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haruchx · 14 hours ago

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HONESTLY I LOVE BOTH IDEAS SO MUCH, but I'm a huge fan of fanfics where the character is always flirting (and teasing 🥴) the reader LOL but whichever one you post I'll love it for sure 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

"Yes Ma'am." ༄.° ⌗ One.

ᯓ★- pairing: Bonten!Sanzu Haruchiyo x Fem!Reader

ᯓ★- synopsis: Sanzu had never left your side since the first day you joined Bonten. This ruthless man who was tough on everyone was completely different towards you. He felt a feeling in his heart that he had never felt before. He was ready to do anything to see the reciprocation of this feeling from you, to feel your love and to possess it.

ᯓ★- w.c: 3.2k

ᯓ★- warnings: drug use, alcohol use, implied possessiveness/jealousy, vomiting, emotional manipulation (light), toxic attachment, delusional behavior, mild suggestive content, obsessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, unhealthy relationship dynamics.

ᯓ★- h/n: I wrote this at 2 am and the editing is just now finished so I don't know if it's good or not. As i said I'm thinking of adding a few more chapters to this but i don't know when I'll post it. Don't hesitate to point out any mistakes you see or parts you don't like, enjoy reading!

You are in bed, the window is open and the cool breeze of the summer night is coming in, you are about to fall asleep. It's a very quiet night for a Bonten member. Everyone had gone to the usual club except you, you didn't go tonight because you wanted to rest.

Until that damn phone rang. You were already suspicious of the fact that your peace lasted for too long. It was Ran. Ran wouldn't usually call you at this hour unless there was something important, he would be busy flirting at the club.

You groaned as you reached for the phone in anger. When you answered the call, there was loud music in the background and Ran spoke immediately.

"There's a problem. It's Sanzu again."

"There's no one else who's a pain in my ass anyway. What happened this time?"

Just as Ran was about to start talking, you heard Sanzu yelling from behind, probably yelling at Rindou.

"Get the fuck out of my way! I said I want {Y/N} to come!"

"She said she would rest!"

"And why do you know this and not me?! Why did she tell you and not me?! Are you trying to get close with her or something?! Don't you dare!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose when you heard the argument between Rindou and Sanzu. Sanzu was acting jealous as usual, even though there was nothing in the name of love between you two. Ran spoke on the phone as he walked a little further away from them.

"I warned Sanzu but he took too many of those pills and also drank too much alcohol before and after. So right now he's both drunk and high, it's a mixed thing. He does stupid things, he doesn't even listen to Mikey. He says he wants you, he also tried to beat Rindou a few times."

You sighed and got up from your bed and quickly walked towards your wardrobe to put on some clothes while answering Ran.

"Tell him I'll be there in a minute. And why the hell did he try to beat up Rindou?"

"She thinks Rindou is flirting with you or has a crush on you or something. Hurry up or I'll lose my patience and shoot him with my gun."

"Keep that fucking gun on your belt, I'm coming."

You hung up the phone and threw it on the bed, then you got a few things from the closet and quickly put them on. Sanzu was always like this, every night you weren't with him he would cause trouble and somehow bring you to him. What about his jealousy? It had been there since the first day you came to Bonten, in a way you didn't understand. He would never let you go, he wouldn't let anyone else besides him follow you either.

After getting ready quickly, you grabbed your phone and car keys and started walking towards the garage. Your phone started beeping in your hand with messages one after another. When you looked at it, it was Sanzu. Of course, who else could it be anyway? He was sending you ridiculous but cute photos that he wouldn't send to anyone else and bombard you with messages.

- where are you?

- when are you coming????

- Ran said you'd be coming soon.

- i miss you so much girrllll ♡♡♡

These were exactly the messages that high Sanzu would send to you. You couldn't help but let a short laugh escape your lips as you rolled your eyes.

- I'm coming, don't get into trouble.

- sit on your ass and wait for me.

- yes ma'am.

You got into the driver's seat of the car and quickly started it up, stepping on the gas. Sanzu would usually listen to you, but this time you weren't so sure because he was both high and drunk right now. Because it was late, the roads were generally empty. The radio was playing a few of the songs Sanzu had previously added to your playlist.

When you arrived at the club, you planned to take Sanzu directly and go back to Bonten base, so you parked the car near the garage exit. You entered the club from the back door. Sanzu was sitting on a couch with his legs spread apart and his head leaning back a bit. His eyes were half closed. There was another woman next to him and she was trying to get closer to Sanzu, while Sanzu was trying to ignore her.

"Come on.. we can have some fun tonight."

"I don't want to, you're not {Y/N}."

"Oh fuck {Y/N}! You've been saying her name all night long."

"Don't you ever mention her name like that again!"

Even though Sanzu couldn't move properly, he frowned and tried to push the woman away, not realizing that you were watching all of this. When you saw that the woman was still trying to get close to Sanzu, you cleared your throat and approached them both. Both of their gazes turned to you. While Sanzu was happy as if he had seen his favorite toy, the woman raised an eyebrow.

"What's the problem?"

The woman's tone of voice bothered you, she was acting too cocky.

"The problem is you. Can you get up?"

"Excuse me? Who do you think you are, telling me to get up?"

Sanzu wasn't even listening to the woman, his eyes were only on you and he was muttering in an exaggerated sappy tone.

"Hmm.. my woman has come for me again.."

When the woman heard this, she realized who you were and cleared her throat, quickly stood up, mumbled a fake apology and walked away.

As you stood in front of Sanzu, he placed his hands on your hips and smirked as he looked up at you, mumbling. His hands had trouble finding the right places to hold on to, and his eyes had trouble looking in the right places.

"Did you miss me that much? You came too fast."

"Miss you? Tch, that would be the last thing I'd do even if I were to die. And... who is that woman?"

"I don't know, she's nobody for me. I think she wanted to undress me. I told her I'm married. She asked me where my ring is and said a bunch of other nonsense."

What Sanzu said seemed ridiculous and funny to you right now, considering how his gaze was wandering every five seconds and how he was having a hard time keeping his head up. Still, you tried not to laugh.

"Did you say you're married? Who's your wife then?"

"What do you mean who's my wife? Of course it's you. We got married, remember?"

That stupid but somehow attractive smirk was always on his face. With all the pills he took and all the alcohol he drank, he was starting to make up ridiculous memories again. Still, it was amusing to tease him in moments like this

"Mhmm, yes we got married Haru. But shame on you! You forgot our wedding anniversary!"

A worried expression appeared on Sanzu's face and he quickly stood up but he almost fell on you because he was so dizzy. He barely held on to your shoulders at the last moment.

"Our wedding anniversary?! But wasn't that in the winter?! In February, actually! And we're in June."

"No, it was in June! I can't believe you!"

Sanzu whined and laid his forehead on your shoulder, closing his eyes. It was starting to get a little harder for him to get the words out.

"Okaaaaay, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you, I promise. But let's not break up, okay? We haven't even had kids yet.."

Your heart skipped a beat for a moment, even though you were only joking at first. Sanzu's vulnerable state... was driving you crazy. Sighing, you put one hand on the back of his hair, patted it, and spoke into his ear.

"Okay, we won't broke up. But come on, we need to go back and you need to rest, okay?"

Sanzu made some whining noises but nodded and held onto you, putting his arm around your shoulders for support. As you walked him towards the exit, you saw Rindou watching the two of you from the sidelines. When you made eye contact with Rindou for a second, Sanzu immediately frowned and spoke angrily, although it was difficult.

"What the fuck is going on?! Why are you staring at each other?! There's something going on between you two, right???"

Rindou just rolled his eyes and walked away and you sighed as you looked at Sanzu, he had to stay calm since it was a sign of doom for him to get angry when he was high.

"No, Haru, there's nothing going on between us. We just made eye contact, that's all."

"No, that bastard is trying to take you away from me! I can tell by his looks!"

Because Sanzu thought you two were married right now, telling him that you are not even together would put him on edge. So you just continued to lead him to your car.

"You know I don't even give a fuck about him, right?"

"But what if he takes you away from me? Then I won't even listen to Mikey, I'll shoot him and his brother."

Sanzu was talking like a stubborn child as he stumbled, you had to admit that he was quite cute and charming even now. You opened the backseat door as you leaned him against the car, carefully helping him to get inside and laying him on his side.

"No shooting at anyone."

You took off your jacket and placed it under Sanzu's head as a pillow. You got into the driver's seat, fastened your seat belt and started the car after closing the backseat door. As you were driving towards the garage exit, you saw Rindou looking at your car from the garage entrance. You didn't understand what he was trying to do and every move he made made Sanzu even crazier.

Sanzu lay quietly in the backseat with his eyes closed. You spoke with a tone of voice that contained a bit of concern as you looked at him through the rearview mirror.

"Haru, are you sleeping? Wait a little longer, when we return to base I'll take you to your room and then you can sleep."

"I'm tireeeed..."

Sanzu didn't open his eyes while whining, normally if he was sober he would be ashamed of his own actions right now. You continued to drive silently while smiling involuntarily, occasionally checking his condition by looking at him through the rearview mirror.

When you arrived at the Bonten base, you parked the car in the garage in its usual spot and got out. You opened the backseat door and saw that Sanzu's eyes were closed, but thankfully he wasn't fast asleep yet.

"Haruchiyo, come on, open your eyes. We're here. I'll take you to your room."

"Can't I stay here a little longer..? Your jacket smells exactly like you. What was your perfume? YSL Libre? I'll buy all the stocks of this perfume."

You had a hard time not bursting out laughing at Sanzu's words.

"This is a women's perfume, what are you going to do with all the stock?"

"If I spray it on myself, no woman will come near me because I will smell like women's perfume. Besides, I will smell the perfume when you are not around."

Sanzu gave you a tired smirk as he opened his eyes.

"You're unbelievable.."

There wasn't a single trace of anger in your voice, just fondness. Sanzu got out of the car, first holding on to the backseat door and then to you, but he stumbled. You left your jacket behind, closed the door and locked the car. You started to walk Sanzu towards the entrance while he was still leaning on you and he started to whimper.

"I think I'm gonna throw up.."

"What?! Wait, don't throw up right away. The toilet is right over there. Hang on a little longer."

Sanzu leaned his head back as he huffed but listened to you and tried to hold on until the two of you got inside and went to the first bathroom in front of you. But when he entered the bathroom, he couldn't hold it in and fell down directly in front of the toilet and threw up in the toilet bowl. You quickly knelt down next to him and pulled his hair back from his face over his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"Shh, okay relax. Let it all out."

Sanzu closed his eyes while throwing up and took deep breaths when he finally stopped for a while. His voice was hoarse from throwing up.

"Why are you talking to me like I'm a baby?"

"What, would you rather I scold you while you're throwing up?"

"Would you scold Rindou?"

You couldn’t help but huff and roll your eyes when you heard that question. You knew it was Rindou’s fault that Sanzu kept bringing this up.

"Stop with this Rindou bullshit anyway."

Sanzu frowned and coughed a few times but still managed to look at you.

"No, answer me. Would you scold him in a situation like this or treat him like you're treating me right now?"

"I wouldn't even be around when Rindou threw up, Ran would have been there. Why should I care about Rindou anyway? You're talking nonsense."

"Rindou speaks differently, though."

"Because he wants to provoke you, don't you understand? He tries to drive you crazy by trying to flirt with me, and you fall into his trap every time."

"Because I'm scared that I'll lose you because of that bastard!"

After Sanzu said that, he coughed and threw up again while turning his head. As you watched Sanzu, you felt your heart ache for a moment with his words, even though there was no romantic connection between you two.

"Haven't you figured out yet that I wouldn't be interested in someone like Rindou?"

"What if one day you change your... mind?"

"Come on, I've been with you since day one. If I haven't given up on hanging out with a maniac like you, I won't give up on it from now on either."

You said this with a slight smile to lighten the mood, but Sanzu's facial expression still looked serious and a little scared.

"I don't feel like throwing up anymore, let's go to my room."

You nodded and Sanzu stood up with support from you. You flushed the toilet, brought him closer to the sink first and turned on the cold water, wetting your hand and wetting his face and neck with the cold water. Sanzu was just watching you, he still looked angry but he couldn't stay angry while you were taking care of him like this. While you were wetting his neck, he suddenly leaned over and kissed the tip of your nose. You froze and looked at him, he looked like a little child.

"What, why are you looking at me like that? Can't I kiss you?"

"No, you can-- I mean, of course but it was.. so sudden, y'know?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't send you a letter just to let you know before kissing you."

While you were frowning at his joke, he suddenly started laughing, but you couldn't stay serious for too long and laughed along with him.

"Anyway, please leave the 'very funny' jokes for later."

You gently dried his face and neck with a towel as you turned the water off again and began to walk upstairs to his room. No one had returned from the club yet. Sanzu had gone completely silent.

When the two of you entered his room he let out a sigh and was finally able to sit on his bed while still leaning against you. He scratched the back of his neck and tried to lie down directly but you stopped him.

"No, change your clothes first. You should wear something comfortable."

"Pfft, c'moooon!"

"Nuh-uh."

Sanzu huffed but still listened to you and while you brought his pajamas, he took off his jacket, started unbuttoning his shirt. You had to hold yourself back from staring at his muscular, toned upper body, past scars showing. but Sanzu was aware of this and flexed his muscles while smirking just to tease you.

"You're impressed, huh?"

Your cheeks turned red on their own and you smiled involuntarily while rolling your eyes. You slapped his cheek lightly, playfully.

"Shut up, I don't care about your muscles right now."

"Tch, I'm hurt."

Sanzu dramatically put his hand over his heart and smirked at you. You helped him put his t-shirt on gently.

"You need to take your pants off now."

"Oh my, are you a pervert?!"

Sanzu was still making fun of you, when he saw that you were getting more and more angry and embarrassed, he started laughing. He unbuttoned his pants, unzipped them and lowered them. You looked away just to avoid seeing that.

"Don't look away, one day you'll see this every night."

"Oh shut the hell up, Sanzu!"

Sanzu was still laughing and when he took off his pants he put them aside. He staggered to his feet to put on his pajamas. While you were still not looking at him he approached you from behind. His warm breath was touching your neck and he placed a small kiss on your neck. This time he brought his lips to your ear and whispered.

"Don't try to silence me. I'm telling the truth. One day you will be mine, and the day you become my woman I will have the honor of holding you in my arms every night."

You couldn't answer Sanzu because you didn't know how to respond to those words. You turned your head to the side, and Sanzu smiled at that while still standing behind you, placed a gentle kiss on your hair.

He put on his pajamas and carefully got into bed, putting his head on the pillow. You folded the clothes he had taken off and opened the window a little to let in some fresh air.

While you were doing all these things, he was laying quietly on the bed. Just when you went to look at him, you saw that his eyes were closed and he was fast asleep. His current facial expression looked much more innocent than usual. An involuntary smile appeared on your face.

You covered him up a little so he wouldn't get cold, and even though he had already vomited everything he needed to vomit, you decided to stay with him because you thought there was a possibility he would vomit again at night, in his sleep. You were worried about him.

You sighed and leaned your head back as you sat on a couch in the room. Sanzu's words were still running through your mind. You wondered what it would feel like to.. be his woman. The feeling of being in his arms every night. These words were confusing your mind and heart even more, as you still didn’t understand how you managed to attract Bonten’s number 2.

#bonten sanzu #sanzu #sanzu haruchiyo #sanzu x reader #tokrev sanzu #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers haruchiyo sanzu #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers spoilers

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strang3lov3 · 2 days ago

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benji snippet :)

You got drunk off of that bottle and half of another, and you cycled through the emotions with Benji at your side. It was a lot of sadness, you recall. Benji really felt for you, poor fucking kid. You were utterly crushed.

“It’s gonna be okay, dude.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe,” you sniffled, wiping your raw nose on your sleeve. Benji chuckled and handed you a roll of toilet paper to use instead. “Oh, no. It’s fine. Um, this was actually his hoodie, so. Kinda could use the snot, I guess,” you joked.

But Benji didn’t laugh. “You’re shitting me," he deadpanned. "That’s his? You're wearing that asshole's fucking hoodie?”

“Yeah?”

“You fucking loser, take it off.”

You gave Benji a look. “No, I’ll be cold.”

“Who fuckin’ cares? Take it the fuck off, right now. Do it. I’m not kidding.” Benji snapped at you and motioned for you to remove it, but you shook your head. So he grabbed your sleeve and tugged, and that made you giggle. You pulled back and he tugged harder in return, trying to force your arm out of the sleeve.

It escalated, of course. You laughed when you hit the floor, and after briefly checking to make sure you were alright, Benji wrestled you. You squirmed and squealed as you fought for the upper hand, but Benji pinned you easily. He was always so strong like that, so capable. He rucked the hoodie up and off your body, accidentally exposing you in the process. You were both too drunk to give a shit.

“Benji, fucking give it.”

“Nope!” Benji hopped off of you with the hoodie in his hand, slid on a pair of shoes, grabbed a lighter off an end table and an aerosol can of god only knows what. “C’mon.”

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out."

He walked outside and down the street, with you following behind him, clutching your arms in the brisk air. Finally, after reaching a quiet spot at the end of the road, Benji dropped the hoodie. He crouched down, then flicked the lighter and handed you the can.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Burn that fuckin’ thing, dude.”

"You're ridiculous." You rolled your eyes and pressed down on the top of the can anyway, letting out a wild laugh at the large flame that you created. Benji laughed too, watching the cheap material of the hoodie melt and burn. God, it was so stupid and so dangerous and could have easily ended up being a trip to the emergency room, but laughing with Benji in and of itself was healing.

Later, Benji took his own hoodie off and put it over your head. He pulled your arms through the sleeves, and it was nice to see a real smile on your face again. “Oh, yeah. That’s better,” he said. “I think that makes us about square. Just don’t fuckin' - don't go snotting this one up, okay? Fucking creature."

#snippet #benji kaplan #benji kaplan x reader #kieran culkin #kieran culkin x reader

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sonofshin · 3 days ago

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Yijun raised a brow at the sudden shift in emotion. Now Akrahan was acting so insecure, as if he were a sham, yet at the same time still touching him. Not pulling away or outright denying him. Just... ruining the mood for some reason. Ah, was he this kind of drunk? The emotional kind that, once his mood shifts, the tears soon follow. Or maybe even just numbness and depression. Gods, hopefully not, there would always be a certain stench associated with that.

His tail flicked as he thought of some damage control, and luckily, Yijun knew of strategy. Not only a job, but an interest of him as well. A little bit of theatrics, and he should have this in the proverbial bag.

"Tch, you seem to have the wrong impression of heroes and champions. To be a hero, one needs to survive. In order to survive, one needs to know when the best time is to pull away." A clawed finger gently poked Akrahan's armor. "Do you think my family is still in power because we force our armies to fight and fight when the pressure is too strong? That we can imbibe the will of the Gods to just smite our enemy whenever we want? Of course not, we retreat, regroup, and heal our wounded. Silly man." Yijun's eyes glazed over briefly as he thought back to a skirmish that he watched his father command years ago. It was small, not important in the history of his people, but it had made such an impact on him to see his father flawlessly navigate the battles between dragons. It was grander than anything humans can possibly imagine.

"And is the arduous road life not what we read books about all the time? I, for one, adore when the traveler reaches an inn or some other place of respite and takes off their boots and clothes, gets something to eat, washes up. Those chapters relax me. It gives me, the reader, also a sense of ease to read about the mundane. I can only imagine what it's like for you." He stroked his finger over Akrahan's scales. "But why would that turn me away from you? I already knew this. I sit here, in your lap, knowing all this."

He nodded to Akrahan's boots, tucked away. "You may have come in with a little lordling, but you did not even remotely try to hide those mud-caked feet prisons. Any self-respecting guard would keep those clean." Looking back, Yijun almost failed to hold in his laughter. "I even gave you the name 'travelborn'. Did the wine go to your head so quickly? Should I call a nurse?" A light flick on Akrahan's forehead made the prince burst out in an uncontrollable giggle at himself. Partially unfounded and completely untameable thanks to the wine.

Continued from here @akrahan

It took Yijun a moment to recover from the familiar face that just walked into his abode, one of the last he had ever imagined actually meeting. Clearing his throat as Julius spoke, Yijun quickly assumed the immaculate regality of a prince once more.

"Ah yes, lord Julius. I've heard you have been making quite big splashes in the market recently, only sensible to let your guard stay. There are plenty of fish that would love to take a bite of those margins you have been accumulating."

Yijun turned around after a cordial bend at the waist and took place at his desk, motioning for at least Julius to sit as well. Taking a stack of papers off his desk, Yijun briefly rummaged around until he seemingly found what he was looking for.

"As it seems there have been improvements in your quantity and quality. Something very commendable. But tell me, if you please, why come to the royal palace with this, and not any of the hundreds of investors who would love to take this on? Or one of the advisors of the royal palace? It is quite bold to make an appointment with the prince directly, given you are not bestowed with a title."

Yijun laced his fingers together and lightly rested his chin on them, gazing at Julius with soft eyes that hid a terrifying bloodlust in them. Even sitting down, there was an unmistakable haughtiness to Yijun that he navigated with utter perfection. Any moves he made worked flawlessly with his clothes, hair, jewels, and horns, giving him a dreamlike, floating appearance. Along with a skin that almost seemed to glow with health and the markings on his body truly gave him an otherworldly aura, despite looking very human.

"Not to say that the palace wouldn't benefit slightly from more armaments, but I would love to hear what exactly justified you taking precious minutes out of my day."

With a sly smile, Yijun exposed parts of pearly white fangs. His eyes briefly flicked to Akrahan, a peculiar light dancing in them.

What in the blazes was a fictional character doing here. Surely it couldn't be that Yijun had just happened upon a fictional book that happened to depict a real person that happened to have stumbled into the castle in much similar manner to the story? He had to find a way to make Akrahan stay here, at least for a minute so they could talk and he could figure out what was going on.

#akrahan #Yijun: I am literally the funniest person in this entire palace #source? Trust him bro

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dxckgrxsonx · 1 year ago

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Soft sleepy affectionate Jason Todd is good for the soul:

Just standing in the kitchen, half asleep in the early morning, sunlight catching the curve of your mouth on a yawn and a warm, thick pair of arms circling your waist from behind, a forehead pressed into your back.

There’s hardly any sound, the tick of a clock in the background, a soft little exhale into the back of your shirt. Fingers warm and sly sneaking up under your pyjamas in search of skin. Palms splayed over your tummy, a content mumble echoing in the space between sleep and awake; caught in a dream.

Leaning forwards into the counters edge to make a cup of something warm and sweet and being tugged back into place with a tired growl, no real choice other than settling into place and letting Jason hold you close, swaying slightly with how drowsy he is. A quiet, whining grumble of your name when you move again.

Hopping up on the kitchen counter and tugging him in close between your parted knees, his head tucking into the warm space where your shoulder meets your neck. Your fingers sweeping through his tangled hair, down his neck, across his shoulders. Feet locked at the ankle around his hips, not willing to let him pull out of reach.

Sliding back into bed with a warm drink and Jason clinging at your side, legs tangling together when he nudges yours apart with a knee. Playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and listening to him drop back off into sleep, a gentle, quiet slur of “I love you” the last coherent thing you get out of his mouth for the next few hours.

Just…Jason being soft and a little needy and feeling safe enough to trust you to lead whilst he slots into that tired space where you’re only half aware of what’s happening outside your partner being close and warm.

#drunk and emotional and thinking of him always #he loves you okay and wants you close #just two hundred pounds of sarcasm and spite seeking you out because he wants a hug #I need him so so bad #jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfic #jason todd #ella writes

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wispforever · 1 year ago

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they already got the party platter actually. it came with enough alcohol for ten people

#naruto #kakuhida #hidakaku #kakuzu #hidan #i think what people always forget #is that they're BOTH idiots #not very noticeable but I need everyone to know that Hidan's headband IS upside down around his neck #kakuzu would be a quiet drunk but if you get him talking he says outrageous shit #Hidan is a mood swing drunk. whatever emotion he's feeling gets magnified ten fold #but mostly he's confused and worried #unless he's mad then he gets in a barfight with a mirror and knocks himself out #myart

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theunmarkedtombstone · 26 days ago

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I never noticed until this rewarch of VM that in the tenth episode, when Logan's on the phone with Connor's team so he can get Veronica in, he says that her name is Veronica with a V for virgin. Not only is that a throwback to the homecoming episode, which could very well just be that, and a nod to the fact that they were friends (like the line prior to that), but it also indicates, at least to me, that he was provoking her, but not provoking her with the outlandish, often explicit rumors about her (which he only does in front of a crowd, like later in the same episode when he says "ho ho... hoe" in front of his friends). Instead, he provoked her about something he knew to likely still be true: She is still a virgin. Which means that Logan was never really fooled by the whole story on Veronica. Sure, he started it, but we also saw from Pam on the Purity Test episode that he wasn't the only one who went out of his way to invent stuff, and likely the rumors became so outlandish and outspread that he couldn't create all, OR tell which was which---except he could. Cause he knew her. Other people might have been fooled, so called friends from before, friends who came to birthday parties and talked to her, but he knew her enough to know she'd never go to bed with someone outside of a relationship, no matter the 14 score on the purity test, pleasuring the entire swim team, giving handies for weed and a ride home. Cause he knew Veronica before. He didn't bat an eye at her private detective thing, he was frequently the one who didn't bend down because he was aware that Veronica was still Veronica deep down, when everyone else forgot, even Duncan. Which also explains why in later seasons he is so fiercely protective of her, when everyone else except for her dad would think that's insane and she doesn't need it. I don't know it just hits me sometimes that Logan might be the only person who ever saw Veronica as Veronica. Wallace adores her, but his first interaction with her was when she cut him down from a pole in front of a crowd. Impossible not to make that person into a God of sorts. On her first introduction, Mac pretends not to know her, but then says that Veronica was all people used to gossip about, and though she got close to being someone who saw it, she still truly only met the second version of her. Duncan definitely liked Veronica no matter what, but he was too passive and repressed to give true thought to it. She was his childhood girlfriend so she could be his 'new' girlfriend, sure. Makes sense. The only other person who truly understood Veronica was Lilly. In the homecoming episode, she says she should stop wearing those dresses, cause they weren't her. In her ghost form, she said they'd have so much fun right now, cause she was a rocker chick. She was the only other person who unconditionally loved and saw Veronica as Veronica, without parental hang ups, and she would likely be the only one brave enough to go up all of those people. But she's dead now. Which still leaves us with Logan. And in the very first episode, when Weevil and the PCH are smashing up Logan's friend's car, Veronica tells them to let him go, she doesn't want his apology. Because she knows that it's grief. Because she is new Veronica because of grief, which is the same reason why Logan is new Logan. Whoever wrote that our childhood friends are the first loves of our life was so right, man.

#long post #tombstone.txt #is this anything?#I got *emotional* again while rewatching VM lads #LoVe #veronica mars #logan x veronica #logan echolls #also Lilly appears in everyone's dreams right? She probably also appears in Logan's #I saw a fanfic in which that happens but #I think it's insane we never went too deep into it #maybe Logan is always too drunk or drugged to even remember his dreams or anything #so Lilly (if she is a real ghost appearance) gave up quickly and decided to stick with V #this is also the episode in which he falls in love with her #the way he's looking at her dealing the cards at that poker game and the way she impressed him by doing it all in the first place #10/10

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beeapocalypse · 2 years ago

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choke on your own chain

#scribbles #blood-alcohol automaton oc #bugworld #the royal mechanist could smile over a rebellious daughter for only so long. it got locked in its own room alone a lot as punishment #think theres a weird dynamic going on where the royal mechanist is largely absent and cold except when drunk (and then theyre demanding--#--and emotional) while the kepradite lord is genuinely delighted by the idea of having children and is constantly doting on them. the--#--youngest baa is the closest to him but he always stands aside and looks away when it gets into shit

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the-sparkling-diamond-satine · 1 year ago

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15. Firework! for maya for the WIP Ask Game 👀👀👀

Send me an ask from my WIP List and I'll post a little snippet or tell you something about it!

