#DID THAT THAT WHAT YOU DID MATTERED THAT IT MEANT SOMETHING AND IT MADE A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[kenyummy]

✰ 07. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 07. a fools own parade.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: im not really sure if it counts as it's a very small passage but tw for a lil bit of an identity/existential crisis??? not very sure haha I mostly just write what comes to mind

also, first father appearance! yay! he finally shows up, and he's as mysterious as ever, hehe. next chapter will be either dink focused or ... someone else... 🤔🤔🤔

You dab at your nose with a tissue, cringing at the sight of crimson still pouring out from it. How hard was that guy's chest, anyway?

A thick bandage is stuck tightly on your nosebridge, taped to your skin and soaked in blood. Changing it every hour was a giant pain, but you'd rather have a bloody bandage than clothes.

Thinking back on it, you almost can't imagine the look in Tim's eyes again. Nothing strange. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but different enough to make the hair on your arms raise.

(You're the greatest anomaly in his life. Isn't it natural a detective wishes to solve such a damning mystery?)

How differently his entire composure grew once he saw you laying there, dirtied hands clutching your face. Was it normal for a guy like him to change his entire stance at such a moment? You'd be inclined to believe he couldn't care less about something like this, from all those diary entries spanning several years.

But seeing that look, when you'd stopped him from coming closer, putting distance between you two, as you thought there'd always been, how could you possibly think that? That look of worry, fingers twitching as he reached out, and expression of pure betrayal when you'd stepped backwards. Away. From him.

Wasn't that how it'd always been? You couldn't stop thinking. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe your spidey sense, for the first time in your life, was wrong?

They say that a fool's time spent thinking is wasted time.

You spent hours sitting at your desk pondering all of this. What it meant. Why your siblings seemed to all give you this strange, sinking feeling in your stomach. Raise goosebumps up your arms.

Soon, these thoughts spiralled back to your home. How you could help Reed. Speed up the process. Not wishing to mess with his delicate work nor rush him, but also getting restless with this family.

This family who's known you for their whole lives, yet seems to similarly know nothing about you. This you, their you, any you. Too little to care, too much to hate. The worst kind of balance that upset the universe and made your stomach twist with bile.

But at this point, you weren't too sure who was who, which was which.

If, tommorow, you'd lost everything and if you were caught in a blazing heat, would it be you who had died? Or somebody else? Would it be you in that coffin, underneath a stone who's name carved into it, did not belong to you?

The concept of being your own person, what did it mean? What could it mean when there were more of you, exactly the same, only shaped by their environment? An endless amount of copies, down to the genetic level, each in different worlds yet unmistakably the same?

When you stare into the mirror, nothing is the same except the red that flows down your knuckles when you slam your fist into it. Nothing remains the same except what you look like inside.

Though—in the end—even that belonged to them, didn't it?

You barely ever see your sister, nor her blonde friend. The ginger haired woman has more pressing matters to attend to than ever seeing you, it seemed—something you'd actually grown to appreciate, seeing how positively suffocating those other "siblings" had started to become.

Dick, who was thankfully off in Blüdhaven around now. Jason, who should be out doing his own thing, but seemed to always spare some time for you... as much as you insisted on him not doing that. Tim, who always stared with a little too much intensity and danger hidden behind a sharp smile.

And Damian—your only blood-related sibling, seeming to take great pride in such a fact as he brings it up far more often than not.

You'd begun to realise a distinct lack of a parental figure in your...—

This. This life.

Not yours. This life absolutely was not yours. Everything is seriously messing with your head. Belonging to another unfortunate soul, who happened to have your name, shared your face and voice, yet was everything you never were. Experienced things you never did, yet as you lived in a freedom they could never dream of.

You pitied them more than anything else. But that didn't mean you could just give everything you've ever known up. Your people, your city, your friends, your freedom. This blood that runs through your veins and makes your heart beat steady—it may belong to them, but you never will.

As it spills, you will be free. Losing that chain that binds you and perhaps you will be allowed to feel that wind hitting your face once more. Allowed to swing, fly, feel air and be everything you were destined to become.

Your suit forms over your body and you leap out of your window, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in your wake.

The Spectacular Spidey seems to swing and never sleep—the alliteration in the title of this news article you've read makes your head hurt. Said only as an unfortunate pun referring to how you swing from building to building, and only operate during night hours.

Because, despite everything, it is still you.

(Yet, still careful on avoiding your dearest family... as difficult as that may be—your senses are seriously saving your skin... wait, now you're using alliteration—)

You don't have anything against working during sunlight. In fact, it would be preferable for you. But escaping from school has now become increasingly more difficult after you'd "opened your heart" to MJ and Harry.

Both were completely convinced you were spiralling down a bad path after how you'd acted with Jason, or concerned for both your homelife and general wellbeing—sometimes you truly did damn yourself for picking such good friends.

Nevertheless, you couldn't possibly be worrying about something like that right now, when there's a much bigger problem right in front of you.

A man dressed in a rag-like coat lay beneath your heel, defeated and hands bound together with your webbing.

You'd originally expected to leave immediately, hoping to catch Reed before he was off looking for whatever new part he needed for his grandest project. But now, you can't even hope to move at this point—swamped by flashing cameras and microphones shoved into your face.

Suddenly, you're so incredibly grateful you wear a mask, because you aren't too excited at the prospect of having such unflattering photos of you taken.

"Spidey! What are you doing in Gotham?"

You stammer, "Uh—well, you know—"

"Spiderguy! What's your thoughts on the articles calling you a knockoff Batman?"

"How am I anything like him?" You gesture to your bright red suit. "Also, it's not Spiderguy—"

"Spidey! Spidey! How do you create that webbing fluid? Is it organic? And is it environmentally sustainable? Who's going to clean it?" The reporters move closer and closer.

You inch backwards, "Uh—well, you know, my webbing dissolves in a couple hours by itself, and of course it's sustainable—"

Before you can finish, a multitude of voices all ring through your ears at once. Piling atop eachother, all at the same time, forming into a mush of different tones and accents, indistinguishable from one another.

You can't even hear anything anymore, not until a voice, loud and clear, cuts through a multitude of others and strikes your ears with ease, "Hey, Spidey! Our viewers have a question for you—how have you gotten past Batman? I'm sure you know he doesn't allow metahumans in Gotham, right?"

You freeze. Shocked, but soon, that shock soon morphs into confusion at what exactly a metahuman is.

"I... uh—" You glance to the side. You know, doing this will spark way too much gossip for your own good. Doing this is practically asking for those headlines that, while technically true, are completely outlandish. You were a reporter yourself (for your alter ego, to be fair—but it still counts).

You know this can't end in any other way than complete disaster.

That's why you reach up, webbing to a building and wave goodbye to those pesky paparazzi, "No comment!" With all the wit a Spider must have, you decide that your flight or fight response instead chose: Web away with a sly remark.

"They should be around here, Batman."

Oracle's voice rings out through the earpiece. Barbara had taken the liberty of helping him in his little crusade after seeing that stunt on live television—that spider-hero running away after hearing that metas weren't allowed in Gotham... though, it provided more questions than answers.

Babs was growing restless. For one: that reaction possibly explained why they were so wary of any member of their family even coming close to them. Always running at the first sight of them, webbing away faster than they could hope to catch up. Escaping Batman and his Robin, Babs couldn't help but wonder about them.

They're good. Smart. They're not some new hero. Clearly whoever's behind that mask has experience.

But this raised far too many questions in it of itself. Why had you only popped up now? Why not years ago —if, judging purely by her own gaze, with the years of experience in crime fighting you must have? Why Gotham?

And perhaps, the most daunting question of them all, "Who exactly are you, Spider?"

Bruce's gruff voice reaches her ears, "What was that?"

Her eyes widen, not realising she'd spoken aloud. Shaking her head, she relents, "No... sorry, it's nothing. Right... according to witness sighting and where they were last spotted, you should be meeting them in the middle right now. Do you have any sightings?"

Bruce shakes his head, jumping over to the top of the next apartment block roof—cowl landing in a swoop behind him. "No. Not yet. See if there's any new sightings."

Bruce Wayne was beginning to grow tiresome of this new hero's antics. Running around through Gotham without a care in the world—all too bright and cheerful as if this was all that mattered. Running around as a meta—unchecked and absolutely dangerous.

Nothing good could come out of this. Not without knowing exactly who you were and what you wanted. He never was a dictator type—never had it in him—but with a crime-riddled city like Gotham, he had little choice.

One small mistake could ruin everything. Collapse all that he's worked so hard to create. A better city, a better future. A regular human—as he is—couldn't possibly ever handle a rouge meta... and in the end, this city may not want him, but he really is the type of hero it needs.

So, that's why, instead of patrolling through his sector—he asks Orphan, Batwoman, and Spoiler to take over for tonight, so he can do some much needed digging into this anomaly.

Tim told him that his webbing sample, one he managed to collect around a month ago, when he'd first come into contact with them, had dissolved within hours. Not enough time to perform any kind of intricate testing, not by a long shot.

Batman has taken the almost passive stance—uncharacteristic of him—but now, he realised with such a slippery Spider, he had to do what he does best, and corner them.

His whitened eyes dart up at the flash of red that flies past him. He snaps his head back and finds the Spider—the one he'd been looking for all this time—swinging from building to building, fast.

But not nearly fast enough. With one false swoop, Bruce is after you, grappling towards you, eyes narrowed and mind absolutely determined.

"Batman? Batman?" Oracle pipes up—he assumes she's been talking for the past couple minutes, but only realised she was speaking into his earpiece now. "Can you hear me? Do you have a visual?"

"I see them. Nearly have them."

The Spider darts their head over their shoulder almost frantically—moves stuttering when they see how close he's gotten toward them.

"Hey! Why are you so obsessed with me, huh?" Thrir voice calls out—unlike anything he'd ever heard. "I mean, okay—yeah, I get it. But if you want a fashion taste like mine, I can make you a suit of your own!"

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying anything back.

Their voice grows more framtic at his silence, "H... Hey! You're getting really close, there—let it go! I'm not a villain! I swear!"

More silence, and they seem to let out a loud groan of frustration, seemingly aimed at him.

They stop. Heels landing flat atop a building, and Batman, with his cowl wrapped around him like a cloak, follows on their heel, stalking closer towards them.

You raise your hands in defence, stepping backwards and shaking your masked head, "Waitwaitwait—! Don't get violent with me, I don't want to fight you!"

"Then what do you want?" His voice grows deeper, more gruff and cold. "No metahumans are allowed in Gotham without my permission. There's too much trouble that comes with it. Too many difficulties."

He pauses. "Too much crime. Too many deaths. Unnecessary, preventable ones. Who are you to be an exception?"

"I said wait—!" You shriek as he practically stalks into your personal space bubble. "I'm not a metahuman!"

He stops in his tracks. "... What?"

You let out a heavy sigh, now that he's stopped. Batman taps on his earpiece, "Oracle, can you hear this?"

"Reading, Batman."

You look around, to see nobody. "Oracle? Who's Oracle?" You never read anything about an Oracle.

"None of your business. Now speak. If you aren't a metahuman, what are you?" His whitened eyes narrow, and suddenly those pointy ears aren't so silly looking anymore.

You blink. Once, then twice. "Would you believe me if I said I was from an alien planet full of spider-people?"

Despite the reprocessing telling him your backstory would have on you being near non-existent—you still aren't too fond of the idea of the Batman, your father, knowing your secret backstory.

Besides, Oscorp really does exist in this universe, too—Norman is actually pretty nice. You don't want any unwarranted blame falling on him.

"Not a chance." He folds his arms over his bat-symboled chest and you falter with a sigh.

Worth a shot.

"Fine." Not to say he was the reason you finally relented—but his stare was pretty unnerving. "I was bit by genetically modified spider on a school field trip. It altered my DNA so I became stronger, faster, could stick to walls and became three times more flexible than the average person."

You finish with a winded breath, eyes scanning his expression for any hint of an emotion. You found none.

"Why should I believe you?"

Pausing, you glance away. Crouching down on that rooftop, on the ledge, staring down at the city below. Dimly lit roads and the people littering it. So much like your home, yet so different.

You could see why Batman was this city's protector. You could see why he was so careful about this world, and you almost respected him for it. At the same time, though, you couldn't help but think to all those chicken-scratched diaries.

By a helpless child, unable to depend on anybody but him in this world, and he had still failed. For that, you couldn't face him. Not now, not ever.

"You don't have to believe my story." You finally manage to unlodge the words from your throat. "I'm just saying that whatever your rules are—my existence doesn't defy them. You have no reason to keep chasing me down."

His sharp, whitened eyes narrow. It's the only thing visible in such deep darkness where he lingers.

"Actually..." Oracle's voice rings out through Batman's ears. "Their story... might have some truth to it. Check this out—Oscorp's been working on developing a, quote, super-powered spider. Says spider venom is the cure for disease and pandemics. They've been developing in this field for a while."

A super-powered spider sounds absolutely ridiculous, he thinks. But nothing he hadn't seen before. In a world full of aliens, heroes, personification of life, death, and everything in-between—he shouldn't be surprised at the prospect of gaining superpowers from spider venom.

Looking down at you now—slouched, facing away from him, and almost seeming restless... "Oscorp."

You look back at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Did that spider come from Oscorp?"

... You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard. Looking back away before you could stop yourself. "No. I'm not from around here. I live far. Far away."

"What do you mean by far away? Why are you in Gotham, then?" He steps closer, to the point he's standing over you with all that intimidating bat-aura that makes the criminals of Gotham run for the hills. Still, you can't bear to see him. Because if you do, you know you'll spill everything you've been holding in like a waterfall.

"I don't know," you admit, honestly. "I don't know why I'm here. I want to go home, but I don't know where that is anymore. All I know is that, while I'm here, I might as well help people. Because... that's what I do."

For a moment, there's no sound other than the honking of cars on a busy road. He's quiet, as silent as he always is. Always was. For a moment, you think you almost see him as that father from so long ago.

But only for a moment.

"... How old are you?"

To your surprise, he doesn't immediately go to accusing you of lying again, or keep his standoffish persona any longer—only asking you this simple, yet strangely personal, question.

In simple words, you're really confused. "What? Why does that matter?"

"You sound young. Too young. And from the way I've seen you fight, you're experienced in fighting high, street-level crime. If I had to guess, I'd say you've been doing this for at least three years. Maybe more."

Sweat beads at the back of your neck, and suddenly everything starts caving in, crumbling like failed architecture. How did he know? How could he have possibly—

Batman continues, "The way you talk, and the way you behave in the public eye, you can't be an adult. I'm assuming you're a child. Meaning you've been fighting crime since you've been in your early teens, right?"

"What are you talking about?" You stand up at your full height, staring up at him. Glaring, as well as you can manage from underneath those refractive lenses. He doesn't back down. "I'm not—"

"You're a child," He repeats. "Don't carry this weight. You don't have to carry the weight of—" Gesturing towards the ground below, he stares down at you, strangely sadly, "All this. Especially not all by yourself. Not as a child."

The only word you want to spit out at him is hypocrite.

"Don't act all high and mighty. That Robin you have looks 12. You're saying a 12 year old is capable of fighting crime but I shouldn't? I'm nearly an adult, for god's sake! I'm—"

You slap your hands over your masked mouth, but still continue. "Don't treat me like I don't know better. You don't know me. You have no idea what has happened in my life."

"I only take Robin under my wing because he needs it. So I can watch over him."

You glare, "So what? So he can turn out like you?"

"So that he doesn't."

And to this, your lips feel sealed shut. You want to say something, but you can't. What could you possibly reply to this?

Even Oracle is silent. Not a word, not a peep. Nothing. The honking of cars has ceased, and it's like the world itself had just gone quiet for that one, stunning moment.

"You're not from here, so I don't know you," Finally, he speaks, and it's like the silence has been shattered like glass. "You're right. But... you're a child. You aren't obligated to this. This isn't your responsibility—to make this world better. If you can live normally, you should."

Isn't such normalcy why you ended up like this in the first place? All those entries, wishing to be like the rest of them—and here your father is now, telling you to be yourself.

If only they had heard this, you think, bitterly. Then, you'd know you were right. That he would only ever see you if you had become one of them.

The thought makes your stomach churn. How pretentious could this man—this devil—possibly be?

"You're wrong. To live normally like this, when I was given the strength to be better, to do things to be a better me... that's just wrong." You clench your fists, hard. "I already made that mistake before. It doesn't matter whether I'm 18 or 80. All that matters is that I'm doing what I know is right."

You pause, allowing the words to sink in. "But to discard the normally in your life is a waste. That's why I live the way I do. To protect the normalcy around me, the ones who can't protect themselves. With great power comes great responsibility... my responsibility is to be the best Spidey I can be."

...

You angle your wrist up and don't bother to look back at him when you walk away, "You and your birds can come after me all you want, but I won't stop doing what I think is right. 'Cause I'm a hero."

When you thwip away, you aren't so sure how you'd forgotten that. How a hero protects the ones they love above all else.

Your family aren't heroes. Perhaps, to the public, and even the whole world—but not to you. They'd failed to protect that child, a miserable, small child, left in that massive world.

To make it so they felt they had to save people, to take that responsibility of power to matter—that was their greatest failure.

"... Batman?" Barbara's voice is a dramatic shift from the silence that started to consume him. "Batman,are you okay? Batman? ... Bruce? Are you..."

He takes a moment to regain his composure, world still spinning as he speaks, "I'm fine. They're... they're okay." Saying the world's like they're hard to spit out, or like he's unsure himself. "I'm coming home."

Barbara wants to say something. About that spider. About what they said to him. Power, responsibility, protection, normalcy, love. But she doesn't. By the sound of his voice, he seems just as frazzled as she is. A conflicted Batman means no good for anybody, including her.

So, she will let him think. Oracle can take a back-seat for now. So can Batman. For now, she's just Barbara Gordon. And he's just Uncle Bruce.

Holding her tongue, "Cass and Steph aren't back yet. Kate left a while ago... said there was something she needed to do. ... Everyone else should be at home, I think..."

"Okay." He murmurs, quieter.

Barbara shuts her mouth and leans back in her chair. There's nothing else for her to say, so once more, there is silence.

...

When Bruce returns back to the Manor, he finds himself pushing past everything and everyone, including Alfred, and rushing up the stairs. Not even bothering to take off his suit fully—tossing his helmet behind him and walking away.

Down a hall to the left, then up right, then left again. Stopping once he, finally, stands in front of a door. Blank. Colourless, dull. Like the rest of the manor, blending in away from those extravagant suits and too-bulky armours.

After a brief moment of confliction, he brings his fist up, and knocks. Standing there, almost the size of the doorway, waiting for any kind of reply.

"Hello? What—"

You freeze at the sight of your father staring down at you—this time, his eyes were as blue as ever and his face was less grim. This time, you could see the greying of his dark hair and the crease of his brows.

This time, there was no escape.

"[name]." He says your name as if it's foreign, unfamiliar. Testing it out like a new spice or seasoning, then seeming to come to the conclusion that he likes it. "It's been a while."

You're frozen in place, mouth open yet unable to speak. What could you possibly do now? Run? Swing? Duck past—

A hand places itself on your shoulder and every siren in your body blasts itself tenfold. Blaring like the most buzzing and painful alarms—so awful that you have to grab the side of the doorframe to stop yourself from falling over.

Panic gnaws at every side of you, chest rising and falling erratically when your headache grows.

What is this? This is so much worse than when I'm with Jason—

His face morphs and blurs as does his words, yet you manage to catch the few, "I think we should spend more time together. Become closer, like how it was before. You are my child after all. The only one who doesn't have patrol or scoutings with me. That calls for more regular ways of bonding, right? That's my responsibility... as your father."

He's smiling. Hardly so, but you're about to collapse. A deafening buzz in your skull, you spit out any agreements you can manage through squeezed eyes, waiting for him to go, to leave, so for a moment, you can finally breathe.

"I'm glad you agree," he says, moving back. Clearing his throat, he looks down at you, recovering as he gives you space. "Next week, then?"

You clutch your head, jaw taut and stance tense. It's a wonder how he hadn't noticed your absolute discomfort, but you digress—just wanting him to go. "Sure."

"Good, then—" Before he can finish, your door slams shut in his face and once again, that barrier has returned. Bruce pauses, staring at that slab of wood keeping you from his line of sight.

Bruce lingers for a few moments longer, fingers hovering the handle, before retracting back and swallowing thick.

Batman walks away, but glances twice over his shoulder, cowl falling behind him.

You slump down your door with a heaving sigh, feeling your head start to clear and breathing stabilise.

That feeling of fear, of utter terror—it was the feeling you'd get with Jason and Tim, but tripled. It was torture. Absolutely awful. Unbearable. You'd not relt anything while you were Spidey on that rooftop, but seeing him here now send your senses spiralling into a whirlwind of chaos.

You grab your head and it falls onto your knees, pulled up to your chest.

Your eyes fall bleak and everything blurry again. Are you going to cry, like a child? To prove him right again, that you're afraid of this? Of him?

Maybe you were more similar to his version of you than you were lead to believe. Maybe—

Still, though, your phone buzzes.

A strange sounding noise compared to the cheap, hand-me-down one you had in your other room. Probably spammed with stupid videos from MJ, and worried texts from Harry. Maybe even the odd "how are you?" from Matt, or something.

(You still don't know how he texts, but that's beyond you).

You pick up your phone, despite the lingering thought it could just be from one of your family members. Siblings, or father.

... You were half right.

From a contact customised to say, the #coolest auntie, there's a text.

Hey, kid. Let's go out. It's been way too long.

You stare down at the bright phone screen for a few seconds longer than you should've. Surprised, sure, but just as confused. Swallowing and considering your options for a second.

You haphazardly let your fingers fly over the keyboard. If your contact name for her was this comfortable, she must be a good person, right? Maybe she could provide an outside perspective on everything. Your family, their hero-lives, even you.

You press your lips tightly together narrowing your eyes down at her contact profile picture. Short, red hair and a smug smile. Pale skin, and the features reminiscent of your father.

Sure. Where?

When you watch the text bubbles pop up on the screen, you can't help but wonder what exactly you're going to do next.

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taglist is open!

