#and she's still turning the heat on at night | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shokocide · 2 days ago

Text

PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.

word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)

content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, alcohol consumption, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare

author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS

The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.

Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.

You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.

There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.

You need a drink.

The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.

You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.

The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”

You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.

“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.

She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.

“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”

You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”

She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”

You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.

The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”

A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.

“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”

You don’t look away. “He local?”

“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”

You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.

“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”

She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”

You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”

The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”

You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”

“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”

You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”

She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”

You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”

You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.

You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.

There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.

Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.

It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.

You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.

You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Someone’s moving out there.

And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.

You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.

You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.

You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.

You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.

You both stop—almost head to chest.

“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.

He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”

You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”

He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”

“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.

That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.

“I’m Choso.”

“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.

“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”

And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.

The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.

“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”

You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”

She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”

You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.

You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”

She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”

You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”

“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”

You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”

Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”

You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”

“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.

You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”

“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”

You pause. “Like what?”

She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”

“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.

You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.

You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.

But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

You need eggs.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.

You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.

Still no sign of him.

You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.

You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.

No Choso.

No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.

You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.

Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.

And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.

“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”

You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”

He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”

You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.

He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

The bar’s quieter tonight.

Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.

“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”

“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”

She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”

You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”

“You mean termites?”

You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—

“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”

You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”

You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.

The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”

Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.

Then he nods.

The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.

He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”

The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”

And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”

He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.

Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.

You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.

“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.

Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”

There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.

It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.

You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.

“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”

Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”

“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”

That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.

He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”

He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.

“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”

And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.

You huff, turn your phone off, and get up to go to bed.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.

Choso.

You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.

No. You’re here to get your life together.

Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.

You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.

You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.

“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”

You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”

He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”

He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.

“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.

You blink.

Because holy hell.

You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.

He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”

“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.

Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.

The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.

At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.

You like him.

It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”

The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.

Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”

Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.

You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”

“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”

He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”

You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”

When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.

“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”

You glance over. “On the porch?”

“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”

He nods once. “It shows.”

Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.

“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”

And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.

You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS

[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there

[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE “LEMON WATER” AFTER

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. it’s entertaining

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.

“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass.

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”

You blink. “Saturday?”

“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”

Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”

You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”

“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”

You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”

“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”

You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.

You swirl the ice once more.

You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.

You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.

No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.

Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.

Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.

“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.

You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.

You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.

And still, you keep looking.

Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.

You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.

“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.

You tense.

Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.

“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”

You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.

He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”

Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”

“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.

“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.

You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.

You swallow, then nod.

Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”

The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”

Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”

You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”

“…No.”

“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.

You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.

“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.

“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”

You try not to read too much into that. You fail.

You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.

You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.

You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.

He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”

You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.

“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”

He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”

Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.

“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.

He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”

You follow without thinking.

And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.

But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.

You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.

Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.

“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.

He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.

The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.

Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”

He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.

Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”

A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”

The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.

You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”

Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.

“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”

You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”

His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.

To your mouth.

He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.

His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.

You don’t.

His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.

You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.

The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

But still—he leans in closer.

Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.

He doesn’t move far.

Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.

Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”

Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”

That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”

He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”

That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”

And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.

He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.

The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.

He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”

Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”

You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.

Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.

Just barely.

You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.

You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.

The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.

Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.

You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.

Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.

“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.

He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.

[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.

You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.

[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.

[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.

You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.

The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.

You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.

And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.

The days that follow feel different.

Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.

Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.

There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.

Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.

Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—

Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.

You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.

You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.

But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.

You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”

He does.

And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.

When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”

You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.

It starts with a rumble.

The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.

You don’t.

You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.

You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”

His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.

“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”

You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.

Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.

You nod.

He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.

Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”

You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.

The silence stretches.

“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.

Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”

The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.

“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.

Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.

The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.

He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.

Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.

Maybe it’s him.

You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.

But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.

“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”

There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.

The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”

The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.

“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”

You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”

When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”

Your stomach flips.

You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.

Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”

You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”

“Still suits you.”

You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.

The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.

Then—soft.

The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.

You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:

“Glad you agreed to come.”

You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”

The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.

His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.

It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.

Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.

His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.

When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.

The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.

Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”

You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.

His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”

But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.

You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Choso—”

“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”

The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.

He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.

He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.

“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “’Til now.”

His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.

“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.

You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”

His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.

Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.

And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.

He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”

You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.

It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.

He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.

Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.

And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”

You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.

And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.

And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.

His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.

Because it’s not calm anymore.

There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.

When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.

“Almost there?”

You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.

He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.

Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.

“Good.”

He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.

Like it matters.

And it does.

“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.

“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”

He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—

And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.

You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.

When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.

His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”

You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.

“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”

He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.

You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.

Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.

You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.

You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”

His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”

Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.

He sees it all.

Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.

“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.

“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.

And then you bottom out.

Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.

And for a second, everything goes still.

Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”

His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”

Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.

He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.

“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”

“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach.

You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”

And so you do.

You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.

Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.

You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.

Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.

“Baby…”

It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.

But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.

He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.

“Choso—!”

“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”

He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.

He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.

“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”

Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.

He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.

His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.

“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”

And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.

Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”

His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He groans.

And then it happens.

In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.

He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.

His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.

“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”

One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.

“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”

His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.

You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.

You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.

“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.

“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.

His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.

“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”

And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.

Choso loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”

He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.

Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.

“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.

“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.

“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.

“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”

You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.

For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.

Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”

You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”

He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”

Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.

“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.

Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”

There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

No need to rush. Not tonight.

author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3

1K notes · View notes

strnilolover · 22 hours ago

Text

⌗ . . . YOU DON’T HATE ME

WARNINGS : STEP SIBLING TROPE. SMUT. DRY HUMPING. SPITTING KINK. BITING. LIGHT SLAPPING. TITTY SUCKING. KINDA MEAN!MATT. (pls tell me if i forgot anything).

god you hated him—hated the way he was so charming and perfect and so fucking hot.

your mom thought that this family trip would bring everyone together, but it really didn’t. you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to pick a fight with matt every chance you got, your arguing and bickering beginning to get on your moms nerves.

“can’t you two get along for one day?” she asked you mid argument, stopping whatever insult you were going to throw at him next. your head whipped in her direction, and you just crossed your arms. “well i would if he wasn’t such an ass all the time.” you snapped.

your mom glared at you, “language.” you quickly mumbled an apology. “you two go find something to do, and i want you guys to get along by the end of it.” both you and matt gave her matching glares of your own at her words.

“fine.” you grumbled, turning your back to matt as you walked off toward your shared room—which was the cherry on top of it all. you had to sleep in the same bed as his every night this trip. having to stop yourself from tracing lines along his chest while he slept—he was too tempting.

the air between you had always been…tense. ever since your parents got married, matt had made it his full-time job to pick on you—cold looks, snide comments, backhanded compliments. but he never left you alone. and no matter how much you claimed to hate him, part of you waited for the attention. craved it even. especially late at night, when the house was quiet and the only thing separating your bodies was the thinnest sheet imaginable.

matt didn’t follow you as you made your way to the room, deciding to peel off and go do his own thing, ignoring your mothers request to spend some time together. you didn’t see him again until later that night after everyone was already in bed—your pajamas were on and the blankets were pulled high over your body.

you weren’t asleep yet, you couldn’t be—not with matt’s body radiating with heat as he climbed under the blankets with you. you couldn’t help the way your body shuttered with how close he was to you.

“you’re taking up the whole damn bed.” matt muttered from behind you as if he knew you weren’t actually asleep, his voice irritated. you rolled your eyes, back still turned to him. “then sleep on the floor, tough guy.”

he laughed, and you could feel it down your spine. “right. like I’d let your bratty little ass win that easy.” and you shifted under the covers, accidentally moving to brush your bare leg against his. “watch it,” he snapped. you rolled your eyes, “you’re so dramatic,” you whispered under your breath.

he moved suddenly—rolling over, pressing his chest against your back, one heavy arm wrapping around your waist. your breath caught at the contact, your body wiggling slightly in his grasp.

“i swear to God.” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “you just love to piss me off, don’t you? always doin’ shit to rile me up on purpose.” your thighs clenched at his words—he wasn’t wrong.

“and yet you love pretending you don’t like it.” you snipped back.

he hummed, his hand moving to slowly slip under your shirt without hesitation, fingers splaying across your stomach. your brain started to short circuit, whatever snarky words you had disappearing. his touch already having you go limp for him—he’s never touched you like this before. “you walk around in those tiny shorts all week,” he growled. “picking fights with me. you knew what you were doing.”

you gasped when he pulled your hips back against him—his hard cock grinding slowly into your ass. his hand moved up to your throat under your shirt, gently gripping, just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back—your body tingling. you could feel the way your panties became soaked, the fabric sticking to your wet folds.

“you’re not gonna say a word.” he whispered, biting your earlobe. “not unless you want mom to hear her perfect little girl fucking in the guest room.” you whimpered, his words making the heat between your legs more prominent as he began rocking into you, dry humping through the thin layers of clothes. his mouth came down to meet your shoulder—teeth scraping before he bit down—leaving a mark behind on your skin when he pulled away.

“matt.” you breathed heavily, your find already fogging. a sharp sudden slap to your thigh made you cry out softly, your body jerking.

“did I say you could talk?” he spat against your ear, letting his tongue run along the lobe before nipping it. you couldn’t help but to moan into the pillow, writhing as his hand slid to your chest and cupped one of your tits, his thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardened. slowly he shifted himself, grabbing you and moving you onto your back before slotting himself over you and between your legs.

his mouth followed soon after—tugging your shirt up, lips closing over your tit, tongue licking lazily at your nipple before he sucked hard. letting his teeth nip at your now sensitive bud—the pain making you moan. it was messy and obscene, and you never wanted it to stop.

when he pulled back, spit dripped from his mouth as he stared down at you. his hips began to grind down, rubbing against your clit through the fabric of your panties. you sucked in a sharp breath, your hands coming up to grip at his shirt.

matt smirked, letting a hand come up to grab your face. “c’mon, open up for me sweetheart. you can do that yeah?” he muttered. you obeyed, dazed, your lips parting.

slowly he spat into your mouth, letting the saliva drop into your mouth before he came down and connected his lips to yours. it was heated and desperate, your mouth opening wider to let him in as his teeth nipped your lips, making you bleed slightly.

when he pulled away, his eyes were dark—lust pooled in his orbs. “be a good girl and swallow it.” he demanded.

you did—your eyes locked on his the whole time. you were both breathing heavy now, his hand now tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you again, roughly.

“i hate you,” you breathed.

“yeah?” he mocked, rocking against you faster now, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. “let’s see how true that really is, cause i think this pussy says otherwise.”

a/n : ik this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but i had to (never written something like this before either). creds to whoever has created stepbrother!matt <3

480 notes · View notes

woniwontons · 3 days ago

Text

dead end - CHAPTER THREE

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 3.7k

warnings: abuse by parent, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, brief mention of suicidal thoughts (not reader's), domestic bob, gore/bloody void, like a lot of blood & violence

chapter nav: one | two | three | four (coming soon)

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

You weren't supposed to be in Dr. Harding's office.

The door had been left ajar, just slightly. But something more than just curiosity consumed you, filling your impulses with walking inside.

"Dr. Harding?" you said quietly with a soft knock on the door.

No one.

The office was sterile, as always. White walls. Sleek silver fixtures. No personal items. No scent or warmth. Just the sound of the air vent and the soft click of the wall clock.

Then you noticed the screen on her tablet which was left open on the desk.

Still active, as if she had only stepped out for a moment.

It was a biometric scan. Heart rate, neural activity, baseline data.

The subject ID was redacted. But the image attached wasn’t.

It was you.

"What the hell is going on?" Nothing made sense anymore, but the pieces were starting to come together. This new assignment was so much more than it seemed.

Your breath caught as you leaned in slowly, squinting your eyes in disbelief. There were notes below the scan -- coded abbreviations, but none of them you were able to recognize from previous research.

And one highlighted phrase:

Subject displays high tolerance to --

"Dr. Charles! How was your conference?"

Hearing her voice down the hall nearly sent you into cardiac arrest as you scrambled away from the desk. "Shit," you whispered crudely, smoothing out your lab coat before sliding out of the office door. Rushing down the corridor towards your sleeping quarters.

And not a single human eye caught the sight of it.

You couldn't sleep at all that night.

Your stomach felt as though it were doing backflips in your gut, concave from not being able to eat all day.

You rolled over in bed for the fourth time, staring at the wall where your reflection barely showed in the dark glass. The silence was heavy. Not peaceful.

Just full.

Of things unsaid and dreams you refused to have.

You ran your fingers through your hair and sighed, pushing the blanket aside. Sleep was out of reach, but rest felt impossible too. It wasn’t just your body that was tense—it was your mind. Your thoughts. That strange hum behind your ribs you’d started to recognize as something other than your own.

Eventually, you gave in.

You padded barefoot to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water fill the room with fog. The sound drowned out the silence in your head for a little while.

You stepped in and stood still beneath the stream for a long time, letting it sting your shoulders. When you finally reached for the shampoo, your hands shook slightly.

As water ran down your scalp and face, something that had seeped in under your skin. The scent of your body wash filled the space, eucalyptus and chamomile. It should have been comforting. But the heat on your scalp only made you feel more aware of yourself. Of your body. Of the fact that you didn't feel alone, even when you were.

When you stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around you, the mirror was already fogged.

You wiped your palm across the glass.

And then, just for a moment, you saw it.

A reflection that wasn’t yours.

It flickered at the edge of the mirror—his shape. His shadow. Gold eyes where yours should have been.

You blinked, and it was gone. But your skin was still cold where he’d touched your arm in that attic dream.

You looked down. Nothing there.

No bruises. No marks.

But you felt it.

The presence.

Your hands shakily reached out for the knob of your sink, glancing down as you shut it.

c o m e t o m e

The letter spelled out on the mirror in cast shadows had struck you motionless. You stood frozen, your breath catching sharp in your throat. The room suddenly felt colder, like the air had been pulled out and replaced with something heavier. Thicker. Pressed close to your skin.

You stepped forward slowly, unsure why. Instinct told you to back away. Logic screamed to dismiss it as a stress hallucination.

But part of you didn’t want to.

Part of you was listening.

You reached out and pressed your fingertips to the glass. The words didn’t smear. Didn’t fog.

They just stared back at you.

You blinked. It was gone.

A hard swallow makes its way down your throat. "Leave me alone, let me sleep," you begged, "I can't handle this forever."

You jerked your hand back and turned away from the mirror, suddenly aware of how alone you were. How watched.

You tried to breathe evenly, to quiet the rising panic.

You didn’t look back. After drying your hands and turning off the light, you walked out of the bathroom like you hadn’t just seen a ghost.

Hunger hit you again, plaguing you for your decision to skip dinner that night. A sigh of resignation escaped you as you slid your clothing and slippers on. Any leftover fruits inside the cafeteria kitchens would have to suffice for tonight.

Peaking side to side in the dimly lit hallway outside your door, heart still racing from your recent encounter, you quietly closed your door behind you.

The hallways were still, lit only by the pale emergency lights that hung overhead. You hadn’t planned on leaving your sleeping quarters, but the pangs of hunger wouldn't settle long enough to be able to sleep.

However, you hadn't expected the kitchen lights to be on. You half expected to grab something from the leftover tray and leave unnoticed.

You paused just inside the doorway, head tilting.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration, stood Bob.

A pan sizzled in front of him, and a bag of sliced cheese sat half-opened on the counter. You watched as he meticulously layered a slice of cheddar over the bread already crisping in butter.

It was so disarming to watch him outside of his normal environment of doom and gloom. To see him at such peace all alone.

"I guess we're all trespassing today?” you called softly.

Bob startled, nearly dropping his spatula before turning quickly in your direction. He blinked at you, caught mid-sandwich flip.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied after a beat, voice low and warm. “Late-night for you?”

“Just starving,” you shrugged. “Didn’t know you were an overnight chef.”

He gestured toward the stove. "Well you get really good at making greasy food when you've worked at every fast food chain that'd hire you."

You walked up to the counter and leaned on it. “That smells really good though."

He smiled at you sheepishly, and your heart melted a bit at how sweet it looked when that smile was for you. “I can make another.”

You raised a brow. “You offering?”

He was already reaching for more bread. “Well since you've made the idea so tempting...”

You sat on a stool across from him, arms resting on the counter. “So this is your rebellious streak? Ditching security to make grilled cheeses at midnight?”

Bob glanced at the door, then back at you. “They won’t find me for another five minutes. I timed it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Seriously?”

“I’ve been testing their rounds for weeks. Figured out the weak spot on Thursdays.” He gave you a little shrug. “Sometimes I just want to feel normal. Get hungry. Make something. Sit somewhere that doesn’t beep at me."

Your smile faded at the edges, softened by the truth in his voice.

“You do this often?”

“Only when I can’t sleep.” He finished buttering your sandwich and dropped it into the pan beside his. “Which is most nights.”

You wondered where else he snuck off to at night.

You quietly watched him cook with your chin in your hand, leaned against the counter with your elbow. He took his time despite making something so simple, making sure he buttered both sides. Sprinkled parmesan over the top for an extra crisp. It struck then you how much of his life must have been spent feeling watched. Or worse, restrained.

He slid your sandwich onto a plate and set it in front of you with a proud smile.

“Try it. I dare you to say it’s not the best grilled cheese you've eaten past bedtime.”

You took a bite.

It was the best grilled cheese you've probably ever had.

He waited, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” you said through a mouthful, “I hate to admit it, but your sneaky midnight grilled cheese is really good."

He grinned and took a bite of his own, mumbling, “At least you know why I go through so much effort to come down here.”

You both ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the kind that doesn’t need filling. You glanced at him between bites, watching how he smiled after each mouthful, how he seemed so… human right now.

No glowing eyes. No flickering hands. No Void.

Just a guy, maybe a friend sitting across from you. You couldn't imagine how scared you were of him before when you felt so weirdly close to him now.

“What’s it like?” you asked gently. “Being in control one minute… and not the next?”

He raised his eyebrow at you questionably before you realized your mistake.

"Off the record, of course. No clipboard, see?" you explained quickly, holding up your free hand as you took another bite of your sandwich.

Bob set his sandwich down slowly, eyes on the plate.

“Like I’m renting space in my own head,” he said. “Most days, I can push him into the corner. Pretend he’s not there. But he’s always listening. Always waiting. And when people look at me, I can tell they’re waiting for him appear too."

You didn’t respond right away.

“I don’t think that’s what I see anymore,” you said quietly.

Bob looked up at you through his lashes, confused and surprised at once. It made you feel warm and guilty all at once.

"I like the guy in front of me, Bob seems like a really cool person."

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak at first. Then, softly, “Thank you.”

You both fell silent again, this time heavier. Not awkward, just full.

He didn’t finish his sandwich.

Just left the last bite on the plate as footsteps echoed in the hallways behind him. When the cafeteria doors hissed open behind you, neither of you moved right away.

Two security agents entered, frowning the moment they spotted him.

“Mr. Reynolds,” one said firmly. “Time to return.”

Bob sighed and stood, brushing the crumbs off his hands. “Knew I was cutting it close.”

He looked at you as he turned to leave. "It was nice talking to you, off the record."

You gave him a smile, even if it wobbled a little. “Make me another grilled cheese sometime.”

His grin was soft, and this time, sad. “I can arrange that. Thank you for coming and joining me."

He left quietly, flanked by his silent escort.

You sat alone at the counter, staring down at the half-eaten sandwich he left behind.

That single, untouched corner.

And something in your chest twisted with guilt and something deeper.

You didn’t know what scared you more:

The Void that became him and haunted your dreams.

Or the good patient you found yourself so attracted to.

You didn't have any dreams that night.

ANONYMOUS POV

Transcript Log | INTERNAL FILE [REDACTED] Access Level: TOP SECRET - NEED TO KNOW Date: [REDACTED] Location: Off-site - Audio Transcript Only

Scientist 1: The subject isn’t reporting ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 2: ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇. ▇▇▇▇ to display ▇▇▇ signs ▇▇ disobedience as ▇▇ others.

Scientist 1: Then she’s further along than expected. We haven’t even introduced ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇t yet.

Scientist 2: ▇▇ ▇oid’s adapting. Faster than the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇ model projected.

Scientist 1: That’s not supposed to be possible. It’s not supposed to form preference.

Scientist 2: Then explain the new side effect.

Scientist 2: “Come to me.” We wouldn't be able to see it if it was her hallucination. It was spatially reactive. Infrared resonance picked it up for six seconds before it dissipated.

Scientist 1: …It’s communicating directly in reality?

Scientist 2: Or claiming ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 1: Then we’re running out of time. If Reynolds becomes aware of the ▇▇▇▇, or worse, ▇▇▇▇ finds out. The whole operation is blown.

Scientist 2: We'll shut it down soon.

Scientist 1: Meaning her?

Scientist 2: ▇▇▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 1: ▇▇ ▇▇ think ▇▇ the ▇▇▇▇?

Scientist 1: ▇▇ her ▇▇▇. But initiate passive ▇▇ testing.

Scientist 2: Copy. We’ll see how far she can get before we inevitably have to find a replacement again.

End of File

Dr. Harding was already waiting for you when you entered the hallway outside the therapy wing.

Her posture was perfectly composed, one hand gripping a tablet, the other loosely tapping a pen against her palm. She smiled when she saw you, but there was no warmth in it. Just courtesy.

“Morning,” she said. “You slept well?”

You nodded automatically, though you weren’t sure if you had. Your dreamless nights felt emptier now, instead of the relief you should feel. Something about your nights had become harder to measure.

Harding didn’t wait for an answer anyway. She clicked something on her screen and walked ahead, expecting you to follow.

But halfway to the session room, she slowed—just a little—and said:

“If you start to feel... weird, I want you to say something.”

You frowned. “Weird?”

Harding glanced at you from over her shoulder, eyes cool. “Cognitively. Emotionally. Things can blur when we’re in long-term exposure to unknown powers, especially with patients like Reynolds.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You think I’m going to get effected by his presence?"

She stopped, turned. “Not yet.”

“But everyone reaches their threshold eventually.”

She smiled again, as if she hadn’t just implied the strangest thing.

Then she turned and keyed the door open without another word.

Bob was already seated on the mat.

His eyes lifted as you entered, immediately landing on you, not looking in Harding's direction. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away either. You followed Harding to the observation chair and sat, clipboard in hand, pen uncapped but still.

Bob’s hands rested on his knees, eyes neutral as Harding began the session with her usual line of sterile questioning.

“Any changes in suicidal ideation?” “Any intrusive thoughts or impulses?”

Bob answered calmly, giving the perfect answer for each one.

You wrote the words down, but they felt less real than the pen in your hand.

When Harding asked a follow-up question about emotional suppression, Bob didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at you again, quietly. Like he wanted to say something else.

And then Harding’s comm buzzed at her hip.

She huffed, checked it, and stood.

“Emergency from the upper psych wing,” she muttered. “I’ll be back shortly.”

And then she was gone.

The door sealed behind her with a sound that echoed.

Bob’s shoulders dropped almost instantly. A breath left him like a valve finally released. “She always make people feel like they're being dissected alive?” he asked.

You gave a faint, knowing smile. “Something like that.”

Bob stretched his legs out slightly, his posture loosening into something more natural. Still guarded, but no longer braced for impact.

“I don’t think she likes when I talk too much,” he added.

You hesitated, then asked: “Has she always been your lead psychologist?”

“Yes and no,” he said, eyes drifting upward to the mirror on the far wall. “I would see her before, but I had a rotation of different psychologist. But after the last assistant left, it's just Harding now.”

That made you pause. “Left?”

Bob glanced at you. “There were a few before you, but they didn’t last long,” he continued. “The last one, she actually started getting sick. Headaches, panic attacks, you name it. Like her brain was shutting itself off."

You didn’t speak. Your fingers twitched against the edge of your clipboard.

“They said it was stress. Too much exposure to the shadows, from before I could control it better.” He tilted his head. “I didn't think she was that afraid of me though. All the assistants before her had similar symptoms, but nothing nearly as bad.”

Your throat felt dry. Images of your face on Harding's tablet flashed in your mind as you started to think paranoid thoughts.

Bob looked at you, eyes darker than before. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

You shook your head. Slowly.

“That's good,” he said, "the last thing I'd ever want is to hurt someone else again. Especially you."

The stillness inside you was too heavy to push back. "I don't think you're the one causing it," you whispered, so quietly you barely exhausted an entire breath.

Bob leaned forward slightly. “Who else could be causing it?"

You raised your finger to your lips, urging him to be quieter. Glancing at the observation room to ensure it was empty.

Bob’s expression changed, something knowing, something careful.

“You think they’re doing this on purpose?” he whispered.

You couldn’t breathe for a moment, but you nodded your head, pretending to write down notes for the camera. Your pen scratched softly across the page. You weren’t writing words. Just shapes.

Circles.

"I don't know exact what's going on, but I know I'm the subject of some kind of test they're running. I saw it on Harding's tablet," you revealed, wringing your hands together in stress.

Bob's face darkened with confusion and annoyance. "What?"

A short laugh escaped you as you adjusted on your seat, throwing you ankle over the other. "I can't believe I'm even telling you this, but I think you're the only person I trust right now."

"The others have to know something, you should speak to Bucky or Yelena, they'll tell you the truth," he said earnestly, "I just can't believe they didn't tell me if they do know."

You nodded before checking your tablet, faking the responses to the questions you were supposed to ask him.

Shadows flickered on around Bob's seated figure and his fingertips as he sat in contemplation, wondering where everything went wrong. Wishing he had met such a beautiful, kind person in different circumstances than this one.

But in his presence, everything always went wrong.

"Bob?"

He settled, looking up at you. "Yes?"

"Thank you for talking with me, but we should wrap this up before someone notices how much time has passed."

"Anything for a friend."

In Your Nightmares

You were running, but the hallway wouldn’t end.

Steel walls. Fluorescent lights overhead, flickering like dying stars. Every door you passed was marked with your name. Over and over again:

SUBJECT: Y/L/N STATUS: FAILURE IMMINENT

You tried to scream but sound wouldn't escape from your mouth. All you could hear was the thoughts inside your own head crying out for help. You didn't even know what you were running from, only that it wasn’t very far behind.

Each door you had tried was locked, twisting just a centimeter before clicking in resistance as you dragged the skin of your palm around the knob.

The floor shifted then.

You fell—hard—into a room that wasn’t there a moment ago. The tiles turned to concrete. Wet. Dark. Sticky with blood. You scrambled to your feet, but your hand slipped in something warm. A sound echoed through the space—something like wet breathing. Something like chewing.

And then you saw it.

Yourself.

Not a mirror image, a second you in the room. Face slashed with tears, skin gray and twitching. She wore your clothes, but they were soaked in black. Her mouth opened too wide, face sunken in too deeply.

She lunged at you with impossible speed.

You fought back on instinct, elbowing her face, feeling bone crunch beneath your palm. Blood splattered your arms. Her fingers clawed at your face, your throat, her eyes wide and weeping as she screamed in your own voice.

"Please, please," she cried in agony, attempting her best to overpower your resistance.

You slammed her to the ground, but she twisted with monstrous strength, flipping you onto your back. Concrete met your skull with a thunderclap.

CRACK.

Your vision exploded in white.

You tasted blood as your head opened to a splitting ache.

She grabbed your hair at the root, squeezing tightly as she slammed your head down again.

CRACK.

Again.

CRACK.

Again. Again. Again.

Your scream tore free, raw and useless. It was all you could think or hear was to wail in pain. You felt the warmth of it spilling from your nose, your mouth, your ears. Your elbows slipping in the gore pooling beneath you each time you attempted to push back.

And just as your fingers lost their strength, just as the edges of your mind began to slip, he appeared as your second self stopped.

He emerged from the wall behind your double, blacker than anything your eyes could process. As if it was so dark, it could not reflect any light. Gold eyes gleamed like lit oil beneath water, searing into your bones as his presence pulled the air from your lungs.

Your copy stilled, her last look as hollow stare, then crumbled.

Her body peeled away like smoke, revealing you. Just you. Broken. Drenched in blood.

You lay there, staring up at him, ribs heaving. Vision swimming and your lids dipping slowly.

He crouched beside you, head tilted with something like admiration.

“I am the inevitable horrid truth of everything, little one,” he said, voice silk and rot at once. “I am where everything goes to die, I am the end of all lies.”

His fingers brushed your jaw. Gentle. Reverent. “It’s no wonder I scare you so…” His mouth moved closer to your ear, gold eyes never blinking, “little lying goddess mine.”

You whimpered, barely conscious.

Coming to a kneel, his bloodied finger tips continued past your jaw until it touched the side of your neck. His hand pushed lightly onto your throat until the connection between his pointer and thumb hit your esophagus. "Perfect," he whispered, caressing smeared stains of blood down the length of your throat with the gentle pad of his thumb.

You couldn't summon the strength to move or speak.

Blink. Open. Blink. Open.

Then he smiled, "Wake up."

Blink. Closed.

This slow burn train is starting to pick up speed here, huh? This chapter was hard to write for me, but it was necessary for what is about to hit the fan in the next chapter. I hope you all enjoyed how this one ended, a little twisted but sweet.

Also, I must give credit here! The quote said by The Void in this chapter: "I am the inevitable horrid truth of everything, little one. I am where everything goes to die. I am the end of all lies." This quote is one written in the comics for Sentry, and something that really inspired the vision for this chapter's ending! The quote can be found in "Doctor Strange Vol 1 #385" written by Donny Cates.

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on chapter 1 or 2, don't worry because i've already added you :)

link to chapter four (coming soon)

321 notes · View notes

luna-azzurra · 2 days ago

Text

Enemies to Lovers (School Edition) Prompts

Detention Buddies From Hell (and Then... Not) ╰ Two students who cannot stand each other keep getting thrown into detention together. At first, it’s a war of eye-rolls and sarcastic muttering. But somewhere between graffiti cleaning and awkward silences, they start asking real questions. Like, “Why do you hate everyone?” and “Do you always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

Battle of the Group Projects ╰ They’ve been paired for a semester-long project. One’s a perfectionist who color-codes everything, the other’s a chaotic last-minute miracle worker. They clash. Hard. But during one all-nighter in the school library, they crack each other’s armor, and maybe laugh a little too long at each other’s jokes.

Hall Monitor vs. Chronic Rule-Breaker ╰ She takes her job way too seriously. He thinks rules are made to be creatively misinterpreted. He keeps getting caught. She keeps giving warnings instead of writing him up. And somewhere along the way, she starts waiting to catch him. And he starts hoping she will.

The Class President Debate Disaster ╰ They're both running for student body president. Both ambitious, sharp-tongued, and petty as hell. It starts with sabotage and anonymous posters. It ends with late-night texting about policy ideas and almost kissing in the janitor's closet after a heated debate.

Rival Babysitters Club (Yes, really) ╰ They both run babysitting gigs in the same neighborhood. Competition is fierce. Then they’re both hired by the same family for twins. Now they have to work together without murdering each other... while also baking dinosaur cupcakes and reading bedtime stories. They’re still arguing, but now it's while sharing Goldfish crackers.

Secret Pen Pals (With a Twist) ╰ Their teacher assigns anonymous weekly letters between students. They're supposed to “foster kindness and trust.” What it fosters is a connection that grows deeper each week. Neither knows they’re actually writing to the person they argue with constantly in class. Oh no. Oh yes.

Library Feud ╰ There’s only one free desk in the library, and they both claim it like clockwork. It starts with passive-aggressive note-leaving. Then competitive study playlists. Then “accidentally” sitting together during finals. Quiet enemies, quiet flirting, soft romance.

The Lab Partner From Hell ╰ They’re paired in chemistry. He’s lazy but brilliant. She’s organized but stressed. He teases. She glares. But somewhere between setting things on fire and saving each other from academic ruin, there’s a weird tension. And she’s not sure if the butterflies are from the Bunsen burner or him.

Theater Kids in a Love/Hate Spiral ╰ They both audition for the same lead. They both get it, because the director loves chaos. Cue over-the-top drama, stage fights that feel too real, and way too much time blocking scenes that require holding hands. And maybe... maybe they like it.

Enemies in the Comments Section ╰ They’re in the school’s digital journalism club. Both write opinion pieces. They always tear each other apart in anonymous comments. Turns out, they’re both also the last two at every meeting, working late and laughing a little too easily. Plot twist: they’ve been falling for each other offline while fighting online the whole time.

272 notes · View notes

bucketsorbueckers · 2 days ago

Text

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 1

Paige x Azzi

Warnings: language, alcohol

Dual POV - 3.3K words

A/N: literally no idea what I’m doing. Back on this godforsaken site because women’s basketball has completely taken over my brain. This is my first pazzi fanfic ever and mostly just me trying to keep my mind busy before it short-circuits. Probably some grammar mistakes bc i cant read my own writing half the time. It’s all angst and yearning and that cursed feeling when your first love is also your best friend. Would love to know what you think <3

Summary: Azzi Fudd loved Paige Bueckers in the quiet moments—off the court, in the dark, when no one else was looking.

But loving someone the world adores is its own kind of loneliness.

Now, with a new season looming and history heavy between them, Azzi is learning: some people aren’t hard to love...just impossible to hold onto.

Paige’s POV

There was a particular kind of loneliness that came from standing in a room full of people who thought they knew you. Paige had grown used to being watched. The stares. The whispers. The phones held just low enough to seem subtle. But there was one gaze she couldn’t feel anymore. And somehow, that was the one that hurt.

Because in the blur of lights and music and bodies pressed too close, not feeling her eyes felt like its own kind of punishment. Like absence had weight. Like silence could bruise.

She shoved the screen door open with the heel of her hand. The night air hit her sharp and cold, far too bitter for September. It cut against her damp skin, made her flinch. She inhaled through her nose, slow and tight, trying to dislodge the pressure blooming beneath her ribs. That familiar, nameless weight she only ever felt around her.

There wasn’t a word for it. Just a hollow ache that stretched too wide. She hated it. Hated how it filled her chest, her lungs, her tired limbs—how it bled into every part of her until she wasn’t sure where she ended and the feeling began.

She pressed a palm flat against her chest and rubbed, hard, like she could scrape it loose. Force it out. But it stayed rooted. And when she closed her eyes, she wasn’t sure if she was holding herself together or holding something back.

“Paige?”

She flinched, eyes snapping open as she glanced over her shoulder. Nika stood on the porch, concern written all over her.

“It’s cold, Nika. Go back inside. I’m alright.”

She knew Nika wouldn’t listen, but still figured the lie was worth the breath it bought. Footsteps whispered over the brittle grass behind her. Nika joined her in the dark, arms folded tight against the cold.

Paige sighed and slipped off her jacket, draping it over Nika’s shoulders without a word.

“Told you to bring a jacket.”

“Always so chivalrous,” Nika murmured, a ghost of a smile in her voice.

Paige just shrugged and tilted her head back, eyes tracing constellations she didn’t know the names of.

The sky in Storrs always seemed a little louder. Stars so bright they looked like they might shake loose and fall. She tried to anchor herself in that—tried to let the sharp pinpricks of light distract her from the heat crawling up her throat, the ache coiled tight and unwelcome.

“We gonna talk about it,” Nika asked gently, “or just stand out here and stargaze?”

“Not shit to say,” Paige muttered, eyes never leaving the sky.

“You always have something to say.”

“Yeah, well,” Her voice was slightly thick and she sucked in a breath to control it. “Not about this.”

Nika just nodded, leaning into her, warm where their arms touched, and blessedly quiet. She didn’t push, didn’t pry and Paige loved her for that.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, silent and shivering, but eventually Paige let out a slow, shaky breath and turned to her.

“Back inside?”

“God, thank you,” Nika squeaked, already grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door. “You need a drink.”

Maybe she did. But Paige had kept her distance from the bottles tonight. She wasn’t the kind of drunk who cried or screamed—she was the kind who laughed too loudly, leaned in too close, and let her secrets slip through a smile. Affectionate. Messy. A little too honest for her own good.

A terrible thing to be when you’re in love with your best friend. Or ex-best friend. Paige wasn’t sure what category Azzi Fudd fell into anymore. There wasn’t a word for it. Just a lingering ache and the way her name still tasted like something sacred and sharp on Paige’s tongue.

As she stepped through the door, the noise of the party crashed back over her. Bright lights, pounding bass, bursts of laughter that felt a little too sharp. Paige blinked, trying to adjust, to armor up again.

Nika didn’t give her time. She kept hold of Paige’s wrist and pulled her through the tide of bodies. People called out to her—hellos, shot offers, phones flashing up for pictures—but the words barely landed. Paige kept her gaze locked on the swing of Nika’s dark, glossy hair as she moved forward.

The kitchen gave them a sliver of breathing room. The music thudded through the walls, but it was quieter here, relatively speaking. Nika didn’t miss a beat, pressing a plastic cup into her hand like it was gospel.

“Drink.”

Paige looked down. The liquid inside was an aggressively unnatural color, and it smelled like bad decisions and lighter fluid.

“Drink, Bueckers. Or I’ll finish it off for you.”

That did it. Nika knew her too well. Paige might not have wanted it, but the idea of someone else drinking it—of Nika drinking it—was somehow worse. She tipped the cup back and winced as it hit her throat, bitter and burning. She coughed once, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

“Tastes like regret,” she rasped.

Nika just grinned. “That’s how you know it’s working.”

Paige leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the chaos. The room was packed—too many bodies crammed into too small a space. Lights flickered, smoke curled in the corners, and every voice bled into the thud of the bass. It was all blur and static.

But still, somehow, she found her.

Dark curls were piled on top of her head like some chaotic masterpiece, two strands left loose in that way that felt accidental but probably wasn’t. Her lips were full, pink, stretched into a smile too wide for her delicate features but it worked. God, it worked.

Her brown eyes lit up as she looked at the guy beside her, one hand resting casually on his arm like it meant nothing. Like she hadn’t once touched Paige that way. Like Paige didn’t still remember the exact weight of that hand, and what it felt like to be the center of her gaze.

Azzi Fudd was the kind of beautiful that left wreckage in its wake. The kind that rewrote gravity…pulled you in, tore you apart, and expected you to thank her for the privilege.

She was Paige’s ruin. And this—this cruel ritual of watching from the sidelines, of biting her tongue and feigning disinterest—was purgatory. A slow bleed. A soft unraveling.

Because how do you survive the thing that made you feel infinite, when it no longer looks your way? Azzi had once set her world on fire. Now Paige stood in the ash, smiling like it didn’t still burn.

Only lately, the smile was slipping. She wasn’t pulling off detached, or effortless, or even remotely okay. She wasn’t the cool, unbothered ex–best–something she wanted to be. She was a trainwreck. Messy. Obvious. Loud in all the ways she didn’t want to be. Undone. And trying like hell not to fall apart where Azzi might see.

To her left, Nika pressed another cup into her hand. Paige didn’t bother checking what was in it this time. Not when Azzi had just laughed, really laughed, at something he said. The guy who, by all appearances, had taken her place.

So Paige tipped the cup back without thinking. Let the liquor scorch its way down her throat, sharp and mean. She welcomed the burn. It was something besides the hollow ache that had settled in her chest and decided to stay.

Azzi’s POV

Cam, by all reasonable measures, was handsome. Easy smile. Kind eyes. The kind of guy who asked if she needed anything before wandering off for drinks, who touched her lower back like it was second nature—not a performance.

It was fine. Safe. Which was exactly why Azzi let him stand there.

She laughed at something he said. Not because it was all that funny, but because it filled the space. Because silence, lately, made too much room for thoughts she didn’t need to entertain. Like the fact that Paige was here. And probably hadn’t even noticed her.

Not that it mattered. Paige hadn’t looked at her in weeks. Not during practice. Not in the hallways. Not once—not really.

Azzi had already tried. She’d waited in doorways, lingered after lifts, sent the texts that went unanswered. She’d left the door cracked open, just wide enough for Paige to step through. And maybe, stupidly, she’d hoped she would. But Paige didn’t chase her. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t fight.

So Azzi took the silence for what it was: an answer. Whatever they were…whatever that had been, it was over.

She leaned a little closer to Cam, let her smile stretch wider than it felt, and pretended her heart hadn’t made its choice a long time ago.

Somewhere across the room, someone screamed. Sharp, high-pitched, probably from a game or a spilled drink, but it still made Azzi jump. Her eyes cut instinctively toward the noise, scanning the chaos.

She didn’t find the source. But she did find Paige.

Leaning against the counter like she wasn’t the most magnetic thing in the room. Solo cup in hand. Hair pulled back. Black pants slung low on her hips, just enough to reveal the soft slice of skin above her waistband. Azzi’s breath hitched before she could stop it.

People surrounded her, drawn in like always—smiling, laughing, hanging onto every word as she told some story Azzi couldn’t hear from across the room. Paige talked with her hands, animated and alive, fingers slicing the air like punctuation.

She could never sit still. Never stay still. Even now, holding court in the middle of a crowd, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, rolled her shoulders, tucked a strand of hair that wasn’t even loose. Restless in a way that made her electric.

Azzi watched, arms folded tight across her chest, trying not to stare.

Cam said something, and Azzi flinched, like she'd been caught peeking through a door she had no business opening. Which, in a way, she had.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck like she could scrub away the guilt. “What'd you say? It’s too loud in here.”

“I asked if you wanna get out of here.”

She blinked. Yes. Of course she did. That was the whole point of being here with someone like Cam. Someone steady, easy, uncomplicated.

And Paige was here, which made her want to leave. To breathe. To stop feeling everything all at once.

But Paige was also here. Which made it impossible to walk away.

Her eyes darted back across the room and she watched Paige throw back a shot. Paige didn’t really struggle to handle her alcohol but seeing her drinking so much still made Azzi nervous. She bounced lightly on her toes, restless, trying to figure out what to do with the feeling clawing up her spine.

“Can we stay a little longer?” she asked, turning to Cam. “Season’s coming up, and I have no idea how many more nights I’ll actually get to feel normal before it takes over my life.”

Cam smiled and Azzi relaxed slightly. He was everything she should want. Easy, dependable, kind. Paige had never been any of those things. Paige had been wildfire. Chaos wrapped in charm. And Azzi had been the fool who'd run straight into the flames, not thinking twice about how badly fire burned.

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “But I think we’ll both need another drink to survive it.”

She grinned because he wasn’t wrong. He was steady, warm, uncomplicated. Exactly what she’d told herself she needed.

She watched him disappear toward the kitchen.

But Paige Bueckers’ fucking gravitational pull should be studied, because no matter how hard she tried to look anywhere else, her gaze was always dragged right back to her.

The blonde ringmaster in the center of it all.

Azzi watched her scan the room, watched her eyes land on Cam. Watched them drag down his body in that slow, assessing way. Watched the way her mouth curled into something smug and sharp. A smirk Azzi knew too well.

Then—God—those blue eyes shifted.

And locked onto hers.

The world shrank. Just a pindrop of existence now. Her. And Paige.

The room didn’t fall silent so much as it paused, like even the universe was holding its breath, waiting to see what she’d do. What they would do.

It was maddening, the way one look from Paige could still upend everything. Like Azzi had spent all this time laying brick after careful brick, building walls tall enough to forget her only for a single glance to blow the whole thing wide open.

She didn’t move. Neither did Paige. And for a moment that felt too long and not long enough, they stayed like that—frozen, suspended in whatever fragile thread still tethered them together. Like the world had cracked open just wide enough for this one impossible beat of stillness.

Then, someone tugged at Paige’s arm, and just like that, the thread snapped. Frayed by the outside world, like it always was. At that exact moment, Cam reappeared at Azzi’s side.

“For you,” he said with a mock bow, holding out her drink like it was an offering.

It was adorable. The way his voice caught just slightly, the way he’d taken the time to find a cherry to drop in, just because he knew she liked them. He looked at her like she was gravity. Like she hung the moon. The way she used to look at Paige.

She shook her head, like she could rattle the thought loose—like she could shake Paige out of her bloodstream just by trying hard enough. Then she took the cup, smiled like it didn’t ache, and tipped it back with a long, burning sip.

When she leaned into Cam, it wasn’t for warmth. It was for distance. Across the room, Paige was already looking somewhere else.

And Azzi told herself that was a good thing. That it meant she was finally free. That it didn’t still feel like losing something sacred. She told herself all of that. And she almost believed it.

The party carried on around her—music pulsing, laughter echoing, the scent of something burnt wafting from the kitchen—but Azzi just sipped her drink and let Cam’s voice fill the space between thoughts she didn’t want to entertain.

He was mid-story about one of his teammates’ latest escapades, face animated as he tried to reenact the moment Tim had somehow ended up locked overnight in the stadium bathroom. Azzi giggled, genuinely, when he mimed the panic.

“Az!” She blinked, pulled from the easy rhythm of Cam’s story, and turned to see Jana waving her over, grinning like she knew exactly what she was interrupting. “Team picture, lovebird.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at her lips.

She turned back to Cam.

“Let me hold your drink, superstar,” he said with a wink, already reaching for her cup.

She handed it over with a quiet, grateful smile and slipped her fingers into Jana’s outstretched hand.

Azzi let Jana tug her through the crowd, weaving past solo cups and sticky floors until they reached the cluster of girls already forming near the banner wall. Someone had strung up a makeshift sign that read UCONN, BABY in crooked silver letters.

“Alright, squeeze in,” someone called—probably A, based on the height and authority in her voice.

Azzi slid into place between Jana and Aubrey, laughing as someone elbowed her from behind. Everyone was loud and a little too tipsy and giggly to really get organized, but they gave it their best effort—arms draped, cheeks flushed, someone trying to shush the group and failing miserably.

“Wait, we’re missing—”

Before she could register the rest of the sentence, Paige appeared at the edge of the group.

“Well, glad to see no one waited for me.”

The voice was unmistakable. Light, cocky, soaked in that trademark Paige bravado that made people laugh before they even registered the joke.

“Your ego could use the hit, Bueckers,” Nika called out, and the group broke into laughter.

Azzi didn’t.

Instead, she turned, eyes locking on the source like they always did. Paige stood just a few feet away, solo cup in hand, hair a little messy in the best kind of way.

And she was smiling. Not the polite kind. Not the camera-ready kind. The real one. The lopsided one that always looked a little too wide for her face, like she wasn’t used to joy taking up that much room.

Paige’s eyes swept over them, pausing just a second too long on the space beside Azzi before skimming past her like she wasn’t even there.

“Okay, you’re taking too long,” Jana huffed, rolling her eyes before grabbing Paige’s arm and dragging her into the narrow gap.

She shoved her into place—right beside Azzi. “There.”

Their shoulders collided. Not a brush. Not a graze. Collided. Paige’s skin was warm and Azzi felt the contact like static under her ribs. Elbow to elbow. Hip to hip. She stiffened. Paige didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to notice.

The camera was already counting down—someone shouting “three!” like this was all just a fun, forgettable night—but Azzi couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Paige stayed still beside her, perfectly composed, like they weren’t even touching. Like they hadn’t once fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder, hadn’t whispered secrets into the hollow dark between practices and regret.

Azzi forced her face into something passable. A smile that didn’t quite reach. But she couldn’t focus. She could feel Paige breathing beside her—slow, steady, maddeningly unbothered. And she hated herself for wanting to look. Just a glance. Just enough to see if Paige was faking it too.

So she tilted her head. Just slightly. Just enough to catch a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. To see if Paige’s jaw was tight. If her hands were clenched like she knew they did when she was stressed. White knuckled and skin pulled tight.

And that was when the flash went off.

Moments later, Ice was already scrolling through the burst shots, holding the phone too close to her face.

“Okay, this one’s actually good,” she said. “No one’s blinking...oh wait. Azzi.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

Ice flipped the phone around. Everyone else was looking at the camera, grinning or laughing or holding up peace signs. And there she was, not looking at the camera. Not even close.

“Where were you even looking, Fudd?” someone laughed.

The group cracked up, tossing around a few harmless jabs. Azzi forced a smile. Tried to play along.

But she couldn’t stop looking at Paige who hadn’t taken her eyes off the photo. Not once. Paige’s gaze was narrowed slightly—studying, focused. Like she was seeing more than just a team picture.

Then, without warning, her eyes flicked to Azzi. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Azzi’s heart shot into her throat, breath caught somewhere behind it. She almost stepped back, like the look had physically hit her.

And then Paige turned. Not back to the phone. To Nika. Who didn’t say anything. Just looked at Paige with an expression Azzi couldn’t quite read. Something careful. Knowing. Maybe even tired.

They stayed like that for a heartbeat too long. And then Nika nodded, subtle and sure, like they’d reached some silent agreement. She touched Paige’s arm and turned, ushering her away.

The sea of people seemed to part without effort. Without question. Parting for Paige. Like they always did.

She didn’t push, didn’t ask—just moved, and the world rearranged itself to make space.

And Azzi—who once knew the sound of her laugh in the dark, who once held pieces of Paige no one else even knew existed—stood frozen, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Just another wave drawn to Paige Bueckers without question, only to break against a shore she never meant to offer

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #azzi x paige

230 notes · View notes

writeriguess · 1 day ago

Note

hey! Your post are great and made me think..... what's about a bakugou x y/n where they are cuddling in his dorms room and stuff and they are at a point in their relationship where he is SUPER inlove with her, and he is resting his head on her chest like a pillow and he starts to think about them (doing it) so he asks her and she's like.. "but babe.. I'm not really ready...uhh" and of course he goes with it and cuddles her more after. ☺️😗😫

Safe in Your Arms

The dorm room is dimly lit, a soft orange glow spilling from the lamp on Bakugou's desk. The air is warm, thick with the scent of his body wash and the faintest hint of caramel from the candle you’d convinced him to buy. It’s quiet—just the occasional hum of the heater and the distant voices of other students walking the halls.

You’re lying on his bed, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his back. Bakugou has his head resting on your chest, his arms snug around your waist, holding you as close as possible. His breathing is slow, steady, completely relaxed in a way that he only ever is with you.

His messy blonde hair tickles your skin as he shifts, burrowing his face further into you with a soft grunt. You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he lets out a quiet sigh at your touch. This side of him—the soft, needy, hopelessly in love side—is something only you get to see.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just exist together, tangled up in warmth and comfort.

But then, you feel the way his grip tightens slightly on your waist, the way his fingers twitch against your skin like he’s hesitating, contemplating something.

“…Hey,” his voice is a low murmur, slightly raspy from not talking for a while.

You hum in response, letting your fingers continue their slow path through his hair.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Have you… ever thought about us… y’know… doin’ it?”

Your fingers still for a fraction of a second before you blink down at him. He’s still resting against your chest, but his face is turned away from you, and you can see the way his ears have turned a light shade of pink.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Oh.”

He huffs. “I mean, we’ve been together for a while now, and—” He stops himself, groaning. “Shit, I sound like a fuckin’ idiot.”

You shake your head quickly, though he can’t see it. “No, no, you don’t.” You swallow, suddenly feeling nervous. “It’s just… I don’t know, Katsuki. I’m… not really ready.”

There’s a moment of quiet where your heart pounds a little too hard. You half expect him to be disappointed, or frustrated, or even pull away—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets out a breath, loosening his hold on you just enough to shift and press a slow, lingering kiss to your collarbone. Then another. And another. His lips are warm, gentle, taking his time.

“I get it,” he mutters against your skin. “’M not gonna push you or anything.”

Relief floods your chest, and you exhale softly. “Thank you.”

“Tch.” He flicks your side lightly. “Dumbass. You don’t gotta thank me for that.”

You giggle, feeling the tension slip away. He shifts again, resting his cheek fully against you now, and you can feel the way he smiles, just slightly.

“I love you,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, like it’s something sacred.

Your heart flutters. “I love you too.”

His arms tighten around you again, as if he never wants to let go.

And for the rest of the night, he doesn’t.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

212 notes · View notes

youryanderedaddy · 2 days ago

Text

Pandora

tw: female reader, non-con, free use, sedatives mentioned, prolonged captivity, meta

You often think about your old life, even though you promised yourself - and keep promising yourself, that you won't. You think about all the little joys and freedoms you took for granted - the small, cozy flat you were renting for cheap in a shabby, but hip neighbourhood. Choosing whether to go to a lecture or skip it, those hazy mornings when you'd wake up with your head pounding and a cold compress plastered on your forehead by a caring friend after a wild night. What a privelege it is, you realize now, to be at the center of your own life. To have sugar for breakfast or coffee at midnight, to fuck whoever you want and go out every weekend - to hold your friends and your loved ones close, and to have the option to be picky, very picky, to choose who gets to be in your life. Because for normal people, for all those other star-eyed 20-something year old girls, freedom is the default, a statement of enpowerment, liberation, living the life - for the first time, as an adult.

And you want to spit at their pretty faces. You feel the same way towards yourself from the past - you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some wisedom falls off, because she, they, don't know how good they have it. That autonomy is not always a mere state of being, but a continuous figh against the forces gripping it with tooth and nail, making you a slave, a shell of your former self. And he is no different.

He crawls onto the bed with a complete lack of grace, making it creak, the soft foam sinking in under his weight, and you fight a tired groan, imagining the same heavy, sweaty mass of a body laying over you, drowning you in a sea of pretend-softness, of pillows and bloodied feathers, into a dip that could be both a sex hollow, and your personal coffin, eventually. And although you wish you still had the tact to find your own bleak thoughts distateful, the severe repetitivness of this little "exercise", you're assured, would turned even the most sensible into cynics.

"Shh, it's okay." He whispers, covering your mouth with one warm, sweaty palm, muffling all the little sounds you can't help hissing through your already fried vocal cords, while the other strokes your hair gently, but all you can think about is grease. Grease, because he hasn't let you leave the bed in approximately eight days, give or take, ravenously hungry for your flesh. Grease, because he's still wearing that wretched blue uniform, soaked in machine oil - because if you close your eyes, you feel like it's dripping down onto your face and into your mouth through the gaps of his thick crooked fingers.

"It's okay, baby, be good now. It will over in a second. Just lay back and relax." Matt explains slowly as if you're stupid, as if you haven't been in this situation before, in this exact position on your back like some animal in heat, and God, you really hate his name. It's so simple, so honest - sounding, almost sweet, and it makes you want to reach out and claw his eyes out.

Now that you think about it, you hate his eyes too. They are brown, if slightly warm when the sun hits, but no matter how you look at it, there is nothing extraordinary about them. Or about his nose, or his lips, or his ears, or his cheeks; through and through, he's completely ordinary just like every other man on this planet. And perhaps you hate that the most, because in your dreams, in your nightmares, monsters are inhuman. Either inhumanly terrifying with big ugly horns and teeth as sharp as a dagger, or inhumanly beautiful, with hands so soft they pull you in before they devour you. Monsters are not boys like Matt. And things like this don't happen to normal, ordinary girls like you. And yet.

"Shit, you're so tight, n-ngh." In the heat of the moment he grabs the fat of your thigh, squeezing it for leverage - and it allows him to thrust into you harder, harder, pumping in so fast it almost frustrates you.

He's completely obsessed with you, keeping you tied down to his bed day and night, trembling over the possibility of you somehow breaking free. He fucks you as much as he wants, whenever he wants, because there is nothing you can do about it, besides lay there and take it. You'd scream if his hands weren't in the way. You'd fight if you weren't numbed down to your very bones with sedatives, unable to move an inch. But despite all his twisted efforts, the sadistic thrill of seeing you fully at his mercy, only a tad more human than a blow-up doll, he's never satisfied. Never slows down, never tires - over and over and over again, and you're exhausted.

"A-angel, you have no idea h-how perfect you look like this. F-fuck, I want to be inside you forever." Matt moans, breathing into your hair, staring at you forehead-to-forehead from above, and for a split second, you stare back.

And just for a second, you let your hell break loose. Somehow rehearsed, somehow repetitive, familair tight warmth washes over you, starting from your abdomen and spreading well into your lungs, making it hard to inhale. It's as if your throat muscle clamps down, refusing to let the tears go, to let them pop in and show their ugly heads to the world that, frankly, can't see you anyways, because he took you and hid you deep into his tower. And no one can see them now.

"I can't believe I found you, my love. I am never, ever letting you go. We never have to part again. Now we can truly be together forever." He mumbles feverishly, shoving into you with sloppy frenzy as he always does when he's close to climax. He pushes your whole body down and brings your legs up, bottoming out just to jut in again with newfound ferocity. And then he kisses your temple softly, very, very softly, as if to apologize for the entire thing. But it hurts nonetheless.

As the tears gloss over your eyes, burning your retina with acidity, you wish you could scream. Alas, dolls can only sing when their key is turned - and yours already sinked to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

#yandere #male yandere #yancore #yandere smut #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere oc x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere male x reader #yandere oc

296 notes · View notes

natsaffection · 24 hours ago

Text

Not like the storys, ending 2 | N.R

Basketball!Player!Natasha x Cheerleader!Reader

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Fingering, oral, praise

Word count: 1,6k

A/n: Bonus ending of the previous part!

Later that night, back in Natasha’s room, everything was quieter again. The fairy lights were on. A candle flickered low. Natasha was sitting on the bed, wearing sweats and an old hoodie, hair tied back loosely.

You stood across from her, arms crossed over your chest, brow raised. “I didn’t get to show off my new routine.” you said, mock-disappointed.

“Probably because you abandoned the team mid-performance..” Natasha teased, lips quirking.

“I was saving your ass.”

“You definitely weren’t saving the scoreboard.”

You stepped forward, smirking now. “Well.. I still think I deserve to show you.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious. “You’re gonna do it. Right now.”

You grinned. “You bet your bruised lip I am.”

You took a step back, rolling your shoulders. No music. No mat. Just carpet and dim lights. Natasha leaned back on her hands, already turning red. “If you start doing actual cheer moves right now I’m going to combust.”

“Don’t look then..” you said, voice lilting, playful.

“I’m begging you..” Natasha muttered, shielding her eyes dramatically. You just laughed, and started anyway.

You moved slowly at first. Arms up. Hips swaying. You didn’t do the full count or flips, just a fluid, slightly sultry blend of dance and motion, teasing enough to be flirtatious but still controlled.

Then, your eyes locked on Natasha’s. “You’re watching.” you said softly.

“I’m suffering..”

“You love it.”

Natasha groaned, flopping backward onto the bed. You stepped closer. Kept dancing, smaller now, slower. Shoulders rolling, eyes soft.

You crawled onto the bed. Over Natasha. Who was still lying there, very still, very quiet, breathing way too fast.

“Y/n.” she warned.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

You leaned down, just enough that your breath brushed Natasha’s jaw. “Giving you a private show.”

And Natasha lost her mind. You barely had time to react before Natasha leaned in, slow, deliberate, and gently switched you underneath. You tumbled, soft laughter caught between you as your back hit the mattress. Natasha hovered just above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other resting on your waist like it had always belonged there.

Her hair framed her face, slightly tousled, and her green eyes were locked onto yours, studying you, reading every shift in your breath.

“Still sure?” she asked, her voice nothing more than a murmur, laced with heat but anchored in something real, something patient.

You nodded, cheeks warm. “I’m sure.”

Natasha smiled, soft and warm, but wicked at the edges. “You’re blushing.”

You gave a breathy laugh, eyes darting away. “You’re on top of me.”

“Mmhm. And you put me here.” Natasha dipped her head down just enough to brush her nose along your jaw. “All bold…playing your little game…”

Your hands found Natasha’s shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“It did.” Natasha murmured, lips brushing the skin beneath your ear. “But now…”

She kissed you, slow and deep, with a kind of reverence that made you melt into the sheets. And then another kiss, just under your jaw. And another, lower still, trailing down the column of your throat. Each one slower than the last, as if Natasha were trying to memorize every inch of you.

You arched slightly beneath her, a small whimper slipping free before you could stop it. Natasha smiled against your skin. “Nervous now?”

“N-No..” you whispered.

“That’s okay.” Natasha said, dragging her lips gently across your collarbone. “I’ll go slow.”

Her hands moved with care, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips feather-light along your stomach. Your breath hitched, your hips shifting instinctively.

“Still good?” Natasha asked, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes again.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah…I just…I didn’t think you’d be this calm.”

Natasha smirked. “I’m not. I’m just good at hiding it.” She leaned in closer, voice dropping. “But now it’s my turn to drive you a little crazy.”

Her fingers moved to the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving yours. She kissed you again, gentle, deep, while her hand slipped lower, slowly undoing the button, teasing it open with the same control she brought to the court.

Your breath came faster now, hands gripping the fabric of Natasha’s hoodie like it was the only thing anchoring you. Natasha’s mouth returned to your skin, tracing a slow path down your stomach, lips brushing softly as she spoke between kisses.

“You’re beautiful.” she murmured. “And so damn brave, thinking you could seduce me and walk away untouched.”

You laughed, breathless, the sound quickly turning into a sigh as Natasha’s hands began to ease your pants down, inch by inch.

Your fingers curled tighter into Natasha’s hoodie, tugging her closer without thinking. The fabric bunched in your fists as your eyes roamed over Natasha’s face, then down, clearly wanting more, even if the words stayed caught in your throat.

Natasha paused, feeling it, the subtle, almost shy tug, and smiled against your stomach.

“Got you.” Natasha chuckled, warm and low, and straightened up just long enough to pull the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a snug black sports bra, her skin glinting under the soft light, her muscles still humming from the game.

Your breath hitched, and your eyes widened without meaning to. Natasha smirked, tossing the hoodie aside. “Now you’re the one staring.”

“I’m allowed..” you whispered, unable to look away. “You’re kind of…insanely hot.”

“Kind of?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, then leaned back down with a grin. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

Her fingers returned to the waistband of your pants, already half-undone, and this time she didn’t hesitate. She kissed her way down slowly, lingering at your hips, her touch light, teasing. Then, without a word, she hooked her fingers into the fabric and began to slide them down, slow, steady, unwrapping you like a gift she’d waited patiently to open.

You gasped softly, hips lifting to help, your blush deepening as you felt yourself being exposed, inch by inch. Natasha’s hands, so steady on the court, so confident with a basketball, were now reverent against your skin.

When the pants were gone, Natasha took a moment. She stayed there, her eyes drifting down, taking you in, but not in a hungry, overwhelming way. It was almost tender. Like she was savoring this moment not because she could, but because it meant something.

“You’re gorgeous..” she said quietly, voice low and breathy. You tried to hide your face in your arm, half-laughing, half-squirming. But Natasha wasn’t letting you off that easy.

“Hey.” she murmured, brushing your arm aside so she could look you in the eye. “You started this. Remember?”

Then she moved lower. Her mouth began its descent again, slower now, her lips grazing over your inner thigh, her hands gently urging your legs apart.

And then, finally, Natasha kissed you there, soft at first, exploring, teasing, tasting. You cried out, a soft, trembling sound that filled the room, your hips jerking before you could stop them.

Natasha didn’t stop. If anything, she smiled against you, fingers gripping your thighs to keep you close. Her tongue moved with skill and care, deliberate and slow, building pressure just enough to make you squirm and whimper, only to ease off again- dragging it out.

Your hands found her hair, threading through it with a desperate kind of reverence.

“Natasha..” you gasped.

And Natasha hummed in response, eyes fluttering closed, like she could already taste the way you were falling apart for her.

Your fingers tangled tighter in Natasha’s hair, hips trembling under the slow, devastating rhythm of her mouth. You could barely breathe, every nerve in your body lit up like sparks, your thighs twitching around Natasha’s shoulders as the sensation built and built and-

A sudden, sharp gasp escaped your lips, too loud. Natasha paused, just long enough to glance up with a sly glint in her eye.

“Shh.” she whispered, breath warm against your sensitive skin. “Unless you want my parents knocking.”

You whimpered, biting your knuckles, your eyes wide and wild with the effort to stay quiet.

“Good girl. ” Natasha murmured.

She kissed you again, slow and deep, and then moved back up, lips brushing against your flushed skin as she settled on top of you again. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, your eyes dazed, and Natasha caught your mouth in a messy, breathless kiss.

While your lips tangled, Natasha’s hand slid between you, fingers tracing softly along your core, slick, trembling, so sensitive it made you jolt. You broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes flying open as Natasha’s fingers eased lower, then, gently- entered you.

The breath caught in your throat, your nails digging into Natasha’s bare back.

“Easy..” Natasha whispered immediately, her lips brushing against your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

She stilled her hand for a moment, letting you adjust, her thumb gently stroking your hip, grounding you. Then, slowly, she began to move again, shallow, careful strokes that made your whole body tighten and shudder.

“Oh my g-god..” you whispered, voice shaky and high.

Natasha kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing your sounds as her fingers curled inside you-slow, rhythmic, maddening.

You clung to her like a lifeline, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, fingers pressing into skin like you needed to hold something, or else come undone completely. Your legs wrapped instinctively around her waist, grounding yourself against the slow, deliberate motion of her fingers. Every movement was precise, like she’d studied you in secret, like she already knew what made you fall apart.

Natasha’s lips never strayed far from your skin, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, murmuring soft things that made your toes curl.

“You feel so good..” she whispered, her voice dark and rough with restraint. “So warm for me.”

Your fingers trembled against her back, helpless now. “Don’t stop..!” you breathed, the words barely a whisper, like a prayer.

“I won’t.” she promised, kissing your collarbone. “Not until you’re shaking.”

And she meant it. Her fingers found a rhythm that bordered on sinful, slow enough to torture, deep enough to make your eyes roll back. Every time you bucked your hips, every twitch, every whimper, she adjusted, coaxed, teased. Her other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your bottom lip.

“You’re so close already, aren’t you?” she said, eyes half-lidded and utterly focused on you.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yes, yes, yes..”

Natasha’s breath hitched, like she couldn’t believe how sweet you sounded begging for her. She pressed her forehead to yours. “Come for me.” she murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

Your whole body tensed, back arching, thighs trembling, and the release hit you like a wave crashing through every nerve ending. You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, and Natasha swallowed the sound with a kiss so tender, it almost undid you again.

She didn’t stop right away. She kept moving slowly, easing you down, holding you close as you trembled beneath her. Her fingers eventually stilled, but her mouth never stopped, pressing soft, grounding kisses to your lips, your neck, your temple.

When you could finally breathe again, you opened your eyes to find her watching you, utterly undone herself, eyes dark and reverent. You reached up, tracing your fingers through her hair, gently pulling her down until she was resting against your chest, both of you still catching your breath.

For a while, neither of you moved. The only sound was your breathing, slow and tangled together, the candle still flickering low in the corner. But you could feel it, how badly Natasha was holding herself back.

You turned your head, lips brushing her ear. “Now it’s my turn.”

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha smut #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff smut

138 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 2 days ago

Text

FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You followed the madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Menelaus' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.

142 notes · View notes

spookysanta · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 1: The Suite Life

Ongoing tags:

[Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

i couldn't help myself y'all. i'm TOO excited about this fic. i have the first four or so chapters written so you'll get more very soon! enjoy my loves. make sure to sign up for my tag list and send some prompts to my ask box if you haven't already!

It started with sunlight and silence.

Not the kind of silence that meant emptiness — the kind that followed laughter, that stretched long and lazy across a hotel suite still buzzing from the night before. The kind that came with tossed throw blankets, a mostly-empty wine bottle on the counter, and at least three half-packed suitcases sitting open like they’d lost a fight with joy.

You stirred first.

The clock read 9:06.

Your bonnet was barely hanging on. Your phone was wedged beneath your thigh, still buzzing with unread messages and group chat chaos. You blinked, stretched, and reached for the remote with one foot before flopping back dramatically onto the pillows.

From the other bed, Tati groaned. “Who the hell opens curtains before ten?”

You smiled into the blanket. “We did. Last night. For the moonlight.”

“Corny,” she mumbled. “You’re corny.”

“You were crying at 2AM about how the sky looked like velvet.”

She sat up. “You were crying at 2AM about how this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room in six months.”

A pause.

You blinked at her.

She blinked at you.

And then you both smiled.

“Okay, but I was right,” you said.

“You were disgustingly right.”

By 10:00, all five of you were awake — sprawled across couches, floor pillows, or standing in the kitchen in sleep shirts and socks, laughing over bad hotel coffee and one suspicious mimosa someone found in the back of the fridge.

Nyah and Tati flipped through brunch spots on their phones, Jae played DJ from the Bluetooth speaker, and Kris kept reapplying lip balm like they were filming a reality show.

You were on the floor, legs stretched out, drinking something you hadn’t identified yet.

“So,” Nyah said, looking up from her phone. “We hitting the strip today or saving our energy for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?” you asked.

Tati turned from the mirror, one brow raised. “Somebody booked us a spot at that rooftop bar downtown.”

Jae nodded knowingly, “With the floor-length windows and the impossible cocktails.”

“And the DJ who looks like he knows three languages and only speaks in bass drops.” Kris pointed a manicured finger your way.

“Oh that place,” you said, lips curling. “The one where the hostess stares through your soul if your heels aren’t at least four inches.”

“She’ll have to fight me,” Tati muttered, slipping on lashes without looking. “I brought platforms.”

Getting out wasn’t a rush.

Just the slow settling of women who’d worked too hard, cared too deeply, and were finally allowed to be soft for a few days. You painted your toes while Kris pinned your hair. Jae filmed you all on her phone saying “cheers” with coffee cups and sleepy eyes. Tatti rummaged through her duffel to find a partner to her lone earring that she had to wear. Nyah turned on a playlist labeled “vacation softness,” and by noon, there was a distinct shift in the air.

The kind that said: we’re here. We earned this. And something’s about to happen.

You just didn’t know what yet.

And by late afternoon, the suite had turned into a cloud of heat and getting-ready haze.

The Bluetooth speaker was working overtime. The bathroom counter looked like a glam bomb had gone off. You were in front of the mirror, curls wrapped in satin and lashes fanned out on a napkin, deciding between two tops that technically weren’t even yours.

“Go with the black one,” Kris called from across the room, sipping something pink in a wine glass. “No shade, the other one gives Homecoming Lite.”

“Homecoming Lite is cute,” you argued, holding it up again.

“It’s cute if you’re looking for a 4. We’re dressing for tens tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t disagree.

By the time the sun slipped below the skyline, the five of you were glowing — skin glazed, edges laid, eyes sharp. The hallway smelled like setting spray and expensive perfume as you clacked your way toward the elevator, full of nerves and body oil.

“We look good,” Jae said, turning her camera on selfie mode.

“We look dangerous,” Tati corrected, popping her hip.

You smiled into your glass. “Let’s act like it.”

The rooftop bar looked like something from a movie.

You stepped out of the elevator and onto a floor of glass and gold — panoramic windows, shadows moving in silhouette, music vibrating through marble and champagne. A warm breeze swept in from the open terrace, and the bass rolled through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You felt it immediately — eyes on you. Heads turning. A shift in the air.

This city moved fast. But tonight… you moved faster.

“Table’s over there,” Nyah said, pointing to a curved velvet booth with perfect view of the DJ and the skyline. “The hostess said we’ve got bottle service for the first round.”

“So what you’re saying is we’ve peaked.” Kris reasoned with a nod.

Jae, the resident party girl, smiled evilly, almost rubbing her hands together like a supervillain. “Let’s start with tequila and see what mistakes present themselves.”

It was close to midnight when you noticed him.

You were at the edge of the terrace now, cooling off with your drink in hand, hair lifting slightly in the breeze. Your friends were dancing, half-laughing, caught up in the music, and you were lost in your thoughts — until the hairs on your neck stood up.

You felt it before you saw him. And then you did see him.

Across the terrace, by the bar.

Black shirt, low taper, a perfectly lined cut, that effortless posture like he wasn’t trying to impress anybody — and failing miserably.

Michael.

He didn’t move at first, but just watched. His eyes were dark, and his expression was unreadable.

You couldn't help but away... But you looked back.

And he was still watching.

He made his way over slow — deliberate — weaving through bodies like the room wasn’t even crowded. You felt your stomach flip once.

Then twice.

“Hi,” he said simply. Deep. Calm. Like the start of something.

You tilted your head. “Hi.”

Michael smiled. “You from here?”

“Nope.” You replied cooly, popping the 'p'. The name of the game was keeping your cool. Because here he was, smelling like the most expensive cologne out, towering over you, eyes trained on your gaze.

“Visiting?”

You nodded. “Girls’ trip.”

His eyes dropped for just a second — to your lips, then back. “Well… I’m glad you came.”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here about to embarrass myself.”

You blinked onece, then smiled. “You shoot your shot like that with everybody?”

“Only the ones who can make me forget my drink order.”

Tags: @blackisy2k @hamzahsf4vg1rl @siasoup @heyyimmisunderstood @mirathebookworm @iluvv.angel @blondfortheweekend @Plan3tCh1ld @remcycles @browngirldominion @smokestackenrgy @marvel-dork98 @chaneajoyyy @jackierose902109 @Secretisme4 @marley1773 @wrldfantasy @remcycles @bxrbie1 @pinkprincessluminary @honestlyurslol @bxrbie1 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @nybearsworld @eclecticblkgirl @corvusmorte @yallsuck-00 @glambyk @Siqeth @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @xoxo-lai @perfectlyimperfectme @Mea-bby @kianaleani @prettiest1ittleliar @Mejustme06 @kpop-servant @kneelarhmstrung @rossie-things @thatssonani @esachicaa @ajenae @adornn4jadaa @Kindofaintrovert @bigpumpum18 @famousphilosopherwombat @Transparentphantomface @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @theesmartblonde @-harmonytbh @jiminsjams123 @li-da-savage @Fckwritersblock @christinabae @Tianna-blanche @queenofklonnie22 @marley1773 @Secret89sblog @secretisme4 @nybearsworld

if you’d like to sign up for my tag list, click here.

#michael b jordan #x black woman #x black reader #the girls' trip fic #michael b jordan smut #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #x black girl #x black fem reader #x black y/n #x y/n #x reader #x you #spookysanta

134 notes · View notes

bokonowriter · 3 days ago

Text

Crimson & Curls - Part 2

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (COMING SOON)

Description: That night in the rain with Remmick… it was more than chance; a raw vulnerability laid bare between you and him. A mutual curiosity thrummed, a silent question about the power leashed beneath his elegant coat. And behind that devilish smile, a promise of shadowed pleasures, a darkness that whispered a dangerous invitation to your very soul. Find out, what is that devil hiding? ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ "Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/n: The reader in this is mixed ethnicity, and thus light skinned. She is white passing due to her lightly tanned skin tone. Warnings: This story contains explicit content (DO NOT INTERACT UNLESS 18+) including: oral smut, public smut, explicit language, fingering, intense sensual detail, moaning/whimpering, female orgasms, and squirting, mentions of supernatural. (more will be added as the story continues).

Heart of Darkness

THE SUN bled with a bruised purple and rust onto the horizon, staining the sky like an old wound. Grotesque, skeletal shadows claw from the gnarled cypress trees, mimicking the restless spirits the locals whispered still clung to the land.

The air hangs thick and suffocating, a cloying perfume of decaying magnolias mingling with the damp, black earth smell that always spoke of secrets buried deep. A relentless, feverish drone of cicadas pulsed like a collective anxiety, amplifying the profound stillness and hinting at unseen things stirring beneath the surface.

Your pale but tanned skin, a spectral shimmer in the encroaching gloom, was a solitary trespasser in the haunted tableau. The metal bucket in your arms, heavy with the promise of forbidden brew, felt like it dragged towards the dust with the weight of cracked corn and secrets yet untold. The burlap sack, clutched tight to your chest, held a sweetness that belied the bitter realities of this land, a contraband comfort against the gnawing unease of twilight.

Your steps were slow, each footfall on the rutted track a weary testament to the miles already trod and the heavier ones yet to come. Despite your cottage clinging to the edge of town like a forgotten memory, days like this, steeped in the swampy breath of the Mississippi heat, made even the stillness of shade a battle against the languid, oppressive air. The sun, though hidden behind the skeletal arms of the trees, still bled its malice through the leaves, turning every task, even the thought of one, into a herculean effort.

There was a rumble that tore through the oppressive, but you didn’t bother looking back. As if to chase you, the Ford Model A crawled from the hazy distance like a phantom drawn from the swamp mists, its dark paint seeming to absorb the last vestiges of light, carrying with its rattling engine the mournful sighs of forgotten souls. Remmick, behind the wheel, was a figure sculpted by the deepening twilight within the car's shadowy embrace.

His fair hair and pale skin, an unsettling contrast in this sun-baked land, gleamed with an almost unholy luminescence in the dimness, as if reflecting an inner, eternal cold. His gaze, as it fixes on yours amidst the encroaching shadows, burned with a peculiar intensity. He eased the vehicle to a halt, the engine sputtering its last ragged breaths like a dying man.

"Well now," his voice slithered through the stillness, a smooth, almost sepulchral tone that seemed to rise from the very soil. "That's a heavy-looking burden for such a fragile girl, ain't it?" His eyes, the color of a stormy, moonlit sky, fixed on yours, a predatory gleam flickering within their depths. A stare you would come to welcome.

A wave of unexpected relief washed over you at the sight of him, a familiar figure emerging from the hazy heat like a welcoming mirage. A warmth, not entirely from the oppressive air, stirred in your chest – a foolish, hopeful feeling at his presence.

"Oh, maybe just for a little," you admitted, a small sigh escaping your lips as you paused, the weight in your arms suddenly feeling less burdensome.

"Get in," he offered, his voice a low, courteous drawl, a hint of concern softening the edges. Without a second thought, a sense of trust overriding caution, you found yourself moving towards his car.

The memory of his previous kindness lingered, a comforting shadow in the harsh light. Though a flicker of awareness sparked – a white man offering a Black woman a ride in this place – it was quickly overshadowed by a burgeoning curiosity and a subtle, undeniable pull.

There was a gentleness in his eyes, a quiet strength that set him apart. And as you settled into the cool shadows of his car, a delicate thrill, a whisper of something more than gratitude, danced along your skin.

He practically tumbled out of that Ford, all elbows and good intentions, to wrestle that bucket and sack from your grasp.

"Well now, darlin'," he drawled, a grin spreading like sunshine after a rain shower, "you look like you're fixin' to sweeten up the whole darn county! I reckon you a baker?"

"A baker?" you echoed, tilting your head like a confused hound dog. He slammed the car door shut behind you with a thwack as you slid onto the worn seat.

"Shoot fire," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "With that cracked corn and enough sugar to keep a hummingbird happy for a year, I figured you was plannin' on conjurin' up a cake big enough to feed all the Baptists after Sunday service. What else you gonna do with all that?"

"Bake a cake... with cracked corn?" you repeated slowly, the absurdity of it tickling a laugh out of you despite yourself.

He slid onto the seat beside you, the springs groaning a hearty welcome, and let out a genuine belly laugh that rumbled through the old car. "Well, darlin'," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "if you manage that miracle, you just let ol' Remmick know. I'll be the first in line for a slice!"

“You met me once and already got a hankerin' for a slice of my cake, huh?" you drawled, a playful smirk curving your lips, your eyes lingering on his.

Remmick's gaze dropped to your mouth, a slow burn igniting in his stormy eyes. "Darlin'," he purred, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air, "a taste ain't what I'm after. I got a sweet tooth for the whole damn thing."

Without a beat, a heat thick as the outside air began to seep into your core. Your cheeks, they didn't just blush; they stained themselves a deep, feverish crimson, like the underbelly of a bruised sky. Your gaze dropped, fixated on your shoes, terrified he saw the unspoken hunger mirrored in his own strange eyes. It wasn't cake he craved; you felt it in the oppressive silence, a primal knowing that chilled you despite the rising heat.

After a few moments you finally lifted your gaze, a wry twist to your lips, and rolled your eyes just a touch. "Well, I'll be," you drawled, a hint of amusement lacing your voice, "I thought all you Irish fellas were only sweet on that bitter ol' beer."

Remmick's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his intense features. "How the hell you know I'm Irish?" he asked, his voice losing some of its smooth purr, replaced by a touch of genuine bewilderment.

You shrugged, keeping your gaze casual, though your heart hammered a little faster. "Oh, just a hunch," you replied, drawing the words out with a slow, Southern lilt. "Ain't too many white men 'round these parts got that particular shade of... well, not quite sunburnt. And there's a little somethin' in your hair, like the last embers of a fire. Besides," you added, a sly glint returning to your eyes, "you got that faraway look sometimes, like you're missin' a green, rainy place.”

A large, toothy grin, full of something bordering on wicked amusement, took over Remmick’s face. "Well now," he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, "I do believe I like you."

"I aim to please," you replied, a playful smirk dancing on your lips, your eyes flicking over him, "when I feel like it."

Remmick leaned back into his seat, a satisfied air about him as the old Ford cruised along the dusty track.

"That your place right there?" he asked, nodding towards a small, weathered cottage nestled amongst the trees. You let out a soft hum of agreement.

"'More like my work shed," you corrected, pointing to a smaller, ramshackle building a little further back, "but my place ain't nothin' but a walk away."

He turned to you, that intense gaze returning. "Now really tell me what the hell you doin' with all this," he gestured to the supplies on the seat between you.

You met his gaze, a silent invitation in your eyes. "Why don't you come and find out?" you suggested, a hint of a challenge in your voice.

You led him off the track, towards the porch of the shed, its rough-hewn doors standing wide open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Remmick stepped just outside, his eyes widening as they took in the makeshift setup, the faint, sweet smell of fermenting mash hanging in the air.

"Well, I'll be damned," he breathed, the words laced with a dark amusement that echoed in the shadowed space. A slow smile, hinting at secrets best left undisturbed, stretched across his face. "You traffickin' in spirits, are you?"

"Do I not bear the mark of the resourceful woman?" you countered, your voice a low murmur that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves outside.

He leaned against the decaying doorframe, his gaze a lingering shadow upon you. "You bear the mark of one destined for hushed prayers at dawn. But considerin' the whispers we shared in the darkness..." A knowing glint, ancient and unsettling, flickered in his eyes. "...reckon your communion takes place in a different kind of sanctuary.”

"Then perhaps," you murmured, a sly invitation curling your lips as you produced a small, clear glass from the shed's gloom, the liquid within shimmering like captured moonlight, "you'd care for a taste of my particular brand of salvation?"

You held it out, the scent of forbidden fruit hanging heavy in the air. "The earth has yielded its secrets all summer long. Apple kissed by the first frost, peaches ripe with the sins of the sun, and my latest... a dark blend of berries, sweet as a memory and just as potent."

Remmick took the glass, his gaze never breaking from yours. He inhaled deeply, a faint smile playing on his lips, then took a slow sip. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, ran through him, his sharp features momentarily contorted by the fiery descent.

"The devil's brew," he rasped, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the very timbers of the shed. A grudging admiration, tinged with something darker, filled his eyes. "Where'd you learn to conjure a draught that tastes of both heaven and hell?”

You smiled, a nervous flutter in your chest, and gave a futile nudge to the heavy barrel before answering.

Remmick leaned against the rough-hewn porch beam, a creature of shadow in the fading light, his voice low and smooth as river stones worn by the current. "Allow me, darlin'."

He moved with a fluid grace that belied any human clumsiness, effortlessly cradling the barrel and placing it exactly where you gestured. His nearness was a palpable thing in the confined space, a silent hum that vibrated against your skin.

"Thank you," you managed, your voice a little breathless. "It's heavier than it looks."

You turned to face him, and the dim, flickering lantern light sculpted sharp angles onto his features, making him appear both ethereally alluring and edged with a subtle danger, like a creature of the twilight caught in a fragile glow. His gaze, dark and intent, lingered on the curve of your mouth.

"Indeed," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "Some burdens carry a weight unseen. Just as some veils... conceal a deeper truth."

His gaze flickered to the unruly tendrils of your hair, escaping the pins you'd wrestled with in the humid air, each dark curl a rebellious whisper against the constraints.

"I don't know what you mean," your voice was barely a thread of sound, your breath snagging in your throat like a caught bird.

Remmick took a slow, deliberate step closer, the silence between you thickening like swamp mist. "Don't you? I sense a vibrant pulse beneath your carefully constructed... stillness. A wildness that this sleepy town, perhaps, is too blind to truly see."

His gaze drifted lower, settling on the delicate rise and fall of your pulse point, and a shiver, not entirely born of fear, traced a path down your spine.

"You... you see things that aren't there."

Remmick's head tilted infinitesimally, his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. "Oh, but I assure you, I see what is there. The quickening in your gaze when mine meets yours. The subtle tremor that dances in your hands. The way your... natural grace strains against its bindings."

He reached out a hand, his long fingers hovering just above a stray curl that kissed your temple, a breath away from your skin. Your own breath hitched in your chest.

"Please... don't," you whispered, the plea in your eyes a fragile thing, yet laced with a strange, undeniable curiosity.

Remmick's voice dropped even lower, a silken caress that seemed to steal the very air from your lungs, his gaze never wavering. "Don't I? Or don't you want me to? There is a... current that flows between us. A deep, humming rhythm beneath the surface of polite words. Can you deny its pull?"

He took another step, the space between you vanishing. The air crackled with a desire as thick and unspoken as the secrets buried in the Mississippi soil. You could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, carrying the scent of something old and something... other.

"That night in the rain..." he murmured, his voice a haunting whisper. "It was more than chance. It was a... unveiling. Of a shared vulnerability that clung to us like the damp air. And a... mutual hunger."

His hand finally brushed against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet sending a jolt of heat that flared deep within you.

"Tell me, Darlin..." he breathed, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of your jaw. "What else do you keep hidden in the shadows of your heart? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps... I am the key to setting them free."

Driven by a reckless impulse, a desire to taste the very essence of the mystery that clung to him like graveyard dust, you leaned in, your breath catching like a trapped bird in your chest. You craved the press of his lips, a communion with the darkness you sensed swirling beneath his charming facade.

Before your innocent intent could fully manifest, his hand, a pale shadow against her cheek, shifted, tilting your face towards the encroaching night. His eyes, twin pools reflecting the dying light, held a hunger that went beyond the mortal realm, a crimson flicker barely contained within their depths. And then, his mouth descended, claiming yours in a kiss that tasted of secrets and the sweet decay of forbidden fruit.

The contact was immediate and profound, a spark igniting a feverish delirium within your soul. His lips were firm, possessive, yet carried a chilling tenderness, like the caress of a ghost.

Any semblance of caution dissolved in the face of this consuming darkness. The pull was irresistible, a siren's call from the depths of a shadowed bayou. Your own lips parted, a silent surrender to the intoxicating danger, and you kissed him back with a desperate fervor, meeting his unsatiated hunger with a reckless abandon that mirrored the wild, untamed beauty of the surrounding night. The dying light, the mournful hoot of an owl in the distance, faded into a haunting symphony as your mouths clung, a morbid union sealed under the watchful eyes of the coming darkness.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice thick with a desire that mirrors your own.

He lowers his head again, his lips trailing down your jawline, each kiss a searing brand. He nuzzles against your neck, inhaling deeply, a primal sound that sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

His hands find the curve of your hips, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. You can feel the hard ridge pressing against your core, a stark testament to the desire that consumes him.

You wanted him closer, wanted to lose yourself in the intoxicating pull of his presence. "Remmick, why don’t you come in—," you breathed, your voice husky with invitation.

"No. Not just yet." His low, possessive rumble cut off your invitation, his body went still, his hand paused its deliberate exploration of your thigh. His gaze flickered upwards, meeting yours with an intensity that held a strange, compelling mix of raw longing and a palpable, almost painful restraint. "Patience, little dove," he drawled, his voice a low, honeyed rasp that sent a shiver down your spine—a different kind this time, edged with something ancient and knowing.

A small whine escaped your lips, a feeling of unexpected rejection alongside the desire. He was quick to soothe, his thumb stroking your cheek once more, his voice softening. His touch was like a brand, leavin' a trail of fire where it lingered.

Then, he knelt before you, his gaze holdin' yours like a predator fixin' on its prey in the murky shadows. His hands, pale against the fading light, settled on your hips as you perched on that weathered barrel, the rough wood a stark contrast to the sudden heat spread in your core.

He leaned in, the scent of honeysuckle and something else… something wilder, untamed… fillin' the air 'round you. "Let me taste the secrets the night keeps hid, darlin'," he murmured, his breath warm and damp against your thigh.

His fingers, movin' slow and deliberate, like a snake charmer coaxin' its viper, found the hem of your garment, then slipped beneath, seekin' the tender flesh beneath.

The world dissolved into a maelstrom of sensation. His tongue, a velvet tormentor, began its relentless assault, each flick and swirl drawing a gasp, a whimper. A delicious heat built, a slow, insistent thrumming deep within, a promising simmer before the frantic climb. His possessive suckling tugged at a primal chord, echoing the hunger in the crimson depth of his eyes.

"That's it, little dove," he rasped between wet, insistent licks, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. "Let the shadows rise. Let me taste the heart of your darkness." His hands, gripping your thighs with bruising intensity, held you captive as the pressure mounted, each deliberate exploration of his tongue and fingers pushing you closer to the edge.

Moans ripped from your throat, raw and uncontrolled, as your hips arched against his insistent mouth. The pleasure was a sharp, exquisite agony, each flick, each press, sending shattering shockwaves. Involuntary contractions clenched around his invading touch, a desperate plea.

Even his own breath hitched from what he was doing to you, ragged and uneven, betraying his barely leashed desire. The tautness in his body was palpable, a dark promise held just beneath the surface. His free hand, still fisted at his side, trembled almost imperceptibly, revealing the restraint he was exerting.

"Remmick..." your breath shuddered, a desperate gasp clinging to his name, the sound itself a soft, involuntary caress. "Remmick... I'm so close. Please don’t stop."

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction. He obeyed. It wasn’t often Remmick bent to another's will, a creature of the night accustomed to his own desires as law. But the way your voice, thick with need, wrapped around his name, the raw vulnerability in the way you begged, was an exquisite command he found himself utterly compelled to heed.

And so his ministrations grew more frantic, more desperate, as if he, too, were caught in the relentless tide of sensation. The world was nothing but the feel of his mouth on you, the relentless rhythm driving you towards the edge, the precipice looming closer with each agonizingly sweet caress.

"Remmick..." your breath hitched, a series of ragged gasps escaping your lips. Your hips began to lift involuntarily, a frantic, desperate arch against his insistent mouth. A low whimper, a sound you barely recognized as your own, escaped your throat, followed by a soft, keening moan that spoke of the precipice. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer, a silent demand for more.

"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your slick flesh, a promise of the abyss. "Just let go... let the night take you."

Your breath hitched, the world narrowing to the feel of his skin. A raw sound escaped his lips, echoing the ancient ache you sensed – his longing for connection, for echoes of a past you couldn't grasp, perhaps a connection to those who came before him.

Just as the crest of sensation washed over you, a taste flourished on your tongue, sharp and metallic, undeniably present. It wasn't yours, and it wasn't entirely his familiar tang. As the flavor intensified, a fleeting image slammed behind your eyelids: a dimly lit room, centuries old. A younger Remmick, though still possessing an ageless quality in his eyes, stood beside a figure with a stern, aristocratic face – his father, you instinctively knew.

The air in the vision was thick with the same metallic scent you now tasted, mingled with the dry aroma of old parchment. A single, unspoken tension hung between them, a sense of pre-historic rules and a yearning for something just out of reach. The image fractured as quickly as it appeared, leaving your senses reeling.

The intensity of her climax subsided, the strange taste lingering on your tongue, now imbued with the weight of that fleeting vision. You nestled closer, a nascent unease stirring. This wasn't just about Remmick's loneliness; it felt deeply personal, tied to a moment in his distant past, a past that now, inexplicably, you had briefly witnessed.

A profound silence descended, broken only by your uneven breaths and the distant chirping of crickets. Slowly, shakily, you opened your eyes.

Remmick was looking up at you.

The moonlight, filtering through the leaves overhead, cast an eerie glow on his face. His lips were slick, and a sheen, undeniably yours, glistened on his chin and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His eyes, those shadowed depths that had held you captive moments before, now held an unreadable intensity, a flicker of something wild that sent a fresh wave of unease washing over you. The crimson you had glimpsed earlier seemed more pronounced now, a stark, unsettling red that pierced the dim light.

Confusion warred with the lingering echoes of pleasure and the unsettling residue of that unexpected vision. The intimacy had been unlike anything you had ever experienced, a primal connection that felt both terrifying and exhilarating, now overlaid with a layer of the bizarre and the inexplicable. But the look in his eyes now… it was different. It held a hunger that felt far beyond the physical, tinged with something unknowable.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a mere whisper, trembling with a mixture of vulnerability, confusion, and a dawning, chilling suspicion. "What… what are you?"

“Question is, what are you?”

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #smut #cw blood #vampire #shameless smut #smoke and stack #x reader

100 notes · View notes

whowrotethenote · 3 days ago

Text

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: After a drunk round of Truth or Dare goes wrong, Nani is challenged into getting her first tattoo. The artist in question—an unmoved, cryptic, fine ass stranger. Can she take the pain? Can she take the heat? Can she take him?

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Roman Reigns (Roman) x Black Fem OC (Nani)

𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂: Profanity // Slight grieving // Age gap // Smut // Depictions/descriptions of tattooing

𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 7.5k

Disclaimer // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist // Navigation

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ masochism — a sexual or psychological tendency where individuals derive pleasure from being subjected to pain, suffering or humiliation

“We gotta do a wrap around the block! We can’t park here!” Mercedes yelled to her best friend from the driver’s seat of her 2020 Jeep Wrangler. One finger pointed to the street sign that explained, no parking on weekends from eleven p.m. to two a.m.

Nani stood on the sidewalk by her lonesome, following the path to where her friend’s finger was trained. They were right smack in the middle of the no parking zone. At twelve twenty a.m, the burnt tangerine colored streetlight cascaded over the entirety of the otherwise dark block—the humidity that only a mid-June night can usher in casting a glow of almost sweat on their skin.

The air smelled of city fumes and that earthy smell after a mini rain shower. Evidence of such still on the pavement of the sidewalk and the street. Mercedes’s car decorated in tiny droplets of water with wet tires.

“Just go in! We’ll be right there!” Samantha aided in the passenger seat.

“We don’t even know if they take walk-ins!” Something of a pout adorned Nani’s square face. She stood on the side walk, separated from them—wishing either had a heart and would just tell her, “never mind, just hop back in.”

But she knew in her heart that wasn’t happening. No way in hell did they all jump up from Sam’s room, threw on clothes and drove twenty minutes—risking a DUI amongst other things—just for them to change their minds. She knew better than that. Always the closest thing to innocent amongst them—they chose the perfect dare for the perfect girl to shake shit up.

“Sure we do! I know one of the artist! He does walk-ins all the time!” Samantha answered hanging out the window with both forearms resting on the side of the car. Her sand-colored face burned with a red hue from all the shots the trio took throughout the night. That tipsy smirk with lazy eyes just barely hanging on.

That was another reason Nani knew that what she was about to do was a grave mistake. Not one of them was sober enough to make such a permanent, stoned decision. But still, here they were, in the middle of the night, in front of Dragon’s Lair Tattoo & Piercing shop. The only building, with the exception of the smoke shop at the other corner, still lit up to invite patrons. The red neon sign glowing over the back of Nani’s small frame.

It was supposed to be harmless fun. The night started off perfect.

All three girls watched each other blossom on the same block since they were missing teeth and waiting for the adult ones to sprout back in. Side by side through all the major milestones—sweet sixteens, prom, losing their virginities, breakups, heartache, graduation, fall outs, family trauma and everything in between. If you saw one, the other two were on their way. And if you saw two, the other one wasn’t too far behind.

What started as a fiesta—a ceremony to commemorate completing junior year without a scratch, a baby, or an std—took a sharp left turn. Sharing war stories under the purple LED lights of Sam’s bohemian style room, turned into Drunk Uno, making TikToks to whatever sounds they could find, until the roulette of their first night together landed on Truth or Dare.

Nani had racked up on too many jaw dropping truths. The liquor kicked in and carried her impulse. She chose the dare. And the next words that fell from Sam’s glossy lips had her thinking somebody slipped something into her red cup.

“I dare you…to get a tattoo…tonight!”

It seemed as if with every word, they got slower and deeper—like the sound of a chopped and screwed song.

“He did Cedes tattoo last summer before y’all left for school, remember?” Sam asked.

Mercedes leaned over and stretched her left arm where a red dragon saturated the caramel skin of her inner wrist. Nani didn’t need an exhibition. She had seen the tattoo a thousand times before. Merecedes last fuck you to her unrealistically religious and problematic mother, before packing it up and hauling back down to Florida A&M for fall semester.

While Mercedes voyaged down south, Sam stayed home in Philly opting for community college, all while Nani explored UCLA on the west-coast. All three girls connected by an invisible thread, separated for two whole semesters for three years now, and were home again for the summer and clearly losing their heads from the excitement of reuniting.

This is not how any of them forecasted ending the night, especially Nani— but here they were. If unpredictable was a parasite, it’d be attached to the three of them. Always in the most unlikely situations just to laugh about such for the years that follow. This night was no different.

Nani whined and stomped one foot on the pavement. “Come on, y’all! This is just cruel!”

Sam smiled wide like a Cheshire Cat, glancing back at Mercedes. “Girl, you’re the one that’s been talking about wanting a tattoo anyway! Just go and get situated at least! We’ll be right there!” The oversized tires swoosh on the wet ground as she puts the car in drive. Sam waved dainty fingers as they took off and violently turned right at the stop sign.

The dead silence of the night creeping in as she no longer even heard the roar of her friend’s engine. She turned in place, neck craned up as the red glow blinked and welcomed her in like she stood amongst the devil’s playpen.

“Don’t be pussy,” she mumbled to herself before blowing out all the air in her chest.

The bells above the glass door dinged as she pushed to step inside. Everything was everywhere. A thrumming hip hop beat blasted from somewhere deep within the shop, some rapper with a British accent rapping lyrics aggressively—making it hard to keep up with his words.

After twirling around like a child in a candy factory—studying the art pieces and pictures of clients— she landed on a woman dressed in all black emerging from the back. Hair darker than black if there is a such thing, with long claws for nails.

“Hey, love.” Her voice was welcoming. Smile warm reaching her eyes with creases on either side of her mouth, that all of sudden looked like they belonged there. A contradiction to her pale forearms covered in art, accentuated by the septum hook and darkest, thickest eyeliner she had ever seen on a woman. Something about her was still very feminine, sexy and alluring. Nani had to close her mouth, feeling her jaw go slack almost. “You need some help?” She asked. Nani then noticed the beefy accent that she missed before. Australian.

“Uh, yeah. I wanted to get a tattoo,” she answered. Working double time to appear normal and keeping her voice steady.

“Okay. You made an appointment?” She raised a brow walking around the glass desk. In the clear display, sparkly and lively jewelry for sale along with aftercare products.

“N-no. My friends said you do walk-ins?”

“We do.” The girl leans forward and back, trying to gauge the space. “Uh, it looks like most of our artists are busy right now. Ro!” The girl’s sudden switch in volume earned a jolt from Nani. Her nerves mimicked the audio meter of the loudest song you could think of.

“What?” She heard a deep voice from behind after a beat.

Turning she found a man. Twice the size of anyone in the shop. Skin tanned and glowing under the bright florescent lights. Arms cut and toned—demonstrating the discipline of daily weight training. A very visible vein running along his inner bicep. One arm covered in ink from his wrist until it disappeared under his black tee. His hair—damp, dark and thick, framing his face and stopping just at his shoulders.

His eyes. They whispered in spells. A deep brown like burnt honey atop high cheekbones. The bottom of his face dressed in the mustache and goatee combo—two plump, pink lips in the center of it all. A touch of feminism in the throws of his hard masculine features. They made her clit jump just imagining his tip the same shade of pink. She snatched her eyes away from him, realizing she was staring with an open mouth. Heat filling her cheeks. He was easily the most beautiful man she had ever been in the same room as.

“This is…” The girl’s eyebrows rose, expecting a name.

“—Nani,” she blurted. Her social queues completely off track. A product of the alcohol and jitters.

“Nani,” she repeated averting her gaze back to the stone cold stranger. His gaze never landing on Nani. “Walk-in. She wants to get tatted.”

“Where?” His eyes were on the dark-haired woman, but somehow Nani knew the question was for her. She hesitated, never thinking about where she wanted the damn thing. It had to be somewhere discreet. She didn’t need the attention from family members. Behind her ear? No, she couldn’t even see it. Her hip? Her wrist?

“Um… I don’t know. My rib?”

“You don’t sound sure.” The woman’s face still plastered with a smile as she leaned her elbows on the desk.

“I am sure.” She nodded.

“You heard her. Her rib.”

“Rhea it’s an hour ’til close. I don’t take walk-ins after midnight.”

Nani frowned hearing him deny her without the respect of eye contact or addressing her directly. She felt invisible. Half of her didn’t mind. She could stare at him in peace without the worry of him catching her. Like a moth to a flame she was drawn to him. She didn’t even know why. Obviously, he was beautiful. In the way that everything on him looks like it was placed there strategically. The weight of his muscles fell around him perfectly. He was just perfect. But he reeked of danger. A do not enter zone. The exact kind of man a father would do everything in his power to keep his daughter on the opposite side of the planet and detached from. Thankfully, Nani didn’t carry those problems…

“You can do one more,” she pushed. “Besides it won’t take that long. It’s small, right?” She winked in Nani’s direction.

“—right,” Nani answered catching her drift. “Not even the size of my fist.”

He stood with all his weight in one leg, and lips in the straightest line. Both women trained on him. The events of the rest of the night in his hands as they waited for his verdict.

“Come on.”

Rhea beamed for Nani, sticking a tongue out. Nani nodded in a silent thank you, before following his towering frame to the back. He wasn’t even walking fast, but his long legs carried him to their destination faster somehow and she struggled to keep up. They passed at least five different open rooms. Two with groups in them. One, more intimate, with just the client seated with their face buried, as the artist went to work on their back. Another where a girl was preparing a bunch of needles for three different piercings to a man’s tongue. And the last one they passed was shut completely. That left one door at the very end of the hall on the left.

He stopped and threw a hand up signaling her to enter first. The room was medium sized. A dim glow of light blanketed over it, making her wonder how he even did his job in such sketchy lighting. Pictures of his work—vibrant and intricate pieces on all shades of skin, but mostly Pe’a or Malu. His specialty.

He had historic, cultural figurines and sculptures lined on the window sill of the furthest wall. Everything about this place, since she walked in was so in your face and blunt. Still, everything left a trail of curiosity in its wake.

“You can put your stuff in that chair.” He nodded to a small emerald love seat in the corner by a window.

Throwing her bag on his chair she walked along the wall where the pictures were, while he typed away on his phone. Telling the girl he promised to see after work that he wasn’t going to make it. Last minute walk-in. Truth is, Nani was an angel in disguise. He never wanted to link the girl, anyway. She was just a fuck to him. Something to do in the wee hours of the night. But she talked way too much, seeing as it wasn't her conversation that brought the two together. And he couldn’t fucking stand the smell of her cat’s litter box. So, staying at work to do what he was passionate about was the best thing that could’ve happened. He wouldn’t dare show it, though.

He placed his phone face down and turned to find her staring at him. Hands clasped in front of her in the middle of the room looking like a lost puppy.

What Nani perceived as him ignoring her was really him avoiding her. He saw that plump ass sitting between two wide hips the minute he rounded the corner, after being summoned by Rhea. His too cool for anything demeanor, almost breaking when she turned and her front was just as satisfying as her back.

Doe eyes accentuated by long thick lashes. Two full pouty lips, dripping in gloss, making his dick twitch in his sweats. High cheek bones with a beauty mark resting high up on one of them. All of that beauty centered in a head full of honey blonde highlighted curls.

She was fine as fuck to him, but he could tell she was young. At twenty-six he refused to make himself susceptible to the delusions of a young girl and her heart. Love wasn’t on his radar. He was too busy falling for and perfecting his craft.

He crossed two muscular arms, one over the other with his butt rested on the counter where he kept most of his supplies.

“I’m Nani,” she informed.

“I’m aware. You said so out there.” She kicked herself for forgetting something that happened not even three minutes ago. “Nani,” he repeated. Her name rolling off his tongue as if it tasted good to him—like he was savoring it. “This your first time getting a tattoo?” His eyes traced her perimeter finding nothing visible.

She nodded. “Yup.”

“I’m Roman,” he finally told her.

“Roman…that fits you.”

He squinted. Her face, a flushed hue of red since the moment he saw her. Like she was burning up. It was hard for her to keep still. Fidgeting constantly. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Twisting her hands.

“You been drinking, Nani?”

“Not a lot,” she lied. “Why? Is that a problem?” In her head, she silently wished he said yes and turned her away. They stood there, eyeing each other before he decided to speak again.

“My ass.” He called her bluff immediately. “Babygirl, I can smell the tequila from over here.” He turned back to his station. “I’m not supposed to tatt you, if you’re under the influence. The alcohol—it thins your blood. Which means more blood when the needle hits. Which makes it harder to do my job.” The sound of him tossing tools and supplies around overruled the silence in the pause he took. “Might fuck up how it heals. Infections.” He shook his head. “And I don’t really have time for you or your folks coming in here tomorrow because you did something stupid while you were drunk, that you’re gonna regret tomorrow.” He faced her again with hands on his hips. “When you’re sober.”

“So—you turning me away?” For the quickest second, she envisioned the disappointment and disdain plastered on the faces of her best friends as she staggered back to the jeep with news of rejection. They’d think she was lying. “Come on. Don’t make me go back and tell my friends you told me no.” She forced a laugh. His hard exterior displaying anything but amusement. “They’ll be strolling in any minute now. They’re parking.”

His eyes traveled her silhouette again. His face still impenetrable. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking even if he had speech bubbles growing from his head.

“Sign this.”

She took it and read quickly. Not able to focus long enough, she just hoped nothing crazy was written in black and white. Taking the pen she held the paper against the wall, turning from him to sign it.

“The air don’t work back here. You care if I take my shirt off?” Nani’s tongue went dry at the revealing of his sculpted back as he removed his shirt before she even had a chance to answer.

One of them bitches slipped me something for sure, she thought. Every thing about tonight was unconceivable. It’s like she was observing the whole chain of events outside of her own body. Nothing about it seemed real—nothing about it felt like it was happening to her.

He was fucking beautiful. Like God himself told the angels to lay off because he felt compelled to draw the lines and sculpt this one himself. And damn, did he take his time savoring every minute and making them count.

Just as she thought, the tattoo spread to the vicinity of his back and broad shoulder. He was already built so hard and the tattoo was just a further testament. A story told in the language of pathways, roads and lined patterns, of a Pacific warrior.

When she thought it couldn’t get any better, she damn near wet her pants at the sight of him shirtless and facing her. Tattoo stretching to his defined chest. Deep lines, mountains, valleys and ridges mapping different routes to his adonis line. Tiny smooth black hairs peaking over the top of his red underwear, only made visible by his black sweats hanging loosely off his hips.

He stepped up and held his hand out. Confused at first she just stared at his big palm. Then remembering the paper in her hand, she passed it and the pen back to him.

“You wanna tell me what you want?” Dangerous words from an even more dangerous looking man.

“I want a tattoo—”

“Obviously.”

“I wasn’t finished.” She squinted at him and folded her arms. Something of a smirk dancing on her lips at his discreet playfulness. “I want a tattoo of a sea turtle,” she told him chin up. “With tribal patterns. Maybe some waves mixed with flower patterns too? You can get creative. Do what you want.”

“Do what I want?” He challenged.

“You’re the artist. I trust you.” They sat in silence for a beat before he pushed off the counter.

“Can I trust you to do this part on your own?” He stood expressionless with a paper towel and roll of tape in one hand extended her way. She looked between the items and him. “I just need you to cover yourself.” His eyes shuffled between the outline of her nipples through her pink Skims top, and she finally understood the assignment. “Leave enough space so that I can do what I gotta do.”

“Okay.” And with that he left out of the same door they came in.

Her nipples and the dark shade of her areolas were probably only the size of a pinball. Ripping two medium sized squares, she placed one over her left nipple in the mirror to make sure nothing that didn’t need to, showed. She didn’t have a clue what enough space was for him to do his job.

Where the hell are they? They’re the ones that pushed her to do this. Trying to simultaneously control her heartbeat and breathing, while appearing sober, was a daunting task on its own. This was the least they could do for her.

“I think I’m good!” She yelled to him hoping he was only right outside the door.

He stepped back in. The sound of his sneakers heavy even over the sound of the music playing from somewhere else in the shop. He walked, eyeing her B cups with the paper towel covering the most sensitive parts. Every time she thought he’d stop, he kept coming until he ended up dangerously close. Eye level to his chest she waited for him to say something as her heart picked up a dangerous pace. Doe eyes looking so innocently up at him.

A low gasp escaped her as she felt the tape above her right nipple, being disconnected from the sensitive skin. She looked down for just a second, feeling air on her exposed breast, as he moved the tape up higher on her chest.

“Rib is one of the worst places. Straight skin. No fat or extra muscle to go through.” His eyes never left hers. A snake in the garden hypnotizing Eve. She feared consequences if she broke the trance. “I think you can take it.” He rubbed the tape to ensure it stuck, right up against the top of her nipple. Her breath got caught in her throat, trying to suppress the moan that threatened to leave her.

He ripped the tape off her left nipple. Eyes stuck on hers still. Repeating the same motions as he did for the right side. Using his fingers to place it where he needed it, and smoothing the tape down, without a single glance at his handiwork.

“Lay down,” he demanded.

She sat, butt first, high up on the leather table, before laying all the way down. The weight of her breast pushing up toward her collar bones.

She kept her eyes trained on his every move. “Just taking the hairs off,” he explained holding up a razor before shaving the space under her chest. “Vaseline.” He held it up before smearing it smoothly onto the same spot. He found it best to be transparent and explain every little step to the clients that looked like they might run for the hills.

The sound of latex stretching and snapping caught her attention and she halfway flinched. He blew a sharp breath out of his nose to cover the amusement that threatened to leave him. “It’s just gloves, baby.” He held his covered hands up. Just breathe, she coached herself. Mercedes and Sam wouldn’t be able to control their laughter at this point. She was glad they’d miss this part.

He flipped a button and the gun stirred up a loud buzz. She thought she might throw up right then and there. “Just relax.” He tried his best to prepare her. The shock of first connection was always the most unpredictable. His hand was warm even through the material of the latex glove as he spread her skin in preparation. Her square face immediately contorted in pain. Jaw clenched down and eyebrows pinched together.

“Mm,” she groaned.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“What if I say it already is?”

He laughed inside. Stretching her skin to get a sturdier canvas. “You’re doing so good already, though,” he lied.

“Is it supposed to burn?”

“Yeah. If you can’t take blood I wouldn’t look,” he advised feeling her head rise right near his. “I need you lying all the way back, anyway.” He nudged her head back with his knuckles. Nani was now forced to just listen to the machine responsible for her pain, and the blasting of background music. None of it was overpowering enough. The pain won. After what felt like minutes passing, she broke her silence.

“Is it almost done?”

“Nani, it's only been like two minutes.” She whimpered at his revelation.

“How long did yours take?”

“A full day.”

“Like twenty-four hours?”

His upper lip tugged in a smirk. The first time anything nearing a smile graced his features and the sight took her breath away. His cheek bone heightened with a flashed dimple.

“Nah. Like fifteen with an hour break.” He swiped the blood away and repositioned his hands on her ribs. It didn’t matter that the latex separated him from her. It was useless. She could still feel him—still burned with heat.

“Wow.” She didn’t know what to say. She was just afraid of the silence paired with the electrical buzzing of his tattoo gun, scaring her straight. “That’s a—that’s a long time.”

“That’s right. Just keep on talking to me. You’re doing good,” he encouraged. Even though every time the needle came off and went back on her, she jumped. And with every swipe as he tried to clear the canvas from the mess of blood, she flinched.

His words. They weren’t supposed to be, but the rasp in his baritone voice accompanied by his large hands on her—made it sexual. Sounded just like the dominant men she read about in her erotica novels on Kindle. Only, he was live in the flesh in place of words etched on a screen. Finer than anything she could imagine while reading.

“Why the turtle?” He probed noticing her grow stiff. She was swallowing the beast that was her drunken hormones and he thought she was two seconds from telling him to stop.

“My uh…my grandmother had one just like it.”

“She’s an islander?”

“She’s Samoan—was. She was.” Nani looked in the opposite direction from where the needle punctured her flesh repeatedly. The alcohol enhancing all her emotions. Not just lust. “She passed away a few months ago.”

Roman swiped her skin again, his brown orbs piercing hers. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he told her sincerely. “You two were close?” The last thing he wanted to do was dissect her brain and get deep. Interrogation with personal questions— unlocking doors to emotions she kept hidden. But she was in desperate need of the distraction. More importantly, he needed her to relax. She was way too tense. The best way he knew how to do that, was to keep the client engaged in conversation. He’d halfway listen, only jumping in and asking another question when they grew quiet again, knowing people loved to talk about themselves.

“Closer than close.” Nani smirked remembering Momma Leya. “She raised me. I don’t know my parents,” she confessed. Her deepest lure that everyone she crossed paths with had to earn the awareness of. And she just handed it to him.

They conversed some more—but fell back into that pit of silence covered in the machinery and music. He had to focus on the patterns and she was too drawn to the discomfort.

She tried to focus on exactly where the pain was—the constant keen burn like he was lighting tiny little matches to her skin—but for some odd reason the pain almost felt like pleasure. Like something that hurt so good and you didn’t want it to stop. The curiosity of how far your body could go with the inflection of pain weighing on her.

Her breathing sped up and she wondered if maybe she was just on the verge of passing out. He had already warned her that alcohol and the gun didn’t mix.

Her gaze flickered to him. The crease in between his brow as he was so close to the underside of her exposed breast. The hotness of his breath fanning her, giving her chills even though she was blazing from the inside out like she had a fever.

He’d turn his head right, angling to get a closer look at the lines he drew. Eyes in slits. A single lock of thick wavy hair fell out the sleek forest that was the rest of his curls, and over his forehead.

The tension in the sticky hot room was nothing if not sexual. It was so heavy and suffocating, she just knew he felt it to. Theres no way he didn’t. No way he couldn’t see the hardness of her nipple through the think fabric of the napkin.

The easy part was over. He traced the main lines and perimeter. It was time for the shading—the part where even the toughest men cracked. It wasn’t as simple as the needle traveling from just one spot, down to the other. He had to switch needles—a tighter grouping. Lower the speed and the voltage, which meant dragging the pain out. He was going over the same spot repeatedly. Up and down. Circles.

Nani hissed quietly every time it became too much. That sensation of pain transforming to something foreign, coming back harder with every stroke of his needle. She couldn’t keep still. Her legs clamped together, trying to clam herself from the desperate need of friction. She could feel the wetness pooling. Her whole body heating up a notch a second.

“You gotta be still, baby. Otherwise it’ll come out jacked up.” He raised a thick brow, eyes bouncing over her face before focusing back down to the turtle. “I’m trying my best to get the job done regardless—but I can only do so much.”

There was a break in the sensation. The needle hovered over her skin. Their eyes locking. “You alright?” He asked the question with his stare unwavering. Deep voice married with tenderness. Nani couldn’t take it. It's the moment when the water in a tea kettle reaches its highest point and it starts to scream. Begging for attention. Demanding relief. And she was no different.

It's like they had a radio transmission in their heads for a split second—because as soon as she thought it, he heard it and received it. His head turned down just inches from hers, she clamped her thighs tighter. She must’ve been leaking. He could smell her.

The muscles in his jaw danced as he grit his teeth. Eyes finding the exact spot where that familiar pungent smell was coming from. He hardened to an uncomfortable degree underneath the fabric of his sweats, noticing how tight she had her legs shut.

The realization of it all hitting him like a city train full speed. He didn’t know what spirit had possessed him, but he didn’t counter it, as it forced him to rip the tape off her right breast. Her chocolate peak right in front of his mouth.

Sticking a flatted tongue out, his eyes were trained on hers as he rolled the hard skin over his tongue before taking it into his hot mouth. Tongue sliding over it after sucking, earning a whimper from her pretty mouth. Catching it between his teeth and pulling until it snapped back. He noticed the rise in her chest with every action. Exhilaration staged on her small features.

She likes pain.

His tongue still dancing and doing tricks on her nipple—he watched her struggle to keep still. Gasping—mouth wide, but nothing came out except heavier pants. She craved relief of a different kind, in a different spot. Her small hand found its way under the thick elastic band and into her Skims shorts.

“Ohh.” The moan finally broke free as rubbed that magic button. All the heat transferring down, leaving her hole clenching on nothing and aching.

As the thought to fill herself with her fingers passed to fruition, he pulled her hand out by the wrist. Undoing the latex gloves and replacing her. His fingers slid over her clit with ease from her juices covering her.

“So fucking wet,” he mumbled. He played in it. Noises of macaroni and cheese before you bake it, violently traveling up to their ears. Sinking two thick fingers in without warning, she grabbed his wrist. Her back arching off the table. Mouth falling open even wider. Pupils blown as he stared down at her from the bridge of his nose. Studying her. “You like pain,” he uncovered to the both of them.

Filling her up, he curved his fingers finding that spot. Plunging in and out. The wetness spilling with every rapid thrust. Sliding all the way out, he rubbed her clit again in painfully slow but calculated circles. Nani’s waist winding like a snake to keep up with him.

Rising up from the seat, his face hovered over hers. He wanted to kiss her—bad. Her full lips begged for his. But he knew what that came with. Kissing was too intimate in his head. It was too romantic-adjacent. He didn’t even dare collide tongues with half the women he’s laid with.

“Roman,” she whimpered. His name spilling from her mouth like she had said it numerous times before, under the same circumstances. He wanted to free himself and fuck her into the table, until the legs gave out and they ended up on the floor. That’s what the sound of his name on her tongue did to him. Visceral. It was now him that had reached the top of his mountain.

Hooking long fingers in the waistband of her shorts, he yanked them down her legs in a flash. Her panties coming off with them. A thick glob of stringy wetness between her and the fabric of them. His mouth watered at the sight. If he hadn’t already decided before, his decision was set in stone right then and there. She wasn’t leaving this room until he got a taste. Consequences be damned.

He found her eyes again, like he was daring her to stop him. She wasn’t that brave. Nani had no more will or energy to fight with the promise of pleasure, even if it came cloaked in danger. She fought enough the first thirty minutes in this humid room, alone with him, with his rough hands all on her body.

With her clothes still pooled around her ankles, he hooked his hands on the back of her knees, pushing until they were close against her chest, folding her in half. The flesh of her pussy squished together, lips neatly folded—-waiting and ready.

He bit down hard on the back of her thigh. She hissed from that familiar burning that danced the thin line of pain and pleasure. Sucking until the light skin bruised. He made a trail of them until he came face to face with her pink, aching flesh.

He latched onto her like velcro. Like his mouth was made for the sole purpose of connecting with her. Nani saw stars the moment his hot mouth made contact with her center. He took her swollen clit into his mouth and sucked hard. No warming up. She was already well past done. Burning up.

Hips bucking, chasing that feeling that was already at her front door. He barely did anything and her core was wound tight and ready for release. She wouldn’t last much longer.

Space rendered between her back and the leather bed as she arched. Hips grinding whichever way felt the best in the moment. His lips smearing into her—entire mouth aiding in the mission to make her come undone on his tongue. She didn’t have a care in the world. Her head twisted and she caught the open door that had slipped her mind like the rest of the world outside of this room.

She hoped the volume of the music was enough to drown out her moans. If not, she didn’t care. Nothing took precendee over cumming in this moment. Even if someone had walked in, she knew she didn’t want him to stop. What she didn’t know is that he wouldn’t. Roman had been caught in this very room fucking numerous clients. Them giving head or whatever other debauchery as payment. The whole shop knew it. This was different though. Never had he ever been on the other end, not as the receiver. His heavy member pulsed harder like the blood from his heart, picturing someone walking in while he was face first in her.

Nani grew hornier with every stroke, flick, and swipe of his warm tongue. The liquor, the rush of sin, running the risk of getting caught, the room vacant of any fresh air—it was all too much. The thrill of exposing and opening herself so intimately to this stranger. This might’ve been the single most enthralling night of her life. She cursed the moment it had to end.

“Mmm,” he groaned. Moving with the rhythm she set, grinding on his face, letting her control the show for a bit. “That’s right. Use me. Yesss.” His hand—blood pumped veins—came up to cover her left breast. He pinched and tugged on the sensitive skin. “Fine ass.”

Pulling back a little, he admired the view. Her nub peaked out from two fat lips covered in gloss. “Pretty ass pussy,” he muttered to himself just before spitting harshly and licking the mess up before it got to the destination of her ass. He stuck a long stiff tongue inside. Fucking her with it as if it was his dick he was driving in and out of her.

“Oh my god—don’t stop. Fuck, that feels so good.”

He needed to hang a PhD along the wall, where the rest of his accomplishments lived—because the head was brilliant. Genius.

Nani had never felt anything like this before. His speed, the switch in tempo, the pressure—all of it was perfect. He gave her just enough to where she felt like she was on the edge, without falling completely off. Making it last.

She was working up a sweat now. A thin sheen on her throat caught under the dim light as she threw her head back. It matched the same layer of sweat that glowed on the deep line of Roman’s rugged back.

Those wet, gushy sounds were music to his ears. She was leaking for him. He slid his tongue through her folds and over every part of her with ease. Smearing his lips in it as it coated him like chapstick. For a man that didn’t indulge often, he was taking full advantage. Reveling in it, like a pig in dirt. She was sweet to him. Moaning and whining so prettily. Her fearlessness turned him on. The complete opposite of him. She hid in innocence while his vileness was on full display. They met in the middle somehow. Playing out each other’s mutual vices.

“You like the way I eat at this pretty pussy. Don’t you?” He growled.

A swollen lip sunk in between her teeth. She could only moan in response to his filthy uncovering. He didn’t even need an answer. The answer was scribed in the wind of her hips into his mouth. The grip she had on his hands. The breathless pants like a bitch in heat. “Say it,” he demanded still. He got a kick out of turning girls out. Pushing them past their comfort zone and making them say and do things they wouldn’t otherwise be able to without his wicked guidance. “Say, I love the way you eat my pussy, Roman.”

In fear that he would arrest her pursuit to pleasure, she obeyed. “I love the way you eat my pussy, Roman,” she mewled. Twisting and contorting her upper body. Unable to hold still as he rewarded her obedience with lightning speed flicks of his tongue. He took her confession and shoved it in the same basket where the rest of his sexual side quests lived in his memory.

“Doing so good,” he repeated the same praise as he had when his needle was inside of her. “I want you to come in my mouth, baby.” His cheeks hollowed in as he sucked the life out of her, ready for the explosion. No more holding back. He was ready to knock her over the cliff. “You gonna cum for me? Hm?” He questioned. Mouth still full of her. The hum of his voice sending vibrations all through her body.

Shaking her head frantically like a fiend, she held his gaze, peaking over her legs to watch him eat at her. He could’ve asked for the moon and the stars and she’d run out into the night to bring it to him. He had her in the palm of his huge hand. “Do it. Come on. I wanna see you cum all over this fucking tongue. Do it.” He spanked her left ass cheek and squeezed after the harsh sound rang loud.

It all sent her into overdrive. All that was in her came crashing out. So powerful she had to lock her fingers with his. The flesh of his hands turning white on his tanned skin, from the pressure of her hold. Legs suspended in the air—shaking. Feet arched to a painful degree. The worst and best was done.

Roman rose like a fallen angel—wet mustache, stroking his damp hair back and out of his face. Still bonded at the ankles, Nani swung her legs down, unbalanced. Reaching for his sweats to free the unnaturally large bulge. She yearned to see it. She just knew it had to be as pretty as he was.

He let her get all the way there before he swatted her hand away. “Lay back down,” he instructed. She wasn’t running this show. He wanted nothing more than to buss her down right here on the table. Feel her clenching down on this thickness until he came right on that pretty pussy.

But the bells signaling her friends entering the shop were drowned out by the noise of rap music blanketing the shop.

Rhea’s head rose from where she was buried in her phone at the front desk. “Hi, ladies.” She beamed welcoming the young girls in. “Just so you know we’re closing in about thirty-five minutes.”

“That’s cool,” Mercedes stepped up while Sam admired the collage of photos displaying the work of their artists. “We’re not getting anything. Our friend should be in here. Same height as me. A little lighter. Curly hair.”

“She was a walk-in, right?”

“Yup,” Mercedes nodded. Rhea noticed the girl’s low red eyes and unsolicited smirk. An effect of nature’s medicine. She smiled to herself and nodded to the back.

“She’s with Roman. Last door on the left down that hall.”

“Thank you,” both girls slurred.

They gawked in each room, moving at a sedated pace, taking slow strides until they finally reached the last door on the left. Halfway open, Sam pushed it to reveal inside.

The girls stared in horror almost at the scene in front of them. She had really fucking did it.

“Oh my god, Nani.” Sam peaked over Roman’s shoulder seeing the near finished product with a wide grin. “We just knew you were gonna pussy out and come back to the car. We didn’t think you’d actually fucking do it.”

“What the fuck took y’all so long?” Nani’s eyebrows hiked up.

“Well,” Mercedes started, throwing her Kurt Geiger bag to the same couch Nani had hers in. “There was no parking for like two blocks. Then when we finally found one, a little package slipped from your hoodie in the backseat.” Both girls snickered.

“You bitches did not smoke my blunt.”

“Oh, don't worry.” Sam bit her lip. “We left some for you.” She picked up a clay figure of a man with patterns etched into his skin. Saveasi’uleo—Samoan god of the underworld.

“Please don’t touch that.” Sam flinched at his baritone voice, despite it only being an octave over a whisper. Something about the way he said it felt urgent. The fact that he knew she was touching something without looking her way, was enough to scare her into retreating. It clacked on its landing.

That was enough for both girls to just take a seat. They watched like medical students shadowing a doctor, as he shaded in the last of the tattoo for twenty minutes.

“All done,” he announced. “You gotta be careful. A lot of friction in this area for women. No swimming for a couple weeks. Wash with non-scented soap here. No gym. We don’t want any sweat.” He ran down as many rules he could think of. His mind still in a frenzy. Hard dick tucked. He kept a firm hold on her hip as he had her stand between his spread legs to cover it in plastic wrapping. “It’s gonna itch when it’s healing, but don’t scratch it. Rhea has some stuff up front for you to put on it.” He nudged her away from him. The smell of her arousal still strong.

The four of them made their way to the front. The shop now empty and silent. Rhea abandoned her closing task of sweeping and rounded the desk to ring the healing ointment up before looking to Roman.

“How much does she owe you?”

His eyes found Nani’s. Stoic demeanor cracking for a split second, smoldering eyes, as he rejoiced in the way she arched for him. The way she pushed into him to feed him. The curve of her breast into the stiff peak of her nipples. The way she took him with no hesitation or pushback. Begging for more when there was none left to give.

“I’ve already been paid.”

𝙰/𝙽: hey, so i came to the conclusion that as long as Biggest Fan is still in progress, i might as well just release whatever else was in progress for him. i'm not wasting my art. this was like 75% done when that big-eared bitch tried to kill me us. i didn't want it to go to waste.

this is during his NXT days. for purposes of the story let's just pretend his tattoo was finished back then.

i barely proofread. i'm tired, sorry lol

as always, if you read it or even just a portion, i am grateful. feedback is always welcomed. k, bye😘

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ taglist // @trippinsorrows @minsingular @luvrsluxe @vynaissance @cyberdejos2

@cutttteeee @rose-bliss @skyesthebomb @li-da-savage @fearlesschimera

@fame-ass-ers @fairy-cores-world @brwnsugababe @reginawhorge01 @ilovejeyusoooo

@keyera-jackson @baybehkay @alexis2686 @destroyslonelyblog @izzythenaive

@scarlettnoir @jaded-human @juicypinksblog @magnificentbouquetmusic @partypoison00

@tribalchief2112 @emotionalhottiee @reginawhorge01 @chrissyxcx

@raya-hunter01 @annfg8 @trentybenty @rollinssection

@slvttyfied @sheswritingg @mohawkmama @piscesdashcam

@nameless-jamie @tribalchief2112 @sheaabuttaababyy @beccalynns-world @purplementalitybluebird

@transparentphantomface @godblessmeitssumma @thekittysmeow @kelbrave

@mjonthetrack @empressdede @godblessmeitssumma

banner credit — @bernardsbendystraws & @anitalenia

147 notes · View notes