Here, have some silly fluff!!! Modern College AU haha and Satine and Christian aren't dating (yet)

“Satine,” Nini says, trying to pry Satine’s arms from around Christian’s neck, “you have to let go. Christian doesn’t want you bothering him.” “It’s really no bother,” Christian says, trying to appear as if Satine clinging to him isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened in his whole entire life, though he can’t help wincing as Satine’s arms tighten around his neck. “But if you keep doing that I think she’s going to choke me.” “Fine,” Nini huffs, throwing her hands up in the air. “I guess you’re stuck with her then.” Satine whines, “I want to stay with Christian!” “I just said you could," Nini exclaims, exasperated. “Yay!” Satine cheers, giggling so hard she nearly falls over and Christian has to grab her waist to steady her. “He smells nice,” Satine adds, burying her face in Christian’s neck while his face heats. “God,” Nini says like she might be annoyed, patting Satine’s back affectionately, “you are the worst when you’re drunk.” She turns to Christian, “I assume it goes without saying that if you so much as think about upsetting her again, you’re going to wake up on fire.” Christian gulps.

#hiiii i know your original request was 'satine gets drunk and only speaks in fireworks lyrics' and while she does quote firework I PROMISE #i had a lot of trouble making that work?? so i gave her other lines too and hopefully thats okay....?#anyways i think satine would be really funny if she was a super clingy and emotional drunk #i think she has a lot of love to give but she always has her armor on and her guard up so if you removed her filter shed be a giggly #affectionate MESS and i love her for that #shes also weird and emotional when she drinks but thats later haha #meanwhile christian is having the best night of his life because satine is clinging to him sdhgskdg #theyre both SO STUPID (affectionate)#as always this is a first draft and it might change a million times before i post haha #hopefully you enjoy how your request is turning out?#thank you for the ask!!#my fic

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cherry-lala · 2 months ago

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The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick��

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

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

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

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

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

He's not wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A twig snaps.

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

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

"I'm called Remmick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remmick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

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

“Evenin’.”

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

“I don’t.”

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

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

That stops me. “Asked who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I ain’t laughing.

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

And I wonder why I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It don’t.

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

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

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

So I go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only to the things that matter."

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

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

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

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

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

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

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

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

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

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

I blink. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got stories?" I ask.

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

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

He grins slow. "Alright then."

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

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

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

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

But I’m not.

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

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

——

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

——

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

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

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

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

I never said that.

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

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

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

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

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

Watchin’. Waitin’.

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

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

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

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

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

“Come in, Frank.”

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

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

Straight for Sammie.

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

I stood frozen in place.

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

Then she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There they stood.

A wall of them.

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

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

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

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

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

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners x reader #sinners imagine #remmick x reader #vampire #vampire x human #smut #18 + content #fem reader #fanfiction #imagine #sinners fic #angst fanfic #dark romance #my writing #cherrylala

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edenarchives · 3 months ago

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♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve faked it with every guy you’ve ever worked with. Every scene, every moan, convincing, but never real. Then Bakugo happens. One scene turns into something else entirely and now you can’t stop thinking about him, and you’re starting to wonder if it was ever just a scene.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content. smut, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, praise, light degradation, dirty talk, light choking, possessiveness, semi-public sex (on set), creampie, light aftercare, porn industry setting, blurred emotional lines, language.

PART TWO

You weren’t nervous. Not really.

You’d done this a hundred times. With all the big names—Keigo, who liked to make everything a performance; Touya, who had a thing for whispering filth like he was telling you a secret; even that wild three-way with Shindo and Hitoshi that still topped your subscriber requests.

So no, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something else.

Maybe it was the name on the call sheet. Bakugo Katsuki.

He was the guy. The one who didn’t just act like a powerhouse on camera—he was one. Every scene he was in got clipped, shared, memed, thirsted after. The kind of raw intensity people couldn’t stop watching. Or jerking off to.

You included. Not that you’d admit it out loud.

Okay. Maybe once. When you were wine drunk and swiping through his catalog. Maybe twice. Maybe more.

You’d watched him wreck other girls. Watched the way his hands gripped hips like he owned them. The way his mouth dragged moans out like he knew exactly what buttons to push. You always told yourself it was research. Prep for the inevitable scene.

Now here you were, in the makeup chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the clock. You didn’t even get this antsy for award shows.

You shifted your hips a little. God, you needed to get a grip.

“Five minutes, Y/N,” someone called from set.

You gave a casual wave, sliding your phone into your bag. Cool. Easy. You’d done this before. You were the girl. The one who always looked good, always knew her angles, always gave the most convincing moans. No one ever knew they were fake.

No one needed to.

You only did this for the money. Never caught feelings, never chased orgasms. You could finish on your own time. You always did.

But when you walked onto set and saw him—arms crossed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like the cameras were already rolling—your breath hitched.

And then his eyes locked on you.

Bakugo didn’t smile. He smirked. All sharp teeth and slow drags of his gaze. Like he was already undressing you in his head.

“‘Bout time,” he said, voice low and cocky.

You raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Dynamight.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up. He smelled like something spicy—cologne, sweat, and danger. His smirk widened.

“Too late, princess. I’ve seen your work. Bet I could make you actually cum.”

You laughed. It came out a little shaky. “You think you’re the first guy to say that?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek like he had every right to touch you already. “But I’ll be the first one to prove it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. Cocky bastard. You weren’t new to bold claims—hell, you’d heard that same line from half the industry. But something about the way he said it, all low and sure like it was a promise, made your pulse skip.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising to your cheeks.

The scene started like any other.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You were on your back, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. Your moans were perfectly timed, your hands moving just how they were supposed to.

Bakugo was above you, teasing at first, fingers trailing up your thigh, smirking like he had all the time in the world. You tried to stay in character. Tried to focus.

But then his fingers actually slipped inside, and holy shit—

You bit your lip.

That felt… different.

His fingers weren’t just thrusting. They curled. Pressed. Rubbed against the spot you usually had to hunt for on your own. And when he looked down at you, his eyes weren’t blank or performative. They were locked in. Watching every twitch of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath.

“You always fake it this early?” he muttered under his breath, so low only you could hear.

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs tensed.

“What?” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Bakugo chuckled. It rumbled low in his chest.

“You’re tight,” he said, dragging his thumb over your clit just right. “But you ain’t clenching like you mean it. Not yet.”

And then he sucked on your inner thigh.

Not for the camera. Not for show.

For you.

Your back arched on instinct.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin. “I got you.”

And you hated—hated—how badly you wanted to believe him.

He didn’t start slow.

He licked into you like he was starving, like he’d been starving, and this was his first meal in weeks. His tongue was hot, wet, relentless—flicking against your clit in firm, practiced strokes that had your legs trembling before you could even bite back the first moan.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you, white-knuckled, and your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a broken little gasp.

“Oh fuck—”

He hummed against you. Smug bastard.

“Don’t hold back now, princess,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit slow, then latching back onto your clit like he owned it. “Let’s show ‘em what it looks like when it’s real.”

You whimpered. Whimpered. You didn’t do that.

Not even when Keigo pulled out the toys. Not even when Touya did that breathy thing in your ear.

This was different.

You tried—tried—to keep it together, but his mouth moved like he already knew every inch of you. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers still working inside you like he wasn’t giving you a fucking choice. He knew exactly where to press, where to flick, when to slow down and when to pick it back up again.

And it wasn’t even for the camera.

It was for you.

Your stomach coiled, tight. Too tight.

Your breathing hitched. Your thighs started to shake. You were going to—

“No,” you gasped, voice panicked, eyes fluttering. “Don’t—fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah you are,” Bakugo growled, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His mouth was wet with you, lips swollen, eyes wild. “C’mon. Don’t fake it. Just fuckin’ let go.”

And then he sucked—hard—right over your clit.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, ripping the air from your lungs. You didn’t fake it. You couldn’t. Your moans were raw, broken, punched out of you like the wind got knocked from your chest. You shook, hands flying to his hair, thighs locking around his head as your back arched off the bed.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept going. Licking, pressing, dragging your orgasm out like he wanted to ruin you.

You came again, again, before you’d even come down from the first.

Your voice cracked. “Bakugo, I—I can’t—”

“Yeah you can,” he muttered, not letting up for a second. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was buzzing, on fire, shaking like you’d lost control of every single nerve ending. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t lose it like this.

But god, he was still licking you through it, fingers still curling right there, his voice low and wrecked as he talked you through it like he wanted to brand the sound of your orgasm into your memory forever.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, voice gravel and heat, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, desperate, lost.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s real.”

Your lips trembled.

“It’s real,” you gasped, breathless, broken. “It’s real, fuck I’m gonna—”

And just like that, you came undone again. Loud. Messy. Helpless.

Bakugo didn’t stop until your hips were twitching, your thighs were soaked, and your moans turned into soft little sobs of overstimulation.

The lights above you still burned hot. The cameras were still rolling. But everything else felt far away—muted, blurry, unreal. Your legs were jelly. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon. And Bakugo was still between them, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden and planned to do it again.

Your brain was still fogged when he stood, stretching to his full height.

Then his hands were back on you, big and warm and so sure, gripping your waist like he owned it. He flipped you over effortlessly, face down, ass up, skin still hot and damp with sweat. Your thighs trembled when they spread open again, already overstimulated and soaked.

Bakugo slid his hands up your back. Slow. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning over you, his cock grinding against your ass with lazy pressure. “That twitch in your legs? That little shake?”

You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering.

“That’s mine now.”

Your breath caught as he pulled his hips back. You barely had time to process before the thick head of his cock was pressing against your entrance—hot, heavy, and already wet from you.

“You ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Then he pushed in.

Slow. All the way to the hilt. Letting you feel every inch. Stretching you open, filling you to the fucking brim. You choked on a moan, fingers gripping the sheets like your life depended on it.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting your pussy throb around him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, hips flexing. “So fuckin’ tight. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

You were. He hadn’t even started moving yet and you were clenching around him like you didn’t want him to leave.

Then—he moved.

A slow drag out. A sharp thrust back in. Deep. Deeper. Your mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

“That the spot?” he murmured, hips rolling again, hitting the same angle, slow and deliberate.

You nodded, gasping.

“You better fuckin’ tell me when you’re close,” he growled, pace still maddeningly slow. “I wanna feel it. I wanna hear it.”

He reached around and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing soft, teasing circles that made your arms give out. You dropped to your elbows, back arching like he’d wired you for pleasure.

Then he started really fucking you.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Every. Single. Stroke. Reaching places that made your eyes roll back. His hips snapped forward with just enough force to jolt you up the bed, his fingers never leaving your clit.

You moaned into the mattress, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the fuckin’ sound I wanted.”

You were spiraling. Every thrust, every rub, every low growl in your ear sent you closer to the edge.

“Bakugo, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he grunted, hips picking up speed, still hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

You shattered.

You clenched around him so tight he groaned, biting down on a curse as your body trembled under him. Your moan punched out of your throat, high and wrecked and real.

But he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching as he kept thrusting, dragging you straight into another orgasm with no break.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear. “Not fakin’ now, huh?”

You shook your head wildly, whining into the sheets.

“Bet you never came like this on set before,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you cum like this off it either.”

He wrapped a hand in your hair and pulled gently, just enough to lift your head.

“Say it.”

You could barely speak. “No one. No one but you.”

“Damn right.”

His thrusts sped up, rougher now, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, joined by your wrecked little gasps, your whines, the slick mess between your thighs.

“You hear that?” he said, low and smug. “That fuckin’ sound your pussy’s makin’? That’s all me.”

You whimpered, and he slapped your ass—not hard, just enough to make you clench again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

And then he slammed into you. Hard. Once. Twice. Over and over. You screamed—literally—as another orgasm crashed through you, your body locking up, eyes rolling back.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, and then pulled out just in time to stroke himself twice, thick ropes of cum painting your back, his voice ragged as he came with a low, wrecked growl.

You collapsed.

No faking. No poses. Just you, ruined on the sheets, shaking and soaked and completely fucking gone.

Bakugo dropped to his knees behind you, panting. He grabbed a towel off the edge of the bed, wiped you down gently—so gently it made your chest ache.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet now. Careful.

You nodded, still dizzy. Still pulsing. Still floating.

“I came so many times I lost count,” you whispered, dazed.

He chuckled, cocky and low. “Good.”

You rolled onto your side, trying to catch your breath.

“That was supposed to be a scene,” you mumbled. “That felt like a fucking movie.”

Bakugo leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder, then smirked against your skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, “that was just the warm-up.”

You snorted softly, still breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Your legs were still trembling, body wrecked and used and buzzing. But something else was humming under your skin now. That ache in your core—not from need, but from power.

You rolled over, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers down his chest. His eyes tracked every movement.

“Get on your back,” you whispered.

Bakugo raised a brow but didn’t argue. He leaned back against the pillows, smirking like he thought he still had the upper hand.

His hair was damp with sweat. His lips were swollen. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths. You’d never seen him like this.

Your grin widened.

You leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, way too good to be acting. Then you sat back, hips lifting off him, and slid down his body.

“Where you goin’?” he rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

You looked up at him from between his thighs, eyes dark, lips parted. “Didn’t say I was done with you yet.”

His breath caught.

You licked up the underside of his cock—slow, teasing, wet. He twitched in your hand, muscles tensing as you took your time, letting your mouth work him like you had something to prove. And maybe you did. Maybe you just wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d done to you.

You looked up, mouth wrapped around the tip, and saw it—the crack in his composure. The soft clench of his jaw. The desperate twitch in his thigh. The helpless sound he made when you sucked just right.

“You’re so sensitive, you’re not gonna last,” you said around him, lips brushing the head.

His fingers gripped the sheets. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept going, messy and perfect, tongue flicking and mouth sinking deeper, until he was panting, until he was cursing under his breath, until his hips jerked off the bed.

And then you pulled off, slow, dragging your tongue over the tip one last time.

He made a noise—wrecked.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips again. His hands found your thighs like muscle memory, gripping tight.

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“Beg.”

He froze. “What?”

You rolled your hips once, just enough to feel the slide of his cock against your slick entrance.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

Bakugo swallowed hard. His voice was low, rough. “I want it.”

You licked the shell of his ear, teasing. “Not good enough.”

His hands trembled where they held you. Then he growled, breath hot.

“Please.”

You stilled.

“What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. Looked up at you like he hated how much he meant it.

“Please,” he repeated. “I want you. Need you. Fuck, I’ll say whatever you want—just ride me.”

You smiled. Real. Slow. Lazy and smug.

Then you sank down on him—deep, wet, tight—and his whole body arched beneath you, a broken moan punching out of his throat like you’d ripped it from his chest.

His hands flew to your hips.

You rode him slow. Sweet. All control. And when he finally came again—loud, raw, completely undone—you kissed him through it. Held him through it.

And when he whispered your name afterward, soft and stunned, like he didn’t know what just hit him

You smiled. Because for once, it wasn’t just acting.

Neither of you moved right away. His arms were still around you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, skin damp with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your fingers. Your heart was still beating too fast, and so was his.

Eventually, though, you had to get up. Had to move. The spell didn’t break, exactly—it just faded enough to remember where you were, who you were, what this was supposed to be.

You pulled on your robe in silence, legs still shaking slightly, and glanced at him across the bed. He sat up slow, pushing his hair back, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like maybe he had more to say, but didn’t know how. Or didn’t think he should.

You hesitated.

So did he.

“Um…I’ll see you around,” you said, trying to make it sound casual, even though your voice came out a little too soft.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and reaching for his clothes. “Guess you will.”

Your stomach twisted, weirdly tight, but you smiled anyway. You nodded once, turned, and walked off set without looking back.

You didn’t see the way he watched you go.

Didn’t see the way his fingers flexed like he wanted to reach for you.

Didn’t hear the low, quiet fuck that slipped from under his breath when the door finally shut behind you.

You got home and didn’t even shower right away.

You peeled off your clothes slow, every muscle sore in the best possible way, and collapsed into bed wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and your post-fuck glow. Your thighs ached. Your voice was half-gone. Your lips were still swollen.

You looked wrecked.

You felt worse.

And yet somehow, the only thing you could think about was him. The way he’d looked at you. The way he sounded saying your name. The way his hands had held you after like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You tried to distract yourself. Pulled up the scene, freshly posted not even an hour ago.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. More than anything you’d dropped in months.

You scrolled.

StepOnMeY/N: Holy shit, that was unreal.

BbyBakuGo: not y/n faking with everyone but bakugo

ToyasToy: Was that real? Tell me that was real.

It was.

You scrolled further.

KeigoOfficial: I feel personally offended. Gonna have to step my game up. Rematch y/n?

TouyaTodo: faked it? With me? damn. i must be losing my edge. hit me up when you wanna make it real doll.

You smirked.

Your DM notifications were blowing up. People you’d worked with. People you hadn’t. Everyone suddenly curious. Hungry. Competitive.

Your stomach flipped. It was fun. It was flattering. But none of it hit quite the same.

Then you saw it.

BakugoK: Already need more from my favorite girl.

You stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

A third time, just to make sure it was real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers went numb. You sat up in bed, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. Because what the fuck did that mean?

You clicked on his profile. Double checked that it was him.

It was.

No emoji. No game. Just a single comment that said everything and nothing all at once.

Already need more.

Favorite girl.

You slammed your laptop shut and screamed into your pillow. You kicked your feet like a schoolgirl. You laughed—hysterical, breathless, completely losing your mind.

Then you opened your laptop, stared at the comment again, and whispered out loud to no one

“Oh my god.”

Because yeah—you’d done this a hundred times. But this one was different.

#bakugo katuski #smut #my hero academia #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo smut #mha smut #bakugou x reader #bakugo fic #mha #katsuki bakugo x reader

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gravitytrips · 7 months ago

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You are so right.

massive amount of tags below but have some good thoughts

We’ve all heard the “Scout gets too much attention” rants in the fandom but I also want to say: Scout gets too much hate.

Like, he’s decidedly NOT a coward. I have no idea where people get that from. His entire backstory is that he got fast to that he could run into danger before the fight ended. He’s got voice lines pleading for his life, but every character has voice lines where they’re weak or losing.

He’s also not that annoying to anyone but Spy (besides the people he’s killing). I’m easier on this though because it comes from gameplay habits.

Also, Scout is strong. Maybe not physically, and certainly not as much as the rest of the team, but he’s quick, acrobatic, and whip smart about surroundings. He did single handedly take on a Heavy. Sure, it was his meet-the and everyone is overpowered but still. He puts up a fight. (My favorite subversive moment of the ‘scout gets wreaked by everyone automatically’ is in Mann Swap where we see him use his skillset to match with heavy’s strength.)

It’s hilarious to punch the punching bag, ofc. But Scout is my least favorite of the main nine and it still kills me to see him in “serious” tf2 fan media with only his joke traits.

#Yeah #The characters most mischaracterized I think are Heavy and Scout #of cours most people make an effort to characterize Heavy coreectly #But like op said Scout’s role in any given media is “punching bag”#even in some serious things #reason number 828367382 why Emesis Blue is amazing #they aren’t even technically the canon characters but they are so well written #hate it when something is really obvious to me but not to other people #like clearly Scout is flawed #hes an arrogant asshole #but it’s always been really obvious to me that it’s an ACT #like father like son lmao #Expiration Date really solidified this belief of mine #i try to characterize the mercs correctly in my fics #dont make Scout a coward don’t make Demoman nothing but drunk and don’t make Heavy stupid #other mischarachwrizations that peeve me:#Making Medic an asshole. Like. He really isn’t. He’s just got a few screws loose. There are several instances in canon that prove #he actually cares about his team. At least to an extent #When people make Engineer the Voice of Reason #that man is just as insane as Medic. He just doesn’t show it as much outwardly #when people make soldier totally incompetent #his stupidity and incompetence was really ramped up in the main comics but he didn’t use to be THAT stupid #He’s more intelligent than you would think #Some docs have gotten Demo right and made him the emotional center of the team #he really loves his team as implied in the comics #This is getting long maybe I’ll make my own post sometime later

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elixirfromthestars · 6 months ago

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By The Warmth Of The Oven

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. tipsy bucky.

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> is it those cookies that smell delicious or is it you?

a/n: This fluffy drabble is my holiday gift to you my dear Bella @nickfowlerrr ♡ In honor of Can You Feel It? being the first of many beautiful fics I read of yours 🥹🩷 Thank you everyone for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

“Smells good…” Bucky’s voice comes out of nowhere from behind you as you grab another tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find him sauntering into the kitchen, making his way over to you.

“Freshly baked cookies always do,” you reply with a gratified grin, placing the tray on top of the stove so the cookies have some time to cool off before you plate them. Your friends had already gone through three batches of them and they practically begged you to make more. It was a nice feeling, almost rewarding in a way, knowing something you made was so loved by your friends.

“‘m not talking about the cookies, doll,” there’s a bit of a slur in his cadence that catches your attention at the same time that your heart skips a beat at his words. You turn to him to see he’s staring at you with a dreamy smile and a twinkle in his eyes, propped up against the counter by his elbow. You frown at his unusual nonchalant demeanor. You’ve never seen him act this way before.

Your head tilts slightly as you examine him a little closer. There’s a bit of a sway to his stance and his cheeks are tinted pink. “Bucky, are you drunk?” Almost immediately he shakes his head at your question, “No. I can't get drunk,” he replies with an obvious tone, and yet the pouty frown on his face tells a different story.

“Right, you can’t…” you affirm, mulling it over for a moment,“Unless…did Thor give you some of his special Asgardian liquor?” You ask, stepping slightly closer to him, the apples of his cheeks getting rosier in response.

“I took a shot. I started feeling funny and came here—felt safe,” he mutters that last part reluctantly, sharing something with you he wouldn’t if it weren’t for the alcohol in his system.

“In the kitchen?”

“With you.”

Your amusement is replaced with a soft expression at his response. He most likely hasn’t felt the effects of alcohol in decades and a part of him doesn’t know how to cope with the resurfaced inhibitions. The fact that while feeling unwell his first instinct was to come looking for you—it made a warmth spread throughout you that could easily rival the heat of the oven.

You reach out to cup his cheek, soothing the flushed skin with your thumb. He instinctively leans into your touch, his eyes shining with a gentle vulnerability that causes your heart to squeeze in your chest. You and Bucky have always had a flirtatious friendship for as long as you can remember, but it's never gone past that. Seeing him so openly affectionate with you stirs emotions deep within you that you aren’t sure you’re ready to bring to the surface.

“I don’t think the alcohol is going to stay in your system for long, Buck. How about we do this…you wait for me here while I go out and serve the cookies I baked,” his eyes widen slightly and you can tell he wants to protest until you add, “I’ll bring back some hot chocolate for us to share and we can enjoy it along with some cookies while we wait for that liquor in your system to wear off. How does that sound?” You suggest softly and you can see the way he thinks it through before he agrees with a nod.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you plate a few dozen cookies on decorative plates, leaving a handful behind for you and Bucky to share. You make sure to quickly take them out to your friends and serve up two piping hot mugs of hot chocolate before making it back to the kitchen in no time.

When you meet back with Bucky you find him sitting on the counter where he watches his legs as he swings them lazily to and fro. You observe him fondly for a moment longer than necessary. Trying to commit to memory how carefree and unguarded he is at this moment. When he notices you his face lights up in a way that makes you feel like the most precious person on earth.

“Here, as promised,” you hand him a mug of hot chocolate which he takes eagerly—too eagerly—as he immediately goes for a sip of it. Before he can, however, you stop him, placing your hand as a barrier between his lips and the mug. His mouth ends up pressed into your palm, and you ignore the heat that finds its way to your face at the softness of his lips brushing against your skin.

“Bucky, it's scalding hot! You’ll burn yourself! Wait until it cools down a bit, please.”

“It’s not gonna burn me, doll. I’m a super soldier. Watch—”

“Bucky!”

You use the cookies as leverage to coax Bucky into waiting for the hot chocolate to cool down before he drinks any of it. For the next hour or so, you enjoy each other's company. Between the sweet treats and the lighthearted conversations, time flies by in a heartbeat.

Then, while in the middle of a discussion over your last mission, Bucky does something that completely takes you by surprise in the best way possible—he kisses you. It’s short, but profound in the way he pours everything into it. Every flirtation you ever questioned could mean something more was proven here with this kiss, that it had meant so much more for more than just you.

You’re speechless when he pulls away beaming as if his heart might burst.

“Looks like I was right.”

“Huh?”

“I asked myself what was sweeter. You or the cookies. I knew it'd be you,” he states as a matter of fact, drinking up the way his words affect you as much as the kiss had. There’s a part of you that doesn’t believe him, but it's not because of him, but more so because you think you must be dreaming.

“That's the liquor talking.”

“I've sobered up a while ago, doll.”

You search his eyes for the truth of it all and you find it. This is real. This isn’t a dream. And the yearning that burns bright in his eyes is one you know all too well. It’s the same one reflecting in your eyes as your gazes lock on one another.

“I still think the cookies are sweeter,” you whisper, your eyes shining with a playful challenge despite the way your heart races in your chest with anticipation. He catches on, licking his lips as his flesh hand snakes its way to the back of your head to cradle it gently.

“‘m gonna prove you wrong, doll,” he declares in a huskier tone as he pulls you in for another kiss. And that night, by the warmth of the oven, Bucky continues to kiss you until he successfully proves you wrong.

#glimpses of love in the snowfall #elixirs snowfall daydreams #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes oneshot

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

I Can’t Protect You From Everything

pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader (fem!reader, no physical description)

summary : You’re assaulted in the ER. Jack sees red. But it’s not just the rage—it’s the fallout, the quiet after, the grief, the guilt, the way he holds you like his own body can bring you back to life.

content: medical trauma, assault aftermath, blood, concussion, strong emotional themes, PTSD undertones, canon-level violence, smut (established marriage), soft dom!Jack, comfort sex, hurt/comfort, healing arc

word count: ~3K , not beta read (this is just a hobby <3)

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

Low. Sharp. Controlled like a lit match held too close to a fuse.

“Move.”

The nurses part without a word. Not because they recognize the attending. But because they feel the shift in the air.

Jack Abbot is in motion. And he’s not stopping.

You’re still on the floor of Room 12. Head spinning. The tile’s cold under your cheek, but everything else burns—your skull, your vision, the jagged pulse in your throat.

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

“She got in my face, man,” he slurs to no one. “Shoulda stayed outta it.”

The next sound is a crash. A metal tray sent flying.

Jack doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. One look at your body on the ground, your hair matted with blood—and he’s on the guy in seconds.

“Jack—Jack!” Robby grabs him from behind, arms locked around his chest. “She’s down—she needs you, not this.”

“Let me go,” Jack growls, low and lethal.

“You touch him, you’re done. You hear me? She’s bleeding. Focus, man.”

Jack’s breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you think it might snap. But his eyes are locked on you now. Not the patient. Not the shouting.

Just you.

He drops to his knees beside you. Gently turns your face toward him with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Too soft for a man who just looked ready to kill. “Stay with me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You try to smile.

“Didn’t like that, huh?” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His eyes go dark. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

His breath catches. All that fury folds into fear. And you know—if your heart stopped right now, his would go with it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his scrubs, barely a brush.

"…Don’t go anywhere,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut.

You're out before your head even hits the pillow of the gurney.

Jack doesn’t move from your side. Blood—your blood—dries tacky and rust-colored on your temple.

“Let’s go,” he barks at the transport tech. His voice is too sharp, but no one challenges him. Not now. Not when the calm, collected attending has cracked.

Robby walks beside him, clipboard clutched tight. “She needs a non-contrast head CT, stat. LOC, blunt force trauma, disorientation. I already paged neuro.”

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on your face as they wheel you through the fluorescent-lit hall.

In the CT bay, he’s forced to stop outside the radiation line.

“I’ll be five minutes,” the tech promises. “You can see her again once she’s cleared.”

Jack doesn’t nod. Just stands there, like a soldier on post, watching through the glass as your body is slid into the machine like it’s a coffin.

Later.

“Concussion,” Robby says quietly, handing Jack the annotated imaging results. “No hemorrhage. No skull fracture. She is lucky.”

Jack doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Robby gives him a look. One Jack doesn’t like.

“Maybe don’t start a war in the trauma bay next time someone touches her.”

You wake slowly, brain fogged, heart pounding. For a second, the disorientation pulls you under—you're sure you're still in the trauma bay. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping, the chaos.

But then you feel it.

A warm hand curled around yours. The scent of Jack’s cologne. The distant hum of your house’s old heating unit.

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

The small home you share with Jack—the one he remodeled himself, every corner touched by his hands, from the creaking floorboards to the stubborn cabinet hinges. Medical journals are stacked high on the coffee table, dog-eared and covered in notes, like neither of you quite know how to leave work behind. It's lived-in and quiet and yours—built like a fortress to keep the world out.

Jack’s sitting beside the bed, one hand cradling your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse point.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You blink slowly. “Am I supposed to be?”

He exhales like it hurt to hold in. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are rimmed red—and it kills you to see it.

“You didn’t say anything when I went down,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, voice cracked and raw.

You reach for his face. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“I was going to kill him,” he murmurs. “If Robby hadn’t pulled me off—I was gone. I saw red.”

You stroke his hair. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head. “No. What matters is that you were hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

Jack flinches. “Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. Like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

And when you say, "Show me I’m still here," he pulls back just enough to search your face. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t trust what he sees.

Then he nods, just once. Like he’s made up his mind.

His hands shake as they trail down your sides, memorizing the feel of you again. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking open entirely.

Still half-dressed, the soft stretch of sweatpants low on his hips, he leans down slowly. His shirt’s already gone. His breath is warm against your collarbone.

He shifts his position like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Like he’s still that eighteen-year-old kid who enlisted too young, carried too much, and learned how to weaponize silence before he ever understood how to ask for comfort. Still moving like he’s made of edges—too strong, too fast, too sharp.

He’s always been gentle with you. But tonight, he’s something else entirely.

He kisses you like it hurts. Like every inch of skin he touches could vanish. His lips are hot and searching, pulling at yours with need, like he's starving and you’re the only thing that will bring him back.

You reach for his waistband and push his sweatpants down, his breath catching when your fingers graze him—thick, heavy, already hard.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

He exhales harshly, like it’s killing him to take his time, but he does.

Jack kisses his way down your neck, slow and reverent, his hands now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with slow, careful movements, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Only when they’re off does he lower himself between your thighs. His breath ghosts across your skin before his tongue follows—warm, wet, devastating. He licks into you like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is the only proof you’re still here.

Your hips buck, but his hands pin you in place, steady on your thighs. The stubble on his jaw scrapes softly against sensitive skin, the contrast enough to make your vision blur.

"You taste like home," he groans, eyes dark. "I needed this—needed you—more than I want to admit."

He cuts himself off with a moan as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

Your climax builds fast. It feels too good. Too much. You try to warn him, but he groans against you, and it tips you over—your whole body arching off the bed as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you’re panting for air.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, pupils blown wide.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and reach between you to guide him into place.

He lines up, breath ragged, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. So goddamn slow. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep, forehead pressed to yours like the contact is the only thing anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he’s checking your pulse with his body. The slide of skin on skin. The soft drag of his mouth along your throat. The way he groans when your nails rake down his back.

“I missed this,” he chokes out. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You grip his face. “So fuck me like it matters.”

Something in him breaks.

He shifts, grabs your hips, and starts to thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks under the rhythm, sweat building where your bodies meet, breath punching out of you with every stroke.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your gasps syncing with his groans until you’re both unraveling.

When you come again, it rips through you—louder this time, body shuddering beneath him. He follows with a hoarse shout of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

His arms stay locked around you. His face buried in your neck. His chest rising and falling against yours as he stays inside you, warm and still.

After a moment, he shifts—just slightly—and you feel him stir again. Still hard. Still aching. But this time, there’s a tension in his body that feels less like hesitation and more like possession.

He doesn’t speak. Just kisses you—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hand sliding down your side to pull your leg around his waist. You feel it in the way he grabs your thigh, in the low growl that escapes when he sinks into you again without warning.

The pace is different this time. Less reverent. More raw. His thrusts are deeper, heavier, his body pressing you into the mattress with every stroke. You whimper his name and he groans—head falling to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

It’s all slick heat and friction. The sound of skin meeting skin, the rasp of his breath in your ear. He fucks you like he needs to burn out the fear, chase away the image of your blood on tile. Like your body is the only thing tethering him to the present.

Your nails rake down his back. He hisses, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Jack—”

“You’re mine,” he grits out. “Still mine.”

He leans in, kissing you hard, sloppy, teeth clashing. His hips piston into you harder, faster, building to the edge with brutal precision.

You come with a cry, your entire body curling around him as your walls clamp down, trembling and wet and perfect.

He follows with a low, broken moan, collapsing into you as he spills deep inside, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

And when he finally stops shaking, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, sweat and heat and breath shared between you.

This time, when he whispers, “You’re okay,” it sounds less like a question.

And more like the truth.

He kisses the corners of your eyes. Your jaw. The inside of your wrist.

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

The panic is immediate. But then you hear the soft clang of a mug in the kitchen.

You find him by the stove, shirtless. Dog tags dangling against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t turn. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist.

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

“I keep seeing it,” he murmurs. “The blood. Your eyes. I thought I lost you… I felt it. Just like I did overseas. That second where it all slows down, and you just know."

You press your cheek to his back. "You're here. I'm here. That's what matters."

He turns then. Cups your face. And this time, when he kisses you, it's not frantic. Not heavy.

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

By 7:03 a.m., Jack’s badge is clipped back to his scrubs, his jaw freshly shaved, and his eyes—still bruised at the edges from lack of sleep—are locked on the hallway leading to trauma intake.

You’re behind him. Walking slower than usual, sure. But walking.

The minute you swipe into the main ER pod, it’s like someone hit pause. Heads lift. Conversations stop. A nurse stops mid-sentence and stares at the dried red line still barely visible at your temple.

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

You’re used to the way the ER stares. What you’re not used to is the way they stare at him.

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

"Jack's lucky he still has a license."

Jack doesn’t flinch, but you see it. The way his knuckles go white holding the patient chart. The way he refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Robby catches up to Jack just outside the nurses station. He leans against the wall beside him, quite a beat before he speaks.

"You holding up?"

Jack huffs out a breath. "Define 'holding up.'"

Robby studies him. "Everyone’s talking. You know that, right? About what happened. About you."

"Let them talk."

Robby nods slowly. "They will. But for what it's worth, people know you didn't lose it. Not really. You stopped yourself. That matters."

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the line of his jaw softens—barely. He looks over at you down the hall, where you're laughing quietly with another nurse, a clipboard in your hands.

Robby claps Jack gently on the back. “Get back out there. But maybe… don’t take the guy in Room 9.”

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

It’s another combative drunk. Came in swinging at EMS. Male, mid-40s, belligerent as hell, already yelling at a med student for trying to take vitals. It’s not the same guy—but it’s close enough. Same profile. Same energy. Same trigger.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack mutters, voice low.

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

You head back to your rounds, trying to pretend like it’s a normal day. But you feel Jack’s eyes on you like a second shadow.

Every time you so much as check a patient’s IV or lean in to auscultate a chest, you can feel the weight of his stare across the room.

By the time you step out of Room 4 with a vitals chart in hand, Jack intercepts you mid-hallway and drags you to the nearest supply closet.

“You’re done,” he says quietly. “For today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not ready to be back. You shouldn’t even be on the floor. Let me talk to–.”

You cross your arms. “I passed neuro eval. Twice. I’m cleared.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

His voice is low but firm, eyes darting toward passing residents. You pull him into the side med supply closet before someone catches the tail end of his tone.

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

“I need to be here,” you say. “For my own head. I need to prove to myself that I’m okay.”

Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at you like it’s killing him to hear that. “I almost lost you on the floor you’re walking back into like nothing happened.”

“I’m not walking in like nothing happened,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “What if it happens again?”

“Then it does. And I deal with it. And you deal with it. But you can’t wrap me in gauze and keep me behind the nurses’ station just because you’re scared.”

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about more than this job.”

You step toward him. Let your fingers hook in the front of his scrubs.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to trust me. The same way I trust you every time we walk into the emergency room together.”

His jaw works, eyes closing again. He leans forward, rests his forehead to yours.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m really fucking trying.”

And you believe him.

But when you step out of the closet and head toward your next patient, you don’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching you. Still waiting for the worst.

Still holding his breath.

That night, you don’t talk much on the drive home.

The hospital faded in the rearview, but the weight of the day hasn’t.

You both pretend to wind down—but everything feels like if either of you speak too loudly, you both might crack.

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

It’s only when you’re curled together under the covers, his chest to your back, that he finally says it:

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

You nod, fingers wrapped around his. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to be there. Like you always are. That's why I married you.”

“I was scared,” he murmurs. “Like full-body, I-don’t-know-who-I-am scared. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. He exhales, the air leaving him slow and steady.

He holds you closer.

And for the first time in two days, he sleeps.

And so do you.

#the pitt #shawn hatosy #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #the pitt x reader

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withahappyrefrain · 2 months ago

Note

Bobby, who's only had sex a handful of times, has his dick sucked maybe once, not realizing how fucking big his dick is. It's not comically large, but definitely larger than average. Him thinking you're pretending when you're gagging on his dick, even going as far as to roll his eyes because why are you being so dramatic

"Tryna take it all, Bobby, you're so big," and something about your cock drunk whine snaps something in him

I see this for Bob Reynolds! He's definitely on the inexperienced side. It's not from disinterest, he just hasn't been in the most stable mindset. During the moments he was clean, he was always told not to get into a relationship, otherwise doing so would put his sobriety at risk. Plus, that man has low self esteem, he's not downloading Tinder.

So when he's in a relationship with you, it's all very new- dating, emotional intimacy, and the physical intimacy.

When you ask to go down on him, he's a little shocked. Does it matter that much? Poor guy is so used to downplaying his needs 😭

"Uh, sure? If you want to!" He quickly adds, not wanting to put pressure on you.

Bob never thought a blowjob could be life changing.

"You're so pretty Robby." He doesn't know what's making him blush harder; your special nickname or the way your fingers are tracing the veins along his hard shaft.

"R-really?" His hips jerk when he feels your breath on his cock, "I mean, it's....fine. I don't think, I mean, it's nothing special, just-"

Trying to get Bob to take a compliment is something you're still working on. So instead, you shut him up by closing your lips over the head of his cock. The action causes Bob to throw his head back, biting his lower lip to keep that moan in.

The last thing he needs is another 'sex talk' with Alexi. Not even Yelena can save him from that.

Thoughts of his roommates quickly fly out the door. All he can do is watch you try to take him. There's a quarter of his shaft you're not reaching, using your hand instead.

Now, Bob is trying not to judge. He's truly grateful someone as amazing as you wants to be with someone like him. But truly, he can't be that big? No one in the past has ever made those sounds when they were with him. And Bob has watched porn. He knows it's possible to gag on it, but he also knows those are actors who are playing it up. So why are you?

"Are you....good?" He asks. It's blunt but the nicest way he can think to phrase it.

The whine that escapes your mouth vibrates against him, nearly sending Bob into a tailspin.

"You're just so big Robby. Tryin' to take all of you." Desperation laces your voice, amplified by the fact you dive back to taking his cock into your mouth, throat constricting as you tried to take more. His large hands grip your shoulders, his lithe hips now jerking forward.

"You're-fuck- you feel r-really good," His voice is strained. Now that doubt isn't clouding his mind, he can actually let go and feel. Your mouth is so warm and soft. He loves how you have one hand kneading the soft flesh of his thigh, the other stroking up and down his shaft.

"C'mon Robby. Wanna taste ya."

Turns out, Bob Reynolds does indeed enjoy blowjobs.

#my writing #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds smut #sentry smut #sentry x reader #sentry x you #sentry x y/n #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds imagines #bob reynolds smut #thunderbolts smut

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madamechrissy · 9 days ago

Text

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- emotional, lots of feelings, regrets, mentions of depression (reader) mentions of each other's past, MUCH fluffier than the last one, slow burn is still being a slow burn, character development (we love to see it) and some kissing/making out, sexual tension WC this chap- 10k

A/N- Taglist closed- please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Five - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Seven>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Six

“I need a change of career.” He says again, and his manager sighs, shaking their head, as one of the directors comes up.

“Modeling, I have an agency.” He hands Satoru a card, and Satoru’s manager covers his face for a moment.

“Like nude modeling?” Satoru asks.

“Sure, or any kind, look at your bone structure? You’d make good money.” Satoru holds the card, flipping it around.

He was always a pornstar, for his adult life.

Can he do more than that?

He has more than enough money to damn near retire.

But how the fuck could he get you to forgive him for what he did, how could he ever get you back? Now that he realizes there is no one in the world for him but the girl he’s wronged. The one who doesn’t even realize how much he cares, because he’s not even said it, never articulated it. The girl who now wants nothing to do with him, how does he just let that go?

“Some people get burnt out,” Satoru’s manager mumbles, putting a hand on Satoru’s shoulder then. “Modeling huh, I’ll get some contacts together, and we’ll see about some different shoots for you.”