[kirammanswoman]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES *ੈ✩‧₊˚

part 1 part 2 (wip) part 3 (wip) masterlist

three hockey player roommates that are in desperate need of a fourth roommate after their original one moved out on a whim. a professionally trained, braniac figure skater who needs to move. what’s the worst that could happen?

hockey!vi/ellie/abby x figureskater!fem!reader

warnings: reader is mentioned to be a lesbian!!!

a/n: im back n sorry it took so long, i forgot to say i was gonna make this n smau as well TEEHEE!! also ik i made a typo on the smau portion stfu ik…IF YOU KNOW WHERE THE ART FROM THE BANNER ABOVE IS FROM PLEASE LMK I FOUND IT ON PINTEREST AND CANT FIND THE ORIGINATOR

lowercase intended, unedited.

the moment you woke up to your upstairs neighbor banging on his drums at 5 am for the tenth time this week,

you knew.

sitting up from your tousled bed sheets and wrinkled pillows, you dig through the thick comforter to find your pj pants that you lazily threw off the night before. you dont know whether it’s your upstairs neighbor banging on his drums to metallica at 5 am (he for sure hasnt slept yet) or your head, but something was pounding. as you walk over to your mini kitchen in your tiny studio apartment, formula sheets, periodic tables, and notes were sprawled across the floor from the previous night’s panicked “i have to review this now or else i’ll die of anxiety before i sleep” study session.

you took a step forward, stepped on an eraser. another step, a pencil. and one more, lo and behold you’re at your kitchen counter, after two measly, groggy steps. so small, so crammed, so stuffy.

yeah. you had to move out.

morning practices weren’t your favorite, like at all. you studied for chem the night before, now you’re getting rewarded with two hours of coach medarda nit-picking at your every move. every axel, every jump, every loop. all. of. it. being medarda’s prized figure skater out of the bunch of girls was great, i mean, you were olympic bound because of her. however, the physical repercussions that come with exhausting your body in order to move so beautifully on ice wasn’t fun. you hurriedly tamed your bed ridden hair, threw on your practice clothes, stuffed your pristine white skates in your bag and sped off. that is, before almost eating shit on your tile floor because you tripped over your air fryer that was placed on the ground because the counter was far too small to stuff it in a corner. you curse to yourself as you clutch your foot— your very important foot— and you hop outside to lock the door.

when you finally locked the door (which took ages bc the dusty ass lock is older than you are) you sped walked to your car with a one track mind, a throbbing foot, and a repetitive thought.

i have to move out. fast.

-

-

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE JUST PACKED UP AND LEFT?”

“meant it how i said it you loud dipshit. her room’s empty, abby”

“yeah ellie and i tried to stop her and get an answer, i even ran out to the driveway shirtless but all she said was ‘im sorry vi but i have to go, my last payment for rent will be in for next month’ and she drove off”

the three hockey players stood in their living room, now missing a roommate, thus, missing a fourth person for rent. their former roommate, korra, insisted that she had other matters to attend to and had to move out urgently. they were perplexed, clueless, and a little angry at the sudden decision, but lo and behold, they can’t do anything about it now can they.

“alright— okay, sit down you shitheads— and put a shirt in vi, we gotta figure this out.”

“she did give us at least some allowance of time to figure something out right?” ellie responded to abby, fiddling with her silver rings. abby nodded and bit her lip while thinking if their next move.

“okay— here’s the deal.” she sat down and signaled the other two to sit as well. “i’ll ask my dad to cover the payment for the month after next month if we dont find one in time—”

“wait wait wait— what do you mean find one in time? you’re gonna go looking for a new one like a fuckass model agency recruiter?” ellie raised a brow

“no you fuckin idiot, im gonna post something on the locker room’s bulletin that we’re looking for new roommates.”

“like that’s gonna fucking find us one abby” vi scoffed

“okay listen you fuckasses— i can guarantee” she cut herself off “vi put a shirt on for fucks sake—“ she said as she threw a shirt to vi as she hurriedly threw her shirt on overtop her nike bra “im the damn captain of the team— i’ll make the rest of them look at it and convince them if we have too.”

“so— we’re taking anyone?”

“no, just hockey players”

yeah. right.

-

-

“ONE MORE TIME. CHIN UP.”

coach medardas demanding voice reverberated within the enclosed rink as you went through the last stretch of your routine again.

fuck fuck fuck ow ow ow shit shit shit—

was all you could think while repeating the final move of your routine for the fifth time now. as you hit your ending pose, medarda’s neutral face flickered a slight smile.

“good. much better. you’re free to go” she nodded you off. you thanked her and skated off the ice. everything hurt. every. single. thing. which was crazy considering you’ve been skating since 5 years old. never get used to it you suppose.

“how’s little miss perfect’s ice skating practice go?”

a voice breaks your thoughts off while you retrieve your stuff from your locker. you smile warmly at the girl with beautiful brown eyes and dark hair leaning against the door.

“hi D” you smile as you put your skates in your duffle.

“geez, medarda beat you black and blue again?” Dina asked as she walked over to one of the benches by your locker.

“black, blue, red, orange, green— the fuckin rainbow” you laughed

“ohhhh— i get it, because you’re a LESBI—” you covered dina’s mouth before she could finish.

“i swear to god—”

“no one’s here!” she muffled from her covered mouth, as she took your wrist into her hand and gently lifted it from her mouth. “plus i wasn’t actually gonna say it for real for real” she laughed.

it’s not like you had a problem with being a lesbian, fuck, if anything you thank every possible part of your existence for being attracted to women. it’s just—you had a reputation— and sometimes hiding a part of yourself was just easier to maintain that reputation. (a/n: this is fucking false, be so authentically you because you’re fucking beautiful, dont let anyone make you think otherwise. i love u.)

you shook your head at your best friends antics.

“sooo…find a place yet?” she said, fiddling with the charms on your duffle.

you sighed and scratched your forehead “no— skating and classes have been eating at my literal ass lately” you slumped at the space beside her

“babes, come on. that place is hella sketchy—“ she paused. dina never pauses. she’s always speaking, so this leads you to believe something’s turning with the gears in her head.

“anyway you need to leave soon— oh wait hold on!” she sprung up slightly. her eyes were wide and her smile was so bright it could blind people. oh no. you thought. she’s thinking. thats bad.

“you remember ellie? hockey player, short hair, green eyes, really actually very hot?” she perked up

“yea…? what about her—“ “they need a roommate!”

and there it is. a thought. from dina. she didnt even let you finish your sentence, so you didnt even let her convince you.

“no.” you deadpanned, glaring at her. “dina i refuse to room with the infamous women’s hockey trio league who probably disguised frat boys.” you started to pick up your stuff to walk out of the lockers.

“come onnnnnnn!!! its a perfect opportunity!” she walks a little behind you. “its literally falling on your lap!”

“no dina i wont—” “LOOK!” she said, as she abruptly stopped and basically yanked you by your ponytail to look at the bulletin board. with a yelp and a ‘what the fuck D!’ you stare at the slip of paper right smack dab center of the bulletin board.

“dina woodward, no.”

“dina woodward, yes.” she said as she ripped a piece of the tags hanging below with the email and number of whoever put the sign up.

what the fuck are you gonna do with her.

-

-

“see, i told you fuckers it would work.”

a sweaty, glistening abby was smirking at her roommates that were sitting on the bench. the Jackson University women’s hockey league sit at the rink’s locker room, packing up after a long practice. ellie and vi sit at the bench, staring up at at abby.

“okay?? and who is it?”

“ummm…a girl named (you)? dunno its kinda vague. she emailed ‘Good Morning, I am interested in potentially being a roommate. Let me know when and where we can discuss the details and we can decide if it’s a fit. Thank You.’”

“she sounds 45 years old.” ellie said

“and like a bossy-stuck up princess bitch” vi added, handing ellie her water bottle for her to drink out of it.

“okay shut up, she cant be that bad.”

“she’s a hockey player?” ellie asked, swinging the water bottle back like its a shot.

“she should be—“ she headed over to the bulletin board “it says here hockey players onl— oh no.” she said, while looking intently at the paper pinned to the board. abby’s eyes were hopelessly searching for where it says hockey players only.

the other two stood behind her, looking for it as well.

and alas,

nothing.

“you fucking idiot.”

-

-

after a long day of practice and a three hour lecture, you were finally fucking home.

throwing your bags onto a nearby chair by your counter, you strip off your practice clothes and make a B line to the bathroom. the relief of the hot water hitting your sore muscles felt like you were meeting an angel. truly a spiritual experience. you wash your body and hair off of the dried out sweat after practice and put on your usual giant sleep tee and headed to heat your food in the microwave. this was the usual after you got home after a long day of practice and more lectures that were frying your brain. you finally had time to relax at home.

just as you were settling down on your couch next to your cat named Dog, an email notification pinged on your phone.

📧: Abby Anderson a.anderson@email.com

Good Evening, this is Abby. I saw that you emailed about a roommate inquiry? I was wondering if you could meet at the Bison Cafe to discuss the details. Also, please feel free to leave your number so communication is more seamless. Thanks.

you’re gonna punch your best friend.

-

-

[autumn-gales]

Ok, so I'd like to start that these are the thoughts and feelings of a third-world trans lesbian commie who diys her hormones bc she's tired of arguing w doctors to get the hormones she needs. Also, I'm butch. Just so people know I tick the identitarian boxes for my opinion to matter a bit on this topic (or whatever).

Being butch was extremely liberating to me, and it's what enabled me to take the reins of my transition to shape it into something that actually contributed to my happiness and wellbeing, and it's a little... disappointing... to see such superficial takes on gender presentation and identity be widely accepted the way it appears to be (if the notes are any indication).

I genuinely don't think condemning butch/femme stuff as ¨made for tme lesbians" is genuinely a take that has a solid feminist or materialist basis whatsoever. I can see where it's coming from and can understand that perspective, but I don't think it's the best way to move forward with any political analysis.

Sure, "it was made for tme people" but so are women's clothing, and women's shoes, and makeup. We don't resign ourselves to that reality though, we change it to make it ours. I'm a woman, and I'm entitled to my womanhood. I'm also a lesbian, and am entitled to my lesbian-ness. So I see no contradiction in taking those things for ourselves and refitting it to suit our needs and desires.

I think there's definitely a class element to this, as access to wealth is generally an indicator of whether you have access to transition resources, and having access to transition resources generally leads to having a better chance of passing, even as a butch lesbian.

The ideal of femme on the internet (even though it's sorta wrong and ahistorical) also has an element of class to it, bc having access to so many clothes and makeup and stuff is,,, expensive...

But that is something that goes away if you improve the material conditions of the working class. Which means that the root cause of the issue is poverty among transfems, not the concept of butch and femme lesbians.

The takes I've read so far feel less like feminist empowerment of trans women and more like resignation. Like we're giving up a privilege Real Women Get To Have. Like this isn't meant to be discourse or whatever (cus again I get it), I'm just airing out feelings.

We didn't get breakthroughs like srs and hormone therapy by resigning ourselves to our oppression. We did it through struggle and ingenuity.

Also if you call butches "boy lesbians," know that you are misgendering me and others like me by flattening the identity. I think I made it clear already but my womanhood is important to me, and being butch does not mean I am ok with being called a man.

i think throwing butch/femme away was my final act of casting off the mantle of "please tme lesbians, take pity on a tranny and accept me into your club, I wanna be one of you". like no actually what y'all are doing is dumb. maybe we shouldn't place so much importance on what american tme lesbians were doing from the 60s to the 90s. maybe those people had some biases and problems.

[buckysleftbicep]

letters through time (5) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: modern!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: none, a little angst and a ton of fluff to make up for the heartache in the previous chapters!

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.8k

author's note: hi my loves, we have finally made it to the last chapter!! i can’t even begin to express how grateful i am for all the love this series has received. your kind words and sweet comments means the world to me, especially because, truthfully, i never planned on sharing my fics on here! writing was something i turned to when i needed to cope, and to know that people do enjoy what i write means so much more to me than i can explain. i love you guys so much and stay safe out there!

series masterlist

He tasted like rain and everything you’d been aching for.

His hands cradled your face as he kissed you, slowly and gently, like he was rediscovering something he thought he’d lost. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.

You clung to the lapels of his coat, grounding yourself in the feeling of him—solid, real and warm. Your lips moved in sync with his, tentative at first, then deepening into something filled with quiet desperation and promise.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, the silence between you didn’t stretch awkwardly. It settled, full and alive, charged with all the things you hadn’t been able to say but had always hoped.

He smiled. And your knees nearly gave out. “Hi.”

You huffed a soft, tearful laugh. “Hi.”

Bucky’s eyes, those familiar cerulean eyes that once lived only in your imagination, behind layers of ink and yellowed paper—were softer now. Maybe because they weren’t just gazing out from a photograph. They were looking at you. Seeing you.

“You said you remembered everything,” you whispered, just to hear it again. Just to be sure. “All of it?”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t at first,” he said. “They wiped so much. I felt like I was swimming through fog. But something about your letters… they stuck with me. Even when everything else slipped away.”

His voice faltered, rough with emotion. Your heart ached just hearing it.

“I think it’s because you were the one thing they didn’t account for,” he said. “You weren’t part of my past. You were my future.”

Tears rose again, unbidden and overwhelming.

You took a small step back, just enough to really look at him. The lines on his face. The tiredness in his shoulders. The wear carved into him by time and war and loss. He wasn’t the young man in the photograph anymore—but that didn’t matter. He was still him.

Still Bucky. Still James.

“Can I come in?” he asked gently, his voice nearly a whisper, like he didn’t know if he had the right to ask.

You nodded and stepped aside.

He entered slowly, his eyes scanning the apartment like he was trying to memorize it. When his gaze landed on the cabinet—the one that had given you his first letter—his steps faltered. He reached out, brushing the wood with his fingertips.

Then he turned to you, something tender and aching in his expression.

“You kept them, didn’t you?” You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

Silently, you led him to your bedroom. You knelt and pulled out the box from beside the bed sealed all those months ago like a secret too sacred to discard.

You placed it between you on the edge of the mattress. Bucky reached for it as if it were a relic.

He opened the box carefully, gently. Inside lay the neat stack of letters. The faded daisies he had once given you you had once pressed between pages. The polaroids. The familiar curl of your handwriting wrapped around stories, questions, hopes.

And his.

He picked up one of the earliest notes, reading the words aloud with a disbelieving laugh:

“You sure you’re not pulling my leg, sweetheart? Phones that do everything?”

You smiled as he chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. “God, I really thought you were messing with me.”

He flipped through a few more, his fingertips lingering on each one. Then his hands stilled, eyes landing on the letter you’d written after your visit to the Smithsonian, the one with no explanations, no logic. Just hope.

Please come back to me, James.

He inhaled sharply. Closed his eyes. Swallowed hard.

When he looked at you again, tears shimmered in his lashes.

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

You shook your head, your throat too tight to speak at first. “You came back Bucky. That’s all that matters to me.”

He reached out and took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

The silence between you was heavy, thick with all the things that had been lost and everything that had managed to survive. But it wasn’t painful. It was full. Alive.

Eventually, you migrated to the couch. The storm had dwindled to a whisper outside, you curled into each other like magnets long kept apart, finally drawn back into place. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, your legs tucked beside his.

“So,” you murmured, your head resting against his chest, “what happens now?”

Bucky tilted his head, glancing down at you with the same boyish softness you had once only known through paper.

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “But I’d like to find out. With you.”

You smiled. “You mean you don’t have a Stark Industries time machine stashed in your back pocket?”

He snorted. “Nope. Just trauma and charm, doll.”

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his shoulder. He smiled wider, and tightened his arm around you.

And for the first time, in what felt like a hundred lifetimes, it finally felt like home.

The next few weeks were gentle. Bucky didn’t leave.

He stayed in Brooklyn, in the apartment that had once seemed like a strange anomaly in the timeline of your life, but had somehow become the bridge between past and present. Between you and him. Day by day, you came to know the version of James Buchanan Barnes who existed not in ink or memory, but in flesh and blood.

You learned that he was quiet in the mornings, that he liked his coffee strong, nearly burnt, and that he always read the newspaper from front to back like it was a ritual. You teased him for it, joking that he had officially become a grandpa, and he would roll his eyes but smile every time.

He still called you “sweetheart.” But now, he said it softly against your skin, with the warmth of someone who could reach across the bed and kiss your forehead after saying it. And every time, it made something settle in your chest. Something that had been waiting a very long time to rest.

He told you stories.

Some were light—childhood pranks with Steve, the time he tried to sneak out of camp only to be caught by a very unimpressed drill sergeant, his fascination with how different Brooklyn looked now.

Others were dark. Much darker. He told you about waking up in cold HYDRA cells with no idea who he was. About the way his memories had been stolen and stitched back wrong. About the fragments that survived the breaking—faces, smells, sounds. Your name.

“Every time they woke me up,” he said once, voice low and rough like gravel, “even when I didn’t know who I was… I remembered this apartment, that drawer. I didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it meant."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The ache in your heart was too big for words, too swollen with everything he’d lost and everything you’d both somehow found again.

So you leaned in and kissed him.

Not because it made the pain go away, but because it was the only thing that ever made sense through the ache. Because he was here. Because he remembered.

Because against every odd, you had both survived long enough to find your way back.

And in the quiet that followed, when he rested his forehead against yours and breathed you in like a prayer, you knew that this soft, tentative beginning was worth every letter, every silence, every tear.

You were finally writing the rest of the story together.

Some days, you visited the Smithsonian together.

You stood beside him at the wall that once made you cry. This time, your fingers were laced with his. You watched as he stared at his own photograph, eyes tracing the younger version of himself frozen behind glass. There was a tender stillness in the way he looked at it, like he was seeing a ghost he had finally made peace with.

Then, just above a whisper, he said, “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

You turned to him, eyes stinging, and squeezed his hand tighter.

Later that evening, over the soft creak of floorboards and the smell of dinner lingering in the air, you asked him quietly if he ever wanted to get rid of the letters—if maybe it was too painful to keep them.

He shook his head almost instantly.

“No,” he said, voice steady. “They’re not just letters. They’re the only part of me HYDRA couldn’t take.”

You didn’t press him. Instead, you took the box out together that night. Laid the letters across the table, smoothing them out with careful hands. Then, slowly, page by page, you tucked them into a leather-bound album—a home worthy of their weight.

Every page was a piece of a love story that should have never existed. A story folded in time, hidden between floorboards, sealed in ink and hope.

Every word proof that somehow, impossibly, you and Bucky had found each other again.

And this time, you weren’t letting go.

One evening, months later, you found another letter in the drawer.

This time, it wasn’t old.

It was new. Fresh. The envelope was crisp, the ink still slightly smudged, like it hadn’t been folded for long. You blinked in surprise, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for it, heart already thudding.

You opened it slowly, cautiously, like it might disappear if you moved too fast. Your brow furrowed in confusion at first—until you recognised the handwriting. That familiar scrawl, equal parts elegant and hurried. The same ink that had once kept you company across time.

Your lips parted in a quiet gasp, and a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you began to read:

Dear (y/n), I never thought I’d get the chance to say this in person. Never thought the girl on the other side of my letters would be real. But here you are. You once said you didn’t know what you meant to me. That maybe it was just a moment frozen in time. But I need you to know that you’re everything to me. The letters brought me to you. But your heart kept me here. And I plan on staying. Forever yours, James

You laughed through your tears, pressing the page to your chest as you turned toward the doorway. And there he was.

Bucky stood leaning against the frame, arms crossed, that same half-smile dancing on his lips, the same one you’d first seen in an old photograph, the one that had lit up your heart before you’d even known what it meant to see him smile for real.

“You’re such a sap,” you whispered, wiping at your cheeks even as your laughter cracked through the tears.

“You love it,” he said, not even bothering to hide the warmth in his voice.

You crossed the room in three steps and threw your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He held you close, solid and warm and real, like he’d never left. Like time had finally settled into something soft enough to hold.

You kissed him then, slow and sure, and you were right.

You did love it. You loved him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down you always had.

a/n: this series will always hold a really special place in my heart, thank you for reading!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5 @herejustforbuckybarnes @tpwkyarely

[yeokii]

desire : unleash ♱ / 엔𝗂하이픈 . ⠀BAD DESIRE ❨ WITH OR WITHOUT YOU ❩

𝐘𝐊 / 지키고 싶어 투명한 널 제발 그만 멈춰 서 ' 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑦 ' 𓈀 you're their baddest desire, but they find their way back to you 𝒇. ͏ ── ❨ 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 ❩ 𝑚. 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 . 𝖸𝖤𝖮𝖪𝖨𝖨 𝖯𝖱𝖣

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀' 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋, ──𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾 ''

【 𝐈𝐍𝐋𝓲𝐍𝐄 】 ⠀𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝘩 ! enha & fmr ﹒𓏶﹒ 15OO wrds / angst fs Ꜣ 善禹 ── skinship, kissing heh, enha are yearners, suggestive + CREATOR'S BOARD

🐰 : literally wrote this the moment i finished listening to the album. so the layout may seem a bit rushed ( I was literally giggling writing this someone stop me )

⠀⠀' HEESEUNG

you pulled him closer, his mouth tasted like regret.

you could feel it burning through your veins — a warning screaming at you to run away. but you couldn’t. you stayed still the moment he touched you. all you could think about was how you didn't pull away. heeseung cherished you like you meant the world to him and then ruined you completely.

he always got his way with you. and you always let him.

heeseung was never soft; it felt raw and real. never once has he sugarcoated anything to you; he spoke whatever was on his mind. he was the boy you swore you would never fall for.

but that look in his eyes — the kind that made your knees buckle under his gaze — was something you could never pull away from.

he wanted you.

he wanted to devour you whole.

no matter how many times you told him it wasn’t right, that you both weren’t right together, you would end up in his arms at the end of the day, his face nuzzled in your neck like it was his second home.

“this isn’t right.” he kissed your collarbone.

“then why do you keep coming back, doll?” your breath hitches.

because you couldn’t stay away. you couldn’t spend another night in a cold bed, awake and thinking about the boy who wrecked you. you wanted to spend eternity with his lips on yours, with his arms around you.

maybe it was wrong.

but it was the only thing that felt right.

⠀⠀⠀⠀read more ── open for the others !

⠀⠀' JONGSEONG

it’s silent. you can hear the soft patter of rain outside. the atmosphere feels heavy—the tension between you and jay is thick and suffocating.

you knew it was wrong. to be this close with the best friend of your brother.

jay presses his forehead against yours. "princess, i won’t be able to stop if you keep…"he says, meeting your gaze.

“do you just want to go back and pretend like nothing ever happened? like this doesn’t exist?” you asked.

“what about sunghoon?”

“i don’t care about him. not now.”

jay’s breath is hot against your skin. “say no,” he murmurs, his voice cracking just like his fleeting grip on self-control.

you don’t.

instead, you pull him closer, closing the gap between you.

he doesn’t ask again, crashing his lips against yours. all of sunghoon’s warnings fly out the window as he squeezes your waist, gripping onto you like you'd slip away from his fingers.

it’s just you and him now.

no one else.

and you both burn from the fire you created.

⠀⠀' JAEYUN

your world was built by rules and guarded by walls. it was clear you were brought up in a prestigious household, every movement precise, every word measured. from shoes that never touched the mud to your neatly ironed skirt resting at your thighs, everything felt calculated.

you were the epitome of elegance.

so it was obvious you weren't allowed to speak to boys like jake. his shirt was always a little wrinkled and his hair messy. never in a million could you imagine both your worlds colliding.

but it did.

from a glance to a kiss, he found his way through the cracks you didn’t even know you had.

it was pouring rain when jake showed up at your doorstep, his sneakers leaving muddy prints across the porch. he was drenched, his hair a mess.

but he didn’t care about that.

he cared about you.

it was the restless desire coursing through his veins that made him show up at your doorstep at 2 in the morning.

“what are you doing? my parents are asleep!” you whispered, heart pounding.

jake looked at you, his eyes speaking a million words. “i wanted to see you.”

you saw his desperate eyes.

he was begging.

“yn, i don’t think i can pull away from you. i need you.”

before you could respond, he pulled you in by the waist.

you didn’t resist.

instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck, crashing your lips against his.

because you needed him as much as he needed you.

⠀⠀' SUNGHOON

you thought sunghoon was the coldest boy you'd ever meet. and you were right. he was as sharp as a blade and always kept his walls up.

he didn’t feel or cry, distant from most people, always keeping them at arm’s length. but why did his heart pound whenever he came near you?

his usually steady hand trembled at your touch. he held you like you were made of glass.

he feared losing control, because he knew the moment he let go of every restraint, he’d ruin you completely.

you got him in places where no one else dared to. he pleaded, he was desperate. park sunghoon was wrapped around your fucking finger.

and you played with him like fire.

every second with you made him lose his mind. “if you knew what i’d do to you...” he whispered in your ear, his grip on your waist tightening.

you looked up at him, desperate to see what was hidden behind those eyes — "show me," you whispered, barely even hearing your voice.

but that was enough for sunghoon to lose it completely. his brain shut down; he was running purely by his heart. he was on fucking fire.

and before he could think, he kissed you like a man possessed. park sunghoon—the man who was always composed—finally broke under your touch.

⠀⠀' SUNOO

the golden prince. sunoo was flawless, soft-spoken, and untouchable. everyone loved him—in their eyes, he could never do anything wrong.

most people called him perfect—some envied him. but no one ever looked past the perfect facade he wore so carefully. no one had ever looked through the cracks he desperately tried to patch up.

until you met him. you saw right through him instantly. the shift in his eyes, even when he was smiling, the way his hand shook in a crowd despite his talkative character.

you understood him.

and that terrified him.

because if you asked him, sunoo would let go of everything in a heartbeat. everything he worked so hard for. his image, his reputation—he’d tear it all down for you.

all he wanted right now was you.

sunoo yearned for you.

he desired you.

he pressed you to the nearest wall, his breath hot against your skin. “tell me you’re mine.”

his words felt more like a plea than a command. they came from a heart set on fire.

“always.”

and that’s when sunoo knew—you were his to begin with, his to end with.

he kissed you like nothing else mattered. not his perfect image, not the eyes that watched him, nothing.

sunoo was the golden prince—flawless, adored. but with you, he was just a sinner on his knees begging for a taste of your touch.

⠀⠀' JUNGWON

jungwon always had a plan. for almost everything, he was ready. calm and collected through any situation—almost as if he was waiting for it to happen. he never let anything shake him.

but what happens when he falls hard for you the moment you walked into his life? he wasn’t ready for this. he never expected it.

jungwon’s feelings were out of control, with nothing to contain them. he hated the way he felt lost. he hated how your name tasted on his lips—bitter yet sweet, a curse he could never resist.

“i shouldn’t feel this. i can’t.”

“but you do. i can tell.” you guide his hand over to his chest. you both can feel his heart pounding. “you’re burning.”

he looks at you, flames in his eyes. he knew it from the kisses you shared and the touches that made him weak in the knees. with or without you, he was ruined anyways.

he holds you tighter now. “please, don’t let go.” it wasn’t a surrender—it was the only way he knew to keep holding on.

and you don’t. you’d never let go.

you only bring yourself closer, his lips instantly finding yours.

plans, rules, everything he lived by—shattered in that moment. nothing in his mind could stop his heart from wanting you.

⠀⠀' RIKI

riki was impossible to hold back. no one could keep him from crossing boundaries. he was reckless, chaotic, and out of control.

call him crazy and look at him like he just lost his mind, he wouldn't bat an eye at the comments. honestly, he never cared. being himself and speaking his mind was all he knew how to do, rather than creating chaos wherever he went—it was the only language he knew.

but it never felt like enough.

nothing satisfied him. with each reckless stunt, he only grew hungrier — searching for something raw, something real.

and then there was you, your eyes dared to slow him down, your touch made him crazy.

"fuck, admit it. you want this too. you want me too," riki said, out of breath from the kiss you both shared. his hands gripped your waist, a silent claim that you were his.

it wasn't a want anymore, it was a need.

it was desire that you both felt. the one that could have cities in flames, the one that never dies.

the desire that was bad for your heart, but was all you could think of.

you could only nod, already aching to feel his lips back on yours. you helped him. you made him full. you filled in that empty void he had. you were what he needed when his mind spoke chaos.

and then he realized— the hunger he’d been chasing all along was you.

tags. @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[deadbydemand389]

Always for you

I’ve had this scene playing in my mind ever since I first saw the movie. Bear with me.

Story: Best friends to lovers but make it filthy — horror movie nights, shared hoodies, slow-burn tension finally snapping into messy kisses, pierced boys with soft hearts, and the kind of “i love you” that wrecks you in the best way. they were always meant to fall—just didn’t know how hard. also yeah... his tongue piercing did things.

⚠️ Warning: smut. filthy smut. soft emotions. language. horny best friend energy. 18+ only.

You and Erik? Best friends. Ride-or-die. You dated other guys, sure—but it never got serious. Every time things started getting real, you’d just... shut down. In your head, none of it mattered. You had Erik. And he was everything you ever needed in a man. Soft cuddles. Horror movie nights (he lived for horror, the weirdo). Endless 2 a.m. conversations until the sun crept through the windows. Family dinners. And those little, forbidden touches—so casual, no one ever questioned them. A hand on your hip to steady you at a concert. Fingers laced with yours when anxiety threatened to spiral.

It made your heart stutter. But say something? Risk this? Ruin what you had for a few traitorous butterflies? Hell no.

You’d ruffle his hair, place your hand on the back of his neck every time he said something so stupidly cute it made you forget he was this pierced-up, inked-to-hell bad boy (and yeah, you knew about that piercing too). You had feelings, no doubt. But cuddling into his chest on a Friday night felt safer than risking it all.

And then there was her. Brina. That smug, plastic little heart-shredder. After she broke him, you were the one who picked up the pieces. Three straight months of late-night crying and way too much whiskey. You. Always you.

It started as a regular night at the Campbells'. You were playing Until Dawn—again. Legs thrown over Erik’s lap. Comfortable. Familiar.

“GO FASTER! ERIK—PRESS THE DAMN TRIANGLE!”

“I’M TRYING! This thing’s broken, I swear—”

You grabbed the controller, definitely not thinking about how big and inked his hands were. Nope. Not even a little.

“Give me that! You play like a twat—Wendigo’s about to eat Jessica and Matt, and you're over here flailing like a grandma on Wii Sports!”

You beat the level—barely—and smirked. “Matt’s too hot to die.”

Erik laughed, that deep, throaty sound that always got under your skin. “Jessica’s hotter. She deserves to live.”

“You only say that because she looks like fucking Brenda.”

“Brina, Y/N. Brina.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost sprained something. “Whatever. Save the game. We need to get ready for Jessica’s birthday before your mom kills us.”

You stood up—or tried to. A firm hand yanked you back onto the couch. Erik was on top of you, hovering close. Too close.

“Where do you think you're going after calling me a twat?” His smirk was dangerous—pure sin. Your brain screamed do not soak your panties, but it was a losing battle.

“Get off. I’m already sweating.”

His eyes darkened. That look. You hadn't seen it since he punched your ex for slapping you in public—and yeah, that trip to the police station was worth every second.

“Kiki?” you asked, voice low. If he kept looking at you like that...

His leg slid between yours. His breath was minty. His lips soft. The space between you? Non-existent.

“Y/N—”

“HAS ANYONE SEEN PACO?! I’M STARTING TO PANIC!” Bobby barged in like the goddamn Kool-Aid Man, derailing the moment with all the grace of a freight train.

Erik groaned, helping you sit up. “Come on, Foxy. Let’s get dressed.”

“Yeah. In a minute.” You watched him walk away, heart thudding, panties—yep, soaked. Fantastic.

“Paco’s in the fridge, Bobby. Delicious side dish.” Erik smirked.

“Oh thank God. Then who the hell did I put in his cage?” Cue: beef jerky in a lizard tank. You wheezed.

Later that night, after Jessica’s party, all the siblings were crammed in the car. You offered to Uber to avoid the chaos.

“Don’t be stupid. Y/N can sit on my lap,” Erik said, hand resting on your shoulder.

“Promise I won’t get a boner,” he whispered, his palm sliding to your waist.

“Yeah? Bet.”

The car ride was quiet. Parents up front. Bobby passed out. Jessica glued to her phone.

You? Tortured.

Short skirt. G-string. Erik’s lap. Worst. Decision. Ever.

“Remember when we first heard this song?” he asked as House of Balloons played.

You leaned back against his chest, fingers intertwining with his on your thigh. “Yeah. Then someone ruined it by playing it on loop for 24 hours.”

He chuckled. “Only because I couldn’t stop thinking about you that day.”

Your breath caught. His hand tilted your chin to face him. Eyes locked. Lips close.

“You looked beautiful tonight, Peach.”

You kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand the way you do during panic attacks—the silent I’m okay now, because of you.

“Can I stay over tonight?” you asked, voice louder so his parents could hear.

“Of course, sweetheart,” his mom replied. “Erik, be nice this time.”

You squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back. “Yeah, Mom. I’ll be nice.”

The last 10 minutes of the ride were spent with Erik softly kissing your cheek, hand creeping dangerously high on your thigh. Your hips shifted. His bulge pressed against you.

“You lost the bet,” you whispered.

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he murmured, draping his jacket over your lap, hand slipping under.

“What are you—”

Hot. His hand on your panties. Soaked.

“Fuck, Erik—”

“All that for me? Maybe you’re a good girl after all, Peach.”

You were melting. You needed more. More of him. More of his everything.

“It was always for you,” you whispered. His eyes widened, the smugness replaced by something softer. Real.

“We’re home!” his dad called. “Let’s go!”

Erik helped you out of the car. You both avoided each other for the next 40 minutes. Separate showers. Awkward silences. Doubt creeping in.

Did you mess it up?

Later, lying in his bed, backs turned, dim light casting long shadows—you couldn’t take it anymore.

You climbed out of bed and straddled him, waking him up.

“Kiki…”

“Peach? You okay, love?”

Love. That did it.

“I love you,” you blurted out, palm flat against his tattooed chest.

Silence. Your brain screamed. Panic. Regret.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you babbled. “I just had to say it. And if it ruins things, I’m sorry, I’ll drop it, we can go back—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Erik kissed you like his life depended on it.

Tongues,, desperation.His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours clawed at his back.

“Do best friends kiss like this?” he murmured, breathless.

He kissed your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“I’ve been in love with you since you tripped and made me slam my head on the concrete in third grade, my Peach.”

“Erik… kiss me.”

And he did.

Your mind was spiraling. Is this really happening? You forgot how to breathe. His lips—soft, warm, sinful—had you melting into the moment.

“What took us so long?” he murmured against your mouth between fevered kisses.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, breathless. “But god, ... I need you. Don’t hold back. Please.”

You paused just long enough to meet his gaze—and there it was. That dark, dangerous glint in his eyes. The one you’d secretly begged for in a hundred quiet fantasies.

The devil had finally answered.

With a growl deep in his throat, Erik grabbed your thighs and flipped you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and before you could even blink, his lips were back on yours—hot, greedy, possessive.

He kissed you like a starving man, like he'd waited years for this moment. And you? You surrendered to it, every single part of you burning for more.

You could feel his bulge growing, hard and heavy against your thigh. His hands slipped beneath your—his—shirt, cupping your breasts like they belonged to him. Like they’d always been his to touch, to hold. The way his palms fit you was almost unfair.

Your moans—soft, breathy, desperate—drove him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

In one slow, deliberate motion, he slid your panties down your legs, his eyes never leaving you. He paused, gaze devouring the sight of you in his shirt, laid out on his bed, wrapped up in his arms.

Exactly where you were meant to be.

He could count the times he had imagined this moment. You, exactly like this. But now it was real—and for once, there was no guilt weighing him down. Just you, and the way you looked at him like he was your whole world.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “And mine.”

His hand trailed down your body, fingers brushing your heat—light touches that made your hips jerk and your breath hitch. You were trembling under him, your body aching, begging.

“Please, baby... touch me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and breathless. Was that really you? Desperate, pleading for the thing you’d craved for so long.

He didn’t tease you this time.

He pushed one thick finger inside, and you nearly came undone—your body arched, a choked moan slipping past your lips as pleasure took over.

“Oh God—” you gasped, trying to muffle your cries with your hand, terrified the whole neighborhood might hear.

But he just smirked, dark and wicked, the devil in human form.

“God’s not here, Peach,” he growled. “Beg for me, not Him.”

And then he slid the shirt up, exposing your chest. One hand still working you mercilessly, the other grabbing your breast, fingers rough and hungry. His mouth followed, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue teasing, sucking—claiming.

Every part of you was unraveling.

I need you to stop covering your moans, baby,” he pleaded, his voice husky, strained with need. “I need to hear your voice. Don’t hide from me.”

The way he said it—don’t hide from me—it cracked something open inside you. You were already blushing so hard you could barely remember your own name. But the way he looked at you, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world, made you want to give him everything.

“Erik… please,” you whispered, breath hitching, eyes glassy with heat and emotion.

Your hands fell away from your mouth, lips parted, chest rising with each shallow breath. And when his fingers moved again—slower this time, deeper—you let the moan out. Loud, raw, unfiltered.

And Erik? He looked like a man finally tasting heaven.

He took his time, working his fingers inside you with maddening control—first one, then two. Each thrust stretched and filled you in ways that made your back arch off the bed, every nerve begging for more. You bit your lip hard, trying not to scream his name, but the tension building in your core was impossible to hide.

Then he moved lower. You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you, tongue stroking your most sensitive spot, licking you like a man possessed. Holy hell— he wasn’t just good at this. He was lethal.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, trembling. “I’m so glad you got that tongue piercing—fuck—”

That comment alone could’ve made his ego break the ceiling, if it hadn’t already. He glanced up at you, smug but focused, eyes locked on your every breath, every twitch, every flutter of your lashes as he pulled you closer and closer to that edge.

“I’m gonna cum if you keep going like that,” you warned, voice cracking.

But he didn’t stop. He devoured you—slow, deep, hungry licks that sent shivers through your entire body. And every time that cold metal barbell rolled against your clit, it sent a jolt straight through your spine. You were burning, unraveling, teetering on the edge of total destruction—

Then he stopped.

Your breath caught. “Why—?”

Before you could even finish the question, he was above you, thick and hard in his hand, the head of his cock glistening as he rubbed it against your entrance—ready. Perfect. Dangerous in the best possible way.

You couldn’t look away. Sure, you’d caught glimpses before—quick peeks in the bathroom when he forgot to lock the door—but now? Now it was right in front of you in all its gorgeous, pierced glory.

“Like what you see, princess?” he smirked, cocky and damn well knowing the answer.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You were soaked—drenched—just from looking at him.

He leaned down, kissed you hard, rough and claiming, before his mouth moved to your breasts again, lavishing attention like they were sacred. But his hands? Gentle. Careful. Like you were something rare.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” he whispered, that flicker of worry in his eyes—because you knew, no matter how wild this got, he cared. So much.

You reached up, placing your palm on his cheek. He kissed it softly.

“I love you,” you whispered, brushing your lips to his. “But I really need you right now.”

And that was all it took.

His eyes darkened, something primal overtaking him, and then he was inside you—deep, raw, thick.

The first thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. He moved like a man losing control, hips snapping forward with power and purpose—but still kissing you softly, like he needed you to know this was more than lust. This was everything.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filled you over and over, his pace brutal, the stretch intoxicating. The friction. The heat. The way he whispered your name in your ear like it was a sacred prayer.

You came undone—hard and fast—your whole body shaking as the climax ripped through you like a tidal wave.

He followed right after, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, coming deep inside you with one final, shattering thrust.

And then—for a moment—there was only silence. The sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the weight of years of want finally fulfilled.

He pulled you into his arms, bodies still tangled in warmth, your fingers laced tightly together. His eyes—stormy, glowing like stars—locked onto yours as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I can’t believe we actually did that,” he murmured, breathless, voice low with disbelief and something softer—something real.

You giggled, brushing the sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. “Believe it, Campbell.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you like you were something sacred. “I love you, Y/N. Please, please let this not be another one of my horny-ass dreams or I swear to—”

You silenced him with a slow, lingering kiss, your lips smiling against his. “It’s not, you dork. But if you’re still not sure…” You winked. “We could go one more round—just to really make it sink in.”

That was all it took.

With a mischievous grin, he scooped you back into his lap, hands firm on your hips like he never wanted to let you go. He stared at you in total awe—Erik Campbell, pierced and inked and bruised by life, finally letting himself feel love, not just lust.

And you saw it written all over his face.

“I love you too, dork,” you whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

Within moments, you drifted off, curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. And Erik?

He held you like you were everything.

Because to him, you were.

[demie90s]

If you would like, can you please do one where reader brings her goddaughter to practice and the team and geno just melt at how soft she is with kids? Btw I love love loveddd how protective she is of KK

(Loveeeeee thisss!!! Ima make the read have a rough day so they can really see how soft she is.)

ᴜᴄᴏɴɴ ᴡʙʙ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Something to Come Home To

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:You never let the team see you break, no matter how heavy the day feels. But when your goddaughter shows up mid-practice, the whole gym watches you melt. Geno’s yelling stops. The girls go soft. And for once, you don’t hide how much you needed that hug.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:comfort, slice of life, soft!reader, team bonding, found family

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: emotional exhaustion, implied stress/burnout, crying (happy tears), soft Geno, teammate teasing (affectionate)

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.7k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: stoic leader breaks for a baby girl, sneakers squeaking as she runs to her, the team realizing how deep her love runs, Geno’s heart growing three sizes that day

You were already behind when your alarm didn’t go off. It buzzed—once—then died, your phone screen completely black, battery long gone. You cursed, grabbed your bag, and sprinted across campus with dry lips and no charger, still trying to finish the last paragraph of your English paper in your head.

First class: missed. Second: made it—but barely. You threw your paper down on the desk just as your professor raised his eyebrow.

“You’re late. Again.”

You forced a smile. “I know, I’m sorry—”

“This paper better be perfect, then.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just like he didn’t look when your elbow knocked your coffee over five minutes later and it bled straight across your assignment, soaking it through.

No backup copy. No time to fix it. You just stared at the mess, blinking, trying to will the tears not to come up through your throat.

You held it together.

After class, you tried to find your phone. Nowhere. Not in your bag. Not in your locker. Nowhere. Just silence and a dead battery and the weight of no way to call your ride or even check the time. You ran to the student center—closed for an event. No charger. No answers.

Lunch? Didn’t happen. You didn’t even notice until your stomach growled on the way to practice. And even then, all you could do was sip half a bottle of warm water from your bag and pray your body held on long enough to survive drills.

You walked into practice with your hoodie on and your jaw locked. And if Geno was in a mood, you didn’t care. Everyone’s allowed one bad day.

Except you.

“Let’s go, L/n!” Geno barked halfway through warmups. “Wake up! You look like you’re sleepwalking.”

You nodded, didn’t talk back. Just nodded and ran harder. Bit your tongue. Took it. You’d earned worse. This was nothing.

But every drill? He called your name. Every missed pass? Your fault. Every time your feet weren’t where he wanted them? He let you know.

“You think you’re above fundamentals now? You runnin’ on autopilot? Is that what we’re doing?”

“No, Coach.”

“Then focus. You’re better than this.”

You nodded again. Just like you did when you twisted your ankle slightly on the sidestep screen. It stung. But you kept moving.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t throw the ball. You just kept your voice even and stayed in line, and everyone else thought that meant you were fine.

Until that door opened.

Until she ran in—your goddaughter, barely five, wearing a pink tutu over her hoodie, sparkly light-up Crocs flashing with every bounce. Her curls were wild from the wind, and her little voice rang out across the gym:

“TeeTee!”

It wasn’t loud. But it hit like thunder.

You broke formation mid-drill. Your teammates paused, blinking, confused. You didn’t even say anything. You just ran.

Straight across the court. Shoes pounding the hardwood. Past the free-throw line, past the startled assistant coach, arms already out before you even dropped to your knees.

She launched into you and you caught her, like nothing else in the world mattered. And for a second—it didn’t.

You buried your face in her shoulder, arms tight around her tiny frame. Your whole body shook. Your breath hitched. And then?

You cried.

Not loud. Not sobbing. But the kind of silent crying that shakes your spine. That forces its way out when you’ve held too much in for too long.

The gym was dead quiet.

KK whispered, “Yo… she okay?”

Paige’s lips parted. “She’s never cried in front of us.”

Aaliyah crossed her arms, voice low. “That’s her godbaby. That’s why.”

Geno didn’t yell.

He just stood there, stunned, watching the player who never folded fold for a kid who clearly meant more than anyone realized.

You didn’t care who was watching.

“Mommy said you were having a bad day,” your goddaughter mumbled into your neck. “Are you okay now?”

You nodded into her curls. “I am now, baby.”

The rest of practice? It went on, sort of. You didn’t do much. Geno told you to stretch, sit if you needed. The girls handled the scrimmage. You sat with her in your lap, braiding the ends of her hair and letting her feed you fruit snacks out of her little unicorn bag.

After practice, the team gathered around—quiet at first, then playful.

“Wait,” KK grinned, crouching next to her. “This the infamous goddaughter?”

“Infamous?” Ice raised a brow. “She’s royalty now. Did you see the way she healed our starter with one hug?”

“She look like she ready to fight Geno if he raises his voice again,” Paige added, smirking.

“She’s my bodyguard,” you murmured, voice still hoarse.

Geno finally walked over, crouching with a rare softness in his tone. “What’s her name again?”

You wiped your face, cheeks pink. “Zaria.”

He nodded at her, tipping his head. “Thanks for saving my player, Zaria.”

She smiled wide, all baby teeth and dimple. “You’re welcome, Santa Claus.”

The whole team lost it.

You laughed for the first time all day. A real one.

[lil-quinnie]

About walls and whispers

warnings: alcohol use implied, weed and toxic family dynamics.

+18 minors get out.

Summary: They promised it meant nothing but secrets have a way of unraveling.

Eddie x Rick reefer's little sister!Reader

The final year of high school always drags a little more than it should. Classes stop mattering the way they used to. The scratched-up desks, the endless hallways that once felt like mazes... now they’re just worn paths, walked too many times.

It’s a strange sort of limbo. Not quite the end, not quite freedom. You’d been counting the days until you could leave. Not out of eagerness, but exhaustion. Tired of being watched. Measured. Whispered about. Sister of Rick Reefer.Everyone knew ,e veryone feared. And you had learned to wear that fear like armor.

Eddie was leaving too, and this time, for real.

