“We can tell him once he has finally reclaimed Bebbenberg.. After we are married, I cannot wait any longer.” 

“Alright.” Osferth’s smile widened, “We will marry in Wintanceaster.” 

Not long after entering Wintanceaster you excuse yourself, giving a half hearted lie when your father asks where you are heading. You trek through the city, trying to keep any unwanted memories at bay and before you know it you’re standing in front of the nunnery. You knock on the heavy wooden door and wait. Soon enough, the door opens. 

After asking to speak with Hild, and vaguely explaining why, you are brought inside and shown to a small dinning hall. Before long, Hild enters the room and greets you fondly, pulling you into a warm hug which you eagerly return.  

“Abbess Hild…” you start, the two of you now sitting at one of the dining tables. “I have a… strange… request to make.” 

“Whatever it is, I will gladly help however I can…” She says softly, her hands find yours over the table acting as  a comforting weight overtop your own fidgeting ones.

“Well… I was hoping… can you..” As you struggle for words Hild sits patiently and lets you figure out the right words to use. “Would you officiate a wedding? Mine.. to be specific.” 

She raises an eyebrow in shock, “Your wedding? You are getting married?” 

“Yes… Osferth and I have decided it’s time.” 

A smile spreads across her face as she jumps up and rounds the table to hug you. “That’s wonderful, dear! When is the date?” 

“Tomorrow… while my father is speaking with the king.” You respond carefully. 

“While he’s… Wouldn’t you prefer a time when your father is present?” Hild asks, releasing you from the hug and sitting back. At your avoidant gaze and lack of answer, she continues. “He doesn’t know. Does he?” 

“We’re going to tell him.. after he takes Bebbenberg.” 

“He should know before you’re married,” 

“I know… I just— I can’t risk him saying no.” You hang your head, hands fidgeting in your lap as you bite your lip. “Please, Hild… I love him. And he loves me.” 

“Alright, I’ll do it. But if you still haven’t told your father once he retakes Bebbenberg—“ 

“We will. I promise.”

With everything set and the plan figured out, all that was left for you to do was wait while Hild made up an excuse for needing to borrow Osferth. You paced nervously around the church hall, your hand fiddling with the Mjölnir pendant your father had gifted you years ago. 

Two voices slowly approached the church hall, becoming more clear the closer they got. A man and a woman– Osferth and Hild. Your heart stutters in your chest, uncertainty suddenly flooding your system. What if Osferth only agreed to placate you, what if he had changed his mind and he was trying to find an excuse to get out of this. You were seconds from fully panicking when Hild entered the room, Osferth coming in behind her. 

The warm smile that overtook Osferths face at the sight of you was enough to quell your fears as he walked up to you. His hands found your face, cupping each cheek as he gazed down at you. 

“You’re absolutely sure you don’t want Lord Uhtred here?” He asks quietly. 

“I am sure.” You respond, just as quiet. 

Osferth plants a soft kiss against your forehead before stepping back and letting his hands fall. One hand stops at yours, grasping it in his as he leads you to the front of the hall where Hild patiently waits. She smiles at the two of you as you stop in front of her.

Silently, she gestures for you to lift your right hand and Osferth to lift his left. She lays a ribbon over your wrists before lightly winding the ends around your hands. As Hild steps back, she begins to speak. 

“Lord God in heaven, we are humbly gathered before you on this day of celebration as we witness the joining of two hearts. Entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation. In the joining of hands and the fashioning of a knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another.” 

Osferth smiles at you, his pinky interlocking with yours as Hild continues her speech and you smile back. 

“Did you have rings to exchange?” Hild asks as she unwinds the ribbon. The tips of Osferth’s ears flush a deep red as he rubs the back of his neck. 

“I, uh, I guess we really didn’t have time to get rings..” 

“How about–” You start, pulling your Mjölnir necklace over your head, “We exchange necklaces? I will wear your cross, you will wear my Mjölnir pendant? At least until we can get rings.” 

Osferth is already pulling the cross over his head by the time you’ve completed your sentence. He carefully places it over your head and situates it properly around your neck. When he is satisfied, you do the same. You let your hands linger on his shoulders as his find your hips. Osferth leans his head against yours, sighing contentedly as a soft smile graces his lips. 

“I love you.” He whispers 

“Not as much as I love you.” You whisper back. 

cross posted on Ao3

[otp-after-dark]

PLEASE, please Osblaines read this one — I highly recommend it. It had me bawling.

(God, I hate the Handmaid’s Tale writers.)

I loved it so much I had to share why this three-part fan fic resonated so deeply with me and made me remember why I fell in love with this novel and the characters in it. It brought me back to the real heart of Atwood’s story: the one about agency, survival, unconventional love, and the quiet defiance of building something entirely your own.

Castles in the Air does what the show flat-out refused to do: it writes June and Nick not just as a couple, but as true partners. It builds a life for them that isn’t conventional, clean, or easy but it’s honest, free, and chosen. This fic gave me everything canon took away.

There’s a version of The Handmaid’s Tale that remembered what it started as: not just a dystopia, not just a warning, but a rebellion against every “right way” a woman is told to live. A story that gave space for love that didn’t follow the rules. For women who don’t make the choices the world wants them to make. The show used to be that story. And then it wasn’t.

But this fic is.

Set after Season 3, Castles in the Air picks up where the real story should have: with Nick making a choice. Not just for June, but for himself. To step outside the structures he helped dismantle. To be part of something better. To fight, not just for the woman he loves, but alongside her. And not in some idealized way. This fic gets messy. Their relationship isn’t picture-perfect. It’s strained by trauma, guilt, grief, old wounds, and impossible choices. But they stay. They talk. They listen. And for once, the words aren’t one-sided.

What moved me so much is that this fic lets Nick finally say what the show never allowed him to: how deeply June’s tunnel vision has affected him, how often he’s been asked to sacrifice without being considered, how her choices, even the brave ones, have sometimes come at an unbearable cost to him. And the best part? The fic doesn’t frame him as wrong for saying so. He’s not punished. He’s heard.

And June—God, June—is so well written here. Still fierce, still raw, still capable of burning down everything in her path for the people she loves. But here she’s forced to sit with that. To look at how that fire has hurt the people closest to her. There’s a period of separation between them that just wrecked me but it’s necessary. It’s not melodrama. It’s growth. When they come back together, it’s because they’ve both chosen it. Not because they have to. Not because they’re stuck. Because it’s what they want.

This fic doesn’t just give them love—it gives them freedom. Not the hollow kind the show teases, where everyone ends up in Canada as proof they’re safe. This is a different kind of freedom. One built on mutual trust, shared purpose, and the radical act of saying:

We don’t have to follow the rules. We don’t have to live how people expect us to. We can build something real, even if it doesn’t look like what the world says a family should be.

And oh my god, the ending. I won’t spoil it, but it’s so in line with what Atwood was getting at. June choosing a path that’s uncertain, imperfect—but hers. Choosing love that’s not safe, but true. It’s powerful in the quietest way. The kind of ending where you finally exhale and realize just how long you’ve been holding your breath.

Also, the side characters? Chef’s kiss. Luke is given depth and care. He’s not villainized but he’s not centered either. His grief is real, and his arc feels earned, even as it makes clear that his and June’s lives are no longer aligned. And Beth—oh my god, BETH. She’s smart, she’s direct, she calls June out when she needs it and supports her when it matters. She’s the perfect grounding force in all this chaos.

In the end, it doesn’t just give Nick and June a future, it gives them a choice. And more importantly, it lets June reclaim something the show tried to take from her: the right to define happiness on her own terms. Not what the world expects. Not what a good mother or good survivor is supposed to want. Just what she wants.

This fic broke my heart and then put it back together in a way canon never tried to. Please read it.

[amethystarachnid]

hiii!!! i recently discovered your blog and i am in LOVE!!! (especially with your steve rogers fics) could i request from your marvel holiday special - 24. Wrapped In Christmas Lights with female reader x steve rogers? if possible, could you make it so reader and steve rogers are friends but have had a crush on each other and reader trying to get the lights off of steve makes him extra flustered? just fluff, fluff and more fluff!!! thank you so much!!

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: literally a rom-com

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ I'm so happy when people request Steve cause he's such a baby and I love him so much and he definitely needs more recognition

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You clutch a paper bag filled with Christmas ornaments in one hand and a to-go cup of peppermint mocha in the other as you climb the stairs to Steve’s apartment. The cold December air bites at your cheeks, even though you’re wrapped up in a scarf and hat. You blame Steve and his "Brooklyn charm" for making you abandon the comfort of your heated apartment to help him decorate his Christmas tree.

"Just a tree," he'd said on the phone, his voice low and a little sheepish. "I mean, it’s no big deal, but, you know… I could use an extra set of hands."

Of course, you said yes. You always say yes to Steve.

The door to his apartment swings open before you even knock, as if he’s been standing there, watching through the peephole. "Hey!" he says, his face lighting up in a way that makes your heart do a little flip. He’s dressed casually in a cream sweater that looks like it’s seen a few decades of loyal service and a pair of jeans that hug his frame just right.

"Hey yourself," you say, pushing past him before your brain goes too far down the admiration rabbit hole. "You didn’t tell me I’d have to lug all the ornaments up three flights of stairs."

"I offered to come get you," he says, closing the door behind you. There’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. "You said you could handle it."

"I didn’t know it would feel like carrying a bag of bowling balls. What are these ornaments made of, vibranium?"

Steve lets out a laugh, the kind that makes you smile before you can stop yourself. "I told you to pack light."

"You’re the one who doesn’t have a single ornament in this apartment. It’s like a Christmas crime scene in here."

He rubs the back of his neck, his sheepishness kicking up a notch. "I guess I’ve never really gotten into decorating. Figured it might be more fun with… someone else."

Your chest tightens. Steve has this way of making you feel like you’re the most important person in the world, even when he doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he does. You’re not great at figuring that part out.

"Well, lucky for you, I’m a Christmas tree expert." You set the bag down on the small dining table and peel off your scarf and coat, hanging them on the back of a chair. The apartment smells faintly of pine, thanks to the freshly-cut tree standing in the corner by the window. It’s tall and a little lopsided, but somehow it suits Steve perfectly.

"Expert, huh?" He raises an eyebrow as he takes your coat and hangs it on the hook by the door. "Didn’t know that was on your résumé."

"Yep. Right under 'excellent taste in holiday drinks.'" You hold up your peppermint mocha and take a triumphant sip.

He grins, shaking his head. "You want something stronger? Coffee, tea, maybe hot cocoa?"

"Tempting, but this cup of Christmas cheer is all I need for now. Besides," you gesture at the tree, "we’ve got work to do."

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the counter, watching you with a look you can’t quite decipher. "You’re really into this, huh?"

"Steve," you say, deadpan, "this is Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. Of course I’m into it."

He chuckles, moving to the other side of the room to grab a box of string lights. His movements are deliberate, like he’s stalling for time. You’ve noticed that about him—he’s not great at hiding when something’s on his mind. You, on the other hand, have mastered the art of pretending your heart doesn’t do gymnastics every time he looks at you like that.

"You want to tell me why your tree’s leaning like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil?" you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

"I, uh…" He scratches his head. "I didn’t know they came with stands, so I just kinda… improvised."

"Improvised how?"

He points to the base of the tree, where it’s propped up in a bucket filled with gravel. You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh, but it’s no use. You double over, tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

"Don’t laugh," he protests, though he’s smiling too. "It’s functional."

"It’s a disaster," you say between giggles. "We’re lucky it hasn’t toppled over yet."

"I was going for rustic," he says, crossing his arms in mock indignation.

"Sure, Cap. Rustic." You wipe your eyes and shake your head. "First thing’s first: we’re fixing this."

You kneel by the tree, inspecting the bucket and the precarious balance Steve has managed to achieve. He crouches down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact sends a jolt of warmth through you, and you silently curse yourself for being so easily affected.

"So, how do we fix it?" he asks.

"We get an actual tree stand for starters. Do you have one?"

"Uh… no. But I can go get one."

You glance at the clock. "Good luck finding a hardware store open this late on a Sunday in December."

Steve frowns, and for a second, you think he might suggest tearing the whole thing down and starting over. Instead, he grabs a roll of duct tape from a nearby drawer.

"Oh no," you say, holding up a hand. "Absolutely not."

"It’ll work," he insists.

"This is why you need supervision. Step away from the duct tape."

Steve’s laugh is warm and unguarded, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you are in your own little bubble, insulated from the rest of the world. You glance at him, and for a brief second, your gazes lock. His blue eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, and your heart skips a beat.

"You’re something else," he murmurs, almost too quietly for you to hear.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away before your face gives you away. "And you’re a menace to Christmas trees everywhere. Now help me figure out how to stabilize this thing without duct tape."

As the two of you brainstorm increasingly ridiculous solutions—everything from tying the tree to the ceiling with fishing line to bracing it with a stack of books—you can’t help but feel a little giddy. Steve Rogers might be the most frustratingly charming person you’ve ever met, but right now, in this cozy little apartment filled with laughter and the faint scent of pine, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, glaring at the lopsided Christmas tree like it’s a personal nemesis. Steve’s still holding the roll of duct tape, spinning it idly in one hand as if hoping inspiration will strike. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

"This tree isn’t going to stay up unless we do something," you say, rubbing your temples. "And I am not spending Christmas with a mangled pile of pine on the floor."

Steve leans back on his heels, giving you that earnest look that always makes you want to throw a pillow at him. "You’re the expert, remember? I’m just following orders."

"Okay, first of all, stop calling me the expert unless you want to hear me ramble about how Christmas tree decorating is an art form. Second, I think we need help."

He tilts his head. "Help?"

"Your neighbors," you say. "Someone around here has to have a spare tree stand lying around."

"You’re just going to knock on doors and ask?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Steve." You push yourself up off the floor and brush off your jeans. "Besides, if you want this tree to stay upright without duct tape, we need a proper stand."

Steve sets the tape down and crosses his arms. "I could go."

"Nope," you say, grabbing your scarf from the chair. "You’re staying here and untangling those lights while I’m gone. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right."

He frowns, glancing at the box of string lights like it’s full of venomous snakes. "You’re giving me the easy job, huh?"

"Exactly. Don’t say I never do anything nice for you."

"Thanks," he deadpans, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

You pull on your coat, grab the nearest empty shopping bag to carry a stand back in, and head out the door. The building is quiet for a Sunday evening, and your footsteps echo as you make your way to the nearest apartment. You knock lightly, hoping whoever lives there is friendly and doesn’t think you’re some kind of door-to-door solicitor.

The first neighbor answers, but they don’t have a tree stand. Neither does the second, who gives you a sympathetic shrug before closing their door. By the time you get to the third door, you’re starting to think this whole plan is a bust.

But then, a middle-aged woman named Linda comes to the rescue. She’s all smiles, wearing a festive sweater adorned with a sparkly reindeer. "I think I might have one in the storage closet," she says. "Hold on, let me check."

Five minutes later, she’s handing you a dusty but serviceable tree stand with a cheerful, "Merry Christmas, sweetie!"

You thank her profusely and head back upstairs, feeling victorious. You didn’t just save Christmas—you saved Steve’s Christmas. Or at least his tree’s dignity.

The sight that greets you when you open the door to his apartment nearly makes you drop the stand.

"Steve?" you manage, your voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

He’s in the middle of the room, completely wrapped up in the string of lights. Not just tangled, but wrapped. The green wire loops around his torso, arms, and legs in a chaotic mess, and the bulbs blink cheerfully in alternating colors. He looks like a very frustrated Christmas mummy.

"Uh," he says, his cheeks bright red. "I might’ve gotten a little… stuck."

You bite your lip, trying and failing to hold back a grin. "Steve, what did you do?"

"I was untangling them!" he protests, twisting slightly, which only makes the lights tighten around him. "But then I thought it’d be easier to test them while I worked. And, uh… one thing led to another."

"You decided to test them by wrapping yourself in them?" You step inside, setting the tree stand down by the door, and cross your arms.

"Not on purpose!" he says, exasperated. "I just—look, I thought I could handle it, okay?"

"And now you’re a human Christmas display."

"Not my proudest moment," he mutters, glancing down at his glowing predicament. "I can probably get out of this if I—"

"Don’t you dare," you interrupt. "If you use your super strength to break free, you’re going to destroy those lights, and then we’ll have no tree and no lights."

He sighs, clearly resigned to his fate. "So, what’s the plan, Christmas expert?"

"The plan," you say, trying not to laugh, "is to figure out how you managed to do this to yourself in the first place."

"It’s not funny," he grumbles, though the corners of his mouth twitch.

"It’s a little funny," you say, letting out a chuckle. "Okay, maybe it’s a lot funny."

He groans, tilting his head back as if praying for patience. The lights blink red and green against his face, and for some reason, it only makes the whole thing funnier.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself," he says dryly.

"Come on, Steve, this is classic holiday hijinks!" You drop your bag and move closer, walking in a slow circle around him to assess the damage. "You could be in a Christmas movie right now."

"Great," he mutters. "What’s next? Am I going to get stuck in the chimney?"

You can’t hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach as tears form in the corners of your eyes. "Steve, you’re… you’re a walking rom-com cliché!"

He gives you an exasperated look, but there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes too. "Are you done yet?"

"Not even close," you say, wiping your eyes. "This is going in my mental scrapbook forever."

Steve rolls his eyes, but you catch the small smile tugging at his lips. You know he’s taking this in stride because that’s who he is—patient, good-natured, and, well, the kind of guy who accidentally wraps himself in Christmas lights.

You grab your phone and hold it up. "I need a picture of this."

"No way," he says, shaking his head.

"Steve, come on. This is pure gold!"

"If you take a picture, I’m never letting you forget about the time you fell off your bike in Central Park."

"That was one time!"

"And it was hilarious."

You pout, but his playful smirk makes your heart skip a beat. "Fine," you say, lowering the phone. "I’ll let you off the hook—this time."

"Generous of you," he says. He shifts his weight, and the lights jingle faintly. "So, uh… you planning on helping me out, or are you just going to stand there laughing?"

You grin, taking another moment to admire the absurdity of the situation before finally walking over to inspect the tangled mess. "Hang tight, Cap," you say with a wink. "I’ve got this."

"Hang tight," you say, trying to suppress a smirk. "This is going to take a minute."

Steve sighs, his broad shoulders slumping as much as the tangled lights will allow. He looks more resigned than relaxed, though, and there’s a tension in his jaw that you don’t miss. He might be strong enough to crush those lights with a flick of his wrist, but the prospect of destroying Christmas decorations has clearly left him powerless.

You kneel beside him, inspecting the tangled mess. "Okay, first of all, how did you even manage to get this bad? Did the lights fight back?"

"Very funny," he says, voice dry but tinged with embarrassment. "I don’t know—it just sort of... happened."

You lean in closer, reaching for the strand that’s looped tightly around his forearm. Your fingers brush against his skin as you tug the lights loose, and you swear you see him flinch ever so slightly.

"You good?" you ask, glancing up at him.

"Yeah, fine," he says quickly, avoiding your gaze.

A slow smile spreads across your face. "You sure? You seem a little... tense."

"I’m fine," he repeats, his voice an octave higher than usual.

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to focus on the task at hand. The truth is, the tangle isn’t as complicated as it looks. You could probably have him free in five minutes flat, but where’s the fun in that? Especially when Steve—Captain America himself—is turning redder than Rudolph’s nose.

"Okay, hold still," you say, looping the lights away from his shoulder. "This might take a while."

"Take your time," he mumbles, though his expression suggests he’d prefer this ordeal to be over immediately.

You crouch beside him, your hands brushing against his arms as you work. Each time your fingers skim his skin, you catch the faintest hitch in his breath. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it makes you bite back a grin.

"Wow," you say after a moment, tilting your head dramatically. "This is really knotted up. I’m going to have to get creative here."

"Creative?" he asks, a touch of panic in his voice.

"Mmhmm," you say, sliding your hand along his bicep to pull a strand free. "It’s all about finding the right... angles."

His jaw tightens, and his cheeks are unmistakably pink now. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing anymore.

You lean in unnecessarily close, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn knot near his collarbone. Your fingers linger a little longer than they need to, and you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"You okay, Cap?" you tease, glancing up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"I’m fine," he says through gritted teeth, though the way his ears are burning suggests otherwise.

"Hmm," you say, moving your hands lower to the strand wrapped around his waist. "You seem kind of warm. Is it the lights, or...?"

"Y/N," he says, his voice a warning, but it only makes you smile wider.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence. "I’m just trying to help."

You tug the lights free from his torso, letting your hands graze his sides as you work. He twitches slightly, and you can’t help but laugh.

"Are you ticklish, Steve?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"No," he says too quickly, his blush deepening.

"Oh, really?" You let your fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, and he squirms despite himself. "Could’ve fooled me."

"Y/N," he groans, clearly torn between frustration and mortification.

"Relax," you say, patting his shoulder. "I’m almost done. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Well, it depends," you say, moving behind him to untangle the lights wrapped around his back. "This part looks... tricky."

You press your hand against his shoulder to steady yourself, leaning in closer than you need to. He stiffens under your touch, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his sweater.

"Stay still," you murmur, your breath brushing against his ear.

"Not moving," he says, his voice strained.

You take your time unwinding the lights, letting your fingers brush against his neck and shoulders in ways that are definitely not necessary. You can practically feel the tension radiating off him, and it’s taking everything you have not to burst out laughing.

"You’re really quiet all of a sudden," you say, tilting your head to look at him. "Something on your mind?"

"Nope," he says quickly, though his clenched jaw says otherwise.

You move back in front of him, crouching down to tackle the strand wrapped around his legs. Your fingers brush against his knees as you work, and you glance up at him with a mischievous smile.

"You’re awfully pink, Steve," you say, your tone light and teasing. "Are you sure you’re not overheating?"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Y/N, please."

"Please what?"

"Just... focus."

"Oh, I’m focused," you say, tugging the lights free from his ankle. "But you’re making this way too easy."

"Easy for you," he mutters, looking everywhere but at you.

"Aw, come on," you say, leaning closer again. "It’s not so bad. You’re going to laugh about this someday."

"I’m laughing on the inside," he deadpans.

You grin, finally loosening the last stubborn knot near his wrist. But instead of freeing him completely, you pause, resting your hands on your hips.

"Hmm," you say thoughtfully.

"What now?" he asks, exasperated.

"I’m just wondering if I should leave you like this," you tease. "You do make a pretty good Christmas decoration."

"Y/N," he says, his voice low and dangerous, but the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s still blushing furiously.

"Okay, okay," you say, laughing. "I’ll finish. But only because you asked so nicely."

You reach for the last strand of lights, your fingers brushing against his as you work. His gaze flicks to yours for just a moment, and you swear the air between you shifts.

For a split second, you forget about the lights, the teasing, and everything else. It’s just you and Steve, and the realization hits you like a freight train: he’s flustered because of you.

And maybe you like that a little too much.

With a triumphant flourish, you untangle the last of the lights from Steve’s arms, letting the strand fall to the floor in a messy heap. "Almost there," you announce, giving him a teasing smile. "You’re about five seconds away from freedom."

"Finally," he mutters, though his voice is softer now, almost shy. He’s still blushing, and you’re doing your best not to dwell on how the soft blinking of the lights casts shadows over his ridiculously handsome face.

You take a deep breath and reach for the final loop of lights still hanging loosely around his neck. As your hands brush against him again, you catch the faintest intake of breath, and your heart skips a beat.

This is it.

You’ve spent months trying to convince yourself that your feelings for Steve were one-sided, but the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the room that matters—makes you think you might have been wrong.

You let your fingers linger on the strand, your pulse pounding in your ears. His blue eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, you’re frozen.

What if you’re reading this all wrong? What if he doesn’t feel the same way?

But then you remember the way his cheeks turned pink when your hands grazed his skin, the way his voice cracked when he insisted he was "fine." And maybe it’s the Christmas lights casting a warm glow over everything, or maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the situation, but suddenly, you feel bold.

Releasing the strand of lights, you let your hand slide upward, brushing against his collar as you lean in. You’re close enough now that you can feel his breath against your lips, and your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s as much an act of courage as it is affection.

For a split second, Steve goes completely still, and your stomach drops. Oh, God. What if you did read this wrong? What if—

You start to pull back, mortified, but before you can retreat, his hands come up to cradle your face, and he kisses you back.

It’s not tentative or hesitant. It’s sweet and intense, like he’s been holding back for ages and finally let himself go. His lips are soft, his touch gentle but firm, and the sheer relief of feeling him respond makes your head spin.

His thumbs brush against your cheeks as he deepens the kiss, and you can feel the tension that’s been simmering between you for months melt away like snow in the sun. It’s everything you didn’t know you’d been waiting for—warm, electric, and utterly perfect.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. Steve’s cheeks are still flushed, but this time it’s not from embarrassment.

"Wow," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Wow," he echoes, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

You both laugh softly, the sound breaking the lingering tension in the air.

"So," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, "does this mean you’re okay with me teasing you about the lights?"

Steve chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think I can live with it," he says, his voice warm and steady.

And just like that, you know you’ve made the best decision of your life.

You lean back from the kiss, lips tingling and cheeks flushed. You’re about to make a joking comment about how the lights are now untangled and the tree still isn’t decorated, but Steve beats you to it—sort of.

Before you can move more than an inch, his arms loop around your waist, pulling you back toward him. His lips brush against your temple, then your cheek, and then the corner of your mouth, all before you can even take a breath.

"Steve," you murmur, laughing softly. "The tree."

"What about it?" he asks, his voice low and warm against your skin.

"We’re supposed to decorate it, remember?"

His response is a hum that’s suspiciously noncommittal. One of his hands trails up your back, and the other stays firmly around your waist, as though letting go of you is physically impossible.

"You’re kind of clingy, you know that?" you tease, though you don’t exactly try to wriggle out of his embrace.

He leans back just enough to look at you, his cheeks still slightly pink but his smile completely unrepentant. "I just became your boyfriend, Y/N. I think I’m allowed to be a little clingy."

You arch a brow. "Boyfriend, huh?"

His smile falters for half a second, and you can see the gears turning in his head. He realizes what he said, and his expression shifts into something sheepish.

"Well, I mean..." He clears his throat, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "You kissed me first, so I thought—"

"Steve."

"—and we just kissed again, so I figured—"

"Steve."

He finally stops rambling, looking down at you with wide, uncertain eyes. "Did I mess this up already?"

You laugh, cupping his face in your hands. "No, you big dork. But if you want me to be your girlfriend, you have to actually ask me."

His expression softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze filled with so much affection it almost makes your knees weak.

"Y/N," he says, his voice steady and serious, "will you be my girlfriend?"

You grin, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Of course I will, Steve."

The smile that spreads across his face could power the entire block’s Christmas lights. He kisses you again, this time slower and sweeter, like he’s savoring every second.

When he finally pulls back, his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "You’re stuck with me now," he murmurs, his tone half-teasing and half-sincere.

"Good," you say, grinning. "Because I don’t plan on going anywhere."

For a moment, you both just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the half-decorated tree completely forgotten. Then you glance over his shoulder and raise an eyebrow.

"Seriously, though," you say, "we should probably get back to the tree."

Steve groans dramatically, letting his forehead drop against yours. "The tree can wait."

"Steve."

"Nope," he says, scooping you up and twirling you around like you weigh nothing. You let out a surprised laugh, clutching his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Steve, we’re never going to get this done at this rate."

"Don’t care," he says, setting you back down but keeping his hands firmly on your waist. He leans down to press another kiss to your lips, then another to your jaw, and then one just below your ear.

"Okay, seriously," you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way he’s making your heart race. "This is cute and all, but I’m not going to let you use me as an excuse to procrastinate."

"I’m not procrastinating," he says, his voice warm and teasing. "I’m prioritizing."

"Prioritizing, huh?"

"Yep," he says, his tone smug. "And right now, my top priority is making sure my girlfriend knows exactly how much I like her."

You roll your eyes, though you’re grinning like an idiot. "Steve, I think I got the message about five kisses ago."

"Good," he says, kissing you again.

You laugh against his lips, pushing lightly at his chest. "Alright, Captain Clingy, let’s get back to work."

He groans again but finally lets you step out of his embrace—though he keeps one hand firmly on the small of your back as you move toward the tree.

You pick up the box of ornaments, glancing at him over your shoulder. "You know," you say casually, "you’re really bad at hiding how much you like me."

"I wasn’t trying to hide it," he says, following you to the tree.

You raise an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me. You were blushing every time I so much as looked at you earlier."

"Only because you kept touching me," he protests, his ears turning pink again.

"Steve, I was untangling the lights."

"Sure you were."

You laugh, setting the ornaments down and turning to face him. "Oh, come on. You’re the one who couldn’t stop blushing. Don’t blame me for noticing."

He steps closer, his hand sliding from your back to your hip. "You were doing it on purpose."

"Maybe," you admit, grinning up at him.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling too. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are, completely smitten," you say, leaning in to brush your lips against his.

"Completely," he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again.

The ornaments remain untouched. The tree remains undecorated. And for the first time all evening, you couldn’t care less.

[mermaidchansons]

Divine Indeed: Part Three

Neighbor!Terry Richmond x Divine Wells (black OC)

Story Summary: Divine Wells, a 31-year-old seamstress, deals with waves of change after she picks up her life and moves to San Diego for a new job. She thought she’d finally found peace in her new normal; until Oshun decided to push her path to collide with her fine ass neighbor, Terry Richmond.

Words: 2100+

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ minors do NOT engage (you’ll be blocked), mommy issues, tism is tisming real bad, cannabis usage

Series Playlist

Author’s Note: Woah, can’t believe we’re already on part three! I hope y’all catch my ‘roll credits!’ moment lmao. I wanna know, does anyone relate to Divine? Also, would you be able to resist Terry’s charm? Lemmie know <3 - Ashanti

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Part Three

If Divine had to hand stitch another bead on a corseted gown, she was going to scream. She never thought an article of clothing would make her wish Olorun had created her. This one was a rush job, custom ordered by some famous artist’s team. Every day for the past two weeks, her workspace was a mess; seas of blue, silver, and green beads bestrewed it and found their way into her apartment. Divine would undress for bed every night and the clang of beads would hit her floor, rolling to god knows where. Sometimes sending a sharp pain through her foot when she happened to stumble upon them. I love my job, I love my job, I love my job. And she did love her job. Her backbreaking, finger-numbing job that she had manifested and waited for. She remembered laying on her parent’s living room floor, spinning tales of her dream job to her twin Seraphim. She just needed a small break from it. Thank goddess for a holiday weekend, maybe she’d get some feeling back in her hands.

S: So I guess no Breath of The Wild tonight?

Divine let out an exaggerated sigh and pulled her sleep shirt over her head. Friday nights were Switch nights for the Wells siblings. Pajamas, the $5.99 mix-and-match deal from the local pizzeria, and pre-rolls. Now, a new job and 652 miles later, they partied virtually. But it wasn’t the same for Divine. She didn’t miss her town, but she missed her sibling. Her twin never failed to make her smile. 

D: I’m sorry, Ser. They’ve been riding me to finish that project and I need sleep before I DIY death

S: You’re so valid, sib. Oh, heads up, mom says to call her

D: Ugh, don’t even start, I’m bout to knock out

S: Here’s a meme for your consolation *sends meme*

[a photo of an aurora borealis sky with a dragon leaning into frame and text that says ‘your man wouldn’t even fill a lesser soul gem’]

Divine chuckled tiredly, and rolled over into position: one leg up with her knee uncovered to offset the heat. Her eyes started to flutter closed when her phone buzzed. 

S: On some real shit though, you need to call her. I can’t keep playing the middleman

It had been three weeks, two days, and 5 hours since she last spoke to her mom. Her subconscious kept counting ever since she raised her voice at her mother for the first time in twenty-nine years. It was a day where a particular form of sadness clung to Divine and refused to leave; an unwanted host, sucking the serotonin out of her with a crazy straw. Baby Divine had always been regarded as moody or possessing an attitude by the adults around. But when the ‘big sad’ hit, there was nothing she could do to fix it. So she dared to feel her feelings and was honest when her mom asked how she was doing. 

She didn’t know if she wanted to vent or scream or cry. She just wanted to be comforted, to be told that everything was going to be okay. Looking back on it, Divine squirmed in bed, the slimy feeling of regret coating her mouth. She knew her mother was solution based. She knew her mother could not offer what she needed. She knew. And yet, she still tried to penetrate the wall that shrouded her mother’s understanding. A small part of her hoped that maybe this would be the time when she would be surprised by the response. Divine felt the small light of hope in her chest go out as soon as the words left her mother’s mouth. 

‘Did you use your tools?’ 

‘Have you asked the Orisha’s for guidance?’ 

‘You can’t keep letting these things devastate you’

‘You can’t let one thing dictate your entire day’

‘Stop being so dramatic’

Divine left the call breathless and broken, cutting her fingers on the pieces as she tried to pull herself back together. She was angry. Partly at her mother but mostly at herself. How could she be so childish to think that her mother would offer her the comfort that she searched for? As if her mother was capable of change; as if she hadn’t had similar conversations with her mother every time the unsolicited host reared its ugly head. She didn’t even remember what she screamed before hanging up suddenly. 

Sera was right and she knew it. She’d have to speak to her eventually. She hated it when her twin was right. Squeezing her eyes shut, Divine turned away from the phone to smoosh her face against her brightly patterned pillow. That was a problem for future Divine. She laid her hand against her protruding tummy and focused on her breathing. A trick a counselor had taught her in middle school that carried her for the last 16 years. Sucking in a deep breath, holding for four seconds, and breathing out for another four; her mind and all its worries drifted away. 

In the swirl of darkness, Divine felt scans of heat travel up her legs. Wet sounds of her arousal sounded in her ears, tightening her stomach as thick lips wrapped around her hardened bead. She stifled a moan while reaching out desperately. The sensation was building steadily, determined to tear her apart. A large calloused hand wrapped around hers and placed it atop waves of hair. Finally finding the strength to open her eyes, she leaned up to see the man who was so intent on pleasuring her. He was massive against her 5’2 frame. His shoulder blades rolled under his caramel tinted skin as he pushed her right thigh as far back as it would go. The new angle revealed more of his face. Divine caught sight of a dark, neat eyebrow before the man pushed two fingers into her dewy entrance. 

The steady pace of his fingers moving in and out of her tightened the coil in her abdomen, a guttural moan escaping her throat and betraying her. She’d never heard these noises come out of her mouth before. What was he doing to her? The man moaned against her sex in approval, speeding up his pace. Divine threw her head back in ecstasy, shutting her eyes once more to chase the orgasm she knew she needed. Her heart pounded as the tips of her ears set ablaze and the coil snapped. Her body seized up as she came, her hardened bead twitching discordantly against his tongue. He pulled his fingers out of her slowly, eliciting a deep hum from his lips. When Divine blinked away her tears, she was shocked to see a naked Terry of Level 5. Those same stormy ocean eyes staring directly into her soul, making her want to come all over again. Her mouth dropped as she watched him suck the evidence of her arousal off of his fingers. 

“Just like I thought you would taste. Divine, indeed.”

For a moment everything went black and Divine shot out of bed, thunder booming in her ears. She looked around the dark room before patting wildly and picking up her phone. 

6:00 AM

Missed Call from The Momster Mash 38 min. ago

Groaning, Divine covered her face with her Gajeel body pillow. She’d never felt so embarrassed. Terry was so kind the last time they saw each other and she couldn’t help but wonder what his lips tasted like while he talked. One conversation and he had invaded her mind. After giving herself a good talking to, she had nipped that kind of thinking in the bud; even going so far as to avoid him completely. She’d felt the chill of possibility creep up her spine when his thick lips parted into a smile. The weakness in her knees was a warning she knew to heed. So she swore off thinking about his piercing eyes and his wide biceps for good. Or, she at least thought she had. Her eyes darted to her ancestor table, then to her nightstand where Terry’s business card had been lying untouched for the past four weeks. The cold wet spot beneath her gave her pause and she looked out at the rain hitting her window with pleading eyes. 

“Oshun, please. Please leave me be. Please stop.” 

She definitely couldn’t text him now.

7:00 PM

Quack! Quack! Quack! 

Divine jumped at the sound of her alarm, scuttering to turn it off while never taking her eyes off the computer. Too many hours had passed since she started crocheting a cardigan after breakfast, or what Divine would consider to be breakfast: a piece of toast and a sweet potato latte from her new favorite coffee shop. The two items may have satisfied her mind, but her stomach thought otherwise. It wasn’t that Divine didn’t like food, it was just eating. The process of it. Having to sit down and dedicate the time to chew and drink and chew; it was an exercise in patience that she didn’t have. Food regret was also too much of a risk, so comfort food items were often exhausted. To the point where food began to taste bland and feel like a waste of time.

A loud and low grumble erupted from her tummy beneath her blankets. Pausing the gaming marathon, she scrunched up her face at the sound. She only had one sleeve left. Certainly, her stomach could wait for another hour or two- Grumbleeee. Groaning loudly, she threw her head back in defeat before rolling her chair back. She stretched her arms and legs as far as they could go, eliciting a symphony of pops and cracks from different body parts. Beelining into the bedroom closet, she hastily changed into something comfy and cute. She may not always like the task of eating, but she desperately needed an enchilada before her stomach made it known to the entire apartment complex that she was starving herself for a crochet project. 

Ordering a car in record time, Divine stood before her small altar with her hand on her chest. She closed her eyes tight and prayed to the ancestors and Orishas for peace of mind, a safe drive over, and to be treated with compassion. Going to a restaurant alone wasn’t a new thing for her, but having to go outside and deal with people was its own beast. Her phone alerted her that her driver was only two minutes away. Should she take her yarn with her? No, she’s already taking her switch and a journal. How many side quests did one person need for a dinner? Divine hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, before turning on her heels to go back to her messy craft table. She grabbed the half-unraveled ball of yarn and shoved it into her tote before walking out without another thought. 

Friday nights were a risky time to go out for dinner. Traffic downtown was already bad, but walking traffic was even worse. Couples and 21-year-olds filled the walkways, chatting so loud you could hear their conversation from around the corner. Divine had never been more happy to be a solo diner. No 45-minute wait or being seated in the middle of a bustling restaurant. She could grab a seat at the bar, order food from the bartender, and watch Black Lightening in peace. Simple as that; as long as this security line continues to move. 

The line was zooming past. But time seemed to slow the closer the stranger behind her got. She could practically feel his breath against her neck as the gap between them disappeared. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she watched the snooty-looking man teeter to the side impatiently; sneering at her before yelling at the person ahead to ‘speed up, bro’. He was bouncing up and down while clutching his girlfriend’s hand like a child. Her patience was thinning but there was only one person left in front of her. Divine turned the music up in her headphones to drown out his nasal voice. Inching up, she tried her best to keep a respectable gap between them while she fished out her ID. If he got any closer, she was going to give up on the entire crusade and go home hungry. 

A sprinkle of rain tapped against her face, making her look down and watch the feet in front of her enter the restaurant. Relief washed over her as she approached the door and handed over her info.

“Look who it is.”

Thanks For Reading!

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[tikosblogg]

Can you do something along the lines of the guys aren’t famous and the reader starts college and Meets the guys through the nicks and Noah is a senior in college and you go to a party and you and Noah hook up

Summary: REQUEST

Warning: smut, unprotected piv(please don’t do that), semi public sex(you don’t get caught).

A/N: I hope you enjoy anon, I’m sorry if it’s cheesy af😭 I have a lot going on right now, but I wanted to get this out. Yall please send good vibes my way, your girl could really use it. Still waiting on the news I should be receiving soon. Fingers crossed 🤞🏻 that it’s good.

The energy of the campus was electric, vibrating with the laughter of students spilling out of dorm rooms, the music pulsating from frat houses, and the sweet smell of late-night smoke sessions lingering in the air. It was Saturday night, and despite being a newcomer, I felt the charm of this vibrant chaos tugging at me. Just a week into my freshman year, I was anxious but excited. Nick, my best friend since childhood, had convinced me to join him for what he called a “rookie initiation" to campus life.

“Trust me, y/n, you need to experience this!” Nick exclaimed, winking as he led me through the labyrinth of brick buildings and manicured lawns toward The Alpha Sigma Beta house, where the party was already in full swing. That was where I first spotted Noah.

He was hard to miss. He towered over the crowd at a staggering six feet three inches, with tousled brown hair that framed his perfect face and skin entirely adorned with intricate tattoos. Each inked design hinted at a story, a part of his past I found myself curious about, but tonight wasn’t about probing deep into anyone’s history; it was about enjoying the moment.

“Y/n!” Nick’s voice broke through the thrum of bass. “I want you to meet my friends!” He gestured toward a trio huddled at a table stacked with red solo cups. Folio, the energetic one with wild hair, and Jolly, whose laugh was infectious, immediately pulled me into their banter with wide smiles.

“Welcome to the mad house!” Folio shouted, practically bouncing on his toes. “You’re in for a ride tonight.”

As I exchanged pleasantries and settled into the familiar chaos of my first college party, I kept sneaking sidelong glances at Noah. His presence was magnetic, like gravity pulling me toward him in a crowded room. He seemed laid-back as he leaned against the wall, a half-empty cup cradled in his large hand. I wondered what he thought of the evening; his dark brown eyes held secrets as deep as the ocean, and I felt a pull I couldn't explain.

“Don't be shy! Come sit with us!” Jolly called over the music, dragging me toward a makeshift seating area strewn with mismatched lawn chairs. Nick settled next to me, and I found myself increasingly drawn into the whirlwind of laughter and stories.

As the night progressed, shots were downed, and the atmosphere thickened with excitement. Folio attempted to teach me an elaborate dance move that was probably illegal in some states, while Jolly told exaggerated tales of his exploits over the summer. I laughed along, feeling a small part of the group grow more comfortable, and yet I could still feel Noah's gaze cut through the exuberant noise.

By the time I managed to sneak away to the kitchen for some water, I stumbled upon Noah, who leaned casually against the counter, his tattoos glimmering under the fluorescent lights. A muffled bass line formed a backdrop against our unexpected solitude.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and deep, sending a thrill through me. "You’re Nick’s friend, right?"

I smirked as I turned to meet his gaze, slightly flustered. “Guilty as charged. And you must be the infamous Noah.”

“Infamous, huh? I like the sound of that,” he chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair. There was something easy about him, and the way he looked at me made the world outside that cramped kitchen fade into the background. It was just us and the faint glow of the overhead lights.

“I’m still learning the ropes here,” I admitted, feeling a mix of shy and emboldened. “It’s all pretty overwhelming, if I’m honest.”

“I get that. Just take it one party at a time,” he said, stepping a little closer, his eyes now twinkling with mischief.

An electric charge filled the air as I caught the faint scent of his cologne—something earthy and warm that made my knees weak. I reached for my cup of water, only to find it empty. Noah noticed, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a sly grin.

“Can I get you something stronger instead?” he proposed, tilting his head toward the red cups that were now overrunning the counter.

"Just one,” I replied, testing the waters—there was something about the anticipation of this moment that made it feel like we were the only two people in the universe.

As he poured the drinks, we fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. We laughed at the absurdity of frat life, traded stories from our tumultuous school years, and marveled at how different life felt here compared to our respective hometowns. The longer we talked, the more I found myself leaning into him, our chemistry igniting in the cool kitchen that now felt too small for the two of us.

“Let’s get some air,” he suggested, reading the gleam in my eyes. He opened the back door, and suddenly, we stepped outside into a world transformed by moonlight. The music pulsing from the house faded into the background as an acrid breeze swept through the courtyard.

We wandered off to the edge of the yard, away from the thumping bass and the throngs of people. The stars hung low, brighter than I had seen them before, painting the sky with constellations that felt almost within reach. Noah leaned against a tree, his imposing figure softened by the spectral glow above us.

"You know," he began thoughtfully, “there's something nice about nights like this. You meet people, you share stories… it feels timeless.”

I nodded, feeling every word resonate deep within me—like a truth unearthed. “I’ve been waiting for something like this ever since I got here. It’s everything I hoped college would be so far.”

He stepped closer, and my heart raced. “You’re different, y/n.”

“Different how?” I dared to ask, curiosity compounding against the tether of nerves.

“There’s an aura to you... that I can’t put my finger on. You’ve got this spark,” Noah said, his voice a low whisper as he gazed down at me. The way he looked at me sent chill bumps dancing along my skin.

Before I could respond, he took a step forward, lowering his head until our lips nearly touched. Time slowed to a crawl, and I could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he searched mine. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he closed the gap.

His kiss was electric, igniting a fire that surged through me. I responded instinctively, feeling a rush of warmth enveloping us both, a collision of breaths and uncertainty melting away in that instant. I lost myself in the moment, the weight of the world outside dissipating, leaving only the two of us amid the stars.

As we pulled apart, my laughter filled the night air, a soft, happy sound that echoed into the quiet. He leaned in again, gripping my hips tight.

I gasped against his mouth, the kiss turning passionate as it deepened. I was on fire, limbs igniting with every stroke of his lips. And then, just like that, he pressed me against the oak tree. I could feel the rough bark against my back, grounding me amidst the rush of adrenaline coursing through me.

In one swift motion, he picked me up, and my legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. My sun dress, scrunching around my hips. The height difference sent shivers of exhilaration through me as I gazed into his eyes, now alight with a wild, exhilarating energy. I felt both cherished and untouched by the lively party around us, suspended in this magical bubble we’d created.

“Noah,” I breathed, a mix of nervous anticipation and thrill threading my voice. The way he held me, strong yet careful, made me feel untouchable. His hands cradled my thighs, and I could feel the powerful smoothness of muscle beneath the inked stories that adorned his skin.

“You trust me?” His breath was warm against my skin, the promise of adventure sparkling in his gaze. And in that electric moment filled with infinite possibility, I nodded and surrendered to the rush.

As we kissed, the world around us blurred—the laughter, the thumping of bass, the clinking of bottles—it all faded until there was nothing left but the two of us, lost in our own universe. I could feel his hard dick pressing into me, the rhythm of him grinding against my soaked underwear clad core igniting an unparalleled heat inside me. The urgency of it all sent waves of pleasure rolling through, and I could hardly catch my breath.

“Fuck” I murmured against his lips, my head spinning with the sensations, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.

“I know.” A teasing grin spread across his face, his breath hitching with excitement. “You’re so fuckin pretty.”

I quirked an eyebrow, the thrill of boldness flooding my veins. “you think so?”

“Definitely.” He lowered his voice, close enough for only me to hear. “I wanna feel everything fucking inch of you.”

There was a challenge in his eyes, one that made me want to climb higher and lower myself into the depths of this enchanting night with him. And beneath the oak’s ancient boughs, among rustling leaves and whispers of a sleeping world, I felt a warmth bloom in my chest—a daring desire to unleash the parts of myself that I often kept hidden.

I clung to him tighter, sensing the urgency of the moment. I wanted to taste the thrill of life, to dive deeper into the unknown while being shielded in his embrace. He kissed down my throat, before moving his hand up, and shoving his fingers inside my panties.

I gasped as his middle finger swiped up my slit. “Noah please.” I whined, my head falling back against the tree. He quickly looked around, to make sure we were hidden behind the tree before continuing. He shoved his two middle fingers deep inside me, as he groaned.

“You’re so tight baby.” He nipped at my neck, as he pumped his fingers a little faster. He pulled them out, shoving them into his mouth letting out another moan. “Fuuuuck, I’m definitely eating your pussy later.”

I let out a breathless giggle, as he reached down to his jeans pulling out his impressive length. My eyes widened. “Holy fuck Noah.” I groaned, losing my patience to finally feel him inside me. He smiled, kissing my lips softly. “Shhh I got you baby.”

He lined himself up, slowly pushing in as we moan in unison. After a few soft thrusts of his hips he moved his arms underneath both of my knees spreading me wide open, pushing me harder against the tree. He left one last kiss to my lips, softly biting my lip, as I moaned into his mouth.

He shoved his face into my neck as he thrusted harder, and faster into me. My nails dug into the back of his neck, as I relished in the pleasure he was giving me. “Fuck Noah please…” I gasped.

He pulled his face back, laying his forehead against mine. “You gonna cum baby?” Unable to find my voice, I nodded my head quickly. He let out a breathless chuckle, at my messy state. His lips hovered by my ear, his deep voice softly whispering.

“Then do it…let me feel you.” That was all it took for me to absolutely lose it. I came hard, my thighs shaking in his hands, whimpering his name over and over. “That’s it baby, good girl.” He groaned, as he watched me come undone.

He continued thrusting, chasing his own high. He quickly pulled out, holding me tightly against him as he came all over the tree underneath my still shaking form. After we caught our breath, he pulled me away from the tree gently placing me back onto my feet.

He tucked himself back in, before pulling my dress back down into place. All of sudden I became shy and nervous. “Shit…that was -“ his voice quickly cut me off, as he eyed me hotly. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

I smiled, stepping closer to him, and looking up at him batting my lashes. “I don’t know….you tell me.” He chuckled, placing one last kiss to my lips, before taking my hand walking up back to the party.

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

imagine zoro being at your side

a/n: reading has a condition that causes her to fall asleep

The dining table was filled with plates and half empty cups of alcohol. Everyone was talking away, laughing, and arguing as Sanji continued to serve various dishes. Zoro leaned back into his seat, chugging down his…fifth? Sixth? Well, another beer. The food was delicious not that he would compliment the cook – he wasn’t that drunk. He listened as Franky told a story about his childhood and he laughed at the funny parts, but throughout the conversation his eyes moved to where you sat. You were next to him, elbow on the table as you forked around the food on your plate. Taking little bites as you laughed at Franky’s youthful tales. The smile on your face brought warmth from the tip of his toes to his cheeks and Zoro tried to hide it but it was plain as the day, that he was completely…

Zoro lost his train of thought as your eyes glazed over – a tell tale sign that you were about to pass out. It was a condition you had, from what Chopper had explained. It had something to do with low blood pressure and, well, Zoro really didn’t understand. All he knew was that when that look came across your face, he had seconds to get to you before you passed out. Everyone took to call you the Sleeping Princess, the moniker even made its way onto your wanted poster – along with a photo of you sleeping mid battle during the Wano fight against Kaido. It was your pride and joy when you saw the poster and had it framed next to your bed.  

He remembered the first time it happened in front of him; you were sitting on the railing of the Merry with Luffy, feet dangling over the water – fishing and chitchatting away. Zoro had known about your condition but never seen it in person. He had joined Luffy and you, talking and fishing, as he stood at your side. Luffy was going on and on about catching fish for dinner, and Zoro was chastising the captain warning him to not fall into the ocean. He was busy watching Luffy that he hadn’t noticed you drifting backwards or the way your arms slumped. It was Luffy who shouted for him to help you that drew his eyes to you; immediately he moved behind you, allowing you to fall into his arms. He slowly lifted you up against his chest, attempts were made to shake you awake but Luffy said not to bother.

“Right, her condition…” His eyes took in the softness of your face, and he felt heat rise to his cheeks. You seemed to be sound asleep, and he started toward the women’s dorm, kicking the door gently open. The room was empty, and he realized he didn’t know which bed was yours; but then he noticed how all three beds were pushed together and figured either side was fine. He moved to the right side of the bed and laid you down, covering you with a thin blanket that sat on the edge of the bed. Zoro gazed down at you and felt something he hadn’t in a long time….an earnestness in his heart.

Now, he often was at your side as much as he could and as much as whatever situation the crew allowed but he had trust in his friends. Everyone knew the signs and there was always someone there to help you – especially during fights. While Chopper had worked hard to find a cure, it seemed your ailment was just something you were born with, and nothing was to be done. That was fine because you never allowed it to stop you. That’s what Zoro found the most attractive about you – the strength of your will. He loved you for it. Loved you like no one else.

“You’re fine,” he whispered, hand moving around your shoulder as your head slumped against his chest. He scooted your chair closer to his, arm protectively resting across your chest. He sighed as Luffy noticed and asked if he could have your plate; Nami swiftly smacked him on the head and Zoro asked Sanji if he could wrap up your plate. “She’ll be hungry when she wakes.”

The cook agreed, giving the captain a death stare as he removed the plate from the table. Zoro held you close to his body, hardly listening to the conversation around the table and when you stirred against him twenty minutes later, his fingers brushed away strands of hair from your face. Eyes blinking, the swordsman’s handsome face came into focus, and you sighed contently. “Hey…”

Zoro chuckled, leaning down to kiss you on top of your head. “The Sleeping Princess is awake – had a good nap?”

Sitting up, you yawned and kissed him gingerly on the cheek. “It’s always a good nap when I wake up in your arms.”

The man blushed so hard, the entire table exploded in laughter and teasing – much to his dismay. He shouted for everyone to shut the hell up but then the teasing grew louder, and all Zoro could do was hold your hand as Sanji retrieved your food, admiring the way you effortlessly returned to the conversation as if nothing had happened. And when you looked over to him with a kind, grateful smile, he felt his dedication to you grow stronger.

...............................

tags:

@posessedbytheinternet @smolracoon25

@notthemainblog @xentaipriest

@xitara666 @rouzuchan

@southside-otaku @dimplewonie

@stuckinthewrongworld @yourmomsgirl

@zoroshispanicwife @reneeprika

@themossiestchick @cyberneticsmoker

@starrlovet @simpx4xanimexmen

[tyvalon]

Helloo Dear Reader! Since exam period is crushing me I decided to post Chapter 2. today. Thank you for the likes and the reblog! I am looking forward to feeding on your support. - that's gonna be how I measure my worth, obviously.

Btw You can also find this on my Ao3 under the same username.

Have fun and a good day (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Cry, Baby

Chapter 2. - Some I-scream, sir?

"No, I’m telling you, Pompompurin is extremely cute!"

"Exatly! That’s why I’ve been telling you to get Pompompurin socks, like me!"

You wiggled your toes in the pink merch socks while the rest of your legs were still under the too-clean and too-white hospital sheets. It has been almost a week since you’ve had the luck of being hospitalized, and today was the day you finally got released. Yamaguchi came here every day just to be with you for these past six days, and even though you got him to go home early yesterday, he insisted on being with you today to help you with packing, and to treat you to ice cream as a reward for enduring hospitalozation and not dying. You told him you were perfectly fine now, but he was adamant.

"I’m not leaving you alone! What it another episode comes and you’re by yourself?" He asked, despite knowing you have nurses available 24/7 and your mom also came to check on you every day after work.

You were thankful you had a friend like him.

Now there you were, standing up slowly – as per your friend commanded you – while he held your right arm to help you balance yourself. "I can stand all right by myself, thank you," you remarked, to which Yamaguchi just snorted.

"I don't think so."

"I really can, but... alright." Your face warmed into a smile.

Your friend made sure you could actually stand on your two legs, and then went over to the other side of the bed to pick up your backpack your mom brought you a few days ago.

”So I packed your bag but look around, I might have forgotten something," Yamaguchi offered. You glanced around and shook your head. "I got your books, snacks, clothes, socks, and um… that sort of things…" Suddenly his face became all read and you had to take a moment to realize why.

"You didn’t pack my underwear, did you…?" You asked, mortified, now your face read also. He gulped. "I told you to leave my underwear alone! Were you secretly a pervert all this time or what?!"

"No, no, I’m sorry! I was just trying to help, and happened to grab them, too… It was an accident, I swear!"

"How can this be an accident?!" You exclaimed, both of your heads as red as an overripe tomato. "How can touching my underwear be an accident?!"

"Are you finished, kids? We have to get going."

Both of you turned to the door to see your slightly annoyed mom leaning into the door frame. If red had an even more intensive color than you two were wearing, now your faces would resemble that. You wanted to dig yourself a grave and lie in it without hesitation. Yamaguchi’s face told the same tale.

"Come on, Yamaguchi-kun, get Yori’s bag," she ordered, and the poor boy flinched. He grabbed your bag and scurried out of the room as quick as possible. "Let’s go, Yori."

"Yes, mom," you replied.

"And teach that boy some manners while you’re at it! I don’t want grandkids until you’ve both finished college."

"Mom!" you cried, burying your face into your shirt.

"I’m so sorry, Ms. Shidou, I really didn’t mean it…" you heard Yamaguchi whine while waiting for you in the corridor. You caught up to him while letting your mom take the lead.

She got you checked out of the hospital, and took you to the gray Toyota that was parked outside the hospital. All three of you got in the car and remained silent. It was your mother who broke it first.

"How are you feeling, Yori?"

"Better, thanks. I am as healthy as an ox!" You said smiling, and you didn’t lie.

It was just that you had a weird feeling in your stomach you did not know the reason of. But hopefully it was not another warning for a second seizure to come.

"The doctor told me about this new experimental medicine," she continued. "I could have you enter a program, he already made a spot for you. Most of it would be covered by the hospital. He also said it’s much better than the last one, it’s showing great progress with little side effects. I think we should to it."

Your smile weakened. Another experimental program? The last and only one you were willing to participate in ended with night vomiting, serious headaches and early signs of depression. Although it made the number of your seizures deplete, it was not worth it. You would have stopped after the second dose, had your mom not pushed you through all the way to the sixth.

You had no choice but to go with her decision, but maybe you could get her to drop these trial drugs.

"I don’t think that’s a good idea… The last one I took only made it worse," you mentioned carefully.

"Yes, but it’s different now. I looked at the numbers, almost seems to be too good to be true, but apparently it is."

You highly doubted that.

"What do you think, Yamaguchi-kun? Don’t you think it would be good to end these hospital visits and get these seizures out of Yori?"

Yamaguchi looked to the other side. You absolutely hated when she did that. Trying to get a manipulated opinion out of your best friend to support her cause.

"Well, it’s not really my place to say, but… I think Yoriko-chan should be the one to decide. As far as I have heard the last time it didn’t go that well…"

"Is that so? Hmm, I suppose you’re right…" she gave the impression of thinking about it, but you knew very well she had already made up her mind.

You just despised these situations.

The car turned to the left, and you were now in the city center of Shibuya.

"Mom, you remember I told you how we wanted to grab some ice cream with Yama-kun? To celebrate my release?" you said quickly. Anything to get out of this. "Would you please drop us off somewhere near? I’ll meet you at home in a few hours, I promise I won’t be late!"

"Oh, right. Let me take a right, I can pull aside there."

She turned to the right and stopped the car. "All right, you two be careful. If anything happens, call me and I’ll get you," she said, but you knew you would never do that unless it really was an emergency. "Yamaguchi-kun, keep an eye on my daughter – but not a too close one."

Yamaguchi nodded his head up and down frantically, and promised to do so. You bid your farewells to your mother, and got out of the car. You watched as she drove away, and when the Toyota was out of sight, you let out a sigh so large Yamaguchi almost jumped.

"I just hate it when she picks on you, I’m sorry," you said, but he just waved it off.

"I know what she’s like, I sensed something was coming our way," he admitted, to which you grimaced. "But really, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Maybe they’ll go away, like three years ago, and then they won’t come back."

"Even if that were to happen, I doubt she’ll let go easily. Maybe if nothing happens for a few months. I’ll just need her to drop this topic."

You two walked silently towards the ice cream shop you knew well. That strange sensation in your stomach did not seem to go away, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. The grimace on your face only shifted also. And Yamaguchi was quick to notice it.

"Are you okay? Does something hurt?" he asked worriedly. You shook your head.

"No, it’s just… this seizure was somehow… different."

"Different?"

"I can’t really put it into words, but there is a strange sensation in my stomach telling me something’s wrong," you admitted. Strangers passed by while you were walking slowly. "And… I had this weird dream while I was sleeping… there was this... thing that had four arms and four eyes."

"Wow, okay, your dreams are mostly horrific or undecodable, but this sounds different," Yamaguchi said, looking on the pavement.

"Yeah. And also there was some kind of word I heard while looking at it. It was Ryoumen, it means double-faced, I think."

You heard someone tripping over their feet behind you, and you quickly turned to see a white haired man collect himself casually. He wore rounded sunglasses. You quickly turned to him.

"Are you okay, sir?" You asked as Yamaguchi approached him as well.

"Of course, of course!" He replied, probably with the most unworried tone you have ever heard in your life. You had no idea what he was on but you would gladly accept some of that. "Sorry to bother you, I just accidentally overheard you talk about a dream you had, and I happen to be a big fan of strange dreams! Would you care to talk about it more?" He smiled friendly, and you started to have a fishy feeling about him, you just couldn’t put your finger on it. But you were so taken aback by his question that you automatically replied to him.

"Sure, uhh… So there was a four-armed thing, maybe a guy… and I heard this Ryomen…"

"He had four eyes, right? What colour were they?" He asked, face still lit up for whatever was so interesting in your random dream.

"Uhh, blue, why?"

"Oh, blue, I see! You know, there is actually a study that showed that less japanese people see blue-eyes in their dreams, so I guess that makes that dream extra special!"

"I… see?" You were seriously weirded out right now, and you could sense Yamaguchi had the same feeling.

"Also, did he by chance have black marks across his body?"

Something was wrong.

"Yes."

You could not see the stranger’s eyes, but you swore to God something changed in his expression. The next moment it was gone, like nothing happened.

"Are you in a hurry now? If it’s not inconvenient for you, would you care to join me for a coffee to talk about this dream more?" He asked, and all alarms went off in your head. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong!, your gut told you.

"Please excuse us, but actually we are in a hurry," said Yamaguchi, grabbing your arm and starting to pull you in the opposite direction he was originally going in.

"Yes, but it was very interesting, thank you for the talk," you said, hoping to God he wouldn’t follow you. Maybe it would be a good idea to call your mother, she couldn’t have gone that far…

"Ah, forgive me for taking your time, then. But please take my contact info, if anything pops into your mind or have another dream like that, please contact me!"

You quickly took the card uttering one last "goodbye" – heaven knows why – and let Yamaguchi practically drag you away from the scene. You glanced at the stranger’s direction – but he was gone! It was like he wanshed into thin air. The hairs on your neck stood up. Run, your brain told you, and you made haste right away. You and Yamaguchi only stopped when you were several blocks and streets away.

"Oh my god, I thought he was going to kill me or something," you panted, heart still in your throat, and Yamaguchi nodded heavily.

"He’s totally a serial killer. Oh my god, he must be a serial killer, I am so glad we’re alive."

"Me too. Shit that was weird," you muttered, still terrified of the aura that man was carrying. What was his business?! You just couldn’t figure it out.

"Maybe he wanted to kidnap you, you’re a pretty schoolgirl after all.”

"Let’s just… not think about that againand forget it, okay? Shit. Thanks for dragging me away, I thought I was gonna throw up and get killed on the spot," you said, eyes wide, while both of you leaned onto a wall. "I do not want to die by the hands of a random stranger."

"What if we didn’t talk about death at all?" He interjected. "I don’t want to die, I’m too young to die. No death for me, please."

"And no ice cream too, I really think I’m gonna throw up…" You barfed, trying to hold it in. Your stomach was stirred to the point where you really thought you were going to vomit. Thank you, stress.

In the end, you managed to hold back, but you didn’t have the nerve to get going just yet. Both of you just leaned to the wall and stared out of your head.

What was that man’s business? Was he really some sort of dream-scientist or whatever? He didn’t seem to be bad at first glance, he was maybe even handsome and friendly. But the questions he posed and the way he did… Every single nerve in your body told you to run, that something is wrong and just go.

You looked at your hand, his card still in your palm, although a bit crumpled. You waned to throw it away immediately, but… something told you to keep it. You were still a bit trembling, so without thinking, you put it in the back pocket of your trousers and forgot about it as quickly as you could. You would throw it out later.

The two of you remained here for what seemed to be half an hour, until you could calm your heart and breathing. Only ten minutes passed by the time you got going, and none of you spoke about getting ice cream that day again.

* * *

Later that afternoon, you said goodbye to Yamaguchi. You could still see how his hands were shaking, and you could relate to him quite much on this matter. He made sure to get you home safely, walked you to your front door and watched you go inside before he turned to go home as well. Thankfully, he only lived a few streets away from you, and just three minutes after he dropped you off you got a message from him telling you that he’s home, too. You let out a sigh of relief and went straight to your room after saying hi to your mom. She did try to ask why were you so early, but you just said that you remembered you have a test on Monday and you and Yamamguchi had to study for that.

Once you got upstairs, you changed to your pajamas and plopped on your bed to watch anime, or anything, to get your mind off of that strange encounter. You started the first anime that came to your screen and watched mindlessly. It seemed to work, and because Yamaguchi didn’t text you you assumed he was doing the same.

A few hours later you had dinner with your mom, and although she was not a bad cook, you just couldn’t get yourself to eat with joy. You dodn’t have an appetite, but if you had let her know that, she would have tried to ask questions that you really didn’t want to answer.

When you were winished with washing the dishes, your mind was somewhat at ease. You went to the bathroom to get ready to sleep. You said goodnight to your mom, walked to your room, and tucked yourself in. Sleep didn’t come that easily – but when it did, you wished you never closed your eyes in the first place.

-- > chapter three

[mehbles]

Rugby gains: A tale of freedom and fun leading to folds and flab.

The locker room was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights casting sharp, unflattering shadows on the white tiles and stainless steel fixtures. James stood in front of the wide mirror, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping from his damp hair. The room was empty, a rare moment of solitude after practice. He was six foot one, a towering figure who had always drawn eyes with his broad shoulders and carved physique. But that was last term.

At the start of the university year, James had been the picture of athletic perfection. His lean, 210-pound frame had been honed through years of rugby, hours spent running drills, lifting weights, and sticking to strict, protein-rich diets. His abs had been defined slabs, the deep grooves between them emphasized whenever he took a breath. His thighs were powerful columns of muscle, the kind that flexed visibly with even the slightest shift in stance.

But now, the mirror told a different story. Three months of heavy drinking, late-night takeout, and a careless indulgence in greasy pub fare had made their mark. The scale in the corner, the one every player avoided when they weren’t at their peak, had shown 224 pounds the day before. Fourteen pounds heavier than the start of term—a stone, as James’s mates would jest, always clapping his softening back with a grin.

James scrutinized his reflection. The abs that once defined his midsection were now hidden under a layer of softness. His stomach, once taut, pushed forward, rounding subtly at first, then more noticeably when he let his core relax. The skin felt stretched, warmer and smoother than it had been when tight over muscle. James ran a hand over it, feeling the unfamiliar give, the way his fingers sank slightly into the new layer of fat. His obliques were still there, buried but detectable, though the sharp V that once directed eyes downward had all but faded. When he moved, his belly shifted with him, a subtle jiggle that caught his attention in a way it never had before.

A month later, James stood in front of the mirror again. The scale read 230 pounds now. He had started noticing how his chest had changed—the once firm, defined pecs now carried a softness that spread outward, rounding at the bottom. When he bounced on the balls of his feet, they moved slightly, a motion that left him surprised and embarrassed. His stomach had developed a slight overhang that pressed against the waistband of his gym shorts, and he found himself adjusting it more often. His love handles had grown, a soft curve that cupped his sides and gave his midsection a more rounded appearance. He poked at them, feeling the way the fat resisted but shifted under pressure, pliant and warm.

Two weeks later, James returned to the locker room after practice, now tipping the scale at 235 pounds. He could feel the difference in the way his body moved—the extra weight shifting with each step, creating a slight bounce in his stride. His thighs now rubbed together, the skin chafing in a way it never had before, and the tops of his quads had a noticeable layer of softness that jiggled as he walked. His belly, fuller and rounder, pressed more firmly against the waistband, creating a slight crease that dug into his skin. The fat at his sides now extended further back, giving him a wider, softer silhouette.

James examined his chest again, pressing lightly at the edges of his pecs. They were no longer just rounded; they felt heavier, sagging subtly when he hunched forward. His fingers sank deeper into the new cushion of fat, and he could see the way it pushed back, moving fluidly beneath the skin. His stomach now had a defined curve that bulged outward, and when he jumped slightly, the resulting motion sent a wave through the fat, making it ripple and settle with a slight, soft bounce.

By mid-spring, James was up to 243 pounds. The changes were undeniable, even to him. His arms, once cut with hard muscle, now had a rounded look, and the triceps that once flexed like coiled ropes were now smoother, covered in a thicker layer of fat. His belly had grown noticeably, stretching further over the waistband of his shorts. The skin was taut, but the fat underneath was soft and pliant. When he sat down, rolls formed at his sides, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric, and he would shift to relieve the pressure. His chest moved more freely now, a slight bounce accompanying each step or jump.

James felt the extra weight most when running drills. The way his stomach shifted with each sprint was disorienting, and the extra heft made him tire faster. The feeling of his belly pressing against his shorts was constant, and when he jogged, he could feel the jiggle spreading through his midsection, each step sending a ripple that took a moment to settle. His teammates had started to comment more, playful jabs and knowing looks. “Still bulking, mate?” they’d tease, patting the soft swell of his stomach as they passed.

Then came his birthday, and with it, a series of celebrations that spiraled into an uninterrupted streak of indulgence. The pastries from the morning surprise, the pints that followed in the evening, and the deep-fried late-night snacks—it all piled on. By the time the final term was drawing to a close, James stood on the locker room scale again, eyes wide at the number staring back: 254 pounds.

His reflection had changed dramatically. The soft, full curve of his belly now formed a pronounced overhang that pressed firmly against his shorts, even spilling slightly over the waistband. The skin stretched more with each gain, smooth and warm under his touch. His love handles were no longer just curves; they folded deeply into his sides when he bent over, and the movement sent a wave of motion through the newly added fat. His chest had transformed further, the pecs now looking more like soft mounds, resting heavily when he leaned forward.

The biggest change, he noticed, was in his face. The chiseled jawline that had once drawn compliments was now blurred by a fullness around his cheeks and under his chin. He turned sideways, taking in the profile: the roundness of his stomach now peeked out past his chest, a testament to every post-match feast and midnight snack. His legs still held their powerful build, but even they had gathered a cushion of fat around the quads and hamstrings. The muscles were there—buried deeper but present. When he walked, he could feel the slight resistance of his thighs pressing together more than they used to, and the gentle swaying of his body felt unfamiliar.

By the end of his first year, he was nearly four stone heavier than when he’d first arrived. The scale read 266 pounds. James stared at the numbers, a mixture of shock and acceptance washing over him. The whispers among the team had turned into full-blown ribbing, affectionate but undeniable. The words “bulk season” were thrown around with laughter, even when the season was long over.

James stood in front of the mirror, towel slipping as he rested both hands on his stomach, feeling its heft and the way it subtly rolled over the waistband of his shorts. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching the way his belly swayed, the new softness pressing against his hands. The skin was stretched, smooth, and warm, yielding under his fingers as he kneaded it lightly. The sensation was strange, both uncomfortable and oddly familiar, a constant reminder of the year’s excess.

He traced the curve of his love handles, now pronounced and folding slightly at the sides when he bent. Each movement sent a ripple through the fat, a slow, almost mesmerizing wave that settled back into place when he stood still. His chest, once a point of pride, now rose and fell with a noticeable jiggle. When he flexed, the muscle was still there, firm and strong beneath the surface, but the added layer of fat made it harder to see, blurring the hard lines that once defined him.

James turned to the side, studying the profile of his body. His stomach jutted out, full and heavy, and when he relaxed, it hung slightly over the waistband of his shorts, creating a shadow that hadn’t been there before. The skin at the lower part of his belly was the softest, moving with a gentle sway as he shifted his stance. His thighs, thick and powerful, now brushed together with every step, the friction constant and familiar. The extra fat around his legs jiggled with each movement, and even his calves, which had always been rock-solid, carried a slight curve now, the skin smoother and softer.

He reached for the scale one last time, almost dreading the confirmation. It blinked to life, the numbers ticking up until they settled at 266 pounds. James exhaled deeply, a mix of disbelief and resignation. He ran his hands over his body, tracing the journey of the past year—the nights of celebration, the shared meals, the careless indulgence that had transformed him from the lean athlete to this softer, heavier version of himself.

The locker room door creaked open, and a teammate’s voice echoed inside. “Hey, James! You coming?” He glanced at his reflection one last time, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The year had changed him in more ways than one, and as he wrapped the towel around himself and turned to join his team, he felt a mix of determination and acceptance. The path back to the lean, chiseled version of himself would be long, but for now, he was content with the story his reflection told.

[mnnerdery-blog-blog]

Astartes

“What was that, trooper?” “Astartes! On this ship!”

“Is that so? They usually take their own conveyance.”

“It's a small contingent, or so the rumor mill holds, Sergeant Major.”

“I put no stock in rumors, Trooper Felth; trust in the Emperor and your eyes,” admonished Sergeant Major Tomlin.

“How about your ears?” a familiar voice called from across the room.

---**---**---**---

Raucous merriment echoed from down the hall as the victory celebrations escalated. The Emperor's men had prevailed, and the xeno threat had been driven off. For now, at least, the Imperium's loyal citizens could breathe a bit easier in the Nordibus sector.

Still, a solitary trooper avoided the merriment. Alone, he sat in an unlit storage room. He was hunched over, hands holding his face as though the very fate of mankind rested upon it. Small sobs, barely above a whisper, dribbled from him.

“Trooper, why are you not with your regiment? They celebrate our victory over the xenos down the corridor. Surely you can hear their victory songs.” Startled by the sudden voice, Trooper Tomlin turned and saw a hulking frame in the doorway—an Angel of the Emperor, one of the Adeptus Astartes.

“Lord, I just wanted to be away from the noise for a moment,” came the reply as Tomlin straightened himself.

“Please, trooper, no such formalities with me now. And that is not all of why you are not with your regiment.”

“You...you heard me?”

The giant stepped into the room, toggling the light as he did so. “I am brother-sergeant Diocletus; pray tell me your name, trooper.”

“Trooper Tomlin, sir. Of the 452nd Iridine Dragoons.”

“Just Diocletus for now, Tomlin. There is no command here, just two soldiers. May I sit with you?”

Tomlin, still processing the presence of one of the Emperor's finest, merely nodded. Diocletus sat next to Tomlin on a crate. “Tell me, brother Tomlin, for whom do you weep?”

“My...my squad. I'm...I'm....” Grief overtook the trooper, and he began to cry further, words dying in his mouth as he tried to form them.

Diocletus patiently sat, waiting for Tomlin's composure to return. “You were close with them, as befits all soldiers of the Emperor.” A mute nod, accompanied with sniffles, was the reply. “Tell me of them.”

“Perkins, our plasma gunner, was my closest friend. He smoked lho, like the rest of us, but he'd always bum one off of us at the smoke pit. Never had his pack on him, he said. And he's smoke them fast, and then bum another off us. He'd always tell us a joke while he was smoking, or a tall tale about some camp follower from some previous campaign he had been on. He'd swear they were true as he told them, but they were so outrageous as to be beyond belief. But he was always the first out of the trench when the whistle blew, and he never faltered in the face of fire. Good shot too, save me several times with a good shot from his gun.

“Sergeant Jensen had been promoted into the squad last month. We hadn't been into combat with him before today, just drills. I was worried he wouldn't know how we worked together, that he wouldn't fit in, but he was solid. He reacted quickly to fire, got us to a good position, and got us firing on a weapons emplacement. Took out some real nasty hardware.

Tomlin continued onward, giving each member their due. He paused and softly said, “It should have been me. They should be here, not me. They were so much better than me, if I had died there instead of Colb, maybe they'd be here now, singing with the rest. I..”

Tomlin's voice cracked, and he began to sob again, harder. A long moment passed, until he began to compose himself.

“Brother Tomlin, I too have seen many brothers die in battle. Three here, on this day. Two last week. When we made planetfall, the last brother from my Initiation was granted the Emperor's Mercy after he threw himself between a rocket and myself. In every campaign, a brother I had served with for years fell. Their names are engraved in our sacred halls, upon a wall that only the members of my chapter will ever see. I say their names in every battle I fight. We honor their sacrifice by living, Trooper Tomlin. Do not cheapen their deaths by aching to join them. Would they tell you that they wish you were dead and they still walked? Surely not, if they held you in half the esteem you hold them. It is not easy to forgive oneself for living when his brothers have died. But you must, if you are to honor their memory. Can you promise me that you will honor their memory, brother Tomlin? That you will not hasten to join them?”

“Y...yes, Brother Diocletus. I shall.”

“I shall carry their names with me, as well as of my own brothers. Go, join your regiment in celebration of their lives, and remember them always. You can have no greater gift from them than to see another victory, and they can have no greater gift than your remembrance.”

Tomlin stood up, as did Diocletus. The Astartes proffered his hand, and Tomlin accepted it. When he withdrew, there was a seal within. “Carry it with you always, Trooper. The Emperor protects.”

“The Emperor Protects.”

Tomlin moved off to join the celebration, his spirit buoyed.

---**---**---**---

Sergeant Major Tomlin turned to the voice, and saw a familiar face, clad now in black power armor. “Sergeant Diocletus!”

“Chaplain, now.” He strode over, and handed a long package to Tomlin. “The lho that Perkins owed you.”

Tomlin took the carton from the astartes, smiling. “You really remembered them, these decades since?”

“I never forget a loyal servant of the Emperor, Sergeant Major Tomlin. May the Emperor continue to protect as we fight in His name.”