Satoru exhales in relief, what once felt like a perfect career truly felt like a fucking prison now. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, put on some fucking clothes.” Satoru smiles a bit, heading to the dressing room, looking at your name, your picture.

The sweet one with your big glasses, with your little peace sign, a sweet innocent thing he fell for, that he selfishly let be corrupted by his own needs and desires. And now he can’t help but have his own regrets, remembering you that night, the anger on your face, the way you kissed him anyway, the way you bit his lip so angry, dressed so fucking slutty that night.

He’d changed you, possibly forever, and you changed him, in ways you didn’t even fucking know. How the fuck can he just let you go?

*****

Six months since you said goodbye to Satoru Gojo

Being without Satoru made you realize how empty you were before him, god how much you miss him - how horrible you feel for sending away the man you love. How stupid you feel, there are so many times you look at his number, you changed his name to just Satoru now. Once, you got drunk and texted him, panicking when you realized that you had.

I am sorry.

That was the text, not some nude or something madly embarrassing, it was a simple apology. He’d written back to you the next day.

Don’t apologize.

That alone broke you down further, there was so much beauty in Satoru Gojo, so much sweetness there that you miss so desperately. How can you not miss him, the images spilling through your mind of Satoru behind you in that mirror - both times he had been. One at that club under heady lights, pleasuring you and whispering desperate in your ear- the other him being tender, sweet, caring.

That was the duality of him - the moments he broke down, and you saw so much more you wanted to know. Peel the layers back of who he was- ultimately, you didn’t know him any more than he knew you. It’s a reason you’re beating yourself up internally, wondering if you put too much on him.

But the love confessions that spilled from your lips?

You meant every word.

It didn’t matter that you didn’t know him completely yet, it was everything you felt from the moment he caught your eyes at the party. It was everything about him, how your lips felt against his, how you felt when he looked at you with those eyes - so beautiful, special, loved by his actions. Did the words matter so much?

They did matter to you, or you wouldn’t have pulled back. The days go by, the weeks go on, the months pass - it’s fall in LA now, it’s lovely and in the seventies, you’re just stuck inside today. Many, many days you do this, wallow in front of your couch, watch the same movies on repeat, over and over, falling asleep and dreaming of him, only to wake up from it and realize it’s gone.

The fact that you did this to yourself hurts more, that you pushed him away to find yourself, but are you finding yourself? You changed in ways you can’t go back to, you changed for him but also because of him, you’re just not the same girl. As you watch Casablanca for the millionth time, and Humprhey Bogart tilts up Ingrid Bergman’s chin, you’re in a mess of tears like you’ve never seen it.

You’ll always love him, won’t you?

You ended up cutting back graphic design hours, and soon you were dabbling more in photography. Though you had done a couple shoots with Jenna, you wanted to dabble in much more. Through some pretty good connections with the company you ended up quickly making a name for yourself, the money was good and you were diving into something full on.

The distraction was so needed for everything in your life, you know that you need to focus on something and maybe the pain will lessen from losing Satoru. You always wonder if he’s okay, if he’s doing well, you can’t help but ask yourself at times. Jenna ended up telling you he called that night, and for a while you were upset she didn’t let you talk to him.

But you think you understand, she just cares a lot. But to see you like this, still after months - shit, half a year - she mentions it again.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said last night. “I just… can’t.”

“I did hear he left the industry, shut down his OF,” she murmurs, eyeing the mess you are on the couch and frowning, she’s asked to clean for you numerous times, but you always refuse.

Your house is spotless, but your couch is where it’s real, the pain, the hopelessness you feel.

“I wonder if I was too harsh.” She says, her words surprising you then.

“Maybe you were, but it’s for the best I suppose.” You cuddle a plushie, resting your chin on it and sighing. “Even without the profession, I don’t know if he returned my feelings.”

So that was where the two of you left it. Even if Jenna should have let you talk to him and didn’t hide it, nothing had changed from that fact. Nothing changed when you told him you loved him, and all he said in return was that he wanted you. The feelings couldn’t align themselves.

The past six months were a blur, parts where you’re enthusiastic and so energetic, and many parts where you’re devastated and lethargic. The pain of not having him rips your soul apart, everything feels wrong about not being in his arms, you second guess yourself constantly.

Should you have kept it all going, should you have just let it be physical and held back your feelings? You could have been some OF power couple, in his arms and earning his praise - being his star. Sometimes you wonder if you were more okay with filming than you thought, and it scared you - but another part knows that just isn’t who you are.

You don’t touch yourself and think of him, you just don’t touch yourself at all, there’s nothing to be turned on about anymore. It’s like it was before you met him, except even little books and smut stories do nothing for you. All you picture is him in everything you read, to the point you find no joy in it, another thing about you fading in the haze of depression.

You know you’ve taken it too seriously, the feelings, the moments, the nights in his arms. You’ve let it consume you, and though you maybe ‘know yourself’ better from this, it doesn’t make it any happier, any easier. Every night you think of calling him, of just talking to him, but there could never be ‘just friends’ with him. You’re too deep in your feelings.

You want him in your life, so badly and tangibly, and it can’t just be fleeting - if it were, why is it still here, half a year later? Why does he dance through your fucking mind on repeat, living in your brain rent free, his big grin and just how sweet he was when you two were together. The way his hand caressed your cheek, you can still feel it there when you touch it.

When you look at the mirror you just look tired, the sparkle isn’t in your eyes, the color isn’t there, you brush on a little blush and add some mascara before a really big shoot, to look human. You practice a smile, you are truly excited, it’s a big opportunity for a huge magazine, and the first truly big one for you. You just have to shove down the gnawing feeling that’s always there.

Did you really make the right decision letting him go? Couldn’t you have tried to hear him out, to give him the chance?

The thoughts race as you head to the shoot, but when don’t they? When don’t you second guess your actions, wishing you’d been more upfront to begin with. Maybe Satoru didn’t know you fell in love, or maybe he didn’t believe it, maybe that wasn’t something he was ready for. You shove the thoughts back as you meet everyone, and that’s when you see him.

A head taller than everyone, the pretty face of the man you fell for, he’s wearing some insanely expensive suit opened up at the chest, buttoned down enough to show his bare chest, chiseled and cut as you remember. He isn’t smiling brightly, but he has a little tight curve to those plump lips, as he runs a hand through locks that look just a little lavender under the lights.

Your heart stops in your chest as the director calls you over, and his eyes catch yours, just like that night. His lips part just so, hands tensing at his sides, blinking snowy lashes so quickly like you’re an illusion. Your pulse races in your ears, you expected to hurt when you saw him again, you imagined you’d pass him by in a street one day perhaps.

But you didn’t expect the tenderness, the way you just want to hold his hand in yours is so vivid you barely bite back your emotions. You plaster on that smile, as you introduce yourself, and the girl with him is so sweet as she shakes your hand. The director explains the vision to you, as the people help decorate the set, and you’re finally there with Satoru.

He just stands there, staring at you so intensely, you feel it like a touch, you look down nervously, fiddling with your hands in front of yourself, as he drinks in the sight in front of him. “Still biting that lip,” he murmurs softly, you gasp a bit at it, eyes locking then. “You’ll have permanent marks there.”

“I think I already do,” your voice feels too good to his ears, it makes him ache as you speak, smiling so nervous, very much the girl he met that night. The different girl who just made everything stop, and you still have that effect on him, you still after all this time make his heart race. “You look amazing.”

“Makeup is weird,” you laugh softly, the sound like a punch to the gut for him. Just that sound alone, he’s missed so vividly, he realizes it then, how much he missed every part of you. It wasn’t just that desire for your body, though that’s there, it was little things like how the lights are hitting your hair, how your smile breaks his heart. “I really wanted to…”

“Me too.” You manage, the both of you don’t say it, not when you’re being pulled in different directions for a moment, but you feel it, everything he doesn’t say.

He missed you too. You can feel it. You can feel him, so close, his scent in your nostrils, the familiar cologne that you miss. He’s talented already, the poses he makes are beyond someone in this for a few months, impressive as he works everything, every angle so well. You can’t help but be so happy for him, to see him like this.

You know he enjoyed porn surely, but you remember the calls and demands stressing him out, it seems he’s a little more natural at this, a little awkward here and there when you’d ask him to touch the model and interact. But he picked up on that as well, you hear that most of his shoots were alone so far, so this was a huge one for him too.

To get a cover of this magazine was something anyone would covet, you can’t help but feel proud of him, smiling as you snap photos. Not a fake smile, a real one, for the first time in so long, knowing he was okay, knowing how badly you needed the reassurance that he was. Your heart aches deeper, ever deeper while you watch him look at your camera, smiling just so.

He’s heartbreakingly beautiful behind your lens.

Satoru struggles to focus on what you say, on anything, when you’re in there with him, when all he can think of is how badly he wants to hold you in his arms again. Things just were different now, like a piece of him was missing constantly, for a moment the void is full by just seeing you. He always wondered if you were good, if you were doing better, not getting hurt by him anymore.

Then he thought other things, of wildly showing up to your house, of begging you on his knees to take him back. Of asking you out truly and not whatever foolish shit he said to you. ‘A friend’ you were never just that, not from the moment he blew that smoke into your mouth and you trusted him so implicitly. The moment you left him was still the hardest blow he’s had.

A couple weeks hurt him more than the years with his only other girlfriend, and you two weren’t even ‘together’. But it hurt more than anything he could even try to explain, the thoughts racing constantly. Could he have said more, given you more, the longing is so tangible it takes his breath, while you work on posing them again, and take some shots from different angles.

“Tilt her chin up just a bit,” you murmur softly, as Satoru’s bright, swirling blue eyes look right at you, rather than the pretty model in front of him, and it’s like you can feel his touch, as if it’s your chin he’s gripping. “Look at her lips.”

You give a gentle direction, clearly pointing out the obvious, that Satoru can’t get his eyes off the girl he hasn’t seen in months, the one he dreams of every night. How can he see anyone else in the room? With a giant, fancy black canon camera, you bend down, snapping a picture, he stares in his peripherals as you do, then you’re on your knees, getting another angle.

He has wondered how you were, god he didn’t want to ruin your life any further, but being this close to you makes him ache, in so many ways. How your hair falls over your shoulder, how you angle your head to study them, now walking up and smiling, turning the model so she faces away from him. You brush her hair forward over a shoulder, taking Satoru’s hand then.

That’s when he feels it, like a shock rushing through him as you pause for a moment, giving him a sweet, sad little smile. “Touch her waist,” you put his hand there, and take her hand now, turning her. “And you look at him like this… perfect.”

You walk back to take another few photos, and you thought maybe after so long it wouldn’t hurt, but it does, like a fresh wound opening. You’re so proud of him for being at this quality of a shoot, but you can’t help but wish you were the one in his arms, even now. There’s not one night in the past months that he hasn’t haunted one of your thoughts - all of the what-ifs.

The shoot wraps up and everyone chit chats for a bit, you’re packing your camera up in your bag when he steps up to you, that black dress shirt half tucked in and unbuttoned, showing too much of a perfectly sculpted body made for modeling. You feel your cheeks heat up as you trail your eyes up and catch his boring into you the way that only he can.

“You’re a photographer now?” He asks softly, his tone is just so different from last time, from the cocky and conceited man, the smirk on his face replaced with parted lips, eyes studying you so intensely. You nod a bit. “That’s so badass, look at you.”

“Look at me, you’re modeling now.” You say softly, smiling up at him as his hand goes to touch your cheek, but pauses, knowing it’s not his place to do so.

Were you with anyone? Did someone treat you like you deserved?

Even if you were, god he just missed you, the presence, the lingering sweet scent in the air - those cupcakes you always smelled like, intoxicating. To imagine caressing your cheek he sees tint with color, to hear your little laugh again, rather than the tears he left you in. He clears his throat, letting his hand fall, flexing his fingers open as he sighs.

“I am… I don’t do… I changed careers.” He manages to say softly, you blink a bit in surprise at that.

“You don’t do um,” you trail off, clearing your throat. “You don’t shoot at all?” You’d heard rumors from Jenna that he quit, but she wasn’t sure if it was true. You hate the relief you feel when you shouldn’t. He shakes his head now, bringing you back. “Do you miss it?”

“No, it wasn’t for me anymore.” His voice gets husky, stepping just a bit closer as the workers take apart the set, but everything fades but him.

It’s always like this, the never ending need for him.

You feel like half your heart is standing right in front of you.

“Do you enjoy modeling, Satoru?” To hear his name from your lips makes his heart race, he nods quickly. “Then I’m very happy for you. I wondered how you were,” you blink back tears, and he catches sight of them glimmering under the set lights. “I think of you often.”

The words are there, you are afraid of them, but also you’re so tired of holding it all in. He steps even closer, making you swallow nervously, leaning down a bit, a hand now brushing your hair back from your face. The contact alone of his fingers brushing through your strands makes your heart hammer in your chest, eyes locking with his.

“I think of you every damn day,” his hoarse voice is so genuine, you’re so afraid to trust it, to believe it, but you feel it, something has changed in him. “I would love to just know how your life is going. If you’d just please, have coffee with me? Or just anything in the world you want.”

“Satoru,” he caresses your cheek now, uncaring of the eyes around you both, the little murmurs, his eyes are locked all on you, as he brushes aside a tear you didn’t realize slipped. “You really just want to know me?”

“I do, I want to know you, even if we catch up and you never talk to me again, maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“You don’t-”

“I do not deserve any time. But please,” his own eyes shut, as he feels you trembling as his hand slips down your arm, over bare skin. “I want to know you’re good, that you’re okay, just anything you want to share with me.”

You turn away for a moment, and he curses under his breath, afraid of your answer, but you’re swiping tears, trying to compose yourself. You feel so much in that moment, in how deeply you still love him, that you just have to take a moment, before turning back around, eyes glimmering as you catch him, staring down at his feet, nervous like you.

“I’d love to catch up, I’d love to know how your life is,” you almost break down, blinking tears as his eyes meet yours again. “How about now?”

“Now!? Shit, yes. Now.” You giggle a bit, as he smiles, so boyish and charming, splitting your heart into a million pieces as he takes your hand, pausing. “Is that okay if I…”

“Yes,” you nod, and he tugs you along, you hear whispers of the models around, who surely all had crushes on him, but Satoru’s attention is undividedly on you. as your heart races in your chest. Your fingers intertwined as he brings you to his car now. “Satoru you drive?”

“I do.” He smiles a bit, brushing his fingers across the sleek Mercedes. “She’s my baby.”

“Is she now?” He grins and nods, opening the door. “I thought you had no license, honestly.”

“I’m wounded! No, I just don't usually drive, this car is special. Here,” he latches your seat belt in, your breath catches, he's so close you feel flustered by him. He comes to sit and smiles at you. “Where too, my lady?”

“Your lady hmm,” you're teasing but the words melt you. There's so much unsaid between you both that you don't think coffee is going to cover it, but you're willing to try it as a first step. “The one by my place? I stress baked cupcakes I can give you when you drop me off.”

“How many this time?” He chuckles as he turns, backing up. It's crazy to even see Satoru holding a steering wheel, it's far too attractive.

“Like only three dozen. And I have brownies.”

“Pot brownies?”

“No!” You both laugh again, it's so fucking natural, it's so easy to be with him like this. Like the night you met him.

It gets a little quiet then, as you sit in the traffic, and he puts on his music from his phone. It's a quiet song, filling the new silence as the two of you sit there, scared to say the wrong thing.

You take a breath. Looking at him, the sun bright through the car window, illuminating his skin. He peers right back at you, hands gripping the wheel tightly, exhaling. You barely blink back more emotions, reaching a hand out then, resting it on one of his.

“Shit, I missed that.” He whispers softly, taking your hand gently and kissing it. Your heart breaks further, until the pain is so deep you can't breathe.

“I'm so sorry I pushed you away, I didn't give you a chance to explain things.” Your words are broken and hoarse, Satoru shakes his head, back focused on the road as he holds onto your hand tightly.

“I'm sorry that I pushed you into something that you never wanted.”

“You didn't push me…”

“I offered it, and I knew you weren't that girl. I knew it, but I was selfish,” he looks back at you, sadness in his blue depths. “I wanted to have it all, my career, you, keep everything in my life the same. Just better. It was selfish.”

“I was selfish, I did it to make sure you wouldn't be with anyone else.” Saying it out loud hurts, but you feel the weight come off your chest, as Satoru blinks tears, falling across his cheek and glimmering in the sun.

“You just wanted to please me, I don't think that's wrong. It was wrong of me to let you.”

“Don't bear all of the blame,” you lean close and kiss away his tears, the two of you stuck in more traffic now. His car parks, as he brushes his fingers across your face. “I should have told you how much it all meant, it was never just sex for me. I wasn't honest with you.”

He nods just a bit, but you see it, the regret on his face. “I wasn't honest with you about anything I felt either. I want to tell you so much, but it's too late.”

“It's not too late.” He sighs, the traffic moves as you sit back in your seat. Clutched tightly, your little hand in his huge one, protective and sweet, you've never missed something so badly.

“You're not with someone?”

“Satoru I work, come home and wallow on my couch. I'm not dating,” he visibly exhales. “And you're not…”

“No one.” His words are quiet, your heart pounds so loudly in your ears as he eyes you again, blue storms swirling with so much. “If this coffee goes okay, can I have a date? A real date?”

You can’t help but get flustered, visible to him the way you nibble on your thumb and shift in your seat, eyes lowering. “A date?”

“A real one. Flowers or some corny shit, fuck I'll get a corsage.”

“Satoru!” You're giggling, he sighs then at how good that sound hits his ears. “It’s not prom, silly.”

“God I love your laugh,” you pause, looking at him then. “Never told you that. The sound does something. It's contagious.”

“I love your smile,” his lip trembles at your teary declaration. “I missed it so badly, I hate that I made you lose it.”

“I hate that I made you cry, I hate that I said that shit.” You shake your head then, biting down on your lip once more, at a red light. It casts a soft glow on Satoru's face, as he tugs it from your teeth. “I didn't mean it.”

“I know you didn't, I should have accepted the apology. I felt so… lost though?” He manages a little nod, as he drives again, and you two just listen to the music in the car until he's right at that coffee shop.

“I went there because I just wanted to see you, it wasn't just sex for me.” He unseatbelts you with a quiet click, a hand pressing on your bare thigh as he looks into your eyes. His minty sweet breath caresses your face. “It was never just sex and that scared the fuck out of me. I wanted to explain it away as simply amazing sex.”

“It was more for you too?” He nods now, cupping your face in his hands, resting his forehead on yours as you two take each other in.

“So much more. I have a lot to tell you about me, it's not all gonna happen today. But I want you to know. And I want to know you, your life, things I didn't even care to find out then. If you will let me.”

“I will, Toru.” The nickname ends his control, he kisses you, just a sweet pop of his lips for a moment, and you melt in his embrace, he pulls back and his thumbs brush over your heated cheeks.

“Sorry, should I not do that? Can I not do that?” His concern is written all over his face then, while the blue eyes assess you gently.

“You can do that,” you press a kiss to his palm, thumb brushing along his inner wrist now. “Is this a date too?”

“Fuck, anything is a date if you want it.” You laugh a bit.

“A date with the Satoru Gojo?”

“Only with you,” you both step into the cozy ambiance of the Cafe, bustling as always. The aroma of coffee beans and sweets fills both of your noses. “Go grab a table, I'll get us two cups.”

You're so pretty sitting there, chin on your hand resting just so, smiling and watching him when he's walking back. And all he can think is how precious and right you feel, as he sits next to you in the booth, and you two sip on the sweet foam of the mocha hitting your lips. He has just a bit of foam on them you tentatively swipe off, the touch almost doing him in.

Just that motion is damn near too much for him, your fingers on his lips as you smile, so nervous, bringing back that night. Did he fall in love with you then? Was something like that even possible? He can’t explain it any other way, from the moment he saw you and how you filled his mind, changed him forever. Your hand falls as he contemplates you carefully, scared it’s some dream.

“You remember my favorite?” He nods, not realizing just that speaks volumes.

You love him.

You're always going to love him.

You ache to say it, but you want that to be the right moment. The hurt is so raw and new, and you two both feel that tension, the way that you both feel terrible for how it all went, the way you missed each other. You sit next to him, a hand comfortably resting on your thigh, it feels so right, the touch. You’re so starved from the lack of him, the lack of his nearness.

“I want to learn anything you want to share.” You tell him softly, as he massages your thigh with his thumb in little circles.

“So do I. Where's photography fit in? Do you still do design?”

“I still do that, I think I needed a distraction. How did you get into modeling?”

“Really connected agents and being stupidly attractive.” You’re laughing, shaking your head. “Gonna deny it?”

“You’re ridiculous.” He’s grinning so big then, you know how terribly you missed that, tugging at your own lips in return, making you smile with him. “I love how your eyes light up.”

He pauses, heart hammering at your soft words, words you’ve held back, and he feels his own tumble out, when his hand squeezes your thigh gently. “I love how sweet you are.”

You feel it, that barrier falling, the one that’s terrified to open up again, but he’s trying to, you just see it. You take a breath, smiling with trembling lips. “I love how caring you are, how you notice things no one else does.”

Drawn to you even closer, he swallows nervously, Adams apple bobbing while he brushes your hair back. “I miss your scent, I catch a hint of it and look for you.”

“You do?” Your voice is soft, as the moment feels so surreal, you couldn’t even have dreamt this, pictured this. He nods quickly, while your hand rests over his, feeling the veins under your fingertips while you two cozy up in the little coffee shop.

“I do miss it, I miss everything. Not just… you know… that.” He blushes a little, rubbing the back of his neck as you feel your own cheeks heat at the memories.

“Me too. Everything.” It takes everything in Satoru not to kiss you again, not a sweet little press of the lips like earlier - he wants to make sure your mouth is swollen from his kisses. He wants you so badly it’s hard to think, to inhale your scent in his nostrils as he tastes your sweet skin, to just fucking hold you.

A mix of everything at once so overwhelming he is trembling, you notice and look at him, lashes lowering as your hearts both race, and his head leans down, coming to rest on yours. You feel tears pricking your eyes at how badly you craved this, craved his presence, in any form at all. You didn’t know this would be a possibility, the way you two speak now, the way you don’t stop the contact.

That first night you met, you two couldn’t stop talking, and for a shy girl like you it was entirely new, it was so different and special, all to happen again for you both, to be so connected and the ease that your words flow. It’s natural, so right to speak to him, to listen to him, as you both recount what you’ve missed in the months alone, making the longing even deeper.

You’d missed so much.

He’d missed so much.

Eventually taking far, far too long to just drink coffee together, he’s taken you back home. You hesitate a bit before inviting him in, remembering the pain of that moment you asked him to leave, and realizing what he’ll see if he comes in. He feels your hesitation, clearing his throat then, and taking your hand in his.

“I don’t have to come in if you’re not ready,” you shake your head quickly. “It’s understandable.”

“It’s not that at all, it’s…” your couch is a mess, the living room table littered with wine bottles and pizza boxes. You have been in such deep depression that the area alone stays messy, while you stress clean the entire house. How do you show him that side of you, a side you don’t know how to explain?

“You can just go in and bring ‘em out, it’s okay.” He’s smiling again, you sigh then, shaking your head.

“If we’re going to start over, I think you should know parts of me that aren’t the best.” He frowns a bit in confusion as you unlock the door, he remembers every bit of your home of course, but when he looks over to your couch he sees it.

He’s quiet as you shut the door behind him, tense as you know this isn’t how a normal person acts, the devastation you’ve been in, the place you rot away and cry about him. The place you numb yourself, after acting happy all fucking day, you know it’s not normal to be this affected by a couple weeks with someone.

But it was you, and you didn’t want to hide anymore.

“Shit…” He murmurs, you slip your purse on the counter, while he slowly walks up to you, hands on your waist, you feel the emotions you’ve barely held together about to crumble when he tugs you against him, wrapping his arms around you.

“It’s embarrassing, that’s why I hesitated.” You admit softly, letting him hold you right in your kitchen, but it wasn’t like last time - it was not sexual, it’s caring, it’s a tight hold you never want to leave.

“You were hurting that badly, why didn’t you just…” He exhales, kissing your head then. “You could have told me, fuck I’d have been here.”

“I pushed you away, I hurt you too.” Your words are true, he’s been devastated without you, but the physical evidence is glaring in how you took it.

“We hurt each other,” he admits, you nod, looking up at him and sighing, he tilts your ching up now, the feel of him against you filling things that were empty before and in his absence. “There’s so much I want to say, but for now… let me just help clean this up.”

“No, please, I’ll clean it before you come over again.” He’s already shaking his head. “Satoru, that's embarrassing.”

“It’s not. Where’s the cleaning shit?” He’s already tall and lanky in your kitchen, bending over and opening cabinets now. He’s doing anything to avoid the knowledge you hurt like that for so fucking long, the sweet and bubbly girl he met living like that breaks him so deeply he can’t even tap into how much it hurts.

“It was just… a spot I left that way I guess.” You grimace and help him then, grabbing trash bags as you eye the mess you’ve made of the couch.

It’s abundantly clear the spot you sat in for six months every day after work, while he starts throwing out empty boxes and bottles of wine with you. You’re not as embarrassed with him as you thought you’d be, he doesn’t make you feel that way, he just helps you, methodically throwing things out. The wine bottles clink as they hit, he eyes a couple of them and smirks.

“These are so cheap and shitty.”

“Well excuse me!” You’re laughing then, even through your tears, he gives you a sad little smile, continuing to tidy up. You tackle the table you haven’t seen in months with a sponge, he starts folding your several plush blankets all tangled up, frowning a bit.

“You sleep here too?” He asks, you nod a bit.

“I would just watch movies till I cried myself to sleep.” You take a shaky breath, wiping the table down with a towel as Satoru’s lips open, as if to speak, but he just smiles again.

“I’ll take these out.” He walks the trash out as you go to the kitchen, spotless in comparison to that area, that was the one place you let it all just be chaos, let the hurt sink in.

Now he’s here, and you don’t even know how to act, you hurt him and pushed him away, and he’s here to pick up your pieces. He steps back in, walking over to you as you both look at each other, his hands slipping down your arms gently, you take several breaths, biting your lower lip as he tugs you closer. It’s quiet, all the things you both want to say on the tip of your tongues.

“I’m so sorry you hurt like that,” he finally says, cupping your face, you touch his hand and sniffle a bit, nodding.

“I hurt you too, though, I felt so horrible for it, I think it made everything worse.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head now. “I didn’t know how to not be sexual, you were right about me.”

“But you-”

“No,” he puts a finger to your lips, sighing now as he feels them under his finger, smoothing that indentation of your teeth and watching your lashes lower. “The club, I just proved you right.”

You flush as you remember that, the wanton way you’d arched for him, how you’d squirted, sucked his fingers. God you were a mess for him so easily, after saying you didn’t want that you fell back into it with ease. If he were to do it now you would, but he keeps his touches chaste, careful, leaning down and tilting your chin up, letting you look into his eyes.

“I originally made it sexual then demanded more-”

“No, you needed more. You told me, and I didn’t give it. I…” he trails off, sighing now. “I never knew how to be affectionate, sex to me was affection. It’s all I knew how to do in that moment, when you needed more.”

“But you didn’t have to give more. That was me.”

“I want more, I still want more.” You can hardly comprehend that those words are coming from his perfect lips, your heart racing now. “There’s a lot I want to say, but I don’t think we should unpack this all today. And I want to see you again.”

“I want to see you again.” Your hand slips up his chest, as he wraps an arm around your waist. “Thank you for today, for everything. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I helped cause that depression, so of course I should help clean it up.” He’s emotional, imagining the girl he fucking loves - yes he loves you - just sobbing on a messy couch. He swallows it down, along with the urge to kiss every part of your body, knowing he just can’t right now.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” the sobs break now, you can’t hold them back when you’re in his arms, face pressed against his chest, body shaking as he tries to stroke your back, your arms. “I felt so horrible making you go.”

“It was the best thing, you deserved more than I gave.”

“Satoru! No…”

“Yes.” He cups your face, swiping your tears as he holds back his own, shaking his head again. “You deserve everything, fuck I was so unsure I could ever give it you you I never thought you’d even fucking feel that way for me.”

“You underestimate how amazing you are,” he nuzzles your palm when you lean up and touch his cheek gently. “You deserve everything.”

“I want you to know, I haven’t… nothing since you.” You blink in surprise, lashes still dripping tears that he presses sweet kisses on, bending at the waist. “I couldn’t be with anyone.”

“Me either, Toru.” He kisses you again, sweet and salty from your tears, as his own eyes get glassy with emotion.

“You promised me brownies and cookies, I earned my keep now.” You laugh then, it’s so freeing, his pretty grin just a little crooked as you step back.

“You did! Of course, come on.” You go to grab them out of the fridge, he hates that even now he’s eyeing your ass like that, he knows he can’t yet, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t desire your body too.

He’ll always desire you, every bit of you, the thoughts eating him at night, the amount of times he’s played with himself to your memory is ridiculous. But he is making sure that takes a back seat, what you need is comfort, clearly, the sadness just shows, like you’re keeping it together just a bit for him. You get a pretty flowery tupperware and start stacking them for him as he is enamored with your every movement.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says softly, you pause, snapping the lid on, all puffy cheeked from crying.

“I probably look like a mess,”

“You’re always beautiful.” He steps closer, kissing your forehead now. “Not just your pretty face or your sexy body,” now his voice drops an octave, fucking your mind, body and heart up as you look at the man you love. “Something about you, it’s in here, that shit sounds corny huh?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he’s touching your chest, feeling your heartbeat under his palm racing and fluttering. You put yours on his, feeling the slow athletic beat he’s always had kicked up just a bit. “You are too, Satoru, much more than your looks.”

Those words hit harder than he knew they would, it’s always been his looks, since he met his ex. Everything was his potential, and even if his personality was something that carried him, it always felt like people wanted him for his looks. His eyes, his body, his lips.

But you never just wanted that, he knows it now.

“Fuck,” he can’t even hold back this one kiss, the one where he’s pinning you against the counter, and you’re whining out, that cute breathy cry that ends him. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“Me too, me too…” your words are muffled with his lips, hungry and desperate on yours, the kiss he’s held for you for months, the one he played over and over in his head. If he ever got a chance, if he ever got to hold you again, he pours it all then, in that moment with you.

“Satoru…” You’re whispering his name as he bends over, taking over your senses, mouth devouring yours, so messy then, his tongue slipping in your mouth, possessing it. You cling to his dress shirt, nails pressing against his back over the fabric as his hands slip down your waist, gripping your hips and tugging you closer.

He whispers your name, a soft whine as he looks at you with those cerulean depths lit up, breaths faster, kissing you over and over, as if he’ll never get enough. You lose yourself, your entire body on fire - nipples pressed against your sweater, tummy clenched with the desire you haven’t felt once before or after him, your pulse racing in your ears.

“God I missed this,” he says then, breaking away to take a breath, you kiss him again, sweet, god you’re sweet. God he loves kissing you, holding you, looking into eyes behind fogged up glasses, so adorable it tugs at him with affection. “You’re so adorable.”

“I need windshield wipers.” He laughs then, a genuine laugh, as you giggle, he tugs your glasses off and kisses you again, hands gripping your face after he sets them on the counter next to the baked goods.

It wasn’t just an exaggeration, it wasn’t him making the thoughts more than they were, the kisses just were like this with you. Life altering movements of plush lips melding to each other, hands warming each other's skin, he can’t get enough - god he wants more, but he holds back, until he can’t anymore, tugging away just a bit and taking a breath, trailing his fingers down your curves slowly.

“I want more, I don’t want you to think it was just your body,” he says then, you nod quickly, understanding, even as your breasts heave up and down with your quick breaths. “God I wanna fucking tear this off you.”

“Mnh…” you bury your face against his chest, feeling his heart beat against your cheek quicker now, as you nod against him. “I want it too, Satoru I… I felt so sexual because I just already had feelings. It was always more for me.” He exhales, pressing another kiss to your heated cheek, blushing against his lips, hot to the touch.

“I knew that, and I still was selfish.” Admitting it sucked, it fucking hurt, but he knows he needs to do more, say more.

“So was I.”

“I don’t think you have a selfish bone in your pretty body.” You laugh softly.

“I do. For you.”

“Selfish for me?” His husky voice drives you insane, you nod when he moans, kissing you again, thigh pressing between yours, when he feels your heat it almost takes him out. “Fuck… maybe you’ll show me how selfish some day.”

“M-maybe I will…”

He chuckles again, pulling back. “You’re too cute.”

“Oh you always said that.” You’re smiling though, he sees it and it tears him up, how beautiful the sight is for his eyes again.

“You are cute, you’re adorable. I love that about you… I… deleted those, so you know, okay?” Your eyes widen in surprise then.

“You did?”

“The moment you said you regretted them, it wasn’t right to keep it up. I want you to know, no one knows it was you, I guess except your friend and me.”

“Of course, I knew you’d never share that information.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Satoru…”

“No,” he cuts you off softly, you’re back in his arms now, snuggled in his embrace. “I am furious I showed anyone that perfect pussy, y’know that?”

You pause at the declaration, looking up at him. “Really?”

“God yes,” he laughs without humor then. “I hate that others saw you, it was already making me angry, but I was so stuck up my own self.”

“Just know I forgive you, and I don’t blame it all on you.” He nods then, the relief from your words letting his broad shoulders rest just a bit. “Thank you for taking them down, but I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You did regret it.”

“I didn’t regret being with you on video, I um… regretted others seeing it. Me and you? It felt too intimate, too special,” your hands entwine as you speak, his long fingers against your much smaller ones, feeling so warm and good. You shut your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. “I regretted anyone seeing us together.”

“It was special,” his words bring your gaze back. “It was intimate, and I wish we kept it to us now.”

“You do?”

“God yes, the fact that anyone jerked it to you? Makes me unreasonably fucking mad now,” you bury your face against his chest again, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin. “All I could think was ‘pussy is mine’.”

You blink in surprise. “You thought that?”

“Did I think that, yes of course I did. I thought a lot I didn’t say,” he sighs now, kissing your forehead again so sweetly as his phone rings. He frowns, and you step back a bit as he checks it. “I’m suddenly free this Saturday, how about you?”

“I’m free!” You say it so quickly he laughs.

“Sweetheart,” the way he says it after so long makes you tremble with need, as he brushes back your hair. “I can’t begin to say how much I missed you.”

“Me too, god so much. Feel like you’re some dream.” He feels the same, god he does, like this isn’t real, when you two kiss again, this time it’s too much, he’s so close to losing his control.

Satoru’s hands are on your hips, while you feel like your home is here, right on his perfect lips. He’s delving his tongue in your mouth feverish and heated now, before he picks you up, thighs on either side of his hips, sitting you on the counter. You’re lost in him, like the sweetest drink or most addicting drug, arms wrapping his neck as his hardness presses.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs again, you whine and roll your hips, when he litters kisses down the side of your neck. “I miss this so much.”

“I miss it, I miss you. Need you.” He exhales at that, his hands slipping up bare thighs over your knee socks, thumbs pressing the softness of your inner thighs, you’re whining out at it. “I only want you.”

“God me too,” he’s so close to slipping those soaked panties to the side, as he tugs you closer, and you take a breath, trying to get your composure, lips swollen from his kisses. “So beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful with you,” he moans and kisses you again, hands pressing deep, so deep he’ll bruise you as they wrap your thighs, and he groans. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs as he pulls back, looking at you spread for him, picturing sinking to his knees and worshipping you. “You look too good, I need to go.”

“I feel the same. I think I should… bake more.” He laughs again, the sound so bright it melts you, as he helps you down, sliding you across his hard body slowly. “Bake a lot and then take a cold shower.”

“A cold shower sounds good to me too.” He cups your face then, tilting your chin up and brushing his thumb on your lips. “Make no mistake, we need time, but when you’re ready if I ever get another chance at you? I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”

“Toru mnh…” He’s moaning and kissing you again, it takes everything not to let him, not to beg for it. But you both need to take a breath. It’s too raw, it’s too fresh, and there’s so much. “I want to know so much more about you.”

“I do too. Not just every inch of your body, though that thought is raging,” he’s pouting and you’re giggling again, brightening your pretty eyes. “I wish I’d just listened to you then. But my feelings were hurt.”

“I get it, I really do. So, Saturday huh?”

“Saturday.” He kisses you again, and soon he’s walking to the door, as the memories of the last time he was here hit.

“Fuck,” you hate how they rush in, stealing your breath. He looks at you, frowning as he holds the little tupperware you gave him. “I hated myself for doing it.”

“No, sweets, don’t. Don’t hate yourself, okay?” You’re swiping tears again.

“I’m a mess.”

“Beautiful mess,” his words make you lean up to kiss him again, his free hand wraps you, while the two of you stand in your quiet entry way, just the sounds of your breaths and kisses filling the room. “I want you to be my beautiful mess.”

“I want to be yours.” He sighs, kissing your palm and then your hand, things he never thought he’d do, but he wants to with you.

“I don’t want to fuck this up, I never thought I’d even see you again, not even sure I deserve to kiss you.”

“Let me figure out what you deserve, what I want. Okay?” He nods then, swallowing nervously and taking a breath. “Text me when you get home safe.”

“I will, good night sweets.” The little nicknames nearly do you in again, when you smile and lean on the doorway, he’s waving when he gets in his car, hesitating before he pulls off.

What if he doesn’t see you again?

The panic sets in his heart, he knew he missed you, but he didn’t know the depths of the fear until now, as he sees your hand wave back at him, sees your silhouette in the doorway. He steps out of his car, walking back up as you shut your door, stepping forward when he’s kissing you again.

“One more.” He murmurs, so sweet you’re done for, god it’s all back - it never left - but being in his arms? His presence? His desperate needy kiss?

You’re hugging him over his shoulders, kissing him right back, the sky is all pinks and golds as the sun sets, casting shadows on that silvery hair, bringing out the little streaks of lavender. You’re taking a slow breath, heart feeling like it’s whole for the first time since that day you sent him away, the day you did the thing that hurt you the most, but he’s here.

He’s here.

All of him.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, cupping his face. He’s a couple steps down as you stand on your deck, enough you’re almost face to face with him. “I can’t help it.”

“Don’t say sorry, I love your kisses. I missed them.” He moans and kisses you again, feeling your gravity tugging him so close that it feels wrong to back away. “You could just stay and cuddle? Or just stay. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to, you know.”

“If I stay no way it’s just fucking cuddling, you’re expecting too much from a former pornstar you know,” You blush then at his insinuation, when he backs away again. “Good night baby.”

“Good night again, Toru.”

He laughs as he goes back to the car, your heart hurts when he drives off, but the weight feels so lifted, the sorrow and self loathing of pushing the man you love away. It was so hard to let that go, to let go his tears when he begged you to keep him around, but now you know it was the right decision, as you pass by a freshly cleaned couch later that evening, eyeing your phone.

You always sit there, but tonight instead, you go to your room, the bed you’ve not gone near in so long. You snuggle up, pulling up a book for the first time in months, and you can almost read it, but you’re so stuck in your thoughts of him, of his kisses and his pretty blue eyes, of the energy of him, his scent left behind. A scent you missed so fucking badly.

Instead of wine and pizza, it’s a water bottle next to your nightstand, when you get it - his text.

Satoru - I got a little busy. I'm sorry, I’m home now. Suguru was having a moment

You - that’s fine! I’m glad you’re home safe

Satoru sighs, looking at the phone as he lays in his bed, picturing you right here in his arms, he’d stroke your hair, he’d press kisses along your skin. He’d hold you here forever if you fucking let him. Even now, there’s so much more he has to say, but he wants to give you the perfect date, one you deserve. He wants to share more of who he is with you.

Today, seeing that side of you made it so much more raw, the pain you must have felt, how hard it was to push him away. He never resented you for it, even though it killed him, deep down he knew why you did it, but instead of trying to fix it, he made it all fucking worse that night.

Satoru - I can’t wait to see you again.

He’d never say that before, he’d have made some sexy joke or some silly comment, not just be vulnerable. And it was terrifying to do it, his heart hammering in his chest as he sits up in his bed. He looks next to him, remembering you right there, remembering fucking you all night, waking up and fucking you again, but he thinks of all the times he could have done more.

Just held you, just kissed you, of course he wanted you - god he’s never wanted anyone like you - but he wishes he did even more. Hold your hand, at that damn dinner said ‘no she’s my girlfriend’ fuck he wanted to. He wishes he could have held you so close to him, let everyone know you’re his. Friend, what a joke, he never was your friend.

He always wanted more and didn’t even know what it was.

You - me too, I’m so excited!

He’s torn between being so happy and smiling, but also feeling that sadness of seeing that couch with you. The pain he saw in your eyes that night at the club, but he was so consumed, he couldn’t realize what was glaringly apparent. Your confessions he was so fucking scared to return.

He can’t wait to say it, that he loves you.

He never thought he’d get a chance.

You- I hope you have sweet dreams Satoru.

He smiles at that sadly - It’s been nothing without you, darkness.

You bite your lip as he types - It’s been nightmares for you.

Satoru- you too, sweetheart.

The two of you can hardly stand it, feeling each other’s kisses lingering on your skin, inhaling the scent of each other in your nostrils. Hugging those pillows tight and picturing each other. But for once, instead of you sobbing and him tossing and turning, the two of you fall asleep, wishing Saturday would come quickly, so you two can start over again, and not fuck it up so badly.

we will get back to this being sexy next chap aha

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