Two extra years in the same building, drifting through classrooms like he didn’t belong anywhere. The kind of guy who failed the tests but never missed the conversations that mattered. He knew too much of what was never written on the blackboards and yet, there he always was, sitting in the back of the room.

You had crossed paths forever. You already knew the sound of his footsteps. The faint scent of cigarettes clinging to his jacket, not by choice, but because of the orbit you both shared.

Eddie worked for your brother. He was always around, ghosting through the house with that silent, sharp presence. He never talked much, especially not to you.

At home, he barely looked anyone in the eye. He stayed quiet, on edge, like he couldn’t wait to leave. Sometimes it felt like he hated being there.

But at school, he was different, louder! Unapologetically present. He filled the space without trying. His voice always carried, cracking jokes, calling people out, talking like he didn’t care who was listening. It made you wonder how someone could flick so easily between silence and fire.

Still, you noticed everything.

You weren’t friends. But you weren’t strangers either. Just two people bound by proximity, separated by silence.

The gym was stifling, as always. But this time, the ceiling fans had been replaced with weak spotlights strung between crooked banners that read “CONGRATS, GRADUATES” in faded gold letters.

There was something almost beautiful in how pathetic it all looked. Like the school was trying too hard to matter one last time.

You walked in with no urgency, thin black dress, hair down, eyes lined too dark to be casual. The lipstick didn’t match the occasion, and maybe that was the point. You’d had enough of handshakes and half-hugs, of fake laughs or people congratulating you for something that didn’t feel like an accomplishment.

And then he showed up.

Eddie showed up the way he always did; Late.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, dragging the weight of too many bad choices behind him. Gray shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos inked like old confessions on his skin. He didn’t look like he belonged, but when he saw you he stopped like the world had stuttered. You looked at each other like something had already been said, like recognition had arrived long before words ever could.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt.

“I came for the diploma,” he said with a smirk.

“Two years late.”

“Yeah. I was waiting on you.”

You almost smiled, but swallowed it before it could show.

Your gaze flicked to the lights, the exits, anything to soften the ache curling under your ribs.

“Are you going to Steve’s after?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on you. “Got business to handle.”

“Guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He nodded once before some friends shouted his name, pulling him away. But even as he left, you caught him watching you again, and again and again.

Not in an obvious way, Eddie never did anything obvious. But the glance he gave before turning away was slow and reluctant, like it cost him something. You weren’t sure when it started, that loaded silence between you but a look across the hallway began to burn more than a conversation ever could.

There were always people around. Rick’s friends. The noise of your house. Teachers. Strangers. But somehow, the air between you and Eddie always felt different. Tuned to some quieter frequency only the two of you could hear.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He passed by the drink table, his shoulder brushing close to yours. Too close. You felt the warmth of his skin. Your fingers twitched. His jaw flexed.

"It was nothing" you repeat in your head a million times.

Steve’s house was packed. Sweat, weed, perfume, cheap vodka, It all blended into the kind of chaos people called fun. The hallway was a mess of limbs and laughter. You took a drink someone handed you, didn’t ask what it was. It burned going down, and that was what you want.

Eddie leaned against the wall like he wasn’t part of the party, just tolerating it. Same rolled-up sleeves. Same tattoos. Same tired eyes.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

He was talking to some girl with a fake tan and a voice like syrup. She leaned in, hand on his arm like she’d done it a thousand times. Laughing too loud at whatever bullshit he was feeding her.

He wasn’t laughing. But he wasn’t moving either.

You stood across the room, half in shadow, half in smoke. Sipped your drink like it didn’t matter but your eyes stayed on him too long.

And he found you anyway. This time, you didn’t look away. You raised your cup. Tilted your head.

Really? Her?

Then you turned and walked off before he could answer.

You ended up on the back porch. Arms resting on the railing, the night air cooler than expected. A cigarette held loose between your fingers, smoke curling toward the sky. You weren’t even smoking it. Just holding it for the wind.

And of course, he came.

He walked out like it was a coincidence. It wasn’t.

He stood beside you. Close, but not touching. Silent, for a beat too long.

“You saw,” he said finally. His hands were in his pockets. Voice low. Like he’d been caught.

You kept your eyes on the yard. “It’s not my business, Eddie.”

“She meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me,” you snapped.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he muttered, quieter now.

You gave a slow, ironic smile. “What you do is none of my business, Munson. I just thought you had better taste.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Damn. If that’s you not caring, I wonder what it’d be like if you did.”

“I never said I didn’t care.”

Your eyes met his for the first time that night. His big brown ones burned like they had something to say.

“I said it was none of my business.”

You whispered the last part.

The silence sharpened. Pulled tight like a wire.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Whether it was your hand threading into his curls, or his fingers gripping your waist. His mouth met yours like a warning; You kissed him back like a dare.

It wasn’t sweet nor romantic.

It was all teeth, hot hands and breathless mouths. Fingers tugging your hair hard enough to sting, his grip on your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You kissed him like you’d promised yourself you never would, your tongue explored Eddie's mouth, he tasted like smoke, beer and mints.

You knew it was forbidden, that no one could see but the only thing that went through your head was the comfort that his hands brought to your body while he devoured your kiss as if it were the last time, and maybe it was..

The kiss slammed into you, stealing your your balance and Eddie didn’t hesitate. He shoved you back against the wall, lips still crushing yours, hands already on your thigh. He gripped it hard, hauled your leg around his waist, forcing your core down onto the solid pressure of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled into your mouth, the word ragged. His control was fraying, you could feel it in the way his hands started grinding your hips against him, rough and hungry.

His mouth tore from yours and dragged down your neck, all tongue and teeth and heat, licking a line to the edge of your now twisted, wrinkled dress.

You squeezed the bulge in his pants — hard. He groaned, low and filthy, and it was your turn to attack. Your mouth found his neck, teeth scraping against his warm skin, leaving your mark while his fingers carved bruises into your hips.

You wanted to keep going, to explore every inch of him, but the pressure he was grinding against your center was suddenly too much — too good.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you whispered, your voice ragged, surrendering to whatever he wanted to do with you. His crooked, wicked smile made you throb, eyes burning into you with so much hunger it made your skin prickle.

His lips crashed back into yours, the kiss deep, messy, laced with something desperate. The fingers that had been tracing slow circles on your thigh slipped beneath your panties without warning.

“So wet for me,” he purred against your ear. “Poor thing... let me take care of you.”

Then his thumb found your clit, teasing it with feather-light circles,so gentle it felt unreal, like one of your late-night fantasies bleeding into life. He whispered sweet nothings while his fingers worked you with the precision of a musician, deliberate and skilled.

It didn’t take long before your body betrayed your hips stuttered, and you left a shameless, soaking mark on his pants.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips were swollen. Your heart was racing. Your cheeks burned and he looked at you with that look again.

You ignored it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you said fixing your lipstick

He nodded once.

“I wasn’t planning on falling in love.”

“Good,” you replied, stepping back. Smoothing your dress like nothing had happened.

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

No feelings,no mess.

Just silence. And secrets.

Hi guys, it's been a while (a long time) since I wrote so be nice to me, ok? let me know if you like it. <3

Dividers by @cursed-carmine

[rosarykisses]

How to send a letter to your

desired reality s / o

yourself and / or your friends!

───

OKAY SO!!! I’m not an experienced shifter or anything like that— I’m still pretty new to all of this. So take this method with a grain of salt! But!!! This is something that genuinely helped me feel closer to my DR, and I wanted to share in case it helps you too.

You can write your letter however you’d like—on actual paper (which is what I did!), in a notes app, or even a Word doc. The medium doesn’t matter—your intention does.

───

STEP ONE : WRITE FROM THE HEART WITH FULL INTENT . . .

Say whatever you feel. I wrote how I was sorry I hadn’t made it there yet and how hard I was trying. You can talk about anything—how much you care for them, what you’re excited about, or what you wish they knew.

STEP TWO : TREAT THEM

LIKE THEY ARE REAL

BECAUSE THEY ARE!

Write as if you’re speaking directly to them. Be sweet, kind, respectful, loving—whatever fits the relationship. Whether they’re a slow-burn love interest, a close friend, a family member, or even your DR self, keep your connection in mind as you write.

STEP THREE :

INTENT IS EVERYTHING

Intent is the most important part of this process. If you don’t mean what you’re saying and believe it will reach them, it probably won’t. Your energy needs to be aligned with the idea that they’ll receive it. Affirm that this message is going exactly where it’s meant to.

STEP FOUR :

SCRIPT THAT THEY FIND IT !!!

Seriously — if you don’t script that they find the note or letter in your DR, they likely won’t. Be specific about how or where they find it if you want.

STEP FIVE :

ASK FOR A SIGN ( OPTIONAL )

At the end of your letter, you can write something like:

“If you receive this letter, could you give me a sign? Nothing huge, just something small like [ insert something specific but unusual you’d notice ].” Make it random enough that you’ll know it’s from them when it happens.

STEP SIX :

SEAL WITH AFFIRMATIONS

Once you’ve written your letter, say your affirmations out loud or in your mind — something like:

“This message will reach them. They will find it. They know I’m coming.”

───

WHAT TO DO WITH THE LETTER

If you typed your letter:

Say your affirmations, then delete it and try to forget about it. Obsessing over it or rereading it over and over may block results.

If you handwrote your letter:

You can burn it, rip it and release it into the wind, send it in a bottle, bury it, or even ( this sounds silly but it worked for me ) flush it down the toilet. Whatever helps you let it go with belief that it’s on its way.

───

JUST REMEMBER . . .

your belief, focus, and intent matter more than anything else. You’re not “just pretending” — you’re creating a connection that already exists in some version of reality.

Good luck, and trust the process 💌 Let me know if it works for you!

[humaling]

Rome Fell.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: after district four is destroyed, you and finnick return home broken—haunted by loss, guilt, and scars both visible and hidden. as you struggle to rebuild your lives and your marriage, you must face the wounds of war that threaten to tear you two apart before you can truly heal.

warnings: loss of limb/amputation, graphic violence and gore, death (castor), trauma, ptsd, intense emotional distress, mentions of prostitution/exploitation, grief and loss, strong language, slow healing, marriage struggles

word count: 5.9k

author's note: happy ending!!!! based on a req! sorta like an alt ending of nightlock but could be read as a standalone :)

Life in District Four had a rhythm, a salty breeze, and a kind of quiet chaos that once felt comforting. It was never home in the way your old district was, but it became something close—a distant echo of familiarity. Still, nothing could ever truly replace what was lost. Everything you once knew, every street corner, every face that raised you, loved you, fought beside you—they were gone, reduced to ashes in the wake of Snow’s merciless retaliation after the disaster of the Third Quarter Quell. Your district was one of the first to fall. Flattened. Erased. And with it, your sense of safety—the feeling of being untouchable. When you received the news, the weight of it didn’t just crush your heart; it broke your spirit. You could only imagine what those people—your people—felt in their final moments, and the guilt carved its place inside you, sharp and permanent.

Everyone tried to convince you otherwise. Finnick’s voice, warm and insistent, reminded you again and again: this wasn’t your fault. You never meant for this to happen. It was war. Necessary, even. A price for freedom. But none of that mattered to your heart. The guilt didn’t reason with logic. It grew and lived inside you, bleeding into every waking hour and poisoning your dreams. You heard the screams of your district in your sleep—their voices, the children’s cries, the burning buildings. You woke up gasping, tears streaming down your face, soaked in cold sweat. Finnick would hold you then, arms locked around you like a shield, whispering that it was okay, that you were safe, that you weren’t to blame. And though you wanted to believe him, though you craved the comfort of his words, you couldn’t let yourself be soothed.

That’s why you volunteered. You signed your name without hesitation to join the final assault against the Capitol—no fanfare, no ceremony, just a grim determination and a heavy heart. You’d barely even had a proper honeymoon with Finnick. How could you, when your mind was chained to the thought of others dying while you sat underground, hiding? Staying behind would only make the guilt fester more. Finnick hated your decision—he didn't hide that—but he understood. He knew it was about more than revenge. It was about justice. For your family. For the tributes you had mentored and watched die. For your district, your people, everything that had been ripped away from you by a tyrant’s hand.

Fighting alongside Finnick was both a blessing and a torment. Every mission, every block you advanced through the Capitol streets, was a gamble. You kept close to him, eyes sweeping for threats, heart thudding with every sudden noise. You protected him fiercely, and he did the same for you. Neither of you said it aloud, but you both knew—any moment could be the last. And when Peeta joined your unit, everything tilted again. It was like stepping back into an arena, this time with the added weight of babysitting someone who might snap at any second. You and Finnick watched him carefully, your guard always half-raised, waiting. Once, Peeta made some offhand joke about you that touched a nerve, and Finnick’s reaction was immediate and brutal—a dark threat to take off his head. You had to pull him back, remind him this wasn’t Peeta’s fault. It was the Capitol’s poison. Still, things only got more dangerous from that point on.

Then came the sewer tunnels. A desperate gamble, the only way forward. You hesitated at first despite it being your idea—the thought of what might be waiting in the darkness chilled you. But there was no time to second-guess. You’d just begun to nod off on Finnick’s shoulder when someone whispered Katniss’s name. You shot upright, heart pounding. The tension hit instantly. Pollux motioned everyone to move, and the sound of splashing water echoed through the damp, narrow space. The tunnels were suffocating, and your anxiety bloomed, gnawing at your chest. Then all hell broke loose.

Jackson was the first to go, torn apart by mutts before you could even process the danger. You shouted for everyone to run, grabbing Finnick and pulling him with you, nearly trampling Gale as panic overtook reason. The tunnels became a labyrinth—dark, wet, echoing with inhuman snarls. At some point, you lost track of Cressida’s team, veering off with Finnick, Katniss, Gale, and Peeta. You shot blindly, clearing the path, your hands slick on your weapon. The mutts kept coming. You eventually discarded your gun, picking up the trident Beetee made for you, its weight both strange and familiar in your hands. You fought like hell. Covered Katniss. Blocked for Peeta. Watched Finnick’s back while protecting your own.

You don’t remember how long you fought, only that it felt like a lifetime. At one point, a mutt slammed into you, and you fell into the foul water, its teeth sinking into your shoulder. You screamed, but Finnick was there in an instant, cleaving the mutt’s head from its body and yanking you out. He threw you toward Katniss, who caught you as you coughed up water and bile. You barely had time to breathe before snatching one of her arrows and stabbing another mutt in the skull. Then you were up again, back to back with Finnick, fending off wave after wave. Just when it felt like you might all drown in that reeking sewer, more gunshots cut through the chaos.

“Thought you finally ditched us for good!” you shouted, gritting your teeth as you drove your blade through the neck of another mutt. Finnick slashed through three more on your left, silent and brutal. Cressida didn’t waste time—she directed the brothers toward the ladder as she covered Katniss’s flank.

The tunnel roared with chaos—clanging steel, splashing footsteps, the guttural growls of mutts hunting in the dark. The air was thick and rancid, laced with the stench of rot and sewage that clung to your skin and filled your lungs. You couldn’t think, only move. Every swing of your trident sent shocks through your arms. Every breath was another second borrowed. The water sloshed around your boots, shallow but murky, hiding things beneath its surface you didn’t want to imagine. Slippery footing made every step a gamble, and the walls pressed close, giving you no room to run, only to fight.

You didn’t know how long you'd been fighting—time twisted in the dark—but your body was burning, muscles screaming for rest. You shoved another mutt off Finnick’s back, the creature snarling as your trident pierced its throat. He nodded at you, blood streaking down his jaw, but neither of you said anything. There wasn’t time. Just ahead, you heard Gale yelling for Pollux to hurry up, while Cressida and Castor tried to hold a defensive line near the base of the ladder. It was all barely holding together.

“Peeta!”

Katniss shouted—sharper than anything else, slicing through the chaos.

You turned instinctively, just in time to see him disappearing beneath a pile of mutts, his body thrashing, arms flailing as he tried to scream. One of the creatures had him pinned by the chest, another latched onto his leg, and a third lunged for his throat.

Katniss was already moving before you fully registered what was happening. You followed without thinking. The two of you cut through the tunnel like a blade, your footsteps splashing through the sewage, the sickening crunch of bone and mutt-flesh meeting your weapons. She fired an arrow clean through one of the mutts’ eyes while you drove your trident into another’s spine, yanking Peeta out from under them together. He was gasping, dazed, blood seeping from his temple.

“We’ve got you,” Katniss said, her voice ragged.

But then pain exploded through your leg.

You barely saw it—just felt the jaws snap around your thigh and pull. You screamed, buckling instantly. More claws, more teeth—another mutt latched onto your calf. You tried to stab downward, but your footing gave out, and you collapsed hard into the sewage, bile rising in your throat from the stink and the agony.

Katniss shouted, grabbing your jacket, trying to pull you back—but the mutts were relentless.

One tore into the back of your knee. You couldn’t even tell how many there were—three, maybe four—each one a mess of pale skin and bone-colored claws, faceless and vicious. You felt the muscle tear. You felt something crack. The pain was white-hot and world-ending.

Peeta lunged forward, trying to help, even with blood running down his face. He kicked one of the mutts away and grabbed your arm. “Hold on—don’t you let go!”

You screamed again, throat raw, and tried to lift your weapon, but it had slipped from your grasp. Katniss shot another arrow into the side of a mutt trying to drag you back, then kicked it away. “I’ve got her—Peeta, help me!”

“Get moving, Odair! There’s more!” she yelled, her gun cracking off a shot as more mutts began emerging from the shadows.

Finnick didn’t hesitate. He shifted his grip, one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing. You gasped as the movement sent fresh pain slicing through your body, but he held you tightly, protectively, his face set with grim determination. Katniss and Peeta were right behind, weapons raised, moving as fast as they could while watching your backs.

You reached the base of the ladder. Pollux was already there, reaching down. With a grunt, Finnick passed you upward, and Pollux helped haul you out of the tunnel first while Finnick climbed after, never once letting go of you. Your blood dripped down the rungs, your body trembling, your mind foggy from pain. You heard Katniss’s voice somewhere below, calling out to Peeta, urging him forward.

But not everyone made it.

Castor was halfway up the ladder when the mutts reached him. Their claws caught his leg, dragging him back. He struggled, kicking, trying to climb, but they were too fast. Katniss made the call. Her hand tightened around the holo and she whispered the command.

“Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock.”

The explosion rocked the ground beneath the ladder as the tunnel was consumed in fire and smoke, sealing the path and burying the mutts—and Castor—with it.

You were barely aware of your leg anymore. The pain had turned to something colder, heavier. Distant. Finnick and Gale were crouched beside you, working quickly, trying to stop the bleeding. Finnick’s hands were soaked red to the wrists as he pressed fabric—someone’s jacket?—against your thigh, trying to slow the damage. Gale muttered something about a tourniquet, his voice tight, pale with urgency.

Your vision began to blur at the edges, the cold creeping in like a rising tide. Everything became muffled—distant. You barely registered the roar of the collapsing tunnel behind you, or the tremble in Katniss’s voice as she dropped to her knees beside you, checking your pulse with trembling fingers. Sounds bled into one another, light and shadow blurring. Then nothing.

The next thing you remembered was waking up in a sterile white room, the scent of antiseptic sharp in your nose and a dull ache radiating from somewhere deep in your body. Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft hospital lighting—and there he was.

Finnick.

Hovering above you like he’d never left your side. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, and the second he realized you were awake, he pulled you into a crushing embrace, arms wrapped so tightly around you it was as if he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He held you there, murmuring against your hair. He told you everything—how they’d managed to get out, how the Capitol finally fell, how Snow’s reign was over. He told you that it was finally over. That once the doctors cleared you, you could go home. Back to District Four. Back to the sea. Back to whatever was left.

But going home wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Especially not when you were returning with one less piece of yourself.

Your right leg was gone. You didn’t need Finnick to tell you what happened; you could feel it the moment you woke up. Not in the pain—because that was dulled by medication—but in the absence. The hollow, phantom weight where your leg used to be. The silence where there should’ve been movement.

Finnick tried to talk about it. He tried to ease you into the truth gently, but you didn’t want to hear it. You already knew. The Capitol had made sure of that.

They never let go easily. It wasn’t enough that they had stolen your childhood, sold your body, paraded your pain in front of a nation. No, they had to leave you with something permanent. A reminder etched in flesh and bone. A scar that wouldn’t fade. And now, every morning you woke up and reached for something that wasn’t there. Every step you tried to take was a lesson in balance, in loss, in rage.

The Capitol may have fallen, but its ghosts still clung to you. In the mirror. In your dreams. In the ache of a missing limb and the flashbacks that returned like clockwork every night. It still owned you—in ways no one could see. Even now, free on paper, you carried its mark.

And sometimes, when the nightmares came and you jolted awake in a sweat, gasping for air, it was Finnick’s arms that brought you back. Anchored you. Reminded you that you had survived. But even then, the hardest part was convincing yourself that survival was enough.

Returning to District Four was strange. Familiar, but hollow in all the wrong places. The streets were quieter now, the harbor still bearing scorch marks from where bombs had fallen. The scent of salt and brine still lingered in the air, the way it always had, but the laughter that once filled the docks was gone—carried away with the war, with the people you used to know.

The house they gave you and Finnick stood on a bluff just above the shoreline. You could see the waves crashing from your window, hear the gulls cry in the morning. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost mocking at first. The world had moved on—but you hadn’t caught up.

Your prosthetic arrived a week after the move.

It came in a sterile box from the Capitol, a gesture of reparation, they said. One of the few pieces of technology they had agreed to keep manufacturing after the war ended. The limb itself was sleek and cold at first—mechanical, foreign, impersonal. Just touching it sent a chill through you. But there it was. Yours now.

The first fitting was a quiet affair. A medical technician from the Capitol had come down to help with adjustments. They explained the parts slowly—the carbon fiber socket, the gel liner, the pressure points you had to monitor for skin irritation. The joint locked in place with a click that made your stomach twist the first time you heard it.

Learning to walk again wasn’t just painful. It was humiliating.

You started small—parallel bars in the makeshift rehabilitation center just off the coast. One foot, then the other. Your arms bore most of your weight in the beginning, your shoulders aching long before your leg even had a chance to protest. You fell more than once. Your palms bruised. Your pride bruised worse. But you showed up again the next day. And the one after that.

Finnick never hovered, but he was always close. Sometimes he watched in silence from the back of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweater. Sometimes he’d sit beside you when you needed a break, pressing his forehead to yours, whispering how proud he was—even if all you had managed was two shaky steps and a curse word.

At home, the hardest part was the stairs.

The technician warned you about them. “Stairs will take time,” they said. And they were right. The first time you tried to go up alone, you almost threw the prosthetic into the sea. Your hands clenched the rail so hard your knuckles turned white. You sat on the third step, defeated, until Finnick joined you. He didn’t offer a speech. Just sat beside you in silence, his thigh pressed to yours, his gaze on the ocean.

Eventually, you stopped sitting on the steps.

You started standing a little straighter when you passed a mirror. You practiced your gait at dusk, when no one was around to watch. Some nights, Finnick would walk beside you through the tidepools barefoot, your prosthetic wrapped in waterproof casing, the two of you leaving uneven footprints in the sand. He’d tell you about his day—his fishing routes, the kids he taught to tie knots again. You didn’t always respond, but listening helped. The sound of his voice made you feel tethered.

There were still bad days.

Days when your skin burned from friction. When the phantom pain in your missing limb came screaming out of nowhere. Days when you could swear you felt your toes curl—even though they were gone. You'd scream into your pillow. Or not speak at all. But Finnick always seemed to know what to do. He’d draw you a bath. Set a book in your lap. He never asked for more than you could give.

It had been weeks since you and Finnick returned to District Four, yet something had shifted between you—not in the love, but in the space it now had to stretch across. It lingered in the silences. In the way his hand would hover an inch above your back but never settle. In how you turned your face away when he helped you out of the bath or adjusted the straps on your prosthetic. You both danced around each other in the same house, sharing meals, sharing a bed, but not always meeting in the middle.

It wasn’t deliberate. It was grief. Quiet and vast.

You were both broken in ways the other couldn’t fully fix.

For you, it was your leg. The phantom weight. The new awkwardness of stairs, balance, movement. The bitterness you swallowed every time someone said you were “brave” or “strong,” when all you felt was hollow. You still flinched when you caught your reflection in the windowpane—still avoided mirrors unless you had to.

For Finnick, it was his past.

He bore no physical wounds, but the Capitol had carved into him all the same. Their mark wasn’t left in skin or bone—but in memory. In the way he tensed when someone touched him unexpectedly. In the way his eyes darkened sometimes when he stared at the sea for too long, like he was drifting somewhere only he could go. They had used him. Polished him up and put him on display, a beautiful weapon with a price. And now that the war was over, people wanted to pretend none of that had ever happened. That he was fine. That he could be normal again.

One evening, after a long day of trying to find a semblance of normalcy in your new life, you found yourself strangely out of place. Grief had consumed you entirely, reshaping the way your mind functioned. Or maybe it was the trauma, leaving you feeling like a stranger in a life you were supposed to reclaim. The quiet of District Four, once a comfort, now felt like a void—too silent, too clean, too detached from the wreckage you still carried. It was hard to breathe in this kind of peace when your soul only knew how to brace for war. Whatever it was, the night had never felt longer than it did tonight.

Your prosthetic leg sat beside the stairs, abandoned for the evening like a second shadow, a cruel reminder of all you’d lost. Each time Finnick’s fork scraped against his plate, the sound cut through the silence like a blade. You stared at your dinner without really seeing it, pushing the food around with your fork more than eating it. You hadn’t spoken much all day—neither of you had. It had become routine, this aching silence between you. But tonight, it gnawed at you.

Without thinking, without looking up, the words spilled out, brittle and sharp. “Do you even miss me?” you asked, quiet but sharp. “Or is it easier now, pretending I’m someone else, too?”

Finnick looked up, surprised—but not confused. He set his fork down gently, as though it would matter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally looked at him. “I mean, we’re married. We live in the same house. But it feels like I’m living with someone who’s already gone.”

His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked down at his plate, then back at you, jaw tight. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” you said quickly, your voice rising. “No, I know it’s not easy. But at least you can walk away from it when it gets too hard. I can’t even get to the fucking ocean without strapping my leg on like it’s some kind of punishment.”

Finnick leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “And what, you think I want this distance between us?”

“I think you’re not doing anything to close it!” you shouted. “You disappear for hours without saying anything. You sleep with your back to me. You look at me like I’m broken and you’re waiting for me to shatter!”

“I don’t—” he started, but you cut him off.

“You don’t even touch me anymore.”

That stopped him cold. And then, slowly, he pushed his plate away, knuckles white.

“I’m trying to figure out how to be me again,” he said quietly, voice fraying. “You think I just walk through this house and forget what they did to me? You think I don’t still hear their voices when I try to kiss you? That I don’t flinch when I remember what my body was used for?”

Your throat tightened. “You’re not the only one who lost themselves, Finnick.”

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes were glassy, tired, and angry all at once.

“I know,” he said. “But it’s like you expect me to fix both of us. I can’t. I’m barely holding on. And maybe... maybe we rushed into this marriage thinking love would be enough to carry us through the wreckage, but what if it’s not?”

The air shifted. Cold. Hollow. You stared at him, unsure whether the ache in your chest was heartbreak or rage. Maybe both. 

The words hit like a slap. Your hands trembled in your lap. You stood up too quickly, stumbling without your leg. The chair scraped violently against the floor as you caught yourself on the edge of the table.

“Fuck you,” you breathed. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

Finnick was already standing, running a hand through his hair, pacing the space like the walls were closing in.

“I don’t mean it,” he muttered, already pushing away from the table, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to tear something out by the roots. “I don’t—god, I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

You struggled to stand, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself, your leg absent and your balance off. “Then why does it sound like you’ve thought about it?”

Finnick turned toward the door, shaking his head with a breath that sounded more like a curse than an exhale. “I’m going for a swim.”

The words stunned you. “Seriously? That’s your response?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed the towel hanging from the back of the chair and walked out. You tried to follow, but your body betrayed you. You stumbled, unable to make it more than a few steps before the ache in your leg flared, harsh and unforgiving. The prosthetic was still near the stairs, just out of reach. You stretched for it, desperate, but the door slammed shut before you could even put it on.

And that was the worst part—not that he left, not that he said what he said—but that you couldn’t follow. You couldn’t reach him. Not physically. Not emotionally.

The house felt even quieter after he left. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in on your chest and made the walls feel like they were shrinking inward. You stood there for a long moment, your hand still braced against the edge of the table, the space where your leg used to be aching—not just physically, but in that deep, soul-heavy way only grief can reach. Eventually, you lowered yourself back into your chair, slow and trembling, the fight draining from your body like the tide pulling away from the shore.

You stared at the half-eaten plate in front of you. The food had gone cold, but you barely remembered the taste. It felt stupid now. All of it. The argument. The anger. But also not stupid—because it had come from a place so real, so raw, it left you feeling hollowed out. It wasn't just about the leg. Or the war. Or the Capitol. It was about losing pieces of yourself you could never get back, and realizing that the person who once made you feel whole didn’t know how to reach you anymore. Or worse—maybe they didn’t want to.

You dropped your face into your hands and let the silence stretch. You didn’t cry—not yet—but your throat burned like the tears were just waiting for permission. You had always been strong. People expected that from you. A victor. A fighter. The one who kept their head down and their fists clenched. But strength didn’t feel like armor anymore. It felt like a cage. Like something you wore because people couldn’t handle your breaking.

What scared you most wasn’t the loss of your leg. It was how quickly people started to treat you like you were something fragile. Something to pity. Something that needed to be fixed. And worse, there were days you believed them. Days where you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize yourself—not because of the prosthetic or the scars, but because your eyes were tired in a way you didn’t know how to mend. Like your fire had gone out and you were too ashamed to admit it.

You thought about Finnick. About the way he slammed the door without looking back. He didn’t even kiss your forehead like he usually did. And that absence stung more than anything he had said. It wasn’t just that he left. It was that he could. That you couldn’t chase him even if you tried, because some part of you still believed that love meant following someone into the waves—even if it drowned you.

But you couldn’t follow him. Not tonight. Not with your leg leaning against the stairs like a quiet accusation.

You swallowed hard and let your gaze drift toward the window, where the sea glimmered faintly under the moonlight. You knew he was out there, somewhere in that cold water, swimming until his muscles burned and his mind shut off. You understood why. It wasn’t just his escape—it was his sanctuary. Just like you once were.

The truth was, you missed being his sanctuary. Not just his wife. Not just someone he made vows to in a war-rushed wedding. But the one he confided in. The one who knew how to hold him when the ghosts came too close. Lately, it felt like the ghosts were winning.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. Whether he’d come back angry or quiet or not at all. But for tonight, you sat in the silence, letting yourself feel everything you'd been too scared to say out loud: that you were tired. That you didn’t feel strong. That you didn’t want to be pitied, but you also didn’t want to be alone in this.

And maybe you didn’t want to be a symbol anymore.

You just wanted to be you—flawed, broken, healing. Still here.

The house hadn’t shifted. The sea still murmured beyond the windows. The stars blinked softly above District Four like they always did—but something in you had already begun to unravel.

Then came the sound of the door creaking open.

Your heart jolted. You didn’t lift your head right away. Part of you thought you imagined it—hoped you hadn’t. But then the floor creaked again, slow and steady footsteps that didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause. And then you felt him—warm arms around you, strong and trembling as they wrapped you up tightly, pulling you into him like you were something he’d nearly lost.

“I didn’t go for a swim,” Finnick said, his voice low, broken, muffled into your shoulder. “I didn’t even get off the porch.”

You inhaled sharply, the air thick with salt and something heavier—something more human than grief. His hands tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish, like the only thing anchoring him to the earth was the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

“I stood there,” he went on, breath hitching, “just stood there, and I realized I’d just proved you right. Every single thing you said. I left, just like that. I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t see you. I’ve been so lost in my own goddamn nightmares.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into him, letting yourself be held. His words were shaking. So was he.

“I thought you wouldn’t notice,” he whispered. “Because you’ve been grieving so much, and hurting, and I—I figured I’d be doing you a favor by staying out of the way. I thought if I just held myself together enough, you wouldn’t have to carry me too. But I didn’t realize that shutting you out would make you feel even more alone.”

You didn’t answer, not right away. You were still holding yourself together by a thread, still reeling from how quickly the air had shifted. But the way he held you now—like he needed you just as much as you needed him—it chipped at the walls between you.

“You don’t have to hold yourself together for me,” you murmured, your voice raw. “I never needed that. I just needed you. All of you. Even the broken parts.”

Finnick pressed his forehead to yours, his breath shaking with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like the words might undo everything sharp and heavy between you. “I thought I was protecting you by not talking about it, but all I did was push you further away. And I can’t—” he swallowed, “I won’t lose you, not like this. We already lost too much.”

Your hand moved to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you could stitch yourselves back together with just that touch. And maybe, in some small way, you could.

“We're still here,” you whispered. “And that has to count for something.”

He nodded, brushing a hand through your hair, then kissing your temple—so softly, so reverently it made your eyes burn. “I love you,” he said, not like a promise but like a truth he’d forgotten how to say aloud. “I don’t know how to fix any of this, but I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t need grand declarations. Just this—his voice in your ear, his arms around you, and the warmth of his apology melting into your skin. Whatever had fractured between you in the weeks after the war began to knit itself together again, slowly but surely, one breath at a time.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you didn’t feel so alone in the quiet. You had each other. You had Finnick. That, alone, was enough.

~

Ten years later and the sea had softened.

It still roared some mornings, still pulled and pushed at the shoreline like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to leave or stay—but the violence was gone. Or maybe it was just that you'd learned how to move with it instead of against it.

Your house was still the same one they'd given you after the war, nestled above the bluff, wrapped in salt air and gull cries. But now there were flowers in the window boxes. Sand toys half-buried beneath the porch. A garden Finnick had built with his hands, full of herbs you still didn’t remember the names of. The walls carried warmth now—scratches from furniture being moved too many times, faded sun patches where photos hung, laughter soaked into the floorboards.

It was a good life. Not the kind you expected to have—but the kind you were meant to find.

Finnick’s voice drifted in through the open window. He was down by the water, calling out something playful to the child running ahead of him, sand kicking up beneath their bare feet. You couldn’t quite catch the words, just the rhythm—bright, boyish, unburdened in a way you hadn’t heard in years. It still startled you sometimes, how light his voice could sound now. How much he'd shed since the war. How much you had, too.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting on your hip, the other bracing against the wood as you watched them. The prosthetic was second nature now. You barely noticed it anymore, except on the bad weather days when your muscles ached and the tide swelled higher than usual. But even then—it was part of you. Just another way your body had learned to live.

The little girl—your daughter—was laughing, shrieking as Finnick scooped her up with a dramatic grunt and swung her in a wide circle. Her tiny braids flew behind her like streamers, her arms outstretched, fearless. She had his smile. His eyes, too. But her stubbornness? That was all you.

“Don’t let her near the tidepools alone!” you called out, shielding your eyes against the sun.

Finnick looked up and grinned at you, squinting. “What, and deny her a chance to bring home another jar of sea snails to torment us with?”

“Last week she brought in eight. One of them crawled into my boot.”

“She’s got taste,” he said, walking back toward you with your daughter now slung upside-down over his shoulder, giggling wildly. “She’s a natural.”

You laughed, the sound easy, warm, surprising even yourself. It still amazed you how freely it came now. How laughter didn’t feel like betrayal anymore. That it could live in the same place as your scars.

Finnick climbed the steps and kissed your cheek in passing, breathless and sun-warmed. “You look tired,” he murmured. “Come sit with us.”

“I’m not tired,” you said softly, watching your daughter reach for your hand, her tiny fingers gripping your thumb. “Just grateful.”

He paused, catching your meaning. His expression softened. There were still shadows in both of you—traces of what you'd endured, things you would never forget—but they no longer controlled the narrative. They were just pages in the middle of a story that kept going.

Finnick reached for your hand and kissed the back of it. “Me too.”

You followed them to the sand, your prosthetic sinking slightly with each step, but you didn’t stumble. You never stumbled now. You sat together on the shore, letting the sun warm your face, your daughter nestled between you both, babbling about the “biggest shell ever” she was going to find tomorrow.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, tomorrow didn’t feel like something to dread.

It felt like something you could look forward to.

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

okay im lowkey obsessed with writing sickfics SOOO heres graysonsss!!

Stubborn and Sick (grayson edition) - grayson x lyra

(yeah so ignore the fact that i took the title of my lyra sick fic and just stuck “grayson edition” at the end….)

——————————————————

Lyra felt her eyelids flutter open, stretching as her eyes got used to the sun peaking through the open blinds. Mornings like these were Lyra’s favourite. She’d let her body acclimate to being up, and would bask in sunlight, with her head on Grayson’s chest—

Her thoughts slowed to a halt once her arm, that stretched atop of Grayson’s side of the bed, didn’t feel a Grayson anywhere.

Frowning, Lyra sat up, and checked the time. 10:09 AM. Yawning, she realized, with a huff of disappointment, that Grayson was probably in his office just down the hall. Then she frowned. Lyra was forgetting something. She always had almost like an itchy feeling in her brain when she knew something was a little off. Racking her mind, Lyra finally realized what it was. She was meant to set an alarm for 7:30, but had clearly forgotten. But why, Lyra asked herself, it’s not like I have school, or work—

Lyra realized then why she wanted to set an alarm.

The night before, Grayson looked physically sick. He had been working non stop to land a deal with some asshole company that refused to relent, and was working himself to the bone, which only made matters worse. His skin was pale, he had a cough, he was burning up feverishly, and, when he thought Lyra couldn’t see him, he stumbled to the kitchen to get a cup of water because he was clearly too dizzy to walk normally. So, Lyra was going to wake up early to check his state, and therefore determine if he was fit to work or not. So much for that, Lyra thought.

She felt a bit guilty then. Her boyfriend was probably sick, working non-stop, and she couldn’t even remember to place an alarm just to check on him. Huffing, she peeled off her blanket. Lyra was wearing just a tiny pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but even in early spring it wasn’t warm enough to just wear a t-shirt, especially with Lyra’s cold blooded tendencies, so she picked out one of Grayson’s sweaters from their closet and stomped to his office.

Once she got to the door, she didn’t bother knocking before coming in.

“Good morning, Lyra.” Grayson said, sounding seemingly normal. However, seemingly normal and normal were two different things, and Lyra was determined to find out which one was the way Grayson really felt. She walked closer to him, examining him, and immediately knew something was wrong; his suit jacket was off, his hair was messier than normal, his tie was loose, his face was pale, his chest was rising and falling with quick movements, and he seemed twitchy and distracted. So, definitely sick then.

They’d had a conversation yesterday. Lyra told him that if he was feeling sick the next day, he wouldn’t be working. And what did the asshole do anyway?

Grayson could immediately tell she was pissed by her folded arms and the way she loomed over him. “Sweetheart—” he started.

“Don’t sweetheart me.” Lyra said, cutting him off as she jutted an accusatory finger to his face. He slumped a bit more in his chair. She walked closer to him, putting her hands on the arms of his chair and her face close to his.

“You said yesterday that you wouldn’t work the next day if you weren’t feeling well.” She accused. Grayson sighed, standing up and regaining height on her. He held his hands up.

“Lyra, I am just undergoing some minor symptoms. Believe me, I am fit to work.” he told her, his chin tilted downwards to meet her gaze. Lyra snorted.

“Some minor symptoms? Theres a bottle of Tylenol knocked over on the table, and even you being the neat freak that you are didn’t put the pills spilling out back in. That’s concern enough.” Lyra argued, staring at Grayson with a thunder-stricken expression. He opened his mouth, clearly about to rebuke her statement, but Lyra continued before he could.

“Your dress shirt is rumpled and unbuttoned, your face is pale and teetering on a yellow edge, your hair is messier than you ever allow it to be, even when you’re working from home, your tie is loose, your hands are literally twitching as we speak, and, when you stood up to meet my gaze, you looked clearly disoriented and off. Admit it. You’re sick.” Lyra finished, crossing her arms and giving him a stubborn and fierce look that screamed “I’m not dropping this until you agree that you’re sick”. Grayson looked slightly appalled. And Lyra couldn’t ignore the proud feeling in her chest when he looked at her like that, with those appraising eyes of his full of awe.

“You seem to have noticed a lot.” he admitted. Then, his eyes grew more stubborn. “You seem to have noticed a lot of minor symptoms.” Lyra scowled at him, but he only sighed.

“Lyra. I know you’re worried, but believe me, I’m fine. And it’s not like I can take a break even if I were sick, anyway. I have to complete this work by tonight to land that deal with those investors, and with the load I have, unless I’m at it all day, I’ll never be finished.” Grayson explained, giving her that soft look that she was too familiar with. Lyra wouldn’t let herself be buttered up. She was about to argue back, when he took her chin in his hand and gently tapped his thumb to her lips.

“Please, Lyra.” he finished, his voice soft and eyes loving. Lyra almost relented. Almost.

But even though Grayson was stubborn, Lyra was stubborner.

“Fine,” Lyra sighed. Grayson smiled at her.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. But it was only when Grayson was turned away, grabbing an extension cord from the drawer behind him, that Lyra grabbed his laptop and took off. Maybe it was a ridiculously petty move, getting him to chase her around while he was sick. But Lyra didn’t care. She was taking care of her damn boyfriend even if it killed her. Lyra heard him shout her name, before chasing after her. She ran all around the house, finally stopping in their bedroom. Lyra squared her shoulders once she saw Grayson step into the room. His face looked jumbled with different emotions—confusion, shock, and annoyance—when Lyra looked at him, but that all faded away quickly when Lyra placed his laptop on her vanity, stepped forward, and captured his lips with hers. He froze with shock for a moment, before he was pulling her in, deepening the kiss. Lyra did the same, pushing him backwards onto the bed. The kiss was everything and more.

Lyra knew that Grayson felt that way as well. Which meant she knew that he had fallen for her plan.

Lyra felt Grayson’s teeth skim her bottom lip, and she latched onto his belt. Grayson separated from her lips, looking at her like he could see straight through her with those perceptive eyes of his. But there was something smokier to them, something akin to lust hiding behind those wide pupils.

“Lyra.” he breathed, his voice hoarse. Lyra tried to feel unaffected by that, and smiled at him.

“Good. You’re in bed.” she replied simply. Then she let go of his belt, rolled over him, jumped out of their bed, and turned around to look at a messy-haired blown pupils Grayson Hawthorne. He looked flustered and confused all at once. And then realization dawned on him. He tried to sit up, but Lyra pushed him down back into the laying position he was in previously.

“No go, honey. You’re sick, so you’re staying in bed. I’m going to get everything you need, and if you complain, I’m putting a cloth in your mouth and tying you to the bed.” Lyra told him flippantly. Grayson raised a suggestive brow at her with that last sentence, but she just rolled her eyes, muttering “I didn’t mean it like that” as her cheeks tinged pink. She turned around and started to walk to the door.

“Don’t get out of that bed, Grayson. I mean it.” she ordered, jutting a finger behind her back at him. Walking into the kitchen, Lyra made a tray with everything he’d need: A mug filled with hot lemon and honey tea, cough syrup, a thermometer, medicine, a box of Kleenex’s, and a bowl of soup. She also filled up a cup of water so he could stay hydrated.

Walking back into the room with the tray in hand, Lyra was pleased when she saw him still in bed. His eyes seemed to follow her tray, and he looked almost guilty.

“You didn’t have to do this, Lyra.” he complained, looking at every thing she had brought with a loving but weary look on his face. Lyra placed the tray on the night stand, before helping him sit up in bed and moving it onto his lap.

“Yes I did. You’re sick.” she told him. “There’s a tea you need to drink and some soup since I’m guessing you skipped breakfast, but first I have to check your temperature.” Lyra took the thermometer from the tray, before turning to Grayson and signalling for him to open his mouth. He did, and Lyra placed the thermometer in his mouth with gentle movements. In a minute, she took it out and checked his temperature. 106 Fahrenheit. Not good.

“You’ve got a fever. Take the medicine I put on your tray. It should help.” Lyra instructed, sitting up beside him on the bed. Grayson stared at her, to which she stared back, unmoving. Then he smiled, and took a pill with his water.

“You’re stubborn.” he finally said. Lyra gave him a look.

“And you don’t like stubborn?” Lyra asked him. He returned the look.

“I didn’t say that.” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. Lyra smiled, glowing from his touch. His lips kept brushing against her face, pressing kisses onto her forehead, cheek, jaw, and neck.

“You’re perfect in every way.” he muttered, continuing to press kisses onto her neck. “And I love how stubborn you are because I love every part of you.” Lyra giggled. Then, he raised his head, taking her chin in his hand.

“Hey,” he said in a soft voice. “would you mind getting me a new cup of tea, sweetheart? Mine has gone cold.” Lyra knew something was off about this. Grayson never asked her for anything, but when Lyra asked for the slightest favour, it was done before she could finish her sentence. Damn Hawthorne. But still, she ignored her doubts and thought back to a couple moments ago, how his lips felt pressed against her neck. She felt giddy then.

“Of course.” she said, taking his mug from off his tray and bringing it into the kitchen. She reboiled the water, dumped the drink, replaced the tea bag, and waited a couple minutes for the water in the kettle to finish boiling before she poured it into the mug. Swishing the liquid around with a spoon and adding no sugar—just how Grayson likes it—she started to walk towards the room when she heard a ping sound coming from it, almost like a… notification. The noise was so quiet that Lyra thought she was just hearing things, but something felt different. Frowning, Lyra tiptoed to the room, using her dancers grace to not allow her feet to make even the slightest sound as she walked towards the door. Peeking through, Lyra’s eyes squinted before widening.

Grayson had gotten his laptop out while she was in the kitchen. And, was probably waiting to hear her footsteps. Too bad for the big ass, because hers were always silent.

“Hey!” Lyra exclaimed indignantly, bursting through the door and locking eyes with a surprised-but-at-the-same-time-not-surprised Grayson Hawthorne. She stomped up towards him.

“I told you not to go on your laptop, asshole.” Lyra said, stopping at his bedside with her hands on her hips. Grayson held her gaze, his eyes frustrated.

“I just needed to review a couple more documents,” he said. “Just a few more and then I could continue the rest later.” Lyra rolled her eyes.

“That’s it. I’m not gonna leave this laptop in your sight for even a minute longer.” Lyra argued, grabbing his laptop and walking out of the bedroom to go place it in the living room somewhere. Lyra heard the bed creaking behind her, before footsteps began to follow her own. A hand shot out to grab Lyra’s wrist.

Lyra spun around, putting the laptop down on the coffee table and glaring at Grayson. Grayson sighed, holding his hands up in front of him.

“Look, baby—“ Grayson began to speak, before Lyra cut him off.

“I’m going to make sure you stay in bed and get the rest you desperately need, because you are literally dead on your feet. Now c’mon.” Lyra interrupted, taking a hold of Grayson’s arm and pulling him back into their bedroom.

5 hours had passed, and Grayson had drunk his tea, ate the soup Lyra put out for him, took more medication, and had slept like the dead. She was currently going over some notes for her classes, sitting on the floor beside his bed with her back against it. She couldn’t help a pleased smile from touching her lips; this was proof that Lyra could outwit Grayson Hawthorne.

Or, that she was just more stubborn than him, but Lyra decided to do herself the favour of lying for her own sake.

Suddenly, a rustling sound started above her. Lyra tilted her head up and saw Grayson stirring. He blinked groggily, before noticing her sat below him and smiling.

“What are you doing down there, sweetheart?” Grayson asked, his voice low and sweet. Lyra tried to remember how to breathe, and when she couldn’t, she turned her attention back to her notes.

“Keeping an eye on you. I was worried that if I wasn’t nearby, you might run off to the office somehow.” Lyra deadpanned. Grayson could tell that she was a little frustrated, which, she deserved to be after all that work just getting him to stay in the bed, and so he treaded lightly.

“And how would I do that?” he asked gently. Lyra shrugged.

“I assumed with your super-secret-Grayson-Hawthorne-abilities.” Lyra retorted. There was a beat of silence. Then another.

And then Lyra was surprised to hear the deep and rich rumble of a laugh that only Grayson had.

Lyra tried to remember that all the butterflies she was getting from that perfect sound were ridiculous, considering he was laughing at her.

“What?” she asked, turning he head around to glare at him even as he continued to chuckle. Finally, he smothered it and looked at her with a smile on his face.

“‘super-secret-Grayson-Hawthorne-abilities’?” he mocked, smiling. Lyra rolled her eyes.

“You know what I mean.” Lyra said, annoyance in her tone and embarrassment on her face. Grayson reached down, and took her hand in his.

“I’d understand much better if you came and laid up here with me.” he offered, tracing her finger with his thumb. Lyra snorted.

“Why? So you can infect me too?” she retorted.

“So I can apologize.” Grayson corrected. There was a beat of silence as surprise flashed across Lyra’s face. She let go of Grayson’s hand and placed her notes on the floor, before standing up. As soon as Lyra met his eyes, she watched his pupils expand.

“What for?” Lyra asked, feeling slightly guilty for being mad at him in the first place. He sat up, pulling her closer by the waist.

“For not listening to you. You were just trying to help out. I’m very sorry for that, sweetheart.” Grayson told her, his voice soft. “Now why don’t you come lay in bed?”

His voice was so inviting, so sweet, that Lyra couldn’t stop her legs from walking towards the edge of the bed. She ignored Graysons eyes as they followed her, and climbed onto the space on the bed beside him. Immediately, his hands were on her as he pulled her on top of him.

“Grayson!” Lyra exclaimed, swatting at his chest as Grayson placed her down on it. His only response was to press a kiss onto her lips, his hands moving up and down her body.

“Did you take my shirt off while I slept?” Grayson asked softly as he brushed his lips against her jaw. Lyra suppressed a shiver.

“Um—yes, you were burning up.” she stuttered, briefly caught off guard. He made a sound in his throat before continuing to kiss her. Lyra separated, even though she didn’t want to, so she could try and get some words out.

“Grayson.” she said seriously. Grayson’s eyes bored into hers. “Are you feeling better?”

Grayson smoothed a hand over her hair, the touch gentle and soothing. “Yes, I am. And I have you to thank for that.” He pulled her closer.

“I’m sorry for being so stubborn.” he apologized, mumbling the words into her hair. Lyra giggled.

“So you admit you were stubborn.” Lyra said, a smile touching her lips. Grayson gave her one of his own smiles, beautiful and breath-taking and hers.

“I do.” he said. Lyra’s smiled widened.

“And now it’s time for you to admit that I, Lyra Catalina Kane, am fully capable of outsmarting, outwitting, and outmaneuvering Grayson Davenport Hawthorne.” she said. Grayson’s kissed her nose.

“Really, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely.”

“You, Lyra Catalina Kane, are fully capable of outsmarting, outwitting, and outmaneuvering me.” he repeated, the words giving her a shine of pride. Lyra wrapped her arms around him, sighing.

“Isn’t that the truth.” she said, her voice teasingly wistful. Grayson snickered, pulling her closer himself.

As well as sunny mornings, Lyra loved sunny afternoons, where light from the golden hour shone through their windows.

And this time, unlike this morning, Lyra finally got to bask in the sunlight with her head on Grayson Hawthorne’s chest.

————————————————————————

hehe see what i did there. i tied a sentence from the first paragraph into the last sentence. heheh. okay thanks for reading 💕

[sturnsblogs]

VOICE MESSAGES FROM DRUNK MATEO

Warnings- This is like extremely sad so don’t read if you don’t like sad?

Voice Message 1

1:07 AM – 0:53

[rustling noise, like he’s fumbling with his phone]

“Um… hey. I—shit. I shouldn’t be saying this but… I miss you so much, Nick.”

[shaky inhale]

“I tried not to. I tried to just… move on or whatever, but it’s not working. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

[soft exhale]

“You didn’t even do anything wrong. I did. I ruined everything.”

[quiet sniffle]

“You looked at me like you meant it. Like you actually cared. And I—god, I threw that away.”

—

Voice Message 2

1:14 AM – 1:18

[glass clink, distant car outside, then a pause]

“She’s not real. Madi—she’s not even someone I… I like.”

[voice cracks]

“I’m using her, Nick. I fucking hate that I’m using her.”

[staggered breathing, like he’s trying not to cry]

“I like you. I really—fuck, I love you.”

[long pause]

“I think I have for a while, actually. But I’m scared, okay? I’m scared of my parents. I’m scared of the guys at the frat. I’m scared of everyone turning their backs on me… like I deserve.”

[barely audible]

“I don’t wanna lose you too.”

—

Voice Message 3

1:21 AM – 0:46

[whimpering quietly, slight wind in the background — maybe outside]

“I can’t live without seeing your smile. Please, Nick.”

[soft sob]

“You’re everything to me. Even if you hate me now. Even if you never talk to me again—just… just know that you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long fucking time.”

[shaky breath]

“And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t enough.”

—

Voice Message 4

1:29 AM – 0:33

[quiet crying, a heavy sigh]

“Baby, please. Just text me. Or call. Or anything. I just wanna hear you.”

[coughs a little, wipes nose — wet sniffle]

“You read them. I know you saw it. Your read receipts are on. Just say something, Nick. Please.”

[voice drops to a whisper]

“I’m breaking without you.”

—

Voice Message 5

1:41 AM – 0:59

[phone rustles, sound of him sitting down hard — maybe on pavement or a porch step, distant traffic noise]

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

[voice trembling]

“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Everything reminds me of you.”

[deep shaky inhale]

“I walk past the coffee place and I think of you. I see a fucking hoodie that looks like yours and I almost cry in public.”

[whimper]

“Nick, please. Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear to God, I didn’t.”

[chokes on a sob]

“I just want you to come back. I’ll fix it. I’ll tell everyone. I’ll drop everything for you, just—just say the word.”

—

Voice Message 6

1:50 AM – 1:24

[soft crying already happening at the start, voice hoarse and exhausted]

“I was gonna say it the night at your house. That I loved you. But I got scared. I thought maybe you’d stop looking at me the way you did.”

[sniffle, rustling as he curls up tighter — maybe sitting against a wall]

“I thought I could pretend, Nick. Thought I could lie to myself and keep you close without telling the world.”

[angrily through tears]

“But I lost you anyway. And now I’m just this… this fucking mess. And you won’t even talk to me.”

[shaky whisper]

“I deserve that, I know. But baby, please… I just want to hear your voice again.”

—

Voice Message 7

2:03 AM – 0:38

[voice cracked, frantic]

“I love you. I love you. I love you, okay?”

[slaps hand on chest, audible thump]

“It hurts right here every time I think about how I let you go.”

[cries harder]

“I swear, no one’s ever made me feel like you do. Not her. Not anyone. Just you.”

[stuttering through sobs]

“Please don’t forget me. Please don’t let this be how we end.”

—

Voice Message 8

2:11 AM – 0:50

[very quiet, like he’s hiding in a bathroom — echoey, water running faintly]

“You used to tell me I made you feel safe. Did I ruin that?”

[pause, more crying]

“Because you made me feel safe too, Nick. Like no matter how shit the world was, you were soft. Gentle. Real.”

[quiet pounding on his chest]

“And now I feel like I’m stuck in this fucking lie and I’m screaming and no one can hear me but you.”

[whispers]

“I’m so sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I kissed you and then ran away. I’m sorry I’m so broken.”

A/N-

[magicalqueennightmare]

Help Healing

John Walker x Reader

You have a healing mutation. Your body can mend damn near anything but it causes a lot of pain. Luckily you have help in the form of your boyfriend.

Warnings: mention of getting shot, sex

You had a rare mutation. It had shown itself in early childhood. You were playing with your cousin when an out of control truck barreled into the yard. You acted without thinking, shoving him out of the way. When your aunt saw a truck run over her niece? She’d of course lost her damn mind. When she came running outside to see you crawling out from under the truck, your leg knitting itself back together? She’d been afraid of you.

After she did some digging however she found it was a mutation that skipped two generations at a time. Your great grandfather had it as well. Turned out that was how he’d ended up getting awarded a purple heart and made it home from the war. You knew you wanted to do something with the mutation. However you never meant for that something to end up being some of the things you’d done. 

That was how you’d ended up on this team. You’d ended up catching a bullet from Yelena that day and when your body expelled it in front of everyone’s eyes? Needless to say they ceased even trying to shoot you.

Now you were a part of the team,thunderbolts, new avengers whatever the hell you wanted to call yourselves. 

“Shadow, you’re with Belova and Walker” Bucky was handing out assignments for this mission. All of you would be on the ground but you were separating into groups. You’d gotten the nickname Shadow because you always managed to have everyone’s back like a Shadow popping up.

“Got it” you told him with a mock salute and he shook his head “Easy, just because you can take a bullet and keep moving” you grinned at him “Jealous?” and he cut his eyes at John “You’ve got weird taste in women” before moving on to Ava and Alexei.

“I’d say your taste in men is stranger than his taste in women” Yelena added with a shrug. You laughed, eyes finding John’s “I say we both have pretty strange taste but that makes it work”

_____________________

John loved being at your side during missions but hated it at the same time. He knew your mutation, and had seen it first hand. Did that mean he liked it when he looked up to see the woman he loved throw herself in between Yelena and a hail of bullets? Hell no.

He grunted like he was the one in pain when you barely flinched as the guards looked on in horror as you and Yelena returned fire, dropping them quickly. He had to focus on his own targets, no matter if his eyes kept wanting to return to the holes in your suit. 

When the final target dropped and Ava’s voice came over the coms confirming she had what all of you were after it was time for eva. You grabbed Yelena’s hand and ran towards John. His eyes immediately fell to your torso that had caught the worst of it. “I’m ok” you assured him with a smile.  He slipped an arm around your waist, picking you up in his arms as the three of you made your way to the extraction point. He only put you down once you were safely on the jet and that was so you could sink into the seat next to Yelena, leaning heavily on the blonde.

It wasn’t long before you and her both dozed off. When you woke up, the jet had landed and John was gently shaking your shoulder “Come on sweetheart. We’re home” he tried to pick you back up but you shook your head. You were ok. You stood and offered him a small smile. Yelena stood up and the smile she gave you when she said “Thank you by the way. I know you heal but I know that fucking hurt you also”

“It saved your life, it was worth it” you replied. She headed towards her floor so you followed John to the floor you and him shared.

As soon as you were in the privacy of an area that was strictly yours and his, you nodded to him that it was ok. He moved closer, hands easily finding the hem of your tattered top in a well rehearsed dance. When he slipped it over your head, you groaned in pain and he quickly apologized “I’m sorry baby” he knew he hadn’t actually caused the pain but he still didn’t like the idea of you hurting.

He helped you to strip off the rest of your gear then picked you up, resting your body against his chest. He was still in his suit but he always had a habit of taking care of you before he worried about himself. He walked into the bathroom, sitting on the side of the large tub before turning the water on high. You knew it would be hot, nearly too hot for his skin but you needed it. The heat soothed the pain that came along with your skin expelling the lead and knitting itself back together. 

He blocked the drain and held you as the water started to run. “John your suit” you whispered so he shifted you to one side of his chest to begin to strip. Once the tub had enough water in it, he was bare as well.

He stood with you still in his arms and stepped over into the large tub, turning the water off. You heard the light exhale of breath and knew trying to talk him into waiting until the water cooled to join you would be useless. He never would because he knew as your body healed, you would cramp and his arms had been the only solace you found that worked every time.

He sank down into the water, letting it cover your body up to your collarbone. You let out a breath as every muscle in your body tightened. “Just breathe darlin. Breathe for me” he whispered into your ear, strong hands rubbing your arms as you nodded, moving to lay back against his chest. The more relaxed you managed to be, the easier the process but when your body felt like it was ripping itself apart just to put itself back together again? It was hard to calm down.

“John?” you turned to look at him and he was already staring at you “Yeah sweetheart? What do you need?” “I need to get my mind off the pain, please help me” he nodded “Ok baby, I got you” he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips, rolling his tongue into your mouth.

You felt one of his hands slide under the water, brushing over your breast. When his calloused fingertips teased your nipple your breathing evened out. His other hand moved down to find the other breast, kneading the soft flesh. You moaned into his mouth and he smiled when he recognized a moan of pleasure over one of pain. 

He let his right hand shift further down, sliding between your thighs which you eagerly let fall open. A sharp gasp left you as several bullets pushed themselves out of your body. You tensed in his arms and he whispered “It’s ok, I’ve got you”

You nodded and felt the first brush of his fingers against your core. Your head fell back against his chest, a whine of his name leaving you as his fingers eased their way into you. He slowly worked your body open around his fingers, achingly slow. He was taking his time, giving you something to focus on over the pain of what your body was going to itself. Once two fingers were buried knuckle deep inside of you, he started to curl them upwards, easily finding the spot that had you panting from pleasure as well as the pain of your wounds healing.

You closed your eyes, willing your mind to focus on the movement of John’s fingers over anything else. The pleasure he was pulling out of you, how his lips teased at your neck, his low whispers of “Breathe baby, please breathe” reminding you not to hold your breath.

You could feel the pain of your healing giving way to that heat that rolled through your stomach as your pleasure found its peak. When John used his thumb to tease at your clit, fingers never losing their rhythm, you fell apart in his arms.  You could feel the tremor go through your body as you clung to him.

Once he worked you through your orgasm he slowly pulled his fingers out of you and you let your eyes open. You were met with those gorgeous blue eyes you’d fallen in love with long ago. “How are you feeling honey?” he asked and you nodded “I’m ok, I think there’s a good half a dozen bullets floating around in here but I’m good” 

He shook his head, lips finding yours “I wish you wouldn’t joke so much about it” you shrugged “It’s joke about it or cry about it, although you are my favorite way to work through the pain” he grinned “Glad to be of use” 

The water had started to cool so you turned, crawling into his lap. “I love you, you know that?” he nodded, looking at you like the stars themselves were hung in the sky just for you to see “I know, I love you too” you pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. “You take really good care of me John” he grinned “I’m trying to be a better man” you pressed a kiss to the other corner of his lips “You’re succeeding. I think I’d lose my mind if I had to go through this after every mission by myself any more. It always used to hurt so bad”

“I don’t help that much. All I do is hold you, maybe give you an orgasm” you laughed, shifting your hips and feeling his body react under you, cock hardening “You hold me and take my mind off the pain. That’s everything John. Now, wanna go to bed?” 

“Are you tired?” he asked and you shook your head. He raised an eyebrow “You just asked if I wanted to go to bed?” “Yeah but I didn’t say anything about sleeping. I want you, every last part of you” you caught his lips in a lingering kiss, letting one of your hands wander down his chest to brush against his cock, feeling it twitch in your grasp.

“Ok sweetheart” he shifted you off his lap and stood to grab a towel. You grinned at the sight of his thick cock, hard against his stomach. You unconsciously licked your lips as you watched him and he shook his head “I am not that damn good looking” you rolled your eyes “Oh don’t be modest now” he stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist before coming back with a towel to wrap around you. When you stood up he let his fingers trace over the shiny pink scars adorning your stomach from the bullets. They would be gone in a day or so. “Still makes my heart stop every time”

You covered his hand with yours “I’m still here” he raised his eyes to yours before wrapping the towel around you then he picked you up, much the way he had off the field. “Now time for me to remind myself you are” you grinned “My favorite part of the process” as he walked out into the bedroom.

He laid you down on the bed and you smiled up at him “Come here” he crawled up onto the bed, slowly unwrapping the towel from around you. His eyes tracked his hands and once you were bare under him he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth before crashing his lips against yours as he pushed his own towel off. 

Your legs fell open, welcoming him between them as he nudged his hips into place. You could feel his cock pressing against your thigh and you were already worked up enough from one orgasm you didn’t need anymore warming up. You slipped a hand between your bodies and gripped him gently, lining him up with your opening. He grinned into the kiss as he rolled his hips forward, easily slotting his cock into you. A sharp gasp left you at the feeling of your body being stretched. 

His hand caught your thigh, hooking it around his waist. He broke away from your lips to kiss across your jaw and down your neck “Every time it scares me” he admitted before he snapped his hips forward, stealing any answer from your lungs. You clung to him as he found a pace that had you unable to do anything but moan his name and praises of him out. His lips trailed over your neck, leaving marks of his love behind as he worked you closer towards another orgasm. 

You were teetering right on the edge and when his fingers found your clit, teasing at the sensitive bud you came, clenching hard around him. He snapped his hips forward a few more times before you felt his body tense and he bit down gently on your pulse point, a low moan of your name leaving him as he came, spilling deep inside of you.

His forehead came over to rest on yours, eyes staring at your face as you gasped to get air into your lungs. One of those smirks you adored was on his face “You ok honey?” you nodded “I feel absolutely amazing now but I am definitely wore out”

He laughed lightly “Let me clean you up then you can go to sleep ok?” you nodded and he leaned up to gently pull out of you. He found the towel he’d kicked off himself and used it to clean you up. 

You watched him move around the room, finding boxers for himself and he came back to the bed with a pair of your panties and one of his shirts which he helped you get dressed in. He pressed a kiss to your lips. “I gotta go get the bullets out of the tub so I can drain the water then I’ll be right back in here with you. Ok?”

You nodded, turning to curl up on his pillow. “I love you John” he smiled “I love you too”

Once John crawled into the bed he pulled you over onto his chest and you curled up on him, feeling his heartbeat under you. Only then did you finally doze off, right before sleep claimed you, you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. A small smile slipped onto your face and you nuzzled closer to him. You really did love him.

@desimarie12

[twistedsistas-stuff]

Songbird Sins

Sammie x Reader

Requested by : @yourm0mish0t 😉

Warnings :Sammie “Munch “ Moore

Mississippi Delta, 1953

Ain’t too many folk sang in the Delta back then. Least not where somebody could hear it.

Not unless the blues got ’em so low they ain’t care who knew, or they was too drunk

to hold their tongue. But up and down them dirt roads and creaky porches, across cotton fields and shotgun shacks, everybody knew one name:

Delta Slim.

Old fool with a smile full of gold and sin. That side tooth caught the light like a promise—or a threat. Always wore them dusty suits, shiny from wear, hangin’ off him like memories he couldn’t shake. Tilted his head when he walked, like he was listenin’ to somethin’ nobody else could hear—maybe the Devil, maybe the Lord. Hard to tell in those parts.

They said he lived down by the station, in a room above the old feed store, though mostly he could be found sittin’ at that broke-down upright piano inside Harper’s Joint—just past the levee where the light don’t quite reach and the air always tastes like smoke, sweat, and yesterday’s regret.

No sign on the door. Just a red-glass cross hangin’ in the window, glowin’ soft and sinister. Like God was watchin’… but only barely.

And in there, Slim wasn’t just some drunk with a gold grin and a bad back.


He was a whole storm sittin’ on that piano bench.

Man played like he had ghosts in his chest.

His fingers hit them keys like he was knockin’ on heaven’s gate—or breakin’ it down. And that harmonica? Folks swore it was carved from bone and baptized in bootleg. Sounded like a man cryin’ through steel bars, or laughin’ at his own funeral.

He played like he was beggin’ for mercy and cursin’ the sky in the same breath. Shoulder all hunched, back sweatin’ through his shirt, music pourin’ off him like he couldn’t hold it

no more.

And the people?

They caught it like sickness.

Some cried. Some danced like they’d been struck by lightnin’. Some just stood there, eyes glassy, waitin’ for the song to tell ’em what to do next.

He made the night feel thick. Like something holy was bein’ broken right in front of you.

And folks wanted it. Needed it. Didn’t matter if they came in straight—they left bent.

Ain’t nobody walked out early when Slim played. Hell, most forgot how to walk at all.

Ain’t much change in this stretch of the Delta. The roads still red with clay, the trees leanin’ like they tired of standin’, and the air heavy with the kind of heat that made folks slow down whether they meant to or not.

The juke tonight sat out past the cotton fields, where the trees thinned out and the music got thick. They’d hammered it together from scrap wood and tin, whitewashed it once maybe ten years ago.

Now the place sweated just like the people inside—walls thumpin’ with bass and breath and bodies leanin’ too close.

And word was, Delta Slim would be there.

Not that he was famous—not in the way the big city crooners were—but he was known.

Folks said he played like his fingers was born on the keys and died there every night. Said he didn’t play songs so much as spill somethin. Like his soul didn’t know how else to speak.

But before the juke, there was church.

That’s where you were.

A little tin-roof chapel off the old levee road. Just big enough to fit two choirs, three fans, and a whole lotta guilt. The walls breathed gospel and sweat, and the windows stayed open to let the Lord in—or maybe to let temptation out.

You sat straight in your pew, gloved hands folded in your lap like Mama taught. If you was gon’ sing, you best look like you meant it. Ain’t no room for wrinkles in the house of God, she always said. Not on your dress. Not on your face.

And sing you did—high, bright, clear like spring water spillin’ from a jug.

You wasn’t performin’. You was praisin’.

Or at least, tryin’ to.

‘Cause right there, sittin’ slouched in the corner pew, one leg crossed over the other, hat tipped low over his brow, was Samuel Moore.

Folks called him Sammie when they liked him, that boy when they didn’t.

And when you sang?


He watched.

Half-lidded eyes followin’ every note, lips barely movin’ like he was hummin’ under his breath.


“Lord,” he thought, “that girl don’t sing—she calls things down.”


You hit a run and he felt it in his gut. Like a storm comin’ slow, but sure. When your eyes met his, you smiled—just a flicker. Just enough. He sat up then, wiped his palms on his trousers like they was sweatin’.

The choir shifted. He stood. Picked up his guitar—the old one with the wood worn smooth from years of tryin’ to be heard—and he sang.


Deep. Full. A little cracked, like a road too long walked.


And when Sammie sang, it was like the devil leaned in to listen. You shouldn’t feel like that in church. But you did.
He made you breathless. Like you’d run clear through a field without movin’ a step.

Service let out, and you stood up polite. Smoothed your dress down, fixed your gloves, made sure the hem was right. Mama used to say, “Don’t let the Lord catch you lookin’ like you forgot who raised you.”

You heard him before you saw him.

Boots slow and heavy. Floorboards creakin’ like they knew who walked on ‘em.

“Mornin’, little songbird.”

You looked up, and he was smilin’ that slow, crooked kind of smile like he already knew your answer to whatever he was about to ask. You could feel your cheeks heat up beneath your brown skin, and you prayed the Lord was lookin’ elsewhere.

His eyes danced over your face like he was takin’ inventory.

“Samuel,” you said, voice hushed but firm, “I told you stop callin’ me that.”

You swatted his arm with your glove, and he laughed—real soft, almost sweet. You peeked over at your daddy, still speakin’ with Mr. Moore, but watchin’ you two just the same.

“And I told you stop callin’ me Samuel,” he said, leanin’ just close enough to steal your air.

“Then what I’m supposed to call you?”
You lifted your chin, bold now.

He stepped in, real slow.

“I can think of a few names.”

You blushed deep, hand tappin’ his chin gentle.

“You wish, Moore. You wish.”

That’s when his father’s voice cracked through the evening like a thunderclap.

“Samuel!”

They always said Mr. Moore didn’t need to raise a hand. His voice did the work for him. Two fingers curled in a beckon sharp enough to slice.


Sammie looked that way, then looked back at you. “My cousins openin’ up a juke tonight. You gon’ come?” You worried your bottom lip, just for a second.

“I’ll think on it.”

“Come on, Birdie… don’t do me like that.”

You dropped your eyes, couldn’t hide your smile.

“You’ll come. I know you will.”

And with that, he tipped his hat and turned, boots tappin’ out slow music on the old floorboards as he walked back toward his father. You watched him go, feelin’ like you’d just read a psalm and forgot the words right after.

The last hymn had long since faded, but the air in the chapel still held onto the weight of it—sticky and slow like syrup in the summertime.

Your daddy came striding down the center aisle, Sunday boots hitting the floor like a quiet kind of thunder. Passed right by Sammie with only a nod, short and sharp. Sammie nodded back, chin barely dipping—like the gesture cost him somethin’.

Your daddy reached your side, arm bent just so, the way he always offered it after church. You slipped yours through it, gloves soft against the wool of his jacket. The two of you walked out together, steps steady, shoulders straight.

But you couldn’t help yourself. You turned.

Sammie was still standing there near the pews, guitar slung over his back, eyes fixed right on you. Like he could still hear you singin’ in his head.

You gave him half a smile—just one corner of your mouth liftin’.


And then you turned back toward the door, footsteps carryin’ you out the chapel and outta his sight.

Back inside, Sammie’s father stood waiting by the pulpit, arms crossed over his chest like he was guardin’ somethin holy.

“Boy,” he said, voice low but iron-heavy, “that music you playin’—it don’t belong in a house of God.”

Sammie didn’t answer, just kept his jaw set, eyes on the dust motes floatin’ in the shaft of windowlight.

“It’s too dark,” his daddy went on. “Too powerful. You don’t stir up folks like that in here. You confuse spirit for show.”

Sammie ran a thumb over the worn fret of his guitar.

“And that girl—Reverend Clark’s daughter—”
His daddy let the sentence hang like a noose.

“She’s a good girl, and you… you walkin’ too close to the edge. Temptation ain’t always dressed in red, son. Sometimes it look like music. Sometimes it look like love.”

Sammie just nodded.


He’d heard it before. Word for word. Sunday after Sunday.

His mind wasn’t here no more.

His mind was already down the dirt road, where the juke joint pulsed like a second heartbeat and the music didn’t care who was holy and who wasn’t.

When the sermon ended, Sammie gave one last nod, grabbed his guitar case, and stepped out into the heat. His cousin was already in the truck, engine coughin’ under the hood.

He jumped in, slammed the door, and they pulled off, tires spittin’ up red clay as they disappeared down the road—toward the sound.

In your daddy’s car, the sun slanted through the dusty glass, settin’ fire to the dashboard. He drove one hand on the wheel, the other propped up on the windowsill, thumb and forefinger pressin’ against his temple like this talk was already wearin’ him out.

“What’s goin’ on with you and that boy?”

His voice was calm, but stretched thin.

You looked out the window, watchin’ the fields pass like ghosts.

“Nothin’, Daddy.”

He snorted, didn’t buy it for a second.

“You lyin’ to me, girl.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes still fixed outside.

“No sir.”

He looked at you then. That look that scraped down deep—hot and hard. A father’s stare. The kind that pulled truth like blood. Silence filled the car, thick and close.

You and Sammie weren’t in love. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you were tied up in something neither of you had a name for. Bonded by chords and chords again. Two kids with fathers that feared the same thing: that music might set you free.

Or worse—make you feel too much.

“You ain’t to go near that boy.”

You didn’t answer.

He turned his head full, eyes wide now.

“You hear me, dammit?”
His hand came down hard on the steering wheel—WHAM—a crack loud enough to startle the crows.

You jumped. “Yes sir,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded once, jaw workin’ but sayin’ nothin’ else. He had a temper, your daddy. Never laid a hand on you, but his anger filled a room like smoke. You knew not to feed it.

The rest of the ride was quiet. But your heart?


Your heart was loud as thunder.

She didn’t say a word when she stepped through the door.

Not to her mama, not to the house. Just walked straight down the narrow hallway, past the family Bible open on the side table, past the photograph of her grandfather in a borrowed suit, and straight into her room. The screen door clicked shut behind her like punctuation.

Her mama looked up from the stove.

“Evenin’, baby—”

But the girl was already gone. That energy she carried in with her moved like smoke—heavy, unsettled.

Her mama didn’t follow. Just stood there with her hand on the handle of the pot, staring at the hallway, breath caught in her chest.

She felt it.

The thing about anger is, you feel it the same way you feel heat. It rises. Sticks. Waves out from a body like a warning. Just like the shimmer in the air under the Delta sun when the ground’s about to crack.

She waited.

And sure enough, minutes later, her husband walked in.

Boots dusty. Shoulders stiff. Jaw set like he’d been chewin’ bricks. Didn’t say nothin’. Just sat down at the table like he was about to break it in two. She didn’t ask no questions. Not yet. She just reached for the jug sittin’ by the window, poured him something bitter—strong enough to distract a man from the fire in his chest.

Set it down in front of him without a clatter. Smooth. Deliberate.

Then she sat beside him, real gentle, like you’d approach a sleeping dog you weren’t sure wouldn’t bite. “What happened?” she asked, soft but clear.

He took a long sip, grimaced at the taste, but didn’t stop drinkin’.

“She lyin’ to me,” he said finally. “Over that Moore boy. I see the way they look at each other. Like fools. Like fire waitin’ on a match.”

She nodded, didn’t interrupt.

“That boy don’t know how to walk no straight line. His daddy can’t keep him in church, can’t keep that guitar from twistin’ his head around. That music he plays… It don’t belong near my daughter. Don’t belong in no holy place. It’s wild. Unclean.”

His wife listened. Let the words settle like dust.

Then she leaned forward just a bit, eyes still soft.

“Let me tell you somethin’, Henry.”

He looked up.

“The more you smother a voice, the louder it gets. You know that. And that light in them—your daughter and that Moore boy—you and Mr. Moore keep tryin’ to cover it up like a flame, but baby… the more you press it down, the brighter it gon’ burn. Light don’t snuff out easy.”

He opened his mouth, but she wasn’t done.

“Now I know you want her safe. I know. But safety ain’t a lock. Not all the time. It’s a space. A space to stretch. To move. To figure out who you are without someone squeezin’ you down to nothin’. Even a flower don’t bloom tight shut.”

She slid her hand across his shoulders, the way she used to when they were younger—when his body still knew how to soften beneath her touch. Then she pressed a slow kiss to his cheek. Warm. Certain.

Without another word, she rose and walked down the hall. Her steps quiet against the old wood floor.

He watched her go, glass still in his hand, that bitter burn runnin’ hotter in his throat now. She reached the girl’s door, paused just long enough to turn back.

She smiled at him—sad and full of understanding. Then she closed the door behind her. He caught a glimpse just before it shut. His baby girl, curled up on the bed like a prayer somebody forgot to say out loud. The sight of her like that—small, tired, glowing faintly in the lamplight—burned worse than anything in his cup.

The sun was just starting to tuck itself behind the trees when her mama called her out to the porch.

She stepped outside, arms still damp from doing dishes, the smell of soap and lemon lingering in the folds of her sleeves.

Her mama was sitting in that old cane chair, the one that leaned to the left, with her Bible closed in her lap and a look on her face that said she’d already prayed and made peace with what she was about to say.

“Your Auntie called. Said Alice been askin’ for you.”

You leaned against the post, trying not to hope too loud.

Your mama looked up at you—steady, soft, the same way she looked at the moon when it was full.

“I want you to go,” she said simply. “Go be with your cousin. Sing with her. Laugh some. Stretch your arms out and feel the air on your skin. You hear me?”

You blinked. “Mama…”

“You don’t owe me no ‘but.’ Not tonight.”

She stood, brushing her skirt smooth with both hands, then reached out and cupped your face like she used to when you were small.

“You always carryin’ somethin’ heavy. Walkin’ like the world already claimed you. But baby, you still light. You still got some dance in you. Don’t let it get smothered out before you even know what it feel like.”

You nodded, eyes stinging more than you expected. She kissed your forehead like a blessing.

“Go on now,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Before I change my mind.”

And with that, she turned and went back inside.

Now here you were.

Alice’s room was lit up like it was waiting on a good story to happen. Record player hummin’ something low and smooth, the scent of cocoa butter thick in the air.

You stood in front of the mirror, skin shining, your pulse a little louder than before.

Alice was already dancing across the room, slipping into her red skirt, big smile chasing every movement.

“Girl, I can’t wait to see my man,” she giggled, practically glowing.

You shook your head, laughing as you rubbed more shea into your shoulders.

“Lord, you bold. Runnin’ wild behind that man.”

“He run wild behind me,” she shot back, tossing her hair like she was in one of them picture shows.

You laughed again, teasing, “Ooooohhh, Alice and Smokey sittin’ in a tree…”

She threw a towel at you and you caught it, still grinning.

“I don’t know why you messin’ with me when you goin’ for Mr. Sammie Moore,” she said, narrowing her eyes with mischief.

“We just friends,” you muttered.

“Mmhmm. Friends don’t stand that close in the house of God,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “I seen that, baby bird.”

You blushed deep, trying to hide the way your smile curled at the corners.

“Are you ready?” you asked, voice a little higher than usual.

Alice turned to the mirror, applied her lip gloss with a practiced hand, and smacked her lips.

“I been ready,” she said.

Then she reached for your hand.

“C’mon, baby bird. Let’s fly.”

And just like that, y’all stepped out into the night.

You and Alice felt it before y’all even stepped inside. The music, the heat, the electricity of something about to happen—it all pressed up against the skin like a lover’s breath. The gravel path leading to the juke was packed tight beneath your heels, like even the earth didn’t dare disturb your entrance.

Cornbread saw you both before the porch creaked under your weight. He gave a low whistle, lips curled up around a cigarette that had long since gone cold.

“Well, don’t y’all look finer than my patience tonight,” he said, stepping aside like a gentleman with a grin that wasn’t.

Alice laughed, tossing her curls off her shoulder, and you just gave him a look that said we know. The door groaned open, and the music inside washed over you—blues tangled with sweat, clinking glasses, and something wild humming in the bones of the place.

The Twins’ Juke Joint didn’t glow so much as smolder. Lamplight flickered against wood darkened by decades of heat and heartbreak. The air was molasses-thick, bodies pressed together in time with a rhythm too old to be written down. You and Alice stood there for a beat, letting it all seep in.

“This place,” she murmured beside you, voice low and full of wonder, “got more soul than any church I ever been to.”

You nodded. “Feels like it’s lookin’ right back at us.”

Then came Smoke—slick and tall, wearing confidence like a second skin. His suspenders hugged his broad chest like they were lucky to be there. A silver watch chain glinted at his hip, and his hat sat just so, like the night bent to his mood.

“Well, now,” he said, voice dipped in bourbon and velvet, eyes locked on Alice. “If I knew you was comin’ lookin’ like this, I’da brought flowers instead of just sin.”

She flushed, pleased, but held her ground.

He glanced at you, respectful but just cocky enough. “Ma’am,” he said with a tip of the brim.

He was always polite, but right now? He was a guiding Alice down the road to sin with a touch that lingered longer than polite. You looked away, not out of shyness—but because you didn’t want to see what she was already feeling.

Then came Sammie. Where Smoke was cool and measured, Sammie burned just a little. A spark under the skin. Same sharp jaw, same dark eyes, but something in his grin promised mischief more than charm.

“Well damn,” he said, sauntering up like he’d been waiting all night, “ain’t a man in here gon’ keep still with you two walkin’ around lookin’ like that.”

He jerked his chin toward the stage. “Slim’s ‘bout to go on. You best get a drink while you still got room to breathe.”

You and Alice made your way to the bar, shoulders brushing, the wood beneath your feet sticky with years of dancing and spilled bourbon. You ordered sweet and slow drinks, the kind that don’t hit ‘til you’re too deep to turn back.

“He still got that look in his eye,” you said, glancing toward where Smoke was already stood eyes unmoving from Alice.

“Oh, I see it,” she said, sipping through a smile. “My knees still hummin’.”

You laughed, but something in your chest tugged. That juke was alive tonight—every wall watching, every shadow whispering.

Smoke reappeared then, grinning like he knew he’d already won.

“Mind if I steal this vision for a dance?” he asked, hand already reaching for Alice. Then, to you, “Beggin’ your pardon, but a man’s gotta dance with a woman this fine. That’s just gospel.”

He led her off before you could answer, her fingers curled into his like they remembered him from another life.

Then Sammie slid in beside you, slow and easy. “Well now,” he murmured, voice low like a sin, “look what the moon left behind.”

You turned to him, glass cool in your hand. “You always come in second?”

“I don’t mind followin’ when the path’s this sweet,” he said, his smile tilting wicked. “Now you gon’ dance with me, or just stand there pretendin’ you don’t want to?”

He pulled you onto the floor before you could argue, one hand strong at your waist, the other laced through your fingers. The music swelled, all brass and smoke and drumbeat hearts.

“You dance,” he said, spinning you into the sway, “like you already know how this ends.”

“Maybe I do,” you said, letting him pull you closer. “Maybe Id like the way it plays out.”

His lips brushed your ear, barely a breath.

“Told you I’d have you movin’ tonight,” he said. “Meant that… one way or another.”

The night answered with a swell of music. The juke groaned. And somewhere out there, the Mississippi moon kept watch.

The song ended in a blur of sweat and sway, the final notes hanging in the air like a held breath. The room stilled for a beat—just long enough for Slim to step forward, slick with rhythm and shine, guitar still humming against his hip.

He grinned wide under the low lamplight, breathless but riding the high of his last lick.

“Y’all ain’t ready for what come next,” Slim said, voice rasped like gravel soaked in syrup. “Ladies and gentleman—ain’t no need to play coy. You done seen him. You done watched him work. But now, you ‘bout to feel him.”

The crowd leaned in.

Slim nodded toward the side stage, making his way toward the mic. “Gimme a holler for the Delta’s favorite bad idea—my brother. The one and only Sammie Moore.”

Applause scattered through the haze, but you barely noticed. Sammie turned to you, his eyes catching yours like a hand around your wrist.

“‘Scuse me, sugar,” he murmured with a crooked grin, pulling away from your side. “Duty calls.”

He stepped up slow, his boots tapping a lazy rhythm against the worn floorboards. He adjusted the mic like it knew to behave for him, and looked out across the crowd—but you could tell he wasn’t talkin’ to them, not really. He was talkin’ to you.

“I go by Sammie,” he said into the mic, voice low and smooth. “People call me preaches boy.” He strummed a few notes. “On the count of my daddy being a preacher.” The men on the stage began stomping a rhythm.

“Thats if you wanna say it proper.” He looked up at you under those long lashes. “But I don’t mind if you scream it instead.

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. The band struck up behind him—lazy at first, like the night itself was stretching—and then that guitar let loose.

His voice hit like warm smoke curling up your spine. Not loud, not showy—just true. It carried through the room and into your skin, into the places you thought no man could reach. Every word hung in the air, tugging at something old and deep in your chest. Every strum of that guitar felt like he was plucking the strings wrapped ‘round your heart.

And he kept watchin’ you.

As he sang, he tilted his chin toward you, beckoning without a word.

The drink from earlier warmed your belly, gave you that perfect sort of buzz where all the rules melt. So you moved. Slow. Smooth like honey, sweet like the sound pouring from his lips.

You made your way toward the stage like you weren’t even touchin’ the floor. His voice wrapped around you like silk and smoke, and the crowd parted like they knew this moment wasn’t meant for them.

Sammie stepped forward to meet you, circling like a storm about to form. You didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. You turned too—equal parts warning and invitation.

“I hope you can stand it,” he sang, low and dirty.

He came in behind you now, close enough for heat but not quite touchin’.

“Stand it all…” he sang, drawin’ that word out until it didn’t sound like a lyric no more, but a challenge. Maybe even a promise.

You moved back against him, feelin’ him there without lookin’. Then you turned, slow and bold, brushin’ past him as you walked backward, eyes still on his. He followed like he was always gonna.

The whole damn crowd watched, but it might as well have just been the two of you.

Over near the bar, Smoke leaned close to Alice, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Your cousin always dance like that?” he asked, sipping slow from his glass.

Alice snorted, eyes still fixed on you. “Only when she mean it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Lord help us.”

Back on stage, the music rose—horns wailin', guitar cryin’—and Sammie’s voice hit its peak, all grit and gospel and gut-pullin’ want. You felt it burst through your ribs like somethin’ holy and wicked all at once.

And just as the song hit its crescendo—you swear you did too.

It wasn’t no ordinary fire, no—it was the kind of flame that lived in the space between pain and pleasure. A holy burn, the sting right before the sweetness. And in that moment, you knew one thing for sure:

Sammie moore had set your soul on fire.
And Lord, you didn’t want nothin’ put it out.

The final note of the song dropped like thunder, soft but final, and the crowd roared with it—cheers and whistles rising in the steamy juke like smoke from a fire. Sammie held his guitar by the neck, breathing heavy, eyes never once leaving you.

He raised the mic again, grin stretched wide across his face like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried.

“Now that,” he drawled, still lookin’ dead at you, “was somethin’ else.”

The crowd hollered in agreement.

“She ain’t just got moves, folks,” he said, motioning to you with a sweep of his hand. “This one? She got a voice on her too. One that’ll make a man drop straight to his knees. I ain’t proud to say it, but I done it once already.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Folks leaned in, lookin’ at you different now. Some with curiosity. Some with hunger. Some with that kind of church-smothered judgment you’d learned to spot even in the dark.

Sammie nodded. “If it do that to me, I know it could move y’all.”

But you ain’t move.

Your heart thumped against your ribs like it was tryin’ to break out. The laughter, the applause—it got thick in your ears. All of a sudden you weren’t in the juke no more. You were sittin’ on a hard oak pew, sunlight catchin’ dust through a stained-glass window, sweat pricklin’ under your dress, eyes on you from faces that knew your mama, your pastor, your past.

You scanned the crowd now. Strangers. Folks who’d only ever seen you pass by, maybe once or twice. And Sammie—Lord, he was still smilin’. Still lookin’ at you like he believed in something bigger than music. Like you was the sound.

But your feet moved before your heart could catch up.

You turned quick, slippin’ offstage and out the back hallway. No words. Just the sound of your breath startin’ to speed up. The juke door banged shut behind you, muffling the crowd into a dull echo. You found the storage closet without even thinking—shoved open the creaky door and slipped inside.

It was small. Dusty. Hot. The kind of place that smelled like old wood and lemon oil, with stacks of crates and broken-down stools. But it was quiet. And it was away.

You leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to your chest like you could settle your heart just by touchin’ it. Your breath hitched. You weren’t scared of your voice. You were scared of being seen.

Sammie stood on stage for a second, eyes still on the door you’d disappeared through. The crowd murmured, confused but entertained. He gave a short laugh—gentle, not mocking—and leaned into the mic.

“She alright,” he told them, raising a calming hand. “Y’all give her a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Then he slipped offstage, just as smooth as he’d walked on, winding through the hallway with a purpose in his step and something real soft in his eyes.

The hallway behind the juke was dim, barely lit by a single bulb swingin' from the ceiling like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to stay on or not. Sammie moved through it slow—he wasn’t in no rush, not like he was chasing. He just knew where you went. Some things don’t need directions.

He paused in front of the closet door. Knocked once, soft.

“You alright in there?” he asked, his voice quiet now. Like he wasn’t on stage no more. Like it was just you and him in the whole wide world.

You didn’t answer at first. Just breathed. Tried to even it out. But that rhythm had left you back on the dance floor.

“I ain’t tryna push you,” he said. “Ain’t mad. Just… didn’t expect you to vanish like smoke.”

You exhaled—long, shaky—and cracked the door open just enough to see him. He leaned one hand on the frame, hat off, sweat at his temples, but no pressure in his face. Just that same crooked smile that somehow knew how to wait.

Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“I can’t do that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not like that. Not here.”

He nodded slow, took a small step back, like givin’ you room might help you fill it.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said. “You from here. Church folks got long memories and longer tongues.”

You winced, and he saw it.

“They’ll talk,” you murmured, finally lookin’ up. “You know they will. If daddy- if they heard me sing in a place like this…”

“They’ll talk anyway,” Sammie said. “That’s what folks do. They talk while they watch you burn, then ask how you did it when the smoke clears.”

You blinked, like that thought hadn’t occurred to you.

He stepped forward again—just enough for you to feel the pull of him.

“You scared to sing in front of strangers,” he said, “but baby… strangers don’t know where to stab you. That fear you feel? That’s just the edge of somethin’ real. You touch it, and you don’t gotta run no more.”

Silence settled between you like a breath being held. Your hand still pressed to your chest, his eyes on it like he could feel the beat too.

“I ain’t tryna make you do nothin’,” Sammie said after a moment. “But I saw the way you looked when I said your name. Like you almost believed it. Like maybe… just maybe, you could take up space.”

You looked at him fully now, and something in your chest cracked open.

“I ain’t ready,” you said.

“I think you ready.”

Sammie’s voice cut through the silence like a match striking dry wood.

You froze, back still half-turned toward him, breath caught somewhere between fear and want. He wasn’t smilin’ now—no smirk, no teasing. Just him, standing there with his chest rising slow and eyes locked on yours like he knew exactlywhat he was saying.

“No,” you said, barely louder than breath.

“No I ain’t.”

“You are,” he said again, steady. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

He stepped closer. The storage closet was small to begin with, but now it felt like the air had thickened between you, warm and heavy with everything unsaid. Your hand went up, like maybe it could hold back what was coming—but he didn’t stop.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered. “I can’t be seen like that. Not here.”

He tilted his head, slow and serious. “Why not?”

You swallowed hard. It took everything in you to answer.

“My daddy.”

The words came like a stone falling out your chest. You said it like it still had weight over you, like the sound alone could drag you back down to your knees.

“He’s out there,” you went on, voice trembling. “Not in the crowd, maybe, but in the pews. In the people. In what they think when they see me standin’ on a stage like this. In how they’ll run tell it come Sunday.”

Sammie’s face didn’t move much, but you saw the way his jaw flexed. His voice dropped low—quieter, but sharper.

“Your daddy the reason you scared of your own voice?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

He stepped in closer, crowding your space now, but still not touchin’. Just letting you feel him—solid and warm and there.

“I know men like him,” he said. “Men who keep their daughters in the shadows just so they don’t outshine ‘em.”

You flinched at that, but Sammie didn’t pull back.

“You ain’t small,” he said. “He just wanted you to feel small. You think I don’t see that?”

“I’m not like other girls,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “You don’t want me round, Sammie.”

That struck something in him. His mouth parted slightly, like he almost laughed, bitter and soft.

“I don’t want you?” he said, stepping in so close you could feel his breath ghost against your lips. “You really think that?”

You looked away.

He reached up, fingertips grazing your jaw just enough to guide your face back toward his.

“I don’t give a damn what your daddy think. He don’t get to tell you what your voice is worth, and he sure as hell don’t get to tell me who to want.”

Your eyes were glassy now, tears right there at the edge.

“I’m my own man,” he said. “He can’t keep me from you. Ain’t nobody can.”

Your bottom lip quivered, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You gon’ sing,” Sammie said, not a question. A vow. “I’ll make sure of it. Even if I gotta hold the whole damn world back for you to do it.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. Your throat was tight.

“I’m not ready,”

Her voice barely made it through the stillness, like it got caught on the dust in the air. She didn’t look at him when she said it—eyes dropped to the floor, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was holdin’ in a storm.

Sammie didn’t flinch. He just nodded slow, like he’d been waitin’ on that truth to come out.

“That’s alright,” he said, voice low, steady. “But I can help with that… take those nerves off you.”

You looked up at him then, brows drawn tight. “What you mean?”

“Help you breathe,” he said, taking a step closer. “Help you relax. A little… or more than a little. Whatever you need.”

The heat in his voice coiled around your spine, slow and deliberate. It scared you, but not in a way that made you want to run. In a way that made you want to know what it was like… to be touched like that. Seen like that.

“I ain’t never had that before,” you murmured, a tremor in your voice. “Not from nobody who didn’t want somethin’.

Sammie’s face softened, but the fire in his eyes didn’t.

“That ain’t your fault,” he said. “That’s ‘cause nobody ever appreciated you right.”

And then—like his words pulled the rest of him forward—he kissed you.

Slow at first. Warm, coaxing, sure.

His hands stayed light at your waist, like he was asking permission with every breath between you. But the moment your lips parted against his, the moment you kissed him back, that lightness burned away into something deep and hungry.

His bigger frame closed the space like a door shutting tight behind you. You felt the difference in your size—the strength in his chest, the weight in his grip—but it didn’t scare you. It made you feel protected. Wanted.

His hands slid lower, pulling you gently against him, and he breathed into your mouth like he was trying to tell you something without breaking the moment.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips barely brushing yours.

“That what you want?” he asked, voice rough now. “Want me to help you… relax?”

Your breath caught. You nodded once—but that wasn’t enough for Sammie.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’. Say it out loud.”

You swallowed, voice barely there.

“I want you,” you said, then steadier—“I want you to… help me. To relax me.”

That did it.

Sammie’s eyes went darker, like you’d struck something deep. He reached for you, hands curling under your thighs as he lifted you like it was nothin’. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders as he carried you three steps to the back corner of the closet where an old wooden crate sat, covered in a thick wool blanket, worn but soft.

He set you down atop it gently, like laying a secret down in the dark.

And then he stepped between your knees, both hands braced on either side of your thighs, his body crowding yours, that same fire flickering behind his smile.

“Now,” he said, voice low as a prayer, “just breathe.”

He hooked a finger ‘round the edge of your drawers—lace worn soft from too many summers on the line—and dragged ‘em down slow. Like he ain’t never unwrapped nothin’ so precious. You lifted your hips without a word, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

“Ain’t nothin’ finer than this,” he murmured, ballin’ the fabric in his fist and settin’ it gentle on the table ‘side y’all. “You don’t even know.”

Then he knelt, dark eyes holdin’ yours just a second longer—just long enough to make sure you knew he meant it—before leanin’ in and pressin’ one hot, open-mouthed kiss against your center.

You gasped—soft, startled—hips twitchin’ as his tongue dragged up slow, just once, deliberate. The kind of lick that knew where you was goin’ before you even got there. Then he pulled back, lips glistenin’, and blew warm breath right over you—low and steady.

Your thighs trembled, breath stuttering out your mouth like it forgot how to land. He grinned up at you, slow and wolfish, and planted his palms back firm on either side of you.

“Breathe, baby,” he said again, voice not much more than gravel and gospel. “Ain’t no need to run from it. I got you.”

He went back in, tongue and lips workin’ like he was coaxin’ a song outta you—your own body hummin’ in tune with the slick sound of his mouth between your legs. It weren’t just touch—it was rhythm. The way a man plays his favorite guitar—calloused hands, soft jaw, steady pulse.

Your voice came out like a moan wrapped in melody, lilting and broken, your back archin’ like a bow strung too tight. He moaned back into you, deep in his throat, like he felt every ounce of it.

“I love this song,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “You hear that? That’s you singin’. That’s your sound. Don’t hold back now.”

And Lord, you didn’t. Couldn’t. The music of your body rose with his mouth, heat curlin’ through your belly like a slow Southern summer storm.

He didn’t rush. Just kept at it, mouth workin’ slow, tongue paintin’ over you like he was takin’ his time with a sacred text. You cried out soft, hands grippin’ the edge of the table like it was all that held you to this earth.

Then he slid one thick finger in—easy, patient—pressin’ up slow ‘til your breath hitched. Your body clutched at him like you’d been waitin’ on this moment longer than you knew.

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the sound vibratin’ clean through your belly. “Still so tight for me. You feel that?”

He didn’t wait for no answer. Just moved that finger in and out, curlin’ it careful, then slid another in beside it, stretchin’ you open slow. It weren’t greedy—just steady. Deep.

You looked down at where he was knelt, workin’ you over with mouth and hand both, and somethin’ about the way his fingers moved—strong and skilled and sure—brought you right back.

Back to those Sunday mornin’s in the colored chapel, where the preacher’d be late and Sammie’d sit on the porch steps, guitar in his lap. You used to sneak glances while pretendin’ to read scripture, watchin’ the way his fingers danced on them strings—calloused pads pressin’ and pluckin’ with such feelin’ it made the whole holler quiet just to hear.

That same ease was in his touch now—pullin’ notes outta you he already knew by heart. Each stroke slow and tuned to your body, your breath catchin’ like a chorus buildin’. His fingers curved just right, his mouth never quittin’ you, tongue workin’ that tender place up top with steady devotion.

Your hips started rockin’ without askin’, thighs squeezin’ tight around his head.

“There she go,” he mumbled against you. “Don’t hold back, baby. Give it here.”

You felt the build rise slow—like heat from the fields, like summer thunder just waitin’ to break. Your eyes rolled back, mouth fallin’ open, that cry leavin’ your chest like a hymn that’d been trapped inside you for years.

You came undone on his tongue and fingers, shakin’ like you caught the Holy Ghost, whimperin’ his name like a prayer too worn to whisper. He held you through it, never lettin’ up til every bit of that storm ran through you.

You was still tremblin’, legs slack, breath comin’ in broken pieces when he rose up just long enough to look at you—eyes dark, jaw tight.

“Nah,” he said low, voice guttural now. “We ain’t done.”

Before you could catch your next breath, he was back down there, mouth latchin’ on with more hunger this time—like he’d tasted heaven and wasn’t satisfied with just one bite.

You cried out, high and sudden, legs tryin’ to jerk away. But he gripped your thighs firm, pulled you down harder against his face, lockin’ you in place.

“Uh-uh, don’t run now,” he growled, voice muffled in you. “You gone take every bit.”

His fingers dug into the meat of your hips, holdin’ you steady as his mouth worked ruthless, tongue flickin’ quick now, pressin’ hard, suckin’ at that spot til your head rolled back and your body bowed.

Ain’t no gentle rhythm no more—he was relentless, starved, like a man who been out in the field too long and come home thirsty. Your hands flew to his hair, tryin’ to anchor yourself as heat bloomed again, sharp and fast.

“S-Sammie,” you choked out, but it came out all breath, no strength behind it. He answered with a deep moan, the vibration of it shootin’ through your belly.

His fingers slipped back inside you, but this time they moved fast, determined, stretchin’ and pressin’ into that tender spot til your thighs shook around his head. He worked you like a song that needed finishin’, like your body was a rhythm only he could play proper.

You felt the build come quick—too quick—like your body was betrayin’ you, risin’ up to meet his mouth with nothin’ left to give.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take no more, he sucked hard, fingers curlin’ just right—and you broke again.

This time it hit harder. You cried out from deep in your belly, body seizin’ tight as a fresh wave rolled over you, sharp and blinding. A little stream left you, leakin’ down over his mouth, but he didn’t flinch—just groaned into it like it fed him, like it proved somethin’ he already knew.

Your vision blurred. Chest heaved like a river tryin’ to calm itself after a flood.

He didn’t move for a while, just stayed down there, lips soft now, kissin’ the inside of your thigh like he was thankin’ you for lettin’ him take you there.

When he finally stood, his face glistened in the lamplight, jaw wet, eyes dark as a stormcloud. He looked down at you—bare, spent, shakin’ on that table—and grinned like a man who’d just played the last note of a good long blues.

“You still breathin’?” he asked, voice husky, smug, gentle all at once.

And Lord, you was—but just barely.

You tried to sit up, legs still unsteady beneath you, breath all tangled up in your chest like wild vines.

Your voice came out scratchy. “Lord, Sammie… I don’t even know how to stand.”

He chuckled low, pride warm in his chest as he moved in close, one hand slippin’ behind your back, the other reachin’ for your drawers. He knelt again, gentle now, like a man piecin’ together something fragile, and helped you step into them.

“Ain’t no rush,” he murmured. “I got you.”

He smoothed the soft cotton up over your thighs, takin’ his time, thumbs glidin’ against your skin like he didn’t quite wanna let go. Then his hands traveled up your sides, strong palms slidin’ up your back to your shoulders, fingertips findin’ your hair and gently layin’ it down right, tuckin’ it back like he was settin’ you in order.

“There,” he whispered. “Pretty as always.”

You sighed, heavy, still floatin’ in the afterglow, eyes slippin’ shut as your weight leaned into him.

“How you feel?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath against your cheek.

You smiled lazy, eyelids flutterin’. “Relaxed. Sleepy.”

He chuckled, that deep familiar sound you loved so much, and pulled you tighter against his chest. But then his hands slid back to your shoulders, firm but tender, and pushed you upright just enough to look at you proper.

He held your face in his hands for a second, eyes searchin’ yours like he was readin’ scripture written right across your soul. Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow, sure, the kind of kiss that says I see you, I know you, I still want you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You ready now?” he asked, voice lower than before, more serious. Like this part mattered just as much as the rest.

You took a deep breath. The nerves crept back in then, just a little. That pull in your belly, that flicker of fear—what the outside world might think, what it might take from you if you showed too much of yourself.

He saw it. Picked up on it without you speakin’ a word.

“I got you,” he said, quiet but firm. “When we out there, just focus on me. Don’t matter who watchin’. Keep your eyes on mine—just like you doin’ right now.”

You looked up at him—those steady brown eyes, that dimple hidin’ in his cheek when he spoke soft—and the nerves started to fade, meltin’ down into trust.

You nodded slow. “Okay, Sam.”

Then your voice came steadier. Stronger.

“I’m ready.”

The door creaked open, and the light from the juke spilled in like floodwater—amber and loud, warm and alive. Sammie stepped out first, hand still at your back, steadying you as y’all made your way toward the stage. The crowd had thickened since y’all been gone, the air now dense with heat, sweat, cheap cologne, and somethin’ holy buried under all that noise.

Soon as folks caught sight of you, a cheer rose up—half surprise, half praise. Somebody hollered Sammie’s name, and Smoke—already on stage, leanin’ on his upright bass like it was part of his body—grinned wide and pointed.

“There she go,” he laughed, turnin’ toward the cousin standin’ stiff in the crowd. “Aye, ain’t that your kin?”

She blinked, brows pulled tight, lips partin’ like she forgot how to breathe. “What she doin’ up there?”

Smoke didn’t even turn his head. Just kept watchin’ you make your way slow, the lights catchin’ on your skin like you was lit from within.

He snorted. “Look like she fixin’ to sing.”

Your cousin’s eyes went wide, voice small now, stunned. “She don’t sing. Not out loud. Not ‘less it’s behind them four walls her daddy built ‘round her.”

But you was already steppin’ up on that stage, boots hittin’ the worn planks like you belonged there. Like the floor remembered your weight even if the world didn’t.

You ain’t even looked at the crowd.

Just Sammie.

He nodded once—slow, sure—then took your hand and led you to the mic like a man leadin’ prayer. The room dipped into a hush, a kind of expectant quiet that pressed in on all sides.

And you—heart poundin’, hands tremblin’—took a breath.

You could still feel the way his hands been on you not ten minutes ago. The taste of his kiss. The way he said “Just focus on me.”

So you did.

Eyes locked on his. Lights warm on your skin. And for the first time in your life, you sang.

Not behind a door. Not in secret. But loud. Free.

The room didn’t just quiet.

It bowed.

Chairs creaked. Ice clinked and went still. The lights above the stage hummed soft like breath, but everything else was gone—gone ‘cept her voice and that moan of the upright bass below it.

Her mouth wrapped around that first note like it was a sin. And the next no better. You hummin like your soul was spillin out from your lips.

“Oh, pale moon…”

Low.

Heavy.

The kind of sound that don’t rise—it sinks, down into the floorboards, into the cracks in the wood, into men’s bones.

Sammie felt it before he understood it.

That low register, smooth as molasses but with a grit underneath, filled the room like smoke off a brushfire. It didn’t come to ask for space—it took it. Claimed it. Filled the hollows of that juke joint like the spirit of somebody long gone just walked back in and grabbed the mic.

And it filled him, too.

From the soles of his shoes to the back of his throat. It slid up his spine, made his eyes close, his knees lock. That song curled ‘round his ribcage and settled, made a home in him.

And Sammie—he knew that feeling.

The one his daddy warned him ‘bout.

“Some voices ain’t just voices,” his daddy said, once, sittin’ on the porch with a toothpick and a faraway look. “They omens. If a girl ever sing like she own your soul… boy, you best run.”

But Sammie ain’t run.

He leaned into it.

Watched you stand up there, all soft skin and hard truth, hands not trembling a bit at your sides—your voice didn’t shake. No, your voice was sure.

Like it’d been waitin’ years to get out.

“I wanna be, I wanna be naturally. Free,” you sang, and your mouth barely moved, but the walls shook. Like the Lord Himself was listenin’, and the devil, too.

And Sammie?

He opened himself to it. All of it.

The sound. The story behind it. The fire in your throat. The grief. The power.

It split him open.

That’s what his daddy meant. That moment—when a voice becomes more than melody. When it becomes possession.

And Sammie let it take him.

Didn’t fight it. Didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, breathless, eyes locked on you.

And in the crowd, folks whooped along, danced with you when you felt it all too deeply. Some turned away. Others held their hearts like they was prayin’. But Sammie—he was smiling.

Not ‘cause it was pretty.

But ‘cause it was true.

You weren’t just singin’.

You were callin’ something.

“ sing my song when the day is done”

And Sammie was the only man in that room who had the sense to answer.

[the-invisibility-bloke]

can you spare tumblr and save your incest brother fics for ao3 or something? why all of you doing incest suddenly it’s super cringe and on top of that it was SA

Spare Tumblr? Tumblr, the freakshow site? Have you seen some of the shit on here, ​m​y friend? Nah, but I will spare my followers the rest of my rambling.

I tagged my post saxloch and saxon x lochlan. I warned for nsfw and incest so anyone who had those tags/keywords blocked wouldn’t see it. I very deliberately did not include any broader TWL tags, nor did i tag the characters’ names as an extra measure of sensitivity, and my bio explains I am pro ship. I did my job. Your job is to curate your online experience. Tumblr makes it very easy to block tags and keywords you don’t want to see, and tons of folks have been posting about these bros for months, I'm no pioneer, so I really wonder how someone could run across something they hate unless they’re trolling those tags or failed to use the tools available.

“All of you doing incest suddenly” uh the Bible did it first, so take it up with that god. Or at least take it up with Mike White, the queer man who made it canon. Second of all, incest ships have been around as long as I’ve been in fandom (20+ yrs) and beyond I’m sure. Back then it was Starcest. Wincest popularized it, then there was GoT, which didn’t bother anyone because it was het and I guess because there were dragons or something. Feature films have romanticized incest. Nothing sudden about it, either way. As for its increase in popularity, that’s partly because fandom as a whole has increased in popularity, and more pointedly, because people are realizing (this just in!) fiction is not reality and it’s okay and normal and even healthy to explore taboo/toxic/problematic things in a fictional context because it isn’t real. People are tired of policing and censoring their imaginations and fantasies. Our thoughts have no moral standing. Real-world choices are all that matter. Actions should be regulated; imagination and art should not.

“Super cringe” is probably the most subjective description in the world. Mpreg is cringe to me, I find violence and noncon nauseating. You know what I do? Shut up, keep scrolling, and let people enjoy what they enjoy. We’re all just playing with dolls here.

As for the SA, I find it interesting you call that out but not the grooming that led to it? You are welcome to interpret what happened as SA, but given the deliberate ambiguity of the narrative, to claim it was definitively one thing or another reveals a lack of critical thought. Mike White is known for (and proud of) creating subversive queer sexual content. He is a brilliant storyteller who developed a storyline intended to confuse, distort, spark debate, and challenge our perceptions of sexuality, abuse, and the human psyche. This storyline hinges on its ambiguity. Each line of dialogue, each editing choice, each frame was meant to leave us wondering. As an audience, we were intentionally not given adequate information to make irrefutable claims about what happened. You cannot analyze this story in black and white, and in trying to do so, you've misread the entire creative intent. We have no idea what transpired between the kiss and the infamous handjob, nor do we know what happened after. That was a total of maybe, what, 60 seconds of severely intoxicated flashback content? And the incredible vagueness of the brothers' final conversation afterwards? That was all intentional, man. We were intentionally deprived of further clarifying footage in order for the narrative to uphold ambiguity. For all we know, they could've engaged in other sexual activity before and after the handjob heard 'round the world. The point is we don't know, so no one can definitively claim it was or wasn't SA.

But none of that matters because it's fiction, and ships can be as fucked as we like. :)

Please be sure to block me because I'm not done "doing incest," thanks!

[twinklefairy-dust]

Azha had kept herself busy in the kitchen once things quieted— pouring tea, tidying, moving with a steady rhythm that helped the tension bleed off her shoulders. When Mary drifted in and started asking questions, she didn’t bristle. She answered. Calmly. Truthfully. Sometimes with full words, sometimes just with a glance or a small shrug, like she didn’t need to defend her choices— only share them, if asked right.

“I came across him after he was already hurt,” [she’d said at one point, pouring another cup.] “Didn’t expect to stay, but… sometimes things don’t let you go so easy.” She didn’t elaborate on what things meant.

The rest came easier after that. She spoke of Mississippi, of her father’s old expectations, of how the town had felt too small once it started feeling wrong. She didn’t lie about the way Remmick had pulled her into something darker— but she didn’t speak about it like it was poison either. Just something true. Something hers.

When Stack warned her again, eyes sharp, voice edged with promise, Azha didn’t meet it with defiance. She just looked at him—long enough that it meant something— and said simply

“I don’t forget things that matter.”

She didn’t stop them as they left. Just stood by the door, silent as it closed behind them, and watched the light outside drain into the dark.

Only when she turned back into the house did she notice it the stillness.

Remmick’s room remained quiet. The hallway dim. No sound of boots. No low hum of his voice.

Azha’s brow furrowed slightly. She set down the cup she’d been holding and moved down the hall— not fast, not loud, just enough to check. The door to his room stayed shut. No rustling inside. No creak of floorboards.

She didn’t open it. Just stood there for a moment, her hand resting lightly against the wood.

And then, without a word, she turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

Maybe he needed the sleep. Maybe he was more worn out than he let on.

Still, something about it made her pause— longer than usual.

Starter: The Joint and Jackal

@xmultimusesx

It had been two days since the blood. Since the screams. Since the moon lit Remmick like something out of an old warning tale— and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Azha hadn’t meant to end up near the joint. Not really.

She’d left barefoot, told herself she was just walking to walk— letting the dirt cool her soles, trying to quiet the thing inside her that hadn’t rested since that night. But the air felt different again. Heavy. Expectant. And when the low thrum of music drifted to her from down the hill—gritty, sweet, sinful— it curled its fingers into her and pulled.

Then she saw him.

Remmick.

[Azha ducked back, slipping behind a splintered porch post wrapped in rusted wire. She watched from the dark.]

[The bouncer squinted at him, unimpressed.]

“You ain’t on the list, stranger,” [the man grunted, arms crossed like a wall. His jaw looked carved from stone, his eyes sharp with suspicion.] “This place don’t just let any drifter in ‘cause he’s got a silver tongue.