#and still. he sees her crack the earth open with her first and just. smiles

[oopsiedaisydeer]

how to lose a guy in 10 days

slow burn, mutual pining, dual pov, fake dating, angst, comedy, miscommunication, fluff, enemies to lovers (kinda), kissing

day zero one two three four five and six

disclaimer: @whor3ing has an au also inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days which you can check out here!

word count - 2k

day seven

Matt couldn’t stop pacing his room. Seven days in, and she was still an enigma wrapped in chaos. One minute she was clingy, the next she wouldn’t respond to his text for hours.

Why the fuck was he wasting his time with a fake girlfriend who left him on read? He should have just fake dated a fan, because, honestly, the career blowout was ideal at this point.

Yet somehow, he wasn’t running.

She was pushing all of his buttons. And him, the self-proclaimed King Chill, was fine with it? Fuck was he pussy whipped.

He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. The bet — $15,000 if he got her to fall in love with him in 10 days — was starting to feel less like a joke and more like a looming deadline. Nick and Chris had been teasing him mercilessly, smug with confidence that he’d crack before she did.

Not happening.

He grabbed his phone and sent the message before he could second-guess it.

Pack a bag. Cape Cod for the weekend with the fam. You in?

The reply came a few minutes later.

Only if there’s pie. Or brownies. I’m flexible :)

He smiled. That was a yes.

The family house in Cape Cod sat just off the water, with peeling gray shingles and wind-chapped shutters that had stood the test of every summer since Matt was a kid. The place hadn’t changed. That’s what he liked about it.

It was a constant, a place of refuge and laughter and bad internet but decent cable. And it was right off the beach and it made him remember the taste of bubbles on his tongue when he was a kid, and glancing over at her next to him made him almost remember that feeling twice over.

Fuck.

No, he wasn’t doing that. He could be sentimental and she could meet his family and see one of his favourite places on earth and she could still be who she was to him.

What was she to him? He didn’t have a clue.

She stepped out of the car and looked around, squinting into the early evening sun. “So you were raised upper middle class, got it.”

Matt smirked. “Don’t get too excited. The plumbing sucks and my brothers are here.”

That was when the front door creaked open and Nick popped his head out. “Ooo! Loverboy’s here!”

Chris followed right behind him, mock-squinting into the driveway. “She exists! I thought we made her up after that performance.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled kindly as they approached. “Hi. I’m real. Disappointing, I know.”

Nick grinned. “Not disappointing at all. I’m Nick. This is Chris. You’ll learn to tell us apart eventually.”

Chris held up a bag of chips, mostly eaten. “There’s only one bathroom and I already claimed the best shower time.”

“Fantastic,” she muttered, smiling despite herself.

Matt’s parents came out a few minutes later, warm and casual — his mum hugged her like they were already old friends, and his dad offered her a cold drink before Matt even introduced them properly.

It was weirdly normal. Which, for her, was unsettling.

Dinner was loud — classic Sturniolo chaos, it seemed. Everyone talking over each other, Matt’s mum insisting on passing dishes in a specific order, Nick reenacting an absurd dream he had, and Chris trying to convince everyone he could surf now. “No, like actually, for real this time”.

She mostly listened, laughed when appropriate, and let her guard down little by little. Every now and then Matt glanced over at her — not to check if she was behaving, but like he was trying to figure her out. His stare got longer each time, and even if only by milliseconds, it was nice to be looked at how he was looking at her now.

She hadn’t noticed it before.

And for the first time, she wasn’t putting on a show.

After the plates were cleared, the family filtered into different parts of the house. Chris and Nick disappeared to set up some movie, their voices echoing down the hallway in half-arguments about who got the bigger couch cushion. Matt’s mum went upstairs, and his dad followed, giving her and Matt a wise smile as he went.

Matt lingered in the kitchen with her, watching her try to sneak another cookie from the tray.

“Those are for breakfast,” he warned.

“Well now I know you’re lying already, because who eats cookies for breakfast?”

“We do.”

She laughed and he did too, and she held it in her mouth like a dare regardless, talking around it. “Then you shouldn’t have left them unattended.”

He leaned against the counter, close to where she stood, fingertips brushing the edge like he was going to reach for something. Her hand maybe? “You were quiet tonight.”

“Was I?” She shrugged. “Your family’s… a lot. In a good way. I didn’t want to interrupt the Nick Show.”

He laughed. “Yeah, he thinks he’s the star.”

She hesitated, then said, “They’re really nice. All of them. It’s a bit annoying, honestly.”

Matt smirked. “Hoped for dysfunction?”

“Kind of.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She smiled and looked down at the half-cookie in her hand. “I think I’m still waiting for something to go wrong,” she says tentatively, looking back up at him.

“What could?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood with a smile, but irony hits him with a shit ton of bricks.

She looked at him for a moment, like she didn’t believe him, but wanted to.

Later, she stepped outside to find him sitting on the back porch, hoodie on, his knees pulled up as he looked out towards dark water. The sky was dusted with stars. Everything smelled like salt and pine. Like him. No wonder the place was so relaxing.

“You always sit like this?” she asked.

“Only when I’m thinking.”

“That’s a difficult task for you, I imagine.”

Matt chuckled at the joke, as if he had finally let her deadpan affection through. He glanced up. “You tired?”

“No,” she said, settling beside him. “Too many thoughts.”

“Like what?”

She gave him a look. “You know I’m not telling you that.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

A beat passed. The wind brushed through the trees behind them. She glanced at him, then out at the water.

“Your mum’s sweet,” she said. “Talked to me like I was already part of the family.”

“She does that.”

“I could be a total weirdo.”

He shrugged. “You are.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Matt bowed his head, correcting himself.

“Sexy weirdo, my bad.”

She laughed, and the smile her mouth made when she did lit up her entire face, and for a couple of seconds it lit up his entire world — was that cheesy to say? Most definitely, but it was still true. Billions of stars shing in the sky, so helpful for someone lost in their thoughts, and they were stars Matt had looked at every once in a while his entire life, to try and gather those thoughts. But this one star, right next to him on the porch steps, she wasn’t millions of light years away. And he was glad.

He looked at her. “I think they like that I brought someone home who’s not pretending to be something they’re not.”

She raised a brow. He’d spoken in a way as if he hadn’t done that before, and it made her curious, in that stupid way when you like someone and need to know everything about them in order to make sure you don’t do something completely irrational. And also just because you like them, so obviously all rational thought goes out the window.

“You think I’m not pretending?” she asked finally.

“Not right this minute, I don’t.”

That made her pause.

“Well at least, I hope not,” Matt added, and her eyes locked on his as she felt him slowly but surely take her hand in his. And it was nice, the feeling of his thumb brushing over her skin. It kind of made her want to cry.

Matt’s voice softened. “Thank you for coming. I’m really glad you did.”

She looked at him — really looked — and something shifted in her chest. She didn’t know if it was guilt, or fear, or maybe something worse: the possibility that he was being truthful.

He stood suddenly, letting go of her hand in the process. “Come on.”

She blinked, briefly upset at the loss of contact. “Where?”

“Follow me.”

The path to the beach was quiet, pine needles crunching underfoot. The moon hung low and full over the water, silver light painting the sand. It was almost terrifying how worried she was for next week, because it was becoming increasingly difficult with every passing moment to separate the thought of natural things, like pine needles and the moon, and what sand looked like at night, from him. Fuck fuck fuck, she thought.

They walked for a while in silence. Not awkward, just quiet, reflective. Fearful, but the kind of apprehension you get when you’re about to kiss someone for the first time. Which was stupid, since they'd already kissed.

“I used to come here a lot more,” Matt said. “Just drove up for the day. When everything felt like too much. Like mentally.”

“How old were you when—?”

“Seventeen.”

She whistled. “Damn. I was still figuring out how eyeliner worked at seventeen.”

“Were you always writing?”

She nodded, a slight unease in her stomach, like a kind of nausea, at how normal these questions felt. They were the kind you asked someone on a second or third date. Small talk. Not someone you were dating. But still, a lot can be said, even in response to such a simple question. “Always. I just didn’t think anyone would pay me to do it.”

He nudged her lightly with his shoulder, teasing. “So... you write and you prank your boyfriend for fun?”

She smiled at that, but didn’t answer. God. She didn’t know what to say. Fuck. She always knew what to say.

He stopped walking, turning toward her. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” she mocked, biting her lip. Haven’t lost it yet.

Matt rolls his eyes, “I’m serious.”

She looked up, cautious now, scanning his face. “Depends.”

“Have I... scared you off yet?”

“What?”

“I mean — with the family, the chaos, the... normal stuff.”

She blinked, but responded without hesitating. “No. Not even close.”

He stepped a little closer, forced a jovial tone to try and hide his ambivalence. “So... what’s going on with us? With…you?”

She hesitated. Her heart beat louder than the waves.

“I like you,” she said finally. It was true, after all. In some capacity, she did. Like him.

“That’s not what I'm asking, though,” Matt pointed out, looking down at the ground.

She didn’t know what to say, didn't really know what he meant, what he wanted her to say, so she just stayed really still, hoping the moment would fade. She rubbed her arm awkwardly, feeling slightly chilly in the nighttime air.

He studied her, watching from the corner of his eye. “I believe you, anyway.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What? Why?”

“Because,” he said softly, “sometimes you look at me like you mean it.”

He didn’t wait then. He just leaned in. Slow, deliberate, waiting for any sign she’d pull away.

She didn’t.

The kiss was quiet at first — like an exhale, tentative, uncertain — then deeper. Real. His hand cupped her cheek and then both arms slid to her waist, pulling her flush with him, her fingers gripped his hoodie, and for the first time in seven days, neither of them were pretending.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, exploring it as she tugged on his bottom lip, suddenly filled with an intense wave of desire for him that she hadn’t let herself feel properly before. Their breaths mingled and she felt very hot but also cold at the same time, and she couldn’t quite believe his mouth was moving against her lips with such passion. Or that she was reciprocating it.

And then before she really understood what was happening, they pulled apart, faces still too close.

“Matt…” she whispered, but she didn’t finish the thought.

He just smiled, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask for an explanation tonight.”

She nodded, uncertainty still bubbling in her gut.

But they both knew, in their way, what the truth was. And it was barreling toward them like a wave.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: 3 days left oh my god!!!! what will happen???

thanks so much for reading!!!! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated 💌

[istansquirrels]

Don’t Let Go | Shidou Ryusei

You hated Shidou Ryusei.

Not the kind of hate you had for Mondays or math homework — no, you despised him with every atom in your body. He was loud, shameless, annoyingly talented, and never shut up about how "sexy" he is. He walked like he owned the planet and talked like he was trying to get slapped.

Naturally, you argued a lot.

So when he challenged you to a stupid sprint match during practice — "loser buys lunch" — you accepted just to wipe that smug grin off his face.

"You gonna cry, princess? Want a head start next time? I’ll even run backwards for you—"

But he won. By 3 seconds.

And you’d never heard the end of it.

"I said I’d buy you lunch, not listen to you bark for three hours," you snapped.

"Actually, no,lunch, and I get to pick the place, the food, and the experience. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

You wanted to punch him.

Instead, you sighed. “Fine."

So that’s how you ended up at the loudest, most colorful, serotonin-saturated place on Earth.

An amusement park.

''You’ve got the attention span of a fucking chimpanzee," you muttered as you both stood at the entrance. "Figures you'd pick this."

Shidou cracked a wild grin. "Aww, c'mon, it's cute. Like you."

You threw him a look. "Die."

"See, that’s the spirit," he said cheerfully, already grabbing your wrist and dragging you in. "Let’s go spend your money, sugar mama."

You were two churros, three photo booth strips, and one cursed ride on the spinning teacups in when you started to question your life choices.

Shidou, of course, was thriving.

He ran from one booth to the next like a six-foot-five golden retriever on sugar, dragging you along while throwing smug grins at strangers

He kept leaning too close and whispering some weird pickup lines in your ear.

"If I win you that plushie, will you admit I’m your favorite?"

You didn’t know what was worse: his flirting, or the fact that your heart actually stuttered once or twice.

You were NOT into him. Obviously.

After a few more rides, you both started going to different stalls to buy your own things.

Shidou had run off to talk to a random mascot, and you stopped at a cotton candy stall. You were waiting for him, phone in hand, when some older guy started talking to you.

At first, it was fine. He asked for your name and told you his, he talked about some things that you didn't quite pay attention to. It was obvious he was hitting on you, he was standing too close. You tried to brush him off, but he didn’t get the hint.

His hand brushed your arm.

You stepped back immediately. "Don’t touch me."

The guy just smiled — that slimy, smug kind that made your skin crawl. "Relax, I’m just being friendly. No need to be so cold, beautiful."

You opened your mouth to tell him off properly, maybe louder this time — but you didn’t get the chance because suddenly a very familiar voice cut you off, low and dangerous, "Back the fuck off."

"Touch her and I’ll break every finger on your hand," he snarled, voice calm but terrifying.

You’d never heard Shidou sound like that.

No smirk, no teasing. Just pure rage. He was beside you in two seconds, sliding an arm around your shoulders like he belonged there.

The creep backed off fast. You didn’t even realize you were shaking until Shidou turned to you.

"Hey. You okay?"

You blinked. "Y-Yeah. I just…" Your words dissolved. The adrenaline crash hit hard.

He looked pissed — not at you, but at the fact that he wasn’t there sooner. You didn’t think. You just grabbed his hoodie and buried your face into his chest. He froze. For once, Ryusei Shidou went completely still.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

Then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. "Tch. You weren’t supposed to hug me ‘til after I won you that giant plush." You laughed, weakly. He sounded so awkward. So uncharacteristically gentle.

"Shut up," you mumbled into his chest.

"Okay," he said. "But only because you’re literally clinging to me like a baby koala and it’s kinda the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

After that you did not let go.

You stuck to his side like industrial-strength glue. At first, he made jokes.

"This is new. You scared, baby? Want me to hold your hand for emotional support?"

But slowly, his teasing got… softer.

Like when you grabbed his sleeve and leaned close in line for the haunted house. He looked down at you, face a little pink. "Hey. You sure you’re okay?" "Yeah," you muttered. "Just… don’t ditch me again, freak."

He grinned. "You like me that much?"

"No," you said. But maybe you did...

Later, you sat beside each other on a bench, sharing your fifth snack of the day — a funnel cake piled with strawberries and whipped cream. You were too tired to banter. Shidou sat quietly beside you, weirdly calm.

Finally, he said, "Y’know… for someone who supposedly hates me, you sure look cute eating sugar next to me like we’re dating." You didn’t answer. Instead, you tore off a piece of funnel cake and held it up to his mouth.

He blinked. "Are you feeding me right now—"

You shoved it in his mouth before he could make a another joke. He chewed. Swallowed. Looked away. And then — the shocking part. He blushed.

He glanced at you, then away again. "I just… might’ve picked this dumb bet to spend time with you."

You stared. "You what?" He groaned, hands dragging down his face. "God, this is so cringe. I’m never gonna live this down. Kill me now." You laughed. And, without thinking, you leaned your head on his shoulder. He tensed for a moment — then relaxed. "I’ll admit it," you said quietly.

"You’re not that bad."

"That sounded a lot like flirting," he said.

"Take it or leave it."

"...I’m taking it."

The sun was setting. The lights came on.

You both sat under a tree near the Ferris wheel, watching the sky turn pink. Your legs were tired. Your wallet was empty. Yet your heart was full.

Shidou leaned back, hands behind his head. "I was gonna make you buy me shoes next," he said. "But I think I’ll let you off easy."

"Oh?" you smirked. "Feeling generous?"

"Nah," he said. "Just... feelin’ weird."

"Weird how?" He paused. Then shrugged. "Like... maybe I don’t wanna annoy you for sport anymore."

You turned to him. "Then what do you want?"

He met your gaze — for real this time. No jokes. No wild grin. Just something soft in his eyes.

"I want you to look at me like that again," he said. "Like I’m someone worth running to."

Your heart stuttered. "Ryusei—" Before you could say anything more, fireworks exploded in the sky above you. The colors lit up his face — pink, gold, blue — and for once, the chaos was quiet.

He leaned in close. Not enough to kiss you. Not yet.

Silence stretched between you.

Just enough to brush his forehead against yours and whisper "I’m not good at this." His voice cracked on the last word. "I don’t know how to be soft. I don’t know how to be… enough. But I think—"

He exhaled sharply. "I think I’d burn this whole damn world down just to be worth something to you."

The crowd was loud. The sky lit up again in a blast of blue and silver. But all you could hear was your heartbeat — and his next words, spoken like they hurt to say:

“Tell me what to do. Tell me how to stop ruining everything I care about.”

You didn’t realize your hand had reached out until it was already curled into his hoodie, gripping tight like you could hold him together if you just held on hard enough. You whispered. “Just… don’t let go.”

His eyes locked onto yours, wide, startled. Like no one had ever said that to him before.

Just don’t let go.

And slowly — so slowly — he nodded.

“I won’t. Not unless you make me.”

Then his forehead dropped to yours, and neither of you said another word.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WHERE IT HURTS THE MOST

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse. based on this request. warnings | an: hurt, some comfort (not too much because i wrote this when i was sad lol) descriptions of getting shot, bleeding out, hospitals, needles, mentions of death, ok maybe there is physical comfort because i couldn't help myself, probably a v unhealthy relationship with ur ex—move on girl! word count: 2.6k

✧ masterlist

fav song & perhaps hotch x ex!reader’s national anthem

You didn’t notice the pain at first—just the strange sensation of heat blooming beneath your skin, like a match pressed to paper, a kiss of flame before the burn. The bullet had slithered into your side, embedding itself as if it were searching for home. Still, the sting didn’t register—not right away. Maybe it was the adrenaline taking its turn, or maybe it was his voice in your ear.

“Talk to me. Are you hit?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.

The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.

Your knees gave way first.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.

Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.

“Move! I’ve got her—move!”

His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.

Just a little longer.

Just to see him.

If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.

Let it be him.

He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.

You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.

“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”

His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.

Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.

Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.

“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”

But it was getting harder to do even that.

Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.

Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.

The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.

“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”

Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.

“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”

“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He hadn’t called you that in months.

Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.

But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.

And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

You were still his.

“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”

You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.

“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”

You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.

“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”

“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”

“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”

You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.

The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.

“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”

You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.

“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”

You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.

“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”

“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.

The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.

Everything ached.

Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.

Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.

And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.

You were no longer bleeding.

You were clean.

The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.

Until—

“Hey you…”

You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.

“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”

Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.

You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.

He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"

You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.

Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.

Blood.

Your blood.

Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.

Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.

The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.

His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.

You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.

You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.

“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.

“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”

His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.

But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.

"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."

You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.

“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”

“Me?”

“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.

“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”

“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”

His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.

You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”

You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”

"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.

"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."

You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.

“But I’m staying tonight.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[iheartmira]

Heeey! I heard ur requests are open! Noice! Btw I ♡ ur posts! They're very creative and makes my imagination happy! └⁠(⁠ ⁠＾⁠ω⁠＾⁠)⁠」

So, idk if u would do this request... (İt's ok if you don't want to do it, it's completely fine!) But what if...

Y/N was a angelic, parental figure to Ancient/Beast Cookies that they adored pretty much and now they having a lovely reunion after a long time? I can imagine Y/N being a very huge cookie with fluffy and long white hair that's hugging their children and giving them comfort kisses on the head like every mother does! (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Also, THERE'S A ROBBER SQUİD ON THE LOSE! CATCH İT!!!

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∇

く⁠コ⁠:⁠彡 ~~~

"reunion" ancients/beasts & motherly!reader

✧ ✧ ✧

the wind carried a scent of old magic: faint vanilla, scorched earth, golden dunes, forgotten flour… and tears unshed.

you stood amidst the blooming glade, the soft earth barely enough to cradle your massive form. your silhouette shimmered faintly with divine light, long white hair cascading down like waterfalls of silk, brushed gently by the breeze. wings no longer needed, but still ever-present in memory, you waited, sensing the stirrings of hearts you had once held close.

and then, one by one, they came.

pure vanilla cookie was the first, golden staff trembling in his grasp. his soft gaze locked with yours, and shattered. he dropped the staff and ran to you like the smallest child once more, eyes wide and glistening. you knelt, arms open, and caught him in a loving embrace.

"my little light," you whispered into his hair, placing a kiss on his crown. "you still shine."

he hiccupped a sob. "i thought i’d never feel this warmth again…"

hollyberry cookie crashed through the trees like a storm, shield discarded, arms spread wide. "i knew you’d come back!" she shouted, tackling you in a joyous, crushing hug.

you laughed, a sound like chimes carried on the wind. "my brave berry," you said, pressing a kiss between her curls. "still charging ahead without fear."

next came golden cheese cookie, half sulking, half radiant. "you took forever, you know…" but her voice cracked, and before another word passed, she melted into your embrace.

"my radiant treasure," you murmured, smoothing her golden hair. "even the stars would envy your shine."

a quiet hush followed, broken only by the softest footsteps.

white lily cookie stood at the edge, hesitant. shadows clung to her like wilted petals. you reached for her gently. "my sweet blossom… come home."

she trembled. "i don’t… deserve this."

but you cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “you always did."

she wept into your shoulder as you held her, light dispelling the darkness moment by moment.

then came the rumble of thunderous footsteps: dark cacao cookie, stiff and quiet. he stood for a long moment, watching you, unreadable behind solemn eyes. but the moment you whispered his name, "my quiet strength," he knelt before you and bowed his head into your chest like a weary knight.

you held him tighter than the blade he once wielded. "you carried so much. let me hold you now."

behind him walked mystic flour cookie, ethereal and pale. "i thought i abandoned all desire… but why does seeing you hurt?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.

you smiled softly, pulling her close despite her resistance. "even apathy longs for home."

burning spice cookie emerged like a flame reborn, snarling as if to ward off weakness. "pathetic weaklings, shedding tears over this!" he shouted, which you were beginning to think that was just his regular tone. but you only opened your arms wider, undeterred.

"you’re still my wildfire," you told him, planting a firm kiss to his brow. "always burning. but you don't need to burn alone."

he collapsed into your hold, a slight sniffling noise present as he trembled.

eternal sugar cookie and silent salt cookie were the next to appear. the latter attempted to act too tough for your embrace, but the former welcomed and returned it, making you almost concerned that she could melt into a puddle while in your arms. "wouldn't it be nice to stay like this forever?" she wondered aloud.

lastly, the shadows curled and twisted. shadow milk cookie appeared like a mirage, smirking with practiced flair. "you’ve returned just in time for the grand finale," he said. "though perhaps i’m not who you remember…"

"of course you are," you said, embracing him even as he flinched. "my sweet trickster. every mask you wear, i see beneath."

for once, the smile faltered. "you always did ruin my illusions," he whispered. and he let himself be held.

you gathered them all in your arms, a celestial constellation of broken, brilliant souls. you kissed every forehead, every crown, humming a lullaby from a time only you remembered.

"my precious ones," you whispered. "my children. you’ve wandered so long, fought so hard. but you’re here. you’re safe. and i love you."

a pause.

then pure vanilla cookie spoke, voice hushed. "…can we stay? just for a little while?"

you wrapped your arms tighter around them.

"for as long as you need."

✧ ✧ ✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.

Warnings: SMUT

Part 5.1: This will be written in two parts because of length and detail!

They say fairies don’t feel guilt. That we glitter, giggle, and flit away from consequences like moths from flame. But I remember the way he looked at me—his mouth open in a half-smile, a question dying in his throat—before the room cracked open with light. And then silence. And smoke. And nothing.

So I ran. All the way to Mississippi, where the air is thick and memories can’t follow…

The Day The Truth Surfaced…

The earth smelled sweet before the sun rose. Not like New Orleans—no rot or river breath—but something deeper. Rooted. Green. Like a place that meant to hold you.

Amelia pressed her fingers into the dirt beside a rosemary bush and exhaled slow. A storm had passed the night before. The air was still swollen from it. Leaves glistened. A tomato vine lay broken on its side, too heavy with fruit to stay upright. She knelt to tie it gently, careful not to crush the stalk. Barefoot, in a cotton slip damp at the hem, her knees tucked in the soft dirt, she looked like part of the garden herself.

But inside?

Inside, she glowed.

Not a warmth you could see, not yet. But the kind that lived in her chest and behind her eyes. A soft spark that hadn’t gone quiet since Mound Bayou.

“I thought I was careful,” she whispered to herself, looping twine around the vine, “I didn’t mean to pull nobody in.”

But she had. Annie. Smoke. Even Stack—especially Stack.

That night in Mound Bayou had cracked her wide open.

She closed her eyes and let the memory drift up.

The heat of Smoke’s mouth on her skin.

Annie’s soft moan between her shoulder blades.

The weight of his body, the way he groaned her name like it hurt him.

The way they held her like she was a secret too sweet to speak out loud.

It hadn’t just been sex.

It was something tethered, something claimed.

And she felt it now, days later—like fire running under her ribs, warm and slow…

It started with laughter.

That warm kind that lingers in the corners of a hotel room long after the sound fades. Amelia could still hear it when she closed her eyes. Annie’s low, throaty chuckle, the kind she only let out when she was tipsy and happy. Smoke’s rare, softened smile. Her own small laugh, quiet and unsure.

They’d gone to Mound Bayou for rest. A night away from the pull of Clarksdale. Annie called it a “reset”— a little spell in motion. She wanted new perfume, new silk, a new memory to wrap around the bones of their tangled lives.

Amelia remembered stepping into Francesca’s boutique, the scent of vanilla and cedar thick in the air. She remembered Annie pulling her behind a curtain, pressing a deep red slip against her frame.

“This would melt off you,” Annie whispered.

And she’d been right.

The hotel was owned by a Black family—carved from wood and red brick, warm with lamps and iron balconies that caught the moonlight just right.

Their room was on the second floor. It had one bed.

Amelia sat on its edge, legs tucked beneath her, while Smoke stood at the window, puffing on a cigarette. The scent of bourbon and musk clung to his open shirt. Annie moved around the room with ease—fluffing pillows, humming to herself, already shedding layers of clothing like she couldn’t stand anything between her and skin.

Amelia watched them both with glittering eyes. She didn’t know where she belonged in that moment. She wanted both. Needed both.

“You alright, sugar?” Annie asked, already in her slip, curls damp from a bath.

Amelia nodded, though her heart beat too fast.

Smoke turned around. Looked at her for too long.

Then Annie crossed the room and touched her face, thumb tracing her cheek, and Amelia breathed again.

The first kiss was Annie’s.

The second was Smoke’s.

They didn’t rush her. They never had.

But once she said yes—once she leaned into Annie’s mouth and let her knees fall open beneath Smoke’s unnaturally steady hands—everything changed.

Smoke fucked her first.

His hands were rough but reverent. His mouth was pillow soft and ticklish at her collarbone, her thighs, the inside of her wrist. He kissed her like he was afraid of breaking her, but wanted to learn her shape by memory. All of this was by Annie’s command. Annie enjoyed watching. She’d spread her generous thighs and rub on her pussy while instructing Smoke on how to fuck Ameila. How to eat her. How to kiss her.

And Smoke would oblige with a dick as hard as steel.

She remembered how he tasted—like tobacco and heat.

How he held her hips in his large hands.

How his breath caught when he slid inside her.

“God damn,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers, “feel like I’m sankin’ my dick in warm honey…fuck…You feel like sin… and Sunday.”

Annie didn’t leave them—she stayed close, kissing Amelia’s mouth as Smoke moved, guiding their rhythm. Annie sat behind Amelia while Smoke fucked her missionary. He preferred to take Amelia from behind, but Annie wanted to watch the way his big dick thrust in and out of Amelia’s wet pussy.

They held her between them—her skin slick, breathless, glowing.

“That’s it, Elijah…fuck her good…give that pussy what she want…she hungry, Papa…she want some of that big dick…look how she creaming…feel good? Push her legs back some more…uh-huh…dig deeper…make her feel it…don’t be afraid to give her all ya’ inches, Elijah…she can take it…”

Smoke planted his fits against the bed and locked lips with Annie while Amelia whimpered beneath him. He bottomed out in her and groaned against Annie’s mouth. Amelia’s glossy eyes stared up at Annie’s heavy, sagging breasts and the way their tongues flicked and swirled around each other’s.

“Annie…he’s so deep…” Amelia cried out with a faint sigh.

“Fuck her like that pussy belong to you and not Elias…”

Those words hit Amelia like a freight train. It hit Smoke just the same if not harder. His dick seemed to grow wider in girth, stretching Amelia open so wide she almost cried.

A gasp ripped through her, half-moan, half-stunned cry. Her back arched instinctively, fingers clawing at the sweat-slick sheets beneath her, the bed frame groaning like it might break with them. He was too much. Too thick, too deep. She swore she felt him in her belly.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice gritty with restraint, staring down at her. His breath was hot, panting, “You too tight, sugar. Gotta breathe.”

But she couldn’t.

“Told you, Melia, you gotta take it…you took it so well last night…what happened, baby?”

He fit inside of her and Amelia clawed at his slick biceps. Annie rubbed her hair to soothe her.

And when they collapsed into one another—a knot of limbs and quiet moans, the record player whispering blues from the next room—Amelia felt something she didn’t know how to hold.

Not just pleasure.

Not even love.

But belonging.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The garden shimmered faintly around her.

Now, back in the garden days later, her fingers trembling in the dirt, Amelia could still feel his hands on her hips. Annie’s lips at her shoulder. The weight of being wanted by both—held between devotion and desire.

“They weren’t just in my bed,” she thought, “They were in my magic. I pulled them in… and now I don’t know how to let go.”

She opened her eyes, glanced down at her arm. For a moment, she could swear her skin glinted just faintly, like mica caught in sunlight.

“Not here,” she murmured, “Not now.”

She sat back on her heels, wiping her fingers on the front of her skirt. Her breath moved through her slow.

The way Annie had taught her.

The way her grandmother once whispered, too deep in the bayou, when her fae threatened to spark wild.

“Breathe like the wind don’t know you there. Breathe like fire gone to sleep.”

But the wind did know she was there.

It moved through the garden like it had questions.

And in her gut, she felt it—something shifting. A tug on the thread she’d been trying to keep loose. Not danger, not yet.

But conflict.

Longing.

A future she didn’t know how to stop.

She rose, brushed dirt from her thighs, and looked toward the house.

Smoke would be waking soon.

Annie might already be watching.

She turned her face to the sky and whispered to the morning.

“Don’t burn nothing today.”

And went inside.

The pulse under her skin changed.

It wasn’t just the usual flicker of her feu follet. It was… older. Sharper. Like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there.

She shut her eyes. Breathed through her teeth.

And that’s when she saw it:

Annie, turned away from her, tears in her eyes.

Smoke, standing in the rain, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers covered in blood.

Stack, kneeling before a grave she couldn’t recognize.

Herself, barefoot in the road, crying. Glowing too bright.

Her eyes snapped open. The thyme trembled in front of her.

“No,” she whispered, “Not now. Not yet.”

The visions had always come like that—in flashes. In warnings.

Her grandmother once said, “fire that sees too far burns too much.”

But this was new. Bolder. Clearer.

It wasn’t just her fae nature. Something in her was opening.

“A seer,” she breathed, lips dry, “Fae fire’s waking somethin’ else in me.”

She didn’t want it.

But it was coming anyway.

She stood slowly, pressing her hand to her belly like she could hold herself together from the inside out.

She thought of the first jar.

The one she buried deep under the floorboards in New Orleans, then packed and carried in her trunk when she fled.

The Nathaniel jar.

It had been meant to sweeten him—to draw him gently toward her.

But the love turned heavy. Sticky. Possessive.

She’d made it with honey, golden and rich. Damiana leaf, for passion. A piece of his sermon cloth, soaked in cologne. Her own fingernail, trimmed during a full moon

What she didn’t understand then—what she sees now—is that magic made in grief and hunger stays hungry.

“That jar don’t wanna die,” she said softly, “Even with him gone, it still wants…someone.”

It stirred every time she touched someone who reminded her of Nathaniel.

Smoke’s quiet control.

Stack’s commanding presence.

Even Annie’s pull.

It’s a jar that lingers. Still warm with unfinished want.

But then there’s the second jar.

This one she made weeks ago, in a fit of quiet ache, alone after a long bath.

She felt empty.

So she made a jar not to seduce, but to soothe.

Its contents were humble. Clover—for peace and soft attention. Honey—because she was lonely. Tobacco ash —to quiet the ache. A lock of her own hair—snipped while thinking about longing

She whispered into it.

“Bring me sweetness. Bring me warmth. Bring me something that don’t want to leave.”

She thought it was harmless.

But now?

Now she isn’t so sure.

Five Days Earlier…

Smoke sat back in the porch rocker, the old wood creaking beneath his weight as he watched the world unfold slow in front of him. He wore a white tank beneath a short sleeved, black button down shirt and dark denim pants with patches and distressed around the ankles. The sky was high and bright, the trees swaying gently like they had nowhere else to be. A cigarette burned between his fingers, curling smoke trailing lazily up toward the porch ceiling.

He hadn’t been able to sleep right since Mound Bayou.

Not because of guilt. Not really.

It was something else.

Need.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Amelia. The way she arched beneath him. The way her voice caught when he slid inside. The shine on her lips when she moaned his name like it meant something.

“Elijah,” she’d whispered, breathless, “You feel so good inside of me…”

He exhaled slow, smoke curling around his jaw like a noose. The memory coiled in his chest—hot, aching, alive.

Annie had given him permission. Said it was alright.

“Give her what she needs.”

But that was in the moment.

In the fire.

Now that the heat had passed, all that remained was the weight of what came next.

Because now?

He wanted her again.

And again.

And not just when Annie was around.

He ground the cigarette out on the porch rail. Lit another.

He hadn’t meant to want Amelia this way.

At first, he’d just watched her from a distance—curious, cautious.

Annie trusted her. Loved her, even. So he tried to do the same.

But the more he stayed near, the more her pull crept into him.

Not just her looks. Not just the way her hips swayed or her laugh sounded like warm sugar.

It was something…underneath.

A pull. A heat. A hum.

He didn’t know hoodoo well. Didn’t put full stock in Annie’s charms. But he knew when something wasn’t natural.

And Amelia?

She didn’t feel like any woman he’d ever touched before.

Even after talking to Stack about what’s been going on since he’d been out of town after he picked them up from the train station, he could even sense it himself.

“You still feel her, don’t you?”

Stack’s voice echoed in his memory. A question from earlier that morning.

Smoke didn’t answer.

He wasn’t the type to talk about feelings. Hell, he barely spoke if it wasn’t necessary.

But he felt it.

That getaway in Mound Bayou hadn’t satisfied anything. It had woken something.

Something he wasn’t sure he could put back to sleep.

And then there was Stack.

The way his brother looked at Amelia lately—grinning, cocky, bold.

It was different than before.

Hungrier. Deeper.

Smoke didn’t know if Stack had touched her since they got back, but he could feel it brewing.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure if he had a right to care.

“She ain’t yours”, he told himself, “She was never yours.”

But his chest said otherwise. His body still remembered her heat.

And every time she passed, humming to herself, smelling like rosewater and peaches?

His hands clenched at his sides.

He leaned back in the chair, staring out at the coming storm. Clouds rolled slow and dark. The scent of rain curled in the wind. But despite all of that, the sun still showed its strength.

“I said I wouldn’t touch her again unless Annie was there,” he murmured to himself.

His voice was low. Gravel-rough.

“So why the hell do I feel like I’m about to break that promise?”

Inside the house, he heard Amelia laugh at something Stack said.

His jaw tightened.

He stayed on the porch.

But the fire inside him?

Refused to go cold.

“Glad you bought somethin’ sexy for me to take off that body…that red slip was Annie’s idea? Bless that sister of mine…”

Through the screen door, he could see his brother crouched inside with Amelia, the two of them laughing soft and close. Stack had that rare, mischievous smile on his face—the kind that reached his eyes—and in his hand, he held a velvet green box. Amelia’s bare legs were tucked under her, one delicate foot stretched toward him, her curls spilling down her back like dark syrup.

Stack sat on his knees, towering over Amelia as she sat on her butt. Stack wore a pair of jeans with some boots and a white T-shirt that clung to his biceps like plaster. A black fedora was tipped back on his head, giving a tease of his freshly slicked hair. His eyes glittered with mischief and the dimples in his cheeks deepened with every syllable he uttered.

Amelia looked like a gypsy—a silk, patterned scarf over her wild curls, a white dress that cinched at the waist and hung from her slender shoulders, and bare feet. Her ears were adorned with little pearls that Smoke purchased from Mound Bayou. It was more so a ‘thank you’ gift for being Annie’s happiness while he was away. They looked pretty on her. Smoke’s eyes drifted to her sweaty, bronze skin before looking away.

Stack watched her with that sly smile that made her belly stir. His hands were hidden behind his back, but his posture was too relaxed, too guilty. Mischief danced in his dark eyes.

Amelia narrowed hers, “What you hidin’?”

Stack just raised a brow, didn’t answer. His voice dropped into a lazy drawl. “Why you always so nosy, huh? Can’t a man keep a little surprise to himself?”

She scooted closer, batting her lashes up at him, “You got somethin’ for me?”

“Maybe.” He grinned, the dimple in his cheek cutting deep, “But you gotta behave.”

She gasped, reaching for the hand behind his back.

Stack jerked away playfully, circling her like a wolf teasing its mate, “Uh uh. Nosy and grabby? That ain’t how this works.”

“Stack,” she giggled, giving a small stomp with her bare foot. “Now you playin’.”

Smoke couldn’t hear every word, but he caught enough.

“You’re so sneaky!”

“Damn right I am,” he said, inching in closer until their noses almost touched. “Now close your eyes for me, bébé. Be good so I can give it to you proper.”

“Stack—”

“Close your eyes, girl. C’mon now…”

Amelia eyed him suspiciously, but the soft heat in his voice made her heart flutter. She obeyed, lashes lowering, lips parting with a whisper of a smile.

Stack moved slowly, pulling the small jade-colored velvet box from behind his back. He opened it just enough to see the glint of the gold catching the warm afternoon light—a delicate anklet, fine and glimmering, with a tiny cursive A dangling at the center.

She felt him crouch low, his breath brushing over her skin. Her toes curled in anticipation.

“Alright,” he murmured, “You can look now.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Stack…”

When Stack slipped the anklet around her ankle and fastened the tiny clasp, she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Her face lit up—genuine, flushed, sweet.

Elijah didn’t look away, he just smoked, slow and thoughtful. Folks had been drawn to Amelia since she showed up. There was a softness to her, sure, but something else underneath it too. Something none of them could name. He’d felt it himself—pulling at him like a string tied to his ribs.

The gold anklet sparkled in the light, catching the soft brown of her skin like a whisper of sunlight wrapped around her ankle. The A swayed gently as he fastened the clasp with large, steady fingers, careful and reverent, his touch a kind of worship.

Stack sat back on his heels, admiring his work. “Perfect,” he said, voice rougher now, gaze climbing up her legs. “A for Amelia. My sweet girl.”

Amelia blushed, cheeks warm as peaches, her lips trembling with a smile too big to contain, “You got this in town?”

He nodded. “The Delta got more than good food, you know. Saw it sittin’ there like it knew it belonged on you.”

She dropped down, arms circling his neck in one sudden motion. “You are…the sweetest damn man I ever met, Elias Moore.”

He caught her, laughed low in his throat. “Shh. Don’t ruin my reputation. My big brother out front. Can’t have him thinkin’ I’m a softy—”

She kissed him—soft at first, grateful and tender. Then deeper, longer, lips melting into his like honey off the comb. Stack groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down the curve of her back until they found the swell of her behind.

He gripped it hard, then gave one cheek a firm squeeze, then a light slap. She squealed into his mouth, body arching against him.

“You tryna rile me up, girl?”

“I ain’t do nothin’ but kiss you…”

“And that’s all it ever takes,” He slapped again, this time slower, the sound echoing in the warm hush of Annie’s home, “You kiss me like that and I forget where I am.”

She pulled back just enough to whisper, eyes half-lidded, voice a velvet hush, “Then don’t remember. Just stay right here.”

Stack kissed her again, deeper this time, the anklet catching a ray of gold light as her legs wrapped around him and he lifted her off the floor.

The velvet box tumbled to the side—forgotten. The A on her ankle sparkled like a secret spell.

Smoke heard footsteps.

His eyes were fixed on the path.

She was coming.

Annie Moore.

She moved like molasses sliding down warm bread, slow and sure, like every step had purpose. Her hips rolled in a steady rhythm beneath a faded mustard-yellow skirt, cinched high at her waist with a knot of thick cotton. The fabric clung to the swell of her backside, catching a whisper of breeze as she walked. Her blouse was thin and ivory-colored, damp at the neck and under her full breasts with sweat, fabric pulled just a little tight where it hugged her curves. The buttons down the front strained at her chest, and one had come undone, just enough for a glimpse of the soft brown cleavage below. She had tied a rust-colored sash around her waist like a belt, making her hourglass shape impossible to ignore.

A wide straw hat shaded her face, but not enough to dim the richness of her skin—deep, sun-kissed brown with golden undertones, glowing like burnished copper beneath the summer light. Beads of sweat dotted her collarbone, and her ankles peeked out beneath her skirt as she climbed the road barefoot, dust clinging to her feet.

Smoke’s throat tightened.

His gaze slid over her like water over stone—slow, reverent, and hungry. He studied the sway of her thighs, the gentle bounce of her breasts under the blouse, the stretch of her skirt across her hips. Her body was thick, plush, womanly in all the ways that made him ache. She looked like she could hold storms and comfort and lust all at once. And she did.

She was Mississippi heat—humid, lush, heavy.

The trees lining the road bowed low with the weight of the season, their branches arching above her like they were drawn in by her gravity, bending with unseen devotion. Leaves rustled softly as if whispering her name. The light filtered through them dappled gold, painting her shoulders with moving shadows.

She saw him watching.

Even from that distance, her eyes met his, slow and knowing. She didn’t pick up her pace—no, Annie never rushed for a man. Instead, she smiled, lazy and deep, lips painted a dusky blackberry-red from some root-stained balm she mixed herself.

Smoke tipped his head and smirked, his chest lifting with something he couldn’t name. He looked like a man watching his favorite sin walk toward him.

She lifted her hand and blew him a kiss.

He caught it out the air like it was gospel.

“Come here, woman,” he said under his breath, barely a whisper, but it floated out over the porch like a spell.

She climbed the steps with grace despite the sweat, despite the heat, and the second she got close enough, he reached out and pulled her to him. The screen door rattled behind them as her body pressed against his, soft and full against his slightly taller frame.

Their mouths met—wet, deep, familiar. Not rushed. Like they’d done this a thousand times, but this time still mattered.

Smoke’s hands slid around her waist, palms dragging up the curve of her spine, down over her thick hips, gripping her like he needed reminding that she was real. His hands pressed into her skirt, fingers spreading over her ass, slow and claiming. She tasted like salt and sassafras, and her scent—clove, lemon balm, and something earthy he could never name—was all around him now.

She gasped into his mouth and leaned her forehead against his.

“You missed me that bad?” she whispered.

“I missed you like hell,” he murmured back, “Like my hands ain’t know what to do without ya’ to hold.”

She smiled against his lips. “Then hold on, baby.”

Behind them, the screen door creaked open.

“Aight now,” Stack’s voice called out, playful but loud, “I said lunch is ready, not foreplay on the porch.”

Annie pulled back, laughing, breathless and warm, “We was just gettin’ our appetite right.”

Smoke let his hand slide slow off her backside and called back, “What ya’ll make?”

“Catfish sandwiches with chow-chow and pickled onions. Collard greens on the side. Got watermelon chillin’ and sweet tea pourin’. Y’all comin’ or not?”

Annie turned to look inside. She could see Amelia blushing through the screen, one leg curled under her, ankle sparkling with a gold charm. Stack leaned in beside her, watching them both with a grin on his face.

Annie caught her breath, eyes narrowing slightly—but not out of jealousy. Just… curiosity. Something tugged at the air between them all, thick and restless.

Smoke watched her face and asked, low, “What is it?”

She shook her head slow. “Nothin’. Just…air feel different all of a sudden.”

He touched her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw, “Don’t matter. Long as you standin’ in it wit’ me.”

They walked into the house together, hand in hand, while the shadows behind them shifted like they knew something the rest hadn’t yet learned.

The air inside the house was thick with the smell of fried catfish and spices—hot oil, cornmeal, cayenne, and a hint of vinegar from the chow-chow cooling on the counter. The table in the center of the room was already halfway set with heavy plates and chipped porcelain bowls. Sunlight slanted through the open window, striping the floorboards like a ladder to something holy.

Amelia moved with grace between the kitchen and dining table, her dress now topped with a lightweight apron, curls still wild around her flushed cheeks. Stack watched her go, the sway of her hips, the way her gold anklet caught glints of light like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Smoke pulled a chair out, then went back for forks.

“You didn’t say much about Mound Bayou,” Stack said, casually, as he laid out the thick drinking glasses.

Smoke gave a faint grunt, noncommittal.

Stack raised a brow, “That bad?”

Smoke shot him a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Nah. That good.”

Stack paused, still holding a handful of cutlery.

The silence hung a second too long.

Smoke didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. The way he leaned back against the wall, cigarette now extinguished, eyes half-lidded like he was still dreaming of something soft, told enough of the story.

Stack gave a sharp, single nod—quiet and unreadable. But behind his calm face, something churned. Smoke knew it too. He could feel it through the air between them, that unspoken thread only twins shared. Stack wasn’t asking for conversation. He was asking whether something shifted. Whether Mound Bayou changed something between them all.

Smoke’s eyes met his brother’s again, harder now. It did, they said without words. But don’t ask me what.

He moved past him to the table, brushing Stack’s shoulder with a quiet finality.

At the counter, Annie was helping Amelia place the catfish sandwiches on a wooden tray. Amelia arranged each one with care, lining up slices of cornbread buns and pressing the pickled onions down with her fingers. She was still glowing—lit from within.

Annie leaned in close, her voice low, coaxing. “After lunch, we’ll head back to the shop, alright? We ain’t done with that drawing lesson yet.”

Amelia glanced up, her doe eyes curious. “Drawing?”

Annie smiled. “Mmhmm. Love drawing. Honey jars, sugar cones, follow-me spells. You gotta know how to build a jar that speaks without sayin’ a word. Yours pull somethin’ in already—I can feel it. But I want you to understand why. There’s spirit in the building. You feel it?”

Amelia nodded softly, but her breath caught when Annie reached to brush a stray curl from her face.

Annie’s eyes dropped to her ankle. “That’s real pretty,” she murmured, kneeling slightly, fingers ghosting just above the golden anklet.

The A charm shimmered like it had caught sunlight, though no ray touched it. For a moment, a shimmer pulsed from the charm outward—like heat rising off pavement, a soft flicker of energy, invisible to most but thick enough to make the hairs on Annie’s arms rise.

Her lips parted.

Something in her gut twisted—not fear, exactly, but an ancient kind of knowing. Like her blood remembered something her mind couldn’t name.

Annie blinked, shook it off, and stood quickly. “Mmm,” she said, clearing her throat, “I like that shine.”

Amelia, ever perceptive, felt the shift. Her smile faltered just slightly.

“I’ll bring the tea,” she said, almost too quickly, turning and slipping away from the moment.

Annie stared after her for a beat, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her eyes flicked once more to the anklet, then toward Stack—who was watching Amelia too closely—and then to Smoke, who wasn’t watching at all but felt everything.

She shook her head and carried the tray to the table.

“Let’s eat before this fish gets cold,” she said, her voice bright but slightly strained.

Amelia set down the pitcher of sweet tea and took her seat, carefully folding her hands in her lap. Stack sat across from her. Smoke poured Annie a glass of tea before pouring his own. For a moment, the only sound was the clinking of glasses and the rustle of napkins. The charm on Amelia’s ankle swayed as she crossed her legs beneath the table.

The sunlight seemed to lean in, too.

Watching. Listening. Waiting.

Something had shifted.

But no one yet had the words to speak it.

The catfish was crispy and golden, the chow-chow tangy and sweet. A bowl of collard greens sat steaming beside a plate of sliced watermelon, their red centers glistening. Smoke bit into his sandwich with slow satisfaction, licking a smear of hot sauce from his thumb. Across the table, Stack leaned back in his chair, toothpick stuck between his lips, one elbow on the table as he talked business.

“So we meet ‘em at the old cotton press, out past the levee,” Stack was saying, tearing off a piece of cornbread with thick fingers. “They’re bringin’ a truck, say they got buyers lined up from Memphis to Vicksburg. Cash in hand. All we gotta do is hand off the shine.”

Smoke nodded, chewing slow. “We takin’ the last barrels from the juke’s cellar?”

“Yeah. That batch aged good. Real smooth. Better than the stuff we been sellin’ to Johnson.”

“Alright. You loadin’ tonight?”

“Late,” Stack said, pausing to sip his tea, “You ridin’ with me?”

Smoke glanced at Amelia and Annie for half a beat, then back to Stack, “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

As his brother spoke, Smoke felt something warm press lightly against his leg.

He blinked once.

Ankles tangled under the table. He looked down—Amelia’s foot was sliding softly over his calf. Her bare toes curled against his slacks, teasing up the fabric.

Across from her, Annie was calm as a still lake, one hand resting on the table near her glass, the other… slipping low beneath the linen.

Smoke exhaled through his nose, quiet and slow.

Annie’s hand found the bulge beneath the table. Soft pressure. She stroked him through the fabric with practiced ease, fingers slow, teasing. Her touch was firm enough to make him shift slightly in his seat but subtle enough not to draw attention.

Stack kept talking, “We’ll leave the juke front lookin’ clean. Don’t want nobody sniffin’ around. Just music, drinks, same as always.”

Smoke grunted his agreement, but his jaw clenched as Annie’s hand kept moving—her nails grazing lightly, then flattening her palm against his length. Under the table, Amelia’s foot moved higher, pressing against his thigh with the same sweetness that lingered in her voice.

He gave her a sideways look.

She smiled at him—demure, unreadable.

Lord help me, he thought.

The air had thickened, gone heavy with heat and honey. Flies buzzed faintly near the window, the watermelon juice glistened like rubies on porcelain, and everyone was pretending not to feel what was very much being felt.

Finally, Stack stood up and stretched, toothpick between his teeth.

“I’m headin’ into town. Need to check on that shipment at the depot ‘fore we meet our contact later. I’ll grab the papers for the handoff.”

Smoke wiped his mouth, grateful for the excuse to breathe, “I’ll go too. We’ll ride back together and stash what’s needed.”

Annie stood as well, gathering plates, “Me and Amelia headin’ to the shop after we clean up. Got some more lessons to go over.”

Stack nodded, already heading for the door.

Smoke stepped in behind Annie just as she reached for the pitcher to rinse it. His presence settled against her back like a shadow stretching into dusk—warm, broad, unmistakable.

He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath her ear. His voice dropped low, gravel thick with hunger and heat.

“Don’t wash too hard, baby,” he whispered, letting his hand ghost along the curve of her hip, “I want that scent on you when I come back.”

Annie’s breath caught, lashes fluttering.

Smoke’s lips brushed her again, this time just behind her jaw, “You hear me?”

She didn’t speak—just nodded, slow and sharp.

He smiled against her neck, “Good. ‘Cause soon as I’m through with this run, I’m gon’ tear you up. Ain’t lettin’ you sleep tonight. You gon’ walk crooked by mornin’.”

Annie turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes—dark, hooded, steady, “You better come back ready,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his chest, kissed her temple once, and stepped away, grabbing his hat from the wall hook.

Near the doorway, Stack stood with his hat already in hand, watching Amelia. She was near the windowsill, pretending to adjust the lace curtain, but her whole body tilted slightly toward him—waiting.

He walked up slow, like the air between them was thick with something he had to wade through.

“You be good while I’m gone,” he murmured, his voice gentler than his brother’s, but no less heavy with promise.

Amelia looked up at him, soft brown eyes wide, lips parted like she had something to say—but didn’t.

Stack leaned in and pressed a single kiss to the side of her neck. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just firm and lingering—his lips dragging lightly across the pulse point beneath her ear. His hand slid to the small of her back and stayed there for a heartbeat too long.

Then he pulled back, his thumb brushing her side, “I’ll be back before sundown.”

Amelia nodded, a soft blush blooming beneath her skin.

Annie watched the exchange from the sink, lips twitching into a knowing smirk. She didn’t say a word.

“Y’all don’t be messin’ around too long.” Annie said.

Smoke met Annie’s eyes as he moved toward his hat. “Don’t I always mess around too long?” he muttered, low, with a wink.

The front door opened with a creak, then shut.

And just like that, the house exhaled.

Once both brothers had left—boots clomping down the porch steps, doors shutting behind them—the house fell into an almost too-quiet stillness.

Amelia looked up, her lips parted just slightly. Annie crossed the room slow, her hips swaying as she pulled the apron from her waist and tossed it over the chair.

“You play too much,” Annie said softly.

“So do you,” Amelia whispered.

They stood in the open doorway of the hallway, sunlight from the kitchen framing them. Annie reached out, trailing her hand down Amelia’s arm. Her fingers curled around Amelia’s wrist, thumb stroking the inside like she was feeling for a pulse.

“You got time before your lesson,” Annie said.

“I know,” Amelia breathed.

Without another word, Annie led her by the wrist toward the bedroom. The air was thick with jasmine and the ghost of frying grease. Annie closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Inside, the light was golden and low. A breeze moved the lace curtains just enough to flutter them like a breath.

Annie reached for the buttons on her blouse, slow and measured. “C’mere, sugar,” she said, voice warm and honey-thick.

Amelia stepped in close, her fingers brushing against Annie’s waist, her breath catching in her throat.

They had work to do, yes. But for now—just a little indulgence. Just a little sweetness before the spirits came calling.

For a long, loaded moment, neither of them moved.

“I felt you teasing me,” Annie murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “looking at me across the table with a bite of your lip. You want me to eat my pussy, sugar?”

“Yes….please…devour me, Annie. Ain’t been right since Mound Bayou…”

“Me neither. Got a taste for pussy juice and yours get me right every time.”

Amelia’s lips parted, but no words came.

Annie reached up and brushed a fingertip along the curve of Amelia’s jaw, following it like a map she already knew by heart. Her hand cupped the back of Amelia’s neck, warm and steady. She leaned in slowly, her breath brushing Amelia’s lips.

“Say stop,” Annie whispered, “If you need me to.”

“I won’t,” Amelia breathed, eyes already half-lidded.

And then Annie kissed her.

Soft at first—just the faintest press of lips. A tasting. A question.

Amelia leaned into it, answering.

Their mouths moved gently at first, grazing, brushing, lips molding and parting. Then deeper. Annie tilted her head and licked softly into Amelia’s mouth, her tongue teasing, coaxing.

Amelia gasped, the sound muffled between them, her hands rising to curl into Annie’s sides, bunching the soft fabric of her blouse. Her body melted forward, pressed into Annie’s with a hunger she couldn’t hide.

Their tongues tangled, slow and searching. No rush. Just sensation. A slow burn.

Amelia’s hand slipped around to Annie’s back, fingers dragging along her spine. Annie’s other hand slid low to Amelia’s hip, gripping it, guiding her closer until there was no space between them—just heat, breath, and lips that kept finding each other.

Annie pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against her lips, “You taste like summer.”

Amelia gave a breathless laugh, fingers still trembling where they touched, “You taste like somethin’ I ain’t supposed to have.”

Annie leaned in again and kissed her deeper, slower. Their breaths were shallow, shared. The kiss unfolded like a secret—satin-slow, layered with longing.

When they finally parted, Amelia’s lips were swollen, her breath unsteady, curls brushing Annie’s cheek.

Neither spoke for a moment. They didn’t have to.

Annie just took her hand and led her to the bed.

“C’mon, sugar,” she whispered, voice velvet-dark, “Let me show you what drawin’ in love really feels like.”

And beneath the quiet moan of the floorboards and the hum of summer outside, something unseen stirred in the room—a shimmer, a ripple—like magic holding its breath.

The bed sat in the center of the room, low to the floor with thick carved posts that framed it like an altar. A patchwork quilt was folded at the foot, worn and sun-faded but lovingly kept. The sheets were cream-colored and linen-soft, wrinkled slightly from the morning’s rest. A single red pillow rested where her head had been earlier, the indent of her shape still visible.

Beside the bed, a small wooden nightstand held a clay dish of jewelry—rings, copper bracelets, and silver hoops scattered like offerings. There was a well-thumbed Bible there too, tucked beside a tiny blue bottle of protection oil and a folded scrap of paper with faint handwritten sigils. A glass of water with lemon slices floated near the edge, the condensation sweating down its sides.

A cedar wardrobe stood open on one side, dresses hanging like pressed flowers—cotton, muslin, and the occasional silky piece saved for nights that needed it. A pair of leather boots lay kicked off beside a woven mat, and one of Annie’s headwraps draped over the edge of a wicker chair by the wall, where a half-finished doll made of Spanish moss and red thread waited in Annie’s lap basket.

In the far corner, a small altar sat against the wall, subtle but sacred. A photo of her mother, younger and smiling in black and white, sat framed in brass. A tiny bowl of salt. A bundle of sage tied in string. A glass of rum. And tucked near the base—something soft and wrapped in silk: a small charm bag she’d made weeks ago, before Amelia ever showed up.

The whole room breathed warmth. Lived-in. Loved-in.

It wasn’t grand or loud. It was hers—intimate, spirit-fed, and humming with the echoes of laughter, prayers, and the low, private moans of a woman who knew how to love hard and quiet.

And now, with Amelia standing before Annie naked, the light curling around her like it belonged to her, the room felt suddenly alive.

Annie sat bare before her, delicious curves revealed. She drew Ameila closer and wrapped her lips around her nipples.

“Hike a foot up, sugar…”

Amelia obeyed. Annie’s long fingers stroked her pussy lips back and forth. She was already slick between her thighs, warmth blooming there like honey left too long in the sun—thick, golden, sweet. When Annie’s fingers parted her, they came away shining, coated in the soft proof of her want. It wasn’t just arousal—it was surrender, a kind of sacred ache that pulsed with every breath Amelia took beneath her hands.

“You so sticky…I can smell you…so fuckin’ beautiful, Lia…”

Annie sucked Amelia’s arousal off of her fingers. Amelia watched, caressing her knee, nibbling on her lip. Annie’s eyes locked between Amelia’s legs. She gasped when she noticed a trail of her arousal dripping like honey from a comb. Annie scooted off of the bed and let her head recline back against the mattress.

“Sit on my mouth, sugar, please…”

Annie was desperate. Amelia climbed up and squatted over Annie’s lips while holding onto the bedpost. The floorboards creaked beneath Annie’s heavy bottom as she adjusted herself. The stroke of her lips against Amelia’s clit sent a jolt of electricity through her. Annie kissed her clit repeatedly, soft and sweet. Amelia couldn’t control the way her hips would roll along Annie’s lips when the kiss became too much.

“Annie…you kiss my pussy so good…”

Amelia allowed her full weight to settle down. That movement opened her pussy up more and her arousal dripped down Annie’s chin. Amelia arched her back and stared straight ahead at herself in Annie’s ornate mirror.

The mirror was old, its glass slightly warped, the wooden frame carved with roses and roots, stained by time and candle smoke. It leaned against the wall of Annie’s bedroom, right across from the bed, angled just enough to catch every inch of Amelia’s body.

She was glowing.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically.

A faint, golden shimmer coiled along her collarbones, danced beneath her skin like lightning in honey. Her eyes—half-lidded, dazed with pleasure—flashed not brown, but molten, their irises threaded with soft embers. Each breath made her chest rise, and with it, tiny sparks of light pulsed at her throat and wrists, as if her veins carried starlight instead of blood.

Her lips parted on a moan—head tilting back, throat exposed—and the mirror caught it all: the sweat shining on her skin, the trembling curve of her stomach, the glistening slick between her thighs as Annie’s fingers slid deeper, Annie’s mouth pressed closer.

Annie murmured something low against her, a praise or a spell, but Amelia barely heard it.

She couldn’t stop watching herself.

She looked… not human. Not just human.

Her reflection shimmered around the edges, soft and flickering, like heat haze rising from a bayou at dusk. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Light clung to her like perfume. Her body looked too soft, too radiant, too real to be only flesh.

She wasn’t unraveling—she was becoming.

Becoming whatever she was always meant to be.

And Annie—now kneeling behind her, moaning softly between her thighs—seemed to feed it. Fuel it. Pull it to the surface. Each lick, each suck, each curl of a finger sent another flicker of light through Amelia’s reflection, like a ripple across moonlit water.

Amelia gasped, eyes locked on her glowing, god-touched self.

What am I becoming? she thought—but there was no fear in it.

Only wonder.

Only ache.

And the slow, delicious build of something ancient unfurling inside her, like fire waking in her blood.

“Annie, fuck…”

Annie’s chin dripped with Amelia’s release. The sound of Annie’s loud sucking grew louder. She didn’t want to stop. She’d only ever stop to admire her work. Amelia’s folds puffy and sensitive, slick with spit and cum. Annie would stroke it with her fingers before going in again to taste. Amelia stayed still like a good girl, arching more, spreading herself open more.

Annie dipped her head to suck her clit from another angle. Amelia felt herself clenching around nothing.

“Mhm…” Annie hummed.

Annie’s mouth moved with slow precision, her tongue circling, teasing, her fingers stroking Amelia deeper. The heat building between Amelia’s legs was unbearable—perfect—a slow burn that curled up her spine and bloomed behind her eyes. Her reflection in the mirror gleamed brighter now, as though the fire in her blood had taken root in the glass.

Her lips parted on a moan, and then—

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

The words spilled out before she could stop them, half-gasped, half-sung—like smoke rising from the mouth of a flame.

Annie froze for just a moment, her breath catching against Amelia’s slick skin, “What… was that?” she whispered.

But Amelia couldn’t answer. Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation crested inside her. The words hadn’t come from her mouth alone—they came from deep within, from some sacred, buried root waking beneath her skin.

The mirror pulsed. Her reflection flared with golden light, the embers in her eyes glowing brighter now—alive, wild, ancient.

The words echoed softly through the room, even after her voice fell silent:

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

Light of my flame… let the veil open…

Annie pressed her hand to the back of Amelia’s thigh, breathing harder now, but not just from desire.

From awe.

Amelia gripped the quilt, her whole body trembling as the climax rolled over her—but part of her, deep and sacred, had already passed through another threshold entirely.

She didn’t know the meaning of the words.

But her blood did.

“You speaking in tongues, sugar?”

Annie stood, staring down at Amelia. Amelia didn’t know what she was speaking, she was equally as stunned.

“It’s just…Annie, the way you, Stack, and Smoke eat me…it just…it…”

Annie stroked Amelia’s cheek to soothe her.

“Tell me what it does while I finish my dessert, sugar.”

Amelia gave Annie a slow nod. Annie got down on her knees and motioned for Amelia to come closer. Ameila scooted to the edge of the bed, spread her thighs, and watched Annie dive back in with a curl of her tongue.

Amelia sat back on her elbows to watch. Annie slipped a hand between her legs to touch her own pussy.

Annie spoke between licks and slurps, “You lovin’ my lips on this fat pussy?”

Amelia was choking on a moan. She couldn’t properly respond.

Amelia was soaked and leaking to the quilt. She couldn’t hear Annie’s wet folds and it made her sit up. Annie locked eyes with her while her lips lightly sucked on her clit.

“Annie…can we touch pussies?”

Annie paused.

“Please…I need it,” Amelia begged with a whiny voice.

“…Yes,” Annie says with a smile, “I’ve been wanting to do that to you…”

Annie stood, sharing a laugh with Amelia. She went to rest on her back and she hooked her heels in her hands before opening up wide and limber. Ameila stared astonishingly at Annie before clombing up to straddle her. She sat directly over Annie’s hairy pussy and when their clits touched Amelia moaned without restriction.

The feeling of their shared wetness pressed together and gliding sent shivers up Annie’s spine. It felt amazing. Slick and messy. She stared up at Amelia past her breasts that sat beneath her chin. Amelia looked like a goddess above her. Nipples erect and poking out. Hair falling into her eyes, skin glistening with sweat.

“Bump my pussy, Lia…”

Amelia braced herself on Annie’s legs. She tossed her hair back and bucked her hips like Annie commanded. The amount of wetness between them left no room for words. They locked eyes and moaned on a loop. Amelia bounced, her clit slapping into Annie’s.

“Lia, that fat pussy…oh, goodness…keep doing that…”

Annie felt her clit grow with each collision. Ameila found her groove and she would bounce then buck…bounce then buck…bounce then buck…

Annie couldn’t believe that she could feel herself cumming already. She stared up at Amelia with disbelief at how good it felt. Brows pinched together, lips parted. Amelia circled her pussy over Annie’s and Annie could feel her body seizing.

Ameila twirled her nipples and licked her lips. She looked so damn beautiful.

“Smoke gonna have a good time sinking into this pussy with how wet you are, Annie…”

Annie couldn’t believe the filth that just came from Amelia’s mouth while she brought her to climax. Annie felt her pussy pulsating against Amelia’s. It was such a powerful orgasm. While Annie tried to come down from her orgasmic high, Amelia spread her open and licked up everything that was left behind.

Annie stared down at Amelia with a look of defeat.

Amelia spoke between licks, “I think I’m ready for my lesson now, Annie.”

Amelia still felt warm between her thighs as they stepped into the shop—clean, dressed, but touched. She and Annie had to freshen up before the lesson, and though water cooled their skin and fresh cotton clung clean to their bodies, the memory of Annie’s mouth and the mirror’s glow lingered like heat under the skin.

She had slipped into a soft sage-green dress that clung in the right places, brushing just past her knees, and Annie had chosen a cotton wrap skirt and a white blouse that left her collarbones bare. They didn’t speak of what happened in the bedroom, but the way Annie’s eyes flicked over her as she unlocked the shop door, the slight curve of her smirk, said everything that needed saying.

Inside, the air was thick with rosemary, lemongrass, and mugwort. Dried bundles hung upside down from beams above, their stems bound in twine. Glass jars lined the shelves—full of roots, powders, dried flowers, little bones, and oil tinctures that caught the light. The old wood floor creaked under their bare feet. A low blues tune spun from the corner, soft and crackling, as if the record itself had a soul.

Amelia inhaled deeply. This space felt alive.

Annie moved behind the counter, pulling down a jar of honey and a bundle of cinnamon sticks. “Let’s get started on love work,” she said, laying the items on a cloth square, “Drawin’ in want. But this time, I want you to focus on how your hands move. What they say. Rootwork ain’t just what you use. It’s how you touch it.”

Amelia nodded, her fingers tingling as she reached for the honey.

But just as she uncorked the jar, the bell above the door jingled.

A woman stepped inside, soft-voiced and slow-footed.

Pearline.

She looked a little nervous, like she’d rehearsed her entrance. Slender and brown-skinned, wearing a faded yellow dress and a matching hat sitting low on her forehead. She carried herself like someone used to holding back—chin slightly tucked, shoulders not quite squared. But her eyes… her eyes were curious, wide-set, and shining.

“Miss Annie?” she said gently.

Annie turned, wiping her hands. “Mm. Pearline. You made it.”

Pearline nodded, glancing briefly at Amelia with a shy smile. “I—I wasn’t sure if it was too soon.”

“It’s right on time,” Annie said, motioning her in. “C’mon in, baby. You remember Amelia?”

“We ain’t properly met,” Pearline murmured, offering her hand. “I seen you ‘round town though. Folks say you Annie’s apprentice.”

Amelia smiled and took her hand. Pearline’s touch was warm, and there was something in her—some flicker, some faint light Amelia felt in her chest like a bell being rung softly. Recognition, but not quite knowing. A kinship unspoken.

“I’m learnin’ all I can,” Amelia said gently. “Glad to meet you, finally.”

Annie motioned toward the reading table, where the light pooled golden over a linen cloth, and a small bowl of herbs waited beside a red flannel bag.

“Now,” Annie said, “you said you wanted help for… your husband?”

Pearline flushed, fingers twisting in her skirt. “He—he don’t touch me no more. Not like he used to. And I ain’t sure if it’s me… or if somethin’ else got in the way.”

Amelia’s heart softened.

Annie nodded, all business now, the rootworker stepping forward. “Well. We gon’ see what’s what. I got somethin’ that might sweeten his tongue and stir what’s sleepin’. But first we talk, and then we make.”

She turned to Amelia with a flick of her chin. “You gon’ help me build it.”

Amelia stepped beside her, eyes on the ingredients: damiana, ginger root, licorice, rose petals.

But as Pearline spoke—softly, haltingly—Amelia felt it again. That flicker. That something in Pearline’s voice, her eyes, her blood. A faint glow behind her skin.

And deep in Amelia’s chest, her fae light stirred—curious.

She don’t even know, Amelia thought.

Not yet.

But maybe… she will.

Annie laid out the ingredients with care, every motion deliberate—rootworking wasn’t just craft. It was communication. A dance between spirit and touch.

“First,” she said to Pearline, “we work a tea to cleanse you—open your heart, clear out any grief cloudin’ your womb or your want. Then we draw what’s needed.”

Pearline nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. She sat on the stool quietly while Annie passed her a warm cup steeped with hibiscus, damiana, cinnamon, and a whisper of honey. It smelled like longing. Like heat waiting to be called back.

While Pearline drank, Annie handed Amelia the red flannel square, “You fix the conjure bag. Do it like I showed you.”

Amelia nodded and began.

A pinch of ginger root, to stir the flame.

Damiana leaves, for lust and passion.

A twist of licorice root, for control—gentle but firm.

Rose petals, for softness, for sweetness.

A drop of patchouli oil, slow and musky.

She moved with intention, each herb added like a verse of a prayer. Her fingers pinched and poured with grace, and Annie watched her, lips pursed in quiet approval.

“Now kiss it closed,” Annie said.

Amelia brought the cloth to her lips and pressed a soft kiss at the center before tying it shut with red thread. As she did, the bag warmed in her palm—just slightly, like something inside had stirred to life. Her heart skipped.

She didn’t say anything.

Annie dipped the tip of her finger into the honey jar nearby and wrote a symbol over the pouch—one Amelia didn’t recognize. Not hoodoo, exactly. Not completely. It looked older.

Pearline held out her hands.

Annie placed the bag into them gently, “Put this under y’all’s mattress. Sleep over it. And when you want to call him back into you, talk to it sweet. Like he already yours again.”

Pearline looked at them both, eyes glistening, “Thank you.”

“You ain’t alone,” Annie said, “Not never.”

After the working, Pearline lingered. She stood beside a shelf of dried herbs, running her fingers over the hanging bundles like she was trying to read something in the leaves. Amelia stepped beside her, drawn in like a moth.

“You did real good in there,” Pearline said softly, without turning, “You got a gentle hand.”

Amelia smiled, “Thank you.”

Pearline turned to face her. Their eyes met.

There it was again.

That flicker.

It wasn’t magic in the hoodoo sense. It wasn’t a spirit in the room.

It was in Pearline.

Amelia’s fae light stirred behind her ribs, curling like warm vapor. It responded without her permission, reaching—curious. Pearline had something inside her. Latent. Quiet. Maybe passed down without ever being named. Maybe watered down from a long-ago bloodline or hidden behind Sunday skirts and psalms.

But it was there.

Pearline stepped closer. Not in a flirtatious way. But open.

“Sometimes I feel things,” she said, almost whispering, “Things I don’t understand. Like… like the wind listens when I talk. Or animals follow me for no reason. Or my dreams come true in little pieces.”

Amelia’s throat tightened, “You ever told anyone that?”

Pearline shook her head, “Folks already think I’m strange. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ worse.”

“You ain’t strange,” Amelia said softly, “You just ain’t been taught your name yet.”

Pearline blinked. “My name?”

“The one inside you,” Amelia said, placing her hand lightly over Pearline’s chest. “The one only the old blood remembers.”

Pearline stared at her for a long moment. The shop around them hummed—soft wind against glass jars, blues music fading into silence.

“Will you show me?” she asked.

Amelia nodded, “If you want it.”

And somewhere beneath them—below the floorboards, under the roots—something ancient and glowing turned over in its sleep.

Annie stood behind the counter, slowly cleaning the edge of a carved mortar with a linen cloth, but her eyes weren’t on the tools in her hands. They were on the corner of the shop where Amelia and Pearline stood, just beyond the reach of the sun filtering through the lace curtains.

The two women were close—faces turned inward, heads bowed slightly like they were speaking something soft. Private.

Annie couldn’t make out the words.

But she didn’t need to.

She watched Pearline touch one of the dried rosemary bundles, her fingers lingering, then drop her hand to her chest as if something there had just stirred awake. She watched Amelia answer her with that look—the one she wore when her spirit recognized something before her mouth could name it.

Well, Annie thought. Ain’t that something.

She didn’t feel left out. Not exactly. But there was something in the air now—like a thread had been pulled from a fabric she’d thought only she and Amelia shared.

Amelia, who had been so quiet at first. So sweet, tender. Powerful, yes—but soft with it. Careful. Annie had watched her bloom like a morning glory since the day she stepped into the shop, barefoot and smelling of river moss and honey. Now she was reaching out to someone else. And not just anyone.

Pearline.

Of course it would be Pearline.

There was something in that girl Annie had always noticed. The way animals followed her. The way her voice carried like wind through tall grass when she sang at the river. The way her eyes always looked like they were remembering something she hadn’t lived yet.

Two women made of ache and hidden light.

Kindred.

Annie narrowed her eyes slightly. Not in judgment—but in thought.

She set down the mortar and reached for the jar of frankincense resin, as if busying her hands would still her thoughts.

Pearline trustin’ her already, she mused, and they only just properly met.

But it didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it felt like something that was always meant to happen.

Amelia placed her hand gently over Pearline’s heart, and whatever she said made Pearline’s shoulders soften like they’d been carrying something too long.

Annie’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile.

“They speakin’ a language without words,” she murmured aloud, though no one heard it, “One they both remember, somewhere deep.”

Still—something in her belly curled tight. Not jealousy. Not even suspicion. Just a flicker of watchfulness. Like a door she’d thought was closed had quietly eased itself open.

She wiped her hands and called softly across the room, “Y’all alright over there?”

Both women turned at once.

Pearline gave a small smile, a little dazed but glowing.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to Annie’s, wide and unreadable.

“Mhm,” she said gently, “We just…talkin’.”

Annie nodded once, slow, “Good. ‘Cause the lesson ain’t over yet. And I want you both ready.”

Then she turned and walked into the back room, leaving the two of them in that golden hush.

But even as she moved out of sight, she could feel it: something had shifted.

Something was blooming.

And it wasn’t done yet.

The sun was streaming fuller through the windows by the time Pearline gathered her things. Her root bag was tucked beneath her arm, tied off with a strip of indigo cloth Annie had blessed with oil and a whispered prayer. She held the charm bag close to her chest, like it was more than fabric and herbs—like it was a secret only she and the spirits knew.

Her hat had lifted slightly, a soft curl slipping free at her temple. Amelia noticed it, and something about the way it curled—unruly and delicate—felt familiar. Kindred.

Pearline turned to her at the door, eyes searching.

“I know you probably busy with lessons and things, but… I’d really like to see you again.”

Amelia’s smile bloomed slow and warm, “I’d like that too.”

Pearline exhaled, a shy, breathy laugh escaping her like she hadn’t meant to be so bold, “Maybe we could talk more. I got questions, and you… you feel like someone I can talk to without feelin’ crazy.”

Amelia nodded, stepping closer, her voice a soft hush, “You ain’t crazy. You just woke up. And sometimes, when you first wake up, you need somebody to help you figure out what the dream meant.”

Pearline’s eyes welled with quiet emotion, but she held it back, smiling through it.

“Tomorrow,” Amelia offered, “why don’t you come by Annie’s garden? We’ll have a picnic out back. It’s quiet there—pretty, too. We could bring sweet tea, a little fried okra, maybe some biscuits if I don’t burn ‘em.”

Pearline beamed, “Yes. I’d like that real much.”

They exchanged a time—just after eleven, before the heat climbs too high—and Amelia gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.

A faint clop-clop sounded outside the shop, the slow creak of buggy wheels against the dirt road. Pearline glanced back over her shoulder.

“That’s my friend, waitin’ with the horse. He gon’ take me home.”

“You need help carryin’ any of it?” Amelia asked.

Pearline shook her head, “I got it.”

Annie, who’d stepped out of the backroom just in time to catch the exchange, came forward and pressed a hand gently to Pearline’s shoulder.

“You did good today,” she said, “Now don’t go second-guessin’ it.”

Pearline nodded.

“And don’t forget,” Annie added, her voice slightly firmer now, protective, “what you feel inside—your voice, your power, your need—it ain’t wrong. Ain’t never been.”

Pearline’s eyes shimmered, “Thank you, Miss Annie. I mean that.”

Annie nodded once, “You sleep with that bag under your bed for the first three nights. Then move it to your pillow. And if that man start actin’ brand new, you send me a letter.”

Pearline laughed, then turned to Amelia.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waitin’.”

Pearline slipped out into the sunlight, her figure framed by the doorway—slight, soft, but no longer small. She walked to the buggy with a spring in her step and a root bag full of magic nestled close.

Amelia watched her go, the door swinging shut gently behind her.

“Girl got a light in her,” Annie murmured, stepping beside her.

Amelia turned to her, voice low. “Yeah. She does.”

But inside, her fae light whispered something else.

She’s got more than that. She got something old.

And it’s waking up.

The sky had settled into a dusky violet by the time they got home, the final red threads of daylight curling low behind the trees. The scent of drying herbs still clung to Amelia’s dress, and the backs of her knees were damp with sweat. She was tired—but content. The shop had been quiet after Pearline left, and the energy between her and Annie had softened into something warm and close.

Annie pulled the screen door shut behind them and kicked off her shoes in the entryway. She moved toward the small stack of mail left tucked in the slot by the doorframe.

“Didn’t check it earlier,” she muttered more to herself than anyone.

Amelia walked into the kitchen and set her bag down with a sigh, already moving toward the icebox to fetch the leftover fried squash and red beans they hadn’t touched the day before. She hummed a little under her breath, comforted by the small ritual of reheating food in Annie’s cast iron skillet.

The house creaked with familiar sounds—floorboards groaning as they cooled, frogs beginning their chorus outside, and the soft crinkle of envelopes as Annie sifted through the mail at the table.

Then a pause.

Amelia turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

Annie sat still now—shoulders stiff, one envelope trembling slightly between her fingers. Her face changed—eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a firm, unreadable line.

“You alright?” Amelia asked gently, stepping closer.

Annie didn’t answer at first. Her eyes scanned the page, but Amelia could tell—she wasn’t reading it anymore. She already knew what it said. The kind of knowing that settled in your bones before your eyes caught up.

“It’s from Miss Ora Mae,” Annie said finally, folding the letter tight, voice thick but calm. “Down in Shelby. One of her girls went missin’. And a woman’s been found near the crossroads with her eyes gone.”

Amelia froze, the warmth of the skillet forgotten.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

Annie looked up at her then, face shadowed beneath the kitchen light. “I gotta go. She’s callin’ for me.”

“Tomorrow?”

Annie nodded, “First light.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Just ate quietly—red beans over rice, squash crisp at the edges, cornbread still soft in the center. Amelia wrapped a second plate in cloth and set it near the stove, leaving a pan warming for when Smoke and Stack returned from town. The brothers were handling something with the moonshine and juke joint supplies—last details before the weekend’s big opening.

Outside, the cicadas hummed.

Inside, tension curled behind Annie’s eyes like smoke in a closed room.

Smoke and Stack returned just as the crickets took up their night song, boots heavy on the porch. Stack stepped inside first, his shirt damp with sweat and the smell of whiskey clinging to his collar. His eyes landed on Amelia with a small, crooked smile.

“I’m takin’ her,” he said simply, nodding toward Amelia.

She gave Annie a quick glance, then followed Stack down the hall, her pulse already rising.

Smoke lingered, silent as ever, his gaze sweeping the kitchen before settling on Annie.

“Food’s hot,” she said softly, motioning to the waiting plate.

He sat across from her, taking his button shirt off and resting it behind him, and then he dug in. He didn’t say much—not at first. Just ate slow, chewing like he could taste something beyond the food.

Annie stared at her tea, fingers tapping absently against the cup.

“You gone quiet on me,” he said finally.

“I got a letter.”

He stopped chewing, “Bad?”

“Miss Ora Mae in Shelby. Trouble with one of her girls. Real bad signs.”

Smoke swallowed, jaw twitching.

“You think it’s them folks from that river camp?”

“I don’t know. But I gotta go see.”

“When?”

“Dawn.”

Silence.

Smoke set his fork down, leaned back slightly, “You ain’t goin’ alone.”

Annie met his eyes, “I am.”

He shook his head slowly, “Nah. Not for somethin’ like that. Not if they takin’ eyes now.”

“You got the juke openin’ this weekend. You can’t go runnin’ off.”

“Damn the openin’,” he growled, but the heat in his voice softened at the look she gave him. That stubborn calm she always wore when her mind was made up.

“Smoke,” she said gently, “This my work. Mine. They called for me, not you. You stay here. Handle what’s yours.”

He clenched his jaw, pushed the plate away.

“I don’t like it.”

“You ain’t got to,” she said, reaching for his hand, “Just trust me.”

He held her hand a long moment, callused fingers wrapping tight around hers.

Then—quietly—he nodded.

Later, beneath the open sky, Annie drew water from the hand pump and filled the iron tub on the back porch. The moon was nearly full, hanging low and round above the trees. Smoke sat in the tub, his back to her, steam rising around him in soft tendrils.

She bathed him in silence, her hands slow and reverent. She poured warm water over his broad shoulders, dragged the washcloth across the planes of his back, kissed the nape of his neck as she worked.

He said nothing at first.

Then, he spoke softly, “You come back to me.”

“I always do.”

“I mean it, Annie.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his ear.

“If I don’t, you’ll find me anyway. You always do.”

Water splashed soft against metal. Frogs sang in the cane grass. The moon watched from her perch in the sky, full and golden, as Annie’s hands moved slow over the man she loved.

And somewhere in the distance, the wind shifted.

Something was coming. Annie could feel it in her bones.

But for now, she just bathed her man in moonlight. And let the night hold them.

The steam curled in soft spirals from the surface of the water, carrying the scent of rosemary and bay leaf. The iron tub be on the back porch creaked faintly as Smoke shifted, his long legs stretched out, chest slick with heat. Moonlight cast him in silver—his dark skin gleaming, beard damp at the edge of his jaw.

Annie knelt behind him on a stool, bare feet braced against the wooden slats of the porch, her slip clinging damp to her thick body. She dragged a cloth over his broad shoulders, slow and deliberate, her fingers following behind to massage soap into his skin.

Smoke groaned low in his chest, head falling forward slightly.

“You always groan like that,” she murmured, lips curving at the edge, “Makes me think you been needin’ this more than you let on.”

“You already know I do,” he rumbled, voice thick as molasses, “Ain’t nothin’ like ya’ hands, woman.”

Annie reached for the tin pitcher and poured warm water over him again, watching the rivulets roll down the grooves of his back, over the scars he never spoke of, over the life he’d never explain. She set the pitcher down and leaned in close, breath warm against the nape of his neck.

Her right hand dipped lower beneath the water—beneath the surface, where heat pooled thick. She found him with ease, fingers curling gently around his length, already half-hardened from her touch alone.

Smoke exhaled, jaw tightening.

“Annie…”

She kissed behind his ear, slow and wet, and then her tongue flicked over the curve of his right ear—the sensitive part she’d discovered long ago that unraveled him like thread.

Her voice dropped, lush and low, and she began to whisper in his ear—not English now, but Yoruba, her grandmother’s tongue. The one passed to her through work and blood, never written down, only remembered through ritual and want.

“Mo ní ifẹ́ rẹ… gbogbo ara rẹ.”

I want you…all of you.

Smoke’s hand gripped the sides of the tub, knuckles pale.

“Jọ̀wọ́, jẹ́ kí n jẹ ẹ láradá…”

Let me be your healer.

She kissed just behind his jaw, her voice like silk wrapped in flame.

“Fọ gbogbo ìbànújẹ rẹ sínú omi yìí.”

Let the water take your sorrow.

Her hand stroked him under the surface, slow and steady, and she felt him growing harder with each breath. The moon above them seemed to hold its breath. The frogs, the wind, the night itself stilled.

Smoke turned his head slightly, his eyes finding hers—dark, unreadable, full of fire.

“You tryin’ to drive me outta my mind?”

Annie didn’t answer.

She simply rose from the stool and climbed into the tub with him, her full body slipping into the water, thighs parting as she straddled him, taking off her slip that clung to her curves like a second skin from sweat.

She reached between them, guiding him to her, and whispered one last thing against his mouth—

“Má ṣe bẹ̀rù ìfẹ́ mi…”

Don’t be afraid of my love.

Then she kissed him.

Hungry, deep, wet.

And the tub rocked beneath them as the water answered in waves.

The water sloshed softly around them as Annie eased down over him, her hands pressed to his slick chest, her breath catching the moment he filled her. Deep. Stretching. So familiar, and yet every time felt like the first—all heat and slow ache and a breath stolen too fast.

Smoke’s hands slid up her thighs, gripping her hips with reverence and hunger. He groaned, head falling back against the rim of the tub, the sound guttural and low.

Annie moved slow, rocking her hips in a rhythm as old as prayer. The iron creaked beneath them, moonlight bathing their glistening skin, steam rising like the breath of the spirits that bore witness.

“FUCK,” Smoke spoke sharply with a grunt, “Hot pussy…juicy…”

“Amelia warmed me up nice and good for you…”

Smoke gripped the tubs edge and stared into Annie’s eyes with smoldering passion.

“Feel this pussy, Papa…”

the curves of her breasts pressed tight against his chest as she leaned forward and whispered more Yoruba into his ear.

“Mo jẹ́ ayé rẹ… mo jẹ́ ibi ìsinmi rẹ…”

I am your world…I am your place of rest…

Her lips brushed his jaw as she moved, the words dripping from her tongue like oil over fire. Smoke’s grip tightened, and his hips bucked up into her, his rhythm becoming needful, deeper now—pulling moans from her throat she didn’t try to hide.

“Say it again,” he rasped, though he didn’t understand. “Whatever it is. Say it.”

She cupped his face in her hands, slowing her movements just enough to feel every inch of him. Her eyes searched his.

“Ìfẹ́ yìí… kò ní parí.”

This love…will not end.

She stuck her fingers in his mouth and then replaced them with her tongue as she kissed him then—full, open, wet. Their mouths met like they were starving, teeth grazing lips, tongues stroking in time with her hips. The water rocked louder now, the tin tub groaning beneath the strain of them. Her thighs trembled around him.

Smoke sat up, arms wrapping around her, mouth dragging along the curve of her shoulder, then her throat. His voice was thick, trembling.

“You feel like home, Annie. You are home.”

Annie buried her face against his neck, her arms wrapping tight around his back. Her body moved faster now, chasing the edge with him, the sound of flesh meeting water rising like thunder in their ears. His hands gripped her backside, guiding her rhythm, grounding her in his body. Water splashed, coating his face and hers.

Then—

He groaned her name, rough and breathless.

And she shattered against him.

Her cry was soft but shaking, clinging to him as her climax rolled through her like storm-wind. Her walls fluttered around him and that’s when he let go—gripping her close, his release pulsing deep inside her, their bodies locked in wet, heaving stillness.

They stayed like that for long moments. His forehead pressed to hers. Her breath still stuttering in her chest.

Then—

Smoke let out a slow breath, like something in him had finally exhaled after years of holding on.

Annie cupped his jaw again, stared into his face. “You hear me now?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“I heard everything.”

She smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth. Then leaned back, letting the warm water rise around her once more.

They bathed each other in the quiet that followed, no rush, no words needed. The moon hung high above them—witness, keeper, guardian.

They didn’t bother to dry off.

Smoke lifted her from the tub, water slicking off their skin in rivulets as he carried her into the house—her thick thighs cradled around his waist, her arms looped behind his neck. Their mouths stayed locked, breath hot and uneven, tongues tangled in kisses that never ended, only deepened.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them.

Moonlight spilled through the open window, casting Annie’s skin in silver flame. Her body gleamed—full, bronzed, beaded with water. Her breasts heaved, nipples tight, Smoke’s eyes stuck to every curve like worship.

Smoke growled low in his throat.

“Lay back,” he said roughly, guiding her to the bed.

She obeyed, her body hitting the sheets with a soft, wet sigh.

His eyes swept over her slowly—deliberately—dragging from her hips, to her belly, to her breasts. He kissed every inch it revealed, moaning as he went.

“Look at you,” he muttered against her stomach, voice thick and reverent, “You so goddamn fine, Annie. Look at this body. Look at these hips. This ass. You know I ain’t never wanted nobody the way I want you?”

His hands roamed her like he’d forgotten everything else in the world.

“I’m gon’ take my time wit’ ya’ tonight,” he growled. “And YOU gon’ take all this dick, just like ya’ was made to.”

Annie whimpered, already arching beneath him.

Smoke grabbed her thighs, spreading them wide as he knelt between them. His mouth found her again—devouring, slow at first, then faster. She cried out, hips bucking, and he held her down with one strong arm, eating like he was trying to own her soul.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmured against her folds, his beard slick with her arousal. “Keep runnin’ from me, I’ma pin you down and fuck you into the floor.”

She moaned—shaky, desperate—and reached for him.

“Elijah!”

His response was more pussy eating. He pinned Annie’s thighs back with both hands. Smoke ate her like it was his last supper. Annie watched with her breasts in each hand, cupping them like he loved. He loved it when she rolled her breasts and pointed them up so he could take in the beauty of her big areolas and perk nipples. Smoke missed wedging his big dick between them and pouring the Sweet Ember.

Sweet Ember smells like desire in summer dusk—thick, slow-burning, and sticky-sweet. Like brown sugar melting on a cast iron skillet. Like crushed clove in a warm palm. Like the smoke of a love letter burned and inhaled.

The scent lingers, curling behind the ears, at the collarbone, between thighs. It blends with the skin’s own chemistry, deepening as bodies warm. On Smoke, it sharpens—the cedar and tobacco becoming heavier, headier. On Annie, it sweetens, bringing out the molasses and vanilla, making her skin smell edible, holy.

Smoke took a breath, “You ‘bout to cum, I can taste it, baby, just let it go. Give me what the fuck I want.”

Annie was in paradise. She’d had her pussy licked and sucked twice in one day. Once by Amelia. And now her handsome husband. Her Papa Smoke.

“Papa my puss cummin’…”

The defeated tone of her voice followed by her sweet moans sent Smoke over the edge.

He climbed up, mouth crashing into hers, then flipped her onto her stomach like she weighed nothing. Smoke popped her on the rump, the sensation stinging from the lingering water against her skin.

“You want me to stop?” he rasped in her ear.

“No,” she gasped.

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop, Papa, please don’t stop. Get in this pussy.”

“Then I’m a take this pussy.”

Smoke growled, sliding into her from behind in one slow, claiming thrust. Her back arched, hands gripping the headboard as he drove into her—deep, hard, full. His hips snapped against her ass, one hand against the side of her neck, the other hand wrapped tight in her hair.

Every thrust pushed a moan from her lips.

“You mine tonight,” he snarled, dragging his hand down her back, “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she choked out. “Yours, Elijah—”

He slammed deeper.

“Say my name again.”

“Elijah.”

“Louder.”

“Elijah!”

“Look at you—back bent, ass high, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word. You so goddamn beautiful, baby. This body? This body was made to be loved like this. You hear me?”

He grinned, kissed the side of her throat, then flipped her again—face to face now. His eyes, wild and full of dark heat, bore into hers. He kisses her shoulder, then bites gently, hand slipping beneath her belly to stroke where she’s most sensitive. He grips her hips tighter, pulling her back onto him with a grunt.

“Wanna see your face when you cum.”

He lifted her legs over his shoulders and drove in again, watching every expression as she came undone beneath him. The bed rocked beneath them, and the room was soaked in moans, skin slapping, gasps for air.

Then—

He slowed.

Pressed his forehead to hers.

Let the rhythm draw out again—long, deep, possessive strokes.

The moon poured over their skin, igniting the bronze and brown of their bodies like they’d been sculpted in flame. Their melanin shimmered beneath the silver light, sweat and want gleaming like how Sweet Ember across the curves of Annie’s stomach, the thick of her thighs, the swell of her breasts.

“I see you,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Ain’t never stopped. Ain’t never will.”

“Don’t ever stop, Papa. Don’t…don’t ever stop…shit, Elijah!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he growls softly in her ear. “Didn’t I tell you I was gon’ do you good tonight? Mm. Got you moanin’ into the sheets like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Annie was teary eyed and speechless. That Yoruba, Creole, and English was trapped in her throat with how good Smoke was making love to her.

“Goddamn, Annie…This pussy always know how to take me. So fuckin’ soft. So wet. You feel that?”

“Mm… Elijah… yes.” She moaned.

Her breath catches as he thrusts deep.

“I’m doin’ it good, baby?”

He drives in deeper. She gasps, body arching.

“You said you’d do me good… and you doin’ it, baby… Lord…”

“Yeah… that’s what I thought. Grippin’ me like you ain’t ready to let go….moonlight all over you. Skin shinin’ like it’s been kissed by fire. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He grinds into her, slow and heavy. She shudders beneath him.

“You got me meltin’… legs shakin’… You got me callin’ out ya’ name…”

He begins to stroke deeper, slower—his voice becoming thick with emotion.

“You makin’ me feel like I ain’t never had no woman before. And maybe I ain’t, not like this. Not the way you take me in. Not the way you make me lose my whole goddamn mind.”

He brushes a damp curl from her forehead, then rests his forehead against hers, breath shuddering.

“I told you I was gon’ have you walkin’ funny,” he whispers, grinning slightly. “And I ain’t nowhere near done.”

Then he kisses her hard, possessive. His hand curls around her throat—not to choke, just to hold—and his next thrust sends her gasping into his mouth.

“You mine, Annie. Mine ‘til the stars fall.”

“Take me, Elijah… Make me forget where I am…Just don’t let me forget who I’m with.”

Annie cupped his face as he moved inside her, their climax building again—slow and thick and soul-deep. She cried out his name as she came, her walls clenching tight around him. He followed with a low, broken moan, emptying into her as his whole body trembled.

Their bodies were still tangled, limbs heavy and wet with sweat. The bedsheets were half-kicked to the floor. The window remained open, and the night air curled in like a lullaby, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth.

Smoke didn’t pull out.

He stayed inside her—deep, slow-breathing, his chest rising and falling against hers. One hand cupped the back of her head, fingers slipping through the damp coils of her hair. The other held her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles against the softness of her skin.

Annie’s breath was still catching in small waves. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her lips brushing his collarbone.

“Damn,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his throat. “That what you got to say?”

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s all I can say.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to slide deeper. She gasped—soft, not in pain, but from the sensation of still being filled. Still connected.

“You want me to stay like this?” he murmured.

“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “Don’t pull out yet. Not just yet.”

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering.

“I ain’t never loved a woman like I love you,” he said, his voice raw.

Annie opened her eyes.

“You love me?”

He looked down at her. “I thought you knew.”

She swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to have that.”

“You don’t just have it,” he said, brushing his nose along her temple. “You own it.”

They stayed wrapped together like that, his length still inside her, their bodies breathing as one, until sleep came in soft waves. The moonlight spilled over them, igniting their skin with silver, as if the heavens themselves had seen what they shared and blessed it.

They stayed locked like that, trembling in each other’s arms.

Then, slowly, he rolled to his side and pulled her with him—her back to his chest, his arms wrapped around her belly.

They lay bathed in moonlight.

Their breaths slowed.

But their hearts thundered on—tangled in sweat, salt, spirit, and something so ancient, not even the stars could name it.

And though tomorrow would pull Annie away…

Tonight, she gave him every part of herself.

And he received it like it was the last water on earth.

The house had quieted to a hush by the time Amelia settled onto her bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out across the patchwork quilt. The oil lamp on her bedside table cast a soft amber glow, flickering shadows across the walls and the spines of her old books.

Stack was pacing slow, lazy circles through her room like a big cat with nowhere to be. He picked things up and put them down without real purpose—opened her music box again and let it chime its soft, broken melody. Then he clicked his lighter open and shut, open and shut, as if the rhythm steadied him. His eyes kept drifting back to her—watching her legs shift under her nightgown, her bare foot flexing as she adjusted her seat.

She pretended not to notice.

Her focus remained on the leather-bound journal resting across her lap—one of her grandmother’s oldest. The pages were filled with looping cursive, herbs smudged into the margins, candle wax stuck between spells. Amelia’s finger traced a line of ink that read:

For fire without flame: mix crushed red pepper, cedar smoke, and the tears of a woman scorned. Speak her name three times, and no man shall ever rest in her arms again.

She shivered a little.

In front of her, she heard the creak of floorboards.

Then—

Tickles.

She squealed as Stack’s fingers brushed the arch of her foot, light and devilish.

“Stack!” she laughed, pulling her leg up, but he caught it.

“Mm,” he hummed, crouching at the foot of the bed, “You so serious tonight. Thought I’d be the reminder that you got skin.”

He held her foot gently in his big hand, rough thumb brushing the soft pad of her sole. Then, without warning, he kissed the top of it. Just once. Warm and unhurried.

Amelia blinked, thrown off by the tenderness of it.

Then another kiss. This time just above her ankle.

Then higher—his lips grazing the side of her calf, his breath hot against her skin.

She swallowed, her fingers sliding to mark her place in the journal, but her focus was gone now.

“What you readin’?” he asked against her leg, his voice low, molasses-thick.

She hesitated, “My grandmother’s hoodoo book. One of her oldest ones. She used to write notes in the margins when things didn’t go right.”

Stack nodded, still kissing upward. “That the same grandmother raised you?”

“Mhm.” Amelia smiled faintly. “Vivienne. She taught me how to brew healing teas before I could even write my name. I used to sit at her feet while she read Psalms over herbs like they were alive.”

Stack paused, resting his chin gently against her knee. The lamp’s glow hit her just right—golden and warm—and for a second, she looked like something caught between a dream and a flame. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“She the one who gave you your shine?”

Amelia blinked, “My shine?”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along her skin. “Yeah… that light. That thing you got around you. I don’t know what to call it. But it’s there.”

She tilted her head, intrigued but cautious, “What kind of light you think I got?”

Stack’s voice dropped, thick and reverent, “It ain’t somethin’ I see. Not with my eyes, not really. It’s like…I feel it when you walk in a room. Makes the air shift. Animals go still. Time slows up a little.”

He paused again, his thumb still drawing slow circles just below her knee.

“I see it in your skin when you laugh. Hear it in your voice when you speak over tea like it’s spellwork. You shine, Amelia. You glow. And I don’t think that’s just ‘cause you fine. I think that’s somethin’ in you.”

Her breath caught. She looked away for a second, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the journal in her lap.

“You don’t know what you talkin’ about,” she whispered, but it lacked conviction.

Stack gave a soft chuckle, “Maybe not. But I know how I feel when I’m near you.”

She looked back at him.

“And how’s that?”

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul. “Like I’m standin’ in front of a fire that don’t burn… but still changes me.”

Amelia swallowed. Her heart was thudding now, not from fear—but from being seen.

Deeply.

More deeply than she’d ever been seen before.

She lowered her hand and brushed her fingers over the edge of his jaw, voice trembling just a little.

“My grandmère…she did give me somethin’. But I don’t think even she knew what it really was.”

Stack nodded, eyes never leaving hers, “Don’t matter if she named it or not. I see it. I feel it. Every time I touch you, it’s like I’m touchin’ light,” He leaned in again and kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and soft, “Reckon I’d like to hear more ‘bout her sometime.”

Amelia reached down, her hand brushing his jaw.

“You stay the night, and I’ll tell you one of her stories. The one about the bottle tree that kept whisperin’ her name.”

Stack grinned against her skin, “You tryin’ to scare me or seduce me?”

“Ain’t it always a little of both?”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and rose from his crouch, easing himself beside her on the bed. He took the journal from her lap and closed it gently, setting it on the nightstand.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

Then she turned to him, let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the covers.

The music box wound down in the corner.

And somewhere in the house, the faint scent of cedar smoke lingered.

Amelia was curled against Stack’s chest, her head tucked under his jaw, their limbs loosely tangled under the thin sheet. His hand moved slow along her spine, trailing patterns she couldn’t name, fingers sometimes pausing to twirl one of her damp curls around his knuckle. She thought he might be drifting off.

But then he spoke, voice low and gravel-soft, barely louder than a breath.

“You ever believe in things you wasn’t supposed to talk about?”

Amelia blinked up at him, still hazy from the edge of sleep.

“Like what?”

Stack’s hand slowed, “When I was about… six? Maybe seven? Smoke and me used to sneak down by the bayou, out past where the cypress trees thicken and the ground gets soft under your feet. Real still out there. Too still sometimes.”

Amelia nodded slowly. She knew the kind of still he meant.

“One afternoon, I stayed behind after Smoke ran ahead. I was sittin’ on a rock, missin’ my momma again. It hit me sometimes… that ache. Like she was just outta reach but I couldn’t touch her.”

He paused. His fingers skimmed the curve of her waist, thumb settling lightly just beneath her breast.

“Anyway… that’s when I saw her.”

Amelia tilted her face up slightly. “Her?”

“Mmhm. A woman. Not like any I’d ever seen before. Skin gold and brown like riverstone after rain. Hair long and wild, blowin’ though there wasn’t no wind. She was dancin’, just beneath the trees. Twirlin’ like she ain’t had a care in the world. Like joy itself was pourin’ outta her feet.”

His voice dipped into something more reverent now, distant, “She… she glowed. Not like fire. Not like sunlight. She just…lit the world around her. The leaves. The water. My chest. Made everythang feel warm again, even though I’d been cryin’.”

Amelia stilled.

Stack’s jaw flexed as he remembered, “She looked right at me. Smiled, real soft. Then she waved her hand and said, ‘Everything’s gon’ be alright, baby boy.’ Just like that. Like she knew me. Like she meant it.”

He exhaled, long and slow, “I never told nobody. Not Smoke, not Annie, not my daddy. Folks would’ve laughed, said I made it up. Said I was just seein’ things.”

Amelia swallowed, “But you know it was real.”

“I do,” he said, with a conviction that surprised even her, “I ain’t never felt peace like that again. Not ‘til…”

He stopped, hesitated.

She looked up at him, “Not ‘til what?”

His hand returned to her back, stroking lower now, possessive, protective.

“Not ‘til you.”

A soft ache bloomed behind her ribs. Her throat tightened.

“Where was this? Where you saw her?”

Stack glanced toward the window, where the moonlight spilled across the floorboards like a path. “Out past Tchula Lake. Not far from a little four-way crossroads lined with willow trees. Place feelin’ wrong and right at the same time. Like magic and memory both live there.”

Amelia closed her eyes.

She knew that place. Her grandmother had once whispered that fae linger there—that the veil was thin along the water, where cypress trees root into more than just soil. She hadn’t been there since she was a girl.

“Amelia…” Stack’s voice pulled her back.

“Yeah?”

“I think maybe I saw somethin’ I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe I was meant to and just didn’t know what it meant yet.”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Maybe you still don’t.”

His fingers brushed her jaw, tipping her face up toward his.

“I ain’t never stopped thinkin’ about her,” he said, “Not once. Not ‘til now. ‘Cause now… now I think that light might’ve found me again.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.

Stack kissed her forehead, then pulled her tighter into his chest, tucking her beneath his arm like something precious.

“G’night, moon girl,” he murmured, half in jest, half in wonder.

And with his arm wrapped around her and her cheek pressed to his chest, Amelia finally let herself fall asleep. She leaned into him as the hush of night settled around them, her head resting on Stack’s shoulder, one hand still laced with his beneath the coverlet. Her breathing softened, deepened. Within minutes, sleep had pulled her under.

Stack stayed still.

He didn’t want to move. Not yet.

She was warm against him—soft, curved, steady. Her curls had spilled across his chest, a few strands sticking to the fine sheen of sweat that clung to them both. The oil lamp on the bedside table had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows up the walls, golden and slow.

He reached for one of her curls, coiling it gently around his finger.

There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Not just the way she kissed, or the way she gasped his name when his fingers found the right place. Not even how sweet she smelled when she’d been working in the garden all morning, herbs clinging to her skin.

It was something else. Something in the way she watched people. The way animals didn’t flinch when she got close. The way her touch lingered in places long after she’d gone.

Stack had been with women. Slept beside a few. But he never stayed the whole night. Not unless he was too drunk to get home. He didn’t choose sleep like this. He didn’t seek it.

But tonight, with her weight curled into him and her breath fluttering against his ribs, he didn’t want to go nowhere.

He shifted carefully and reached across her to pull the journal from the nightstand—her grandmother’s book.

The leather was cracked and worn, edges curled like it had lived through fire and rain. He opened it.

Symbols. Words that looked like English but weren’t quite. Ingredients he half-recognized—calamus root, dragon’s blood, hyssop. He didn’t understand any of it, not the way Amelia did. Not in his hands.

But he wanted to.

He flipped through the pages slow, reverent, like maybe by holding it he could get closer to her. Not just her skin. But the parts she hadn’t shared yet. The deeper parts. The parts that whispered instead of moaned.

He closed the book after a while, eyes moving back to her sleeping face. Her full lips, parted just slightly. The slow rise of her chest beneath the sheet.

“I don’t know what you are,” he whispered, barely loud enough for the room to hear, “but you ain’t just a girl.”

He let that truth sit in the silence.

Then he moved.

Quietly, he unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it off his shoulders, and folded it once before setting it on the floor. His pants followed. He climbed back under the coverlet, bare-chested, the heat of Mississippi night wrapping around them both.

Amelia shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep. Her hand found his again, even in the dark.

He held it.

Let his head rest back against the pillow.

And for the second time in his life—maybe the first by choice—Elias “Stack” Moore let sleep come to him beside a woman not out of lust, but out of peace.

Out of want for something deeper than flesh.

Out of need.

And the journal on the nightstand pulsed with quiet energy, as if it, too, had taken notice.

The morning came heavy with dew and silence.

The kitchen smelled like sweet mint and cedar ash— the last remnants of the incense Annie had burned before sunrise. She stood by the stove, hair wrapped in a deep green scarf, her skirt cinched tight at the waist, boots laced high. The letter sat folded on the table, held down by a tin of red clover.

Smoke leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, bare-chested, his jeans riding low, belt slung loose.

His eyes didn’t leave her.

“You sure I shouldn’t come?” he asked, stepping closer, “I can put the juke on hold.”

Annie zipped the bag and turned to face him.

She cupped his face, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek.

“You already came back, Elijah. You got work to do here. With your brother. With her. And you need a new shave. I’ll handle that when I get back.”

“Annie…”

She smiled softly and stood on her toes to kiss him — long, deep, her fingers sliding into his hair.

“You trust me?” she asked when they broke apart.

“Always,” he murmured.

“Then trust I’ll be fine.”

They packed the truck together.

Smoke tossed the bag in the back beside a small trunk of conjure tools wrapped in cloth and bone charms.

Annie tied her scarf tighter, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt with steady hands.

“Train leaves at eight,” she said, “We got time.”

The drive was peaceful, Annie’s hand in his, windows down. The station was quiet. Just the sound of birds and the distant rumble of the engine coming down the tracks. Steam hissed. Metal whined.

Smoke walked her to the platform in silence, one hand on the small of her back, the other clenched at his side.

When they reached the edge, she turned to face him again.

“Watch the house,” she said, “And the shop.”

“I will.”

“And watch her.”

She didn’t say Amelia’s name, but it burned in the space between them.

Smoke’s brows furrowed.

“You sure—”

Annie stepped in close. Pressed her chest to his, whispering in his ear.

“I want you to enjoy her. If she needs you… even like that… you give it. She trust you. So do I.”

Smoke exhaled—slow and sharp. Annie slid her hand down, cupping his hardness through his jeans.

“You hard already,” she teased, “Ain’t no shame in that.”

She kissed him one last time—slower, with meaning.

“I love you, Elijah Moore.”

“I love you, Annie Moore.”

She stepped onto the train with her bag and trunk, turned at the top of the steps, and waved.

“Tell my girl I’ll be back soon.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He just watched.

As the train pulled off, he reached under his shirt. Smoke pulled out the mojo bag she’d made him before he left for Chicago.

He held it to his lips.

Kissed it once.

“I got errythang,” he said under his breath, “I got our home…the shack…our baby grave…I promise.”

Smoke got back in his truck and drove home.

Smoke had only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

The bed was warm. The house too quiet. Annie’s absence settled deep in his chest like a stone in water. He stretched out, hand on his chest, boots still on.

And then…

He was somewhere else.

Stay tuned for 5.2...

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[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Omni!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Omni!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, god Mark is trying so hard and it’s got me in a chokehold

Word Count: 2,268

Synopsis: Mark is an unquestioned powerhouse whose following in the steps of his father perfectly – which apparently includes playing the good guy role for a little while here on Earth. After saving the day in a place he had never visited before – Savannah, Georgia – he sees you for the first time, and he finds himself immediately captured by you. And bless his heart; he’s trying real hard.

a/n: waaaait omni-mark is actually too cute with her this turned out so good 😭

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The explosion rattled every window in downtown Savannah.

You were halfway through handing out church fliers for the bake sale when the sky opened up like the Good Lord Himself had decided to throw hands. Something mechanical shrieked overhead—a hunk of alien tech spiraling out of orbit—and folks scattered like hens. But you? You were too busy trying to help old Miss Calloway get her walker down the courthouse steps to run.

That’s when he showed up.

A blur of red and white streaked past, and the air cracked like thunder. The machine exploded mid-air, scattering debris, but not a single piece touched you. When the smoke cleared, he was hovering there—arms crossed, chest rising slow.

He looked like the kind of man Mama warned you about: handsome as the devil, with a jaw like sin and eyes sharp enough to cut. A blood red and pure white suit, that strange symbol on his chest, and not a hair out of place.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice deep and all business.

You blinked. Smiled. “Well, ain’t you just the tallest glass of sweet tea I’ve ever laid eyes on.” You dusted off your sundress, calm as anything. “I do believe you just saved my hide, sugar.”

He stared at you.

Actually stared. Like you’d grown wings.

“…You’re welcome,” he finally said, stiff as a board.

—

You figured that’d be it. Just another cape breezin’ through town, gone like a summer storm. Lord knew Savannah didn’t have the kind of villain activity to keep someone like him around.

But then, a week later: a bank robbery on Broughton.

You were across the street looking at fabric for a new church dress when the robbers burst in, masks askew and nerves twitchin’. Not thirty seconds passed before the front of the bank exploded outward in a thunderous crash, and guess who came walking through the smoke like Judgement Day in boots?

Omni-Mark.

Two would-be robbers unconscious. A van flipped. The building cracked clear down the façade.

He stood there for a second, breathing like he’d just fought a war. Then those eyes found you again.

“…Are you okay?” Same question. Same voice. Like he didn’t remember asking it the first time.

You dusted off your bag and smiled slow. “I was, until someone sent half the brickwork into my fruit basket.”

He blinked.

Didn’t apologize.

Just nodded once and flew off, leaving the street cracked and the bank’s ATM embedded in a mailbox.

The week after that?

Arson at a seafood joint. Only it wasn’t technically arson—it was an overenthusiastic crawfish boil gone wrong.

And who just so happened to swoop in and rescue two elderly patrons and a plate of hushpuppies?

You guessed it.

By the fourth “coincidence,” you’d had just about enough.

You were at the farmer’s market, haggling over okra and mindin’ your own, when some no-name villain calling himself “Professor Static” tried to rob the honey vendor. The man had jumper cables and a Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to his chest.

And still—here came red-and-white terror incarnate, landing hard enough to knock over a bushel of peaches and sending poor Professor Static into early retirement with one punch.

You didn't even flinch this time. You just turned and said:

“Well if it ain’t my own personal tornado again. You know, I’m startin’ to think the Lord sent you to test my nerves, not save ‘em.”

Mark, still brushing bits of villain off his knuckles, replied earnestly: “There was a threat in the area.”

You tilted your head. “Mmm. And this particular ‘threat’ required a man who can break the sound barrier and throw tanks?”

He blinked like a confused dog. Then just said: “Yes.”

You smiled sweetly. “Well bless your heart. Guess Savannah’s just become real high-priority all of a sudden.”

After that, it escalated.

You’d see him perched on the roof of the Piggly Wiggly while you grocery shopped. He once “coincidentally” flew past your book club meeting—held in the back of a tea shop.

Even the church roof getting repaired wasn’t spared — you caught him “inspecting the structural integrity” one morning. At six a.m.

“Coincidence,” he told you, solemnly.

“Mmhmm,” you replied, sipping your coffee on the porch. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

It all came to a head at the Sunday picnic behind the church.

You’d just handed Pastor Whitmore a plate of deviled eggs when a little boy started crying about his balloon floating up into a pecan tree. Before anyone could grab a step ladder, a sonic boom knocked over three lawn chairs and Omni-Mark landed in a crouch like a soldier behind enemy lines.

He plucked the balloon from the tree with surgical precision, handed it to the wide-eyed boy, then turned—like he couldn’t help it—and locked eyes with you.

You didn’t break your stride. Just walked up to him, parasol bouncing against your shoulder, and smiled.

“Well hey there, stranger,” you said like you hadn’t seen him five times that week. “You just happen to be floatin’ by again today, huh?”

“I was nearby.”

“Oh really?” You tapped your lip with one gloved finger. “Because far as I can tell, Savannah’s been quieter than a cat nap in August—until you started showin’ up.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned in just a touch, that parasol bouncing lightly on your shoulder, and let your voice drip warm like honey on a biscuit.

“Now sugar, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but if I didn’t know any better…” You paused, let him look at you, take you in like he always did — like he didn’t understand how something so soft could hold his attention so hard. “…I’d say you’re sweet on me.”

That got him.

He stiffened. Visibly. Brows drawn down like you’d just spoken ancient Sumerian.

“I’m what?” he asked.

You blinked. “Sweet on me.”

“…Is that a—threat?”

You nearly choked.

“Well no, darlin’,” you laughed. “It means… you’ve taken a shine to me. Got a fondness. Somethin’ warm and fluttery in your chest every time you see me walk by in a sundress.”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in riddles. “I don’t know if I have that.”

You arched a brow. “You been followin’ me all over town like a lost bloodhound with a crush and you don’t even know?”

“I know I see you,” he said, slowly. “And it… interrupts everything else. I think about you when I’m not near you. I look for you in crowds. I don’t understand it.”

Your heart did a little hiccup. Not that you’d show it.

Then he shifted—just slightly—and gestured behind him like he’d almost forgotten.

“I saw this,” he said, dead serious, “and I thought of you.”

You followed his hand.

And there it was.

A tree. Not just any tree—a full-grown, live oak, trunk thick as your grandmother’s front porch columns, roots still clumped with Georgia clay.

“I brought it,” he added plainly. “For you.”

You turned fully now, dress swishing, lips parted.

“…You brought me a tree.”

“It’s strong,” he said, like he was listing military assets. “Deep roots. It survives storms. And it’s beautiful.”

You stared.

He looked almost… hopeful. Like he wasn’t sure he’d done it right, but he really wanted to.

You pressed your hand to your chest and sighed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Did I choose wrong?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “Is this not a… courtship gesture?”

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing—though not unkindly. No, it wasn’t mockery—it was fondness. Pure and surprised and maybe just a little fluttery.

“No,” you said at last, stepping up to him. “It ain’t wrong. It’s just…”

You rested your hand gently on the center of his chest, right over that insignia, and smiled.

“…You’re real strong, real fast, and real bad at this.”

He looked down at your hand. At your smile. And for the first time, his posture eased.

“…I’ll learn,” he said.

“Lord help me,” you muttered, half to yourself, “you’re cute—but you sure ain’t right.”

Behind you, someone whispered, “Is that your boyfriend, baby? He brought you a tree.”

You sighed. “No, ma’am. Not yet.” Then looked back at the man who could snap planets in half but was standing there like a schoolboy with a daisy, and added:

“But he’s tryin’ real hard.”

—

You should’ve known the tree was just the beginning.

The very next week, you came back from choir practice, humming “Precious Lord” under your breath with a casserole dish in one arm and a tote bag of hymnals in the other—only to stop dead on the sidewalk.

Because your house?

Was gone.

Completely, utterly gone. Just a smooth patch of red Georgia clay and some very confused squirrels.

You didn’t even drop your casserole. Just squinted at the empty lot and muttered, “Oh, hell.”

You hadn’t even had time to call the police when a blur of red and white landed softly on your lawn—just popped into existence like some kind of good-intentioned superheroic ghost.

Mark stood there with his arms folded, looking like he’d done something monumental and was waiting for you to notice.

“Hi,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I moved your house.”

You blinked. “…You moved my house?”

He nodded. “Yes. I reinforced the supports and rotated it thirty-six degrees for optimal morning exposure. The noise levels in your previous neighborhood were above what I deemed safe. I’ve included natural barriers. Defensive elevation. There’s even a freshwater stream now.”

“…You moved my whole damn house.”

He tilted his head. “Are you… not pleased?”

You finally set the casserole down on a tree stump, took a deep breath, and strode over to him in three deliberate clicks of your Sunday heels.

“Mark, darlin’… I know you mean well,” you began, voice soft and syrupy, “but courtin’ a woman does not involve real estate displacement.”

“I didn’t damage it,” he said quickly. “I preserved everything exactly. Even the wind chimes.”

You pressed two fingers to your temple like you were tryin’ to keep your soul from leavin’ your body.

Mark took a cautious step closer. “Would you… like to see it?”

You stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed tight, casserole cooling on the stump beside you.

“…You moved my house and you want to take me on a field trip to the scene of the crime?”

“I think you’ll like it,” he said, hopeful.

And before you could say yes, no, or bless your heart, he picked you up—gentle, cradling you like you were something breakable—and whooshed into the sky.

The wind tugged at your curls, your heels danglin’ mid-air, and you had half a mind to scold him for flying off with a lady like you were luggage.

But then you saw it.

Set right on the crest of a hill overlooking a winding stream, surrounded by swaying oaks and golden brush, was your house.

Your entire house. Not a board out of place. Porch swing still swayin’. Petunias somehow re-potted on the steps.

It looked like a catalog ad for “Backwoods Dreamin’” — and you had to admit, it was gorgeous. If deeply unhinged.

He landed smoothly and set you down on your front walk like he’d done something sweet instead of city-code-illegal.

“I aligned it so the kitchen gets the sunrise,” he explained. “And you mentioned wanting to see more stars at night, so I calculated the light pollution radius and picked the optimal spot.”

You turned slowly to look at him, expression flat.

“Mark… honey, I said I missed seein’ stars — I didn’t mean for you to relocate me to a planetarium in the woods.”

“…Oh.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“Alright,” you said, hiking your dress slightly as you climbed the front steps of your own house now resting on foreign soil. “That’s it. We’re havin’ a talk.”

He followed behind like a student reporting to the principal.

You walked into your kitchen, poured sweet tea into two mason jars (still miraculously in your cupboards), and sat him down at the kitchen table like he was about to be scolded by every southern matriarch in history.

You set the jar in front of him before fishing in your purse and pulling out your emergency notepad (every proper southern lady carries one), flipping to a fresh page. Then, in very clear, looping script, you wrote:

How Not to Woo a Woman Like She’s a Hostile Planet(Southern Courting Etiquette for the Superpowered)

No lifting houses. Ever.

Flowers are romantic. Entire ecosystems are overkill.

Don’t solve mild inconveniences with extreme force.

Ask before giftin’ anything that could legally require zoning permits.

No surprise livestock. This includes alien livestock. Especially if they glow.

He peered over your shoulder like this was a test he didn’t study for.

“What’s ‘livestock’?” he asked seriously.

You slowly turned to him. “Did you bring me an animal?”

“…Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask.

You simply handed him the notebook, patted his chest gently, and said, “Study this, darlin’. Hard.”

He took it in both hands like you’d just handed him the Declaration of Independence.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll memorize it. I can learn.”

And Lord help you.

You liked him.

“You’re sweet,” you said, standing and walking over to rest a hand gently on his shoulder. “And dumb as a box of river rocks, but sweet.”

He blinked. “Is that… good?”

You smiled. “Sugar, it’s a start.”

[paucubarsisimp]

Heyy queen, not sure if your taking requests atm but would you be open to doing the ‘current boyfriend’ tik tok trend with the Barca boys??

Love your work xx

current boyfriend

pairings: pablo gavi x reader,, pedri x reader ferran torres x reader, pau cubarsi x reader, hector fort x reader, alejandro balde x reader, lamine yamal x reader, marc bernal x reader

summary: in which you do the current boyfriend trend on your boyfriend

warnings: none!

pablo gavi

you’re tucked against pablo’s side on a rainy afternoon in barcelona, his hoodie drowning you, your legs tangled with his under the blankets. the soft hum of the tv plays in the background, some old barça match he keeps watching like he doesn’t know how it ends.

he’s got his phone resting on his stomach, barely paying attention. you, on the other hand, are holding yours up sneakily — recording already.

you glance at him, then at the camera, trying not to smile.

“vale,” you whisper to yourself, clearing your throat dramatically. “hi everyone! so today we will be seeing how well my current boyfriend knows me.”

pablo’s head turns so fast you nearly drop the phone.

“¿cómo que novio actual?” he says, brows furrowing, voice full of dramatic offense. “perdona?”

you can’t help it — you burst into laughter.

he sits up, pushing the blanket off his chest like he’s ready to fight an invisible threat.

“actual? like… like i’m temporary?” he blinks, eyes wide. “so what am i? a trial version?”

you’re giggling uncontrollably now, clutching your stomach as he starts pacing the end of the bed like a man betrayed.

“ah, i see. this is why you didn’t want me to meet your tía at easter. you were planning my expiration date.”

“pablo!” you squeal, still laughing, “it’s a tiktok trend!”

he stops mid-step and looks at you, dead serious. “you think trends will save you when i’m heartbroken? huh?”

you fall back onto the bed in tears (from laughing), and he finally cracks a grin. crawling back over, he snatches your phone and flips the camera around.

“listen,” he says, addressing the imaginary audience with one hand around your waist, “i am not her current boyfriend. i am her only. su único. por siempre.”

you try to roll your eyes but he kisses your cheek dramatically, then mumbles into your skin:

“y si algún día dice que me va a dejar… no va a poder. porque ya la puse en el grupo familiar.”

“you added me to the family whatsapp, pablo. that doesn’t make us married.”

“sí que sí. you’ve seen the memes. it’s forever now.”

you look at him, still flushed from laughter, and suddenly he’s soft. less chaotic. just him. warm brown eyes, a slightly crooked smile, and the way his thumb brushes against your hip like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

“oye,” he says, quieter now, “if i was actually your current boyfriend… would you tell me if you were planning to replace me?”

you blink. he’s joking, but also kind of not. there’s a flash of real feeling behind his teasing.

you lean in and kiss him, slow and certain.

“you’re not my current anything, pablo,” you murmur against his lips. “you’re my always.”

he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

then — with zero warning — he grabs the phone again.

“and that’s how you win, chicos. take notes.”

pedri

you’re curled up on pedri’s bed, face half-buried in his pillow, phone in one hand, feet nudging at his side. he’s sitting up next to you, back against the headboard, scrolling aimlessly through some article about barça tactics like it’s the most thrilling novel on earth.

he doesn’t notice you start recording. not at first.

you turn the camera toward the two of you, face blank, voice casual.

“hola chicos,” you whisper. “today im here with my current boyfriend.”

his head turns so fast it’s like he heard a whistle blow.

“¿qué?” pedri says, blinking. “current boyfriend?!”

you turn to him, eyebrows raised like you’ve just been asked what 2+2 is. “yeah?”

his mouth opens. closes. opens again. he looks genuinely stunned. like he’s been called offside while standing still.

“‘current boyfriend’?” he repeats slowly, like he’s trying to translate it into something that makes sense. “me estás vacilando, ¿no?”

you furrow your brow, all wide-eyed innocence. “what? that’s just… what people say.”

“no, it’s not,” he says, staring at you like you’ve personally rewritten the dictionary. “that’s what you say when you’re... i don’t know. rotating the squad.”

you blink. “rotating the squad?”

“like you’ve got backups. a bench.”

you gasp. “you think i have backup boyfriends?”

pedri folds his arms across his chest, staring you down. “well. apparently i’m the current one, so.”

“pedri,” you giggle, crawling over to him. “you’re being silly.”

“am i?” he says, fake offended. “who’s next, then? ferran? ansu? don’t lie.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “hmm. héctor.”

“wow,” he says. “so you’re into the young guys now. okay.”

you lean your head on his shoulder, still recording. he stays frozen, arms crossed, pretending to be emotionally wounded.

you poke his cheek. “you know i’m joking, right?”

“don’t talk to me,” he mutters, nose scrunching as he hides his smile. “i need to reevaluate my relationship status.”

you kiss his jaw softly. “you’re not my current boyfriend.”

he perks up slightly. “no?”

you shake your head sweetly. “you’re my favorite one.”

his face drops again. “that’s worse.”

you laugh, full-on now, as he reaches over and tries to snatch your phone.

“delete it,” he says, but he’s grinning. “delete it or i’m telling your mom you bullied me.”

ferran torres

you didn’t mean to prank him.

well. okay. you kind of did.

you’d seen the “current boyfriend” videos all over tiktok lately—girls casually calling their long-term boyfriends “my current boyfriend” and capturing their reactions. most of them blinked. some looked offended. some acted like it was the end of the world.

you had a strong feeling ferran would fall into the last category.

he was in your kitchen now, quietly snacking on cereal out of the box, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, hair still messy from his post-training nap.

you turned your phone to selfie mode and whispered, “okay guys... this is my current boyfriend.”

you angled the camera toward him.

ferran looked up, mid-chew. smiled automatically—then blinked.

“…wait.”

he squinted.

“current?”

you bit your lip, trying not to smile.

he slowly lowered the cereal box like it was suddenly very heavy. “what do you mean current, cariño?”

“you know,” you say, way too casually, “like… my boyfriend for now.”

he tilted his head, fully confused.

“for now??? am i... am i on a trial period or something?” he blinked. “is there a deadline?? did i miss a meeting???”

you cracked, laughing into your sleeve.

ferran pouted. properly pouted. full lips pulled down, forehead creased, arms crossed loosely in front of him like a kicked puppy.

“wow. i was gonna share the cereal with you,” he muttered.

“you never share cereal with me.”

“yeah well. current me was about to.” he glanced at your phone. “are you recording this?? oh my god.”

you put your phone down and walked over, wrapping your arms around him lightly. he didn’t hug you back immediately. just stood there, all soft and betrayed.

“you know you’re not just my current boyfriend, right?” you said into his hoodie.

he was quiet for a second. then—

“…okay but like. just to be clear. i’m the final boyfriend? like. endgame? credits roll?”

you smiled into his chest. “final boss.”

he let out a tiny sigh of relief, rested his chin on your head, and mumbled, “okay. but no more ‘current’. i almost had a heart attack. i thought i got dumped mid-cheerio.”

pau cubarsi

you were half sprawled on the couch, bored, lazy, and dangerously close to falling asleep, when your phone buzzed with yet another “current boyfriend prank” video.

you’d seen like six today, and every time, the boyfriend's reaction made you giggle. confused, dramatic, sometimes genuinely offended.

and now you were eyeing pau, who was across the room trying very seriously to fold laundry—his tongue poking out slightly as he focused on folding a t-shirt into a perfect square.

too perfect an opportunity.

you opened your front camera, hit record, and called out in your sweetest voice, “hey guys, just wanted to introduce you to my current boyfriend…”

pau looked up instantly, soft brown eyes lighting up—until he processed the words.

“...your what?”

you tried not to laugh. “my current boyfriend.”

he blinked. once. twice. his whole expression shifted—eyebrows furrowing, nose scrunching, lips forming the tiniest pout.

“current?” he stood there holding your hoodie like it had personally betrayed him. “what do you mean current, amor?”

you bit your lip, pretending to stay casual. “you know… the boyfriend i have right now.”

he dropped the hoodie. full-on stared at you. “so i’m just a phase now? like… like a monthly subscription?”

you snorted.

“pau—”

“no no. don’t even,” he cut in, arms now crossed over his chest. “what happens after me? is there a waitlist? auditions?”

you couldn’t stop giggling now. he was so serious about it, even as his pout deepened and he looked away like the most offended golden retriever alive.

“i folded your clothes,” he added quietly. “i was gonna make you toast.”

“and i love you for it,” you grinned, putting your phone down and padding over to him. you wrapped your arms around his waist and leaned into his chest. “you know i’m joking. you’re not just my current boyfriend, you’re my forever boyfriend.”

pau looked down at you, still pretending to be mad but already melting. “you can’t just call me current and then snuggle your way out of it.”

“i can if you like snuggles.”

he let out a dramatic sigh. “…i do.”

you reached up to boop his nose. “thought so.”

he finally smiled—barely—but then buried his face in your hair and mumbled, “i’m unfollowing you on tiktok.”

“no you’re not.”

“okay but only because you smell nice.”

hector fort

you’d been meaning to try the “current boyfriend” prank on héctor for days... héctor is chill. confident. annoyingly hard to rattle. but you knew if you caught him off guard, you’d get something out of him.

and today felt like the right day.

he was lying on your bed, arms behind his head, scrolling through something on his phone with his usual “i’m bored but also deeply unbothered” expression. he was wearing grey sweats, socks half on, one of his training shirts, and just existing in your space like it was his second home.

you hit record quietly.

“hey guys,” you said, voice sweet. “just wanted to show you my current boyfriend.”

his eyes immediately flicked over to you.

“...sorry?” he raised an eyebrow. “current?”

you blinked innocently. “yeah. my boyfriend at the moment.”

he let out a small laugh. one of those “you’re not serious” kinds of laughs.

“nah. no way you just said that.” he sat up slightly, resting on one elbow. “you really called me your current boyfriend? that’s crazy.”

you bit back a smile. “what? you are.”

he gave you a look. “babe. be serious. i’ve met your mom. i have a drawer here. i help you parallel park. we’re past current.”

you snorted. “parallel parking makes you permanent?”

“yes.” he leaned forward, still smirking. “also you kissed me this morning and said ‘i’m obsessed with you’ so...”

“i don’t recall—”

“i do. you were wearing my hoodie. looked very in love. kinda embarrassing for you.”

you groaned. “you’re so cocky.”

he shrugged, smug as ever. “i’m your forever boyfriend. you said it, not me.”

alejandro balde

you’d been scrolling through tiktok all day, watching all these “current boyfriend” prank videos where girls called their boyfriends “current” and got hilariously confused or offended reactions.

and then you caught alejandro just chilling on the couch, sneakers off, socks barely hanging on, flicking through his phone with that lazy grin of his.

you smirked.

“okay, let’s see what happens.”

you grabbed your phone, hit record, and with your sweetest, most casual voice said, “hey guys, this is my current boyfriend.”

alejandro looked up instantly, eyebrow twitching. “wait, current?”

you smiled, trying to keep it innocent. “yeah, like, the boyfriend i have right now.”

he blinked, then gave you a mock scandalized look. “current? so like… i’m temporary? a loaner? what’s the deal?”

you laughed. “no! it’s just a prank, chill.”

he threw his head back dramatically. “ay nooo, you’re breaking my heart over here.” then he wiggled closer and poked your side, grinning. “but if i’m just current, does that mean you might get a better one next week?”

you rolled your eyes but smiled. “no one’s better than you, ale.”

he smirked, looking all confident but his eyes softening. “good answer. because i’m staying.”

then he reached over and stole a quick kiss, still grinning. “current? nah. i’m forever.”

lamine yamal

you and lamine had been hanging out all afternoon — just snacks, music, and lazily throwing popcorn at each other while you argued over who had the better spotify taste. (spoiler: it was you, obviously.)

he was lying across your bed now, halfway on his stomach, hoodie sleeves all bunched up, phone in one hand while his other reached for snacks he wasn’t even looking at.

you sat down at the edge of the bed, grabbed your phone, and pressed record quietly.

“hey guys,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice level. “just wanted to show you my current boyfriend.”

you angled the camera to show lamine, still flopped on the bed. he turned his head slowly.

“…your what?” he blinked. sat up slightly. “nah. say that again.”

you smiled innocently. “my current boyfriend.”

he made a face — somewhere between “wtf” and “am i being pranked.”

“current is wild,” he muttered, sitting all the way up now. “you sayin’ there’s, what, a next one coming soon? someone on the bench or what?”

you laughed, trying to stay in character. “i’m just saying… things change, you know?”

“nah nah nah,” he said, holding up a hand, clearly fighting a smile but also a little bit serious now. “you can’t say stuff like that. i do math homework with you. i let you put your makeup on me last week. i carried your tote bag.”

“and i appreciate it, current boyfriend.”

he gasped. dramatic.

“don’t call me that. take it back.”

“you’re so offended.”

“i am offended,” he said, half-laughing. “i thought i was him. i thought i was ‘final boss boyfriend’. this is crazy.”

you giggled and finally leaned in to stop recording, flopping onto the bed beside him. “baby, i’m joking.”

he rolled his eyes but you could tell he was smiling for real now.

“you better be. ‘cause i already planned our next 5 dates and i’m not deleting them.”

you turned to look at him. “you planned five?”

“yes. and one of them includes gelato. you’d regret losing me.”

you laughed again, pressing your face into his hoodie. “you’re ridiculous.”

he smirked, brushing a crumb off your forehead.

“and permanent. don’t forget that part.”

marc bernal

you were sitting on your bedroom floor, half-folding laundry, half-pretending to be productive, while marc lay stretched out on your bed — arms behind his head, legs crossed, watching you with that small, steady smile he always had around you.

he wasn’t saying much, just watching. you knew that look. it was the “i like being here” look. the “i’m too comfortable to move” look. the “you’re my peace” look.

you smirked to yourself and grabbed your phone.

“okay,” you whispered into the mic, “so i just wanted to show you guys my current boyfriend.”

marc blinked. slowly sat up.

“…your what?”

you kept a straight face. “my current boyfriend.”

he just stared for a second, head tilted slightly, his expression somewhere between confused and mildly offended.

“current?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “like... as in, temporary?”

“mhm,” you said, pretending to focus on folding a hoodie. “he’s great for now.”

he let out a short breath, then slowly got off the bed and walked over, sitting down next to you on the floor.

“so when does my contract expire?” he asked, teasingly calm. “or do i get to renegotiate?”

you smiled, finally meeting his eyes. “depends. you offering long-term?”

marc gave a soft little huff of a laugh, then leaned his shoulder against yours.

“preciosa. i already signed for forever.”

you laughed under your breath. “you sure?”

he nodded. “one hundred percent.” then, just a little pouty, added, “but it did hurt. hearing you say current. like i’m on loan or something.”

you nudged his arm. “i was just messing with you. you’re my one and only, bernal.”

he gave a small, quiet grin, and you could tell he’d already forgiven you.

“…still rude, though.”

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez, @linnygirl09, @spidybaby,, @vicolette, @bernalswifeyy lmk if you want to be added/removed!

[hearts4renaa]

SO HIGHSCHOOL ~

summary: all the corny, cute, romcom type things you guys do that makes everyone at NRC swoon. featuring the dorm leaders. contains: 1.4k words in total of fluff fluff and more fluff. gn reader, one of the lyrics i reference uses "her" but that's it. a/n: inspired by 'so high school' by taylor swift! i might make this into a series.... lololol we'll see! please enjoyy

“’Cause I feel so high school, every time I look at you ~”

“You knew what you wanted, and boy, you got her ~”

Riddle went above and beyond while courting you, giving you flowers, remembering and celebrating basically every important date, and eventually officially asking you to be his.

You giggle and almost coo when you open your locker to yet another small bundle of roses. You gently grab the small bouquet, letting yourself relish in both the floral scent and the affection you feel by this gesture. Ace and Deuce groan from besides you, already knowing who they’re from. “Geez, that guy and his roses, hey?” Ace comments. “That’s the third one within the past four weeks!”

You shush Ace playfully, your fingers trailing over the little paper tag attached to the ribbon. Your brain recognizes the penmanship almost immediately, for this handwriting has expressed numerous words of love towards you countless times before. Your heart flutters as your eyes scan the paper.

I love you forever, dearest.

“Truth, dare, spin bottles. You know how to ball, I know Aristotle ~”

You go to all of Leona’s Spelldrive games! you show up in Savanaclaw colors, your hair styled like his, and the biggest smile on earth.

“And look at that!” the Spelldrive announcer exclaims. “Yet another goal from Savanaclaw’s very own Housewarden,” The camera captures Leona’s signature smirk as he high fives a nearby teammate, high off the adrenaline of the game. “He’s playing well tonight,” The announcer speaks. “And I think we all know why!”

The camera pans to your absolutely shining face, cheering from the stands with crinkled eyes and hands clapping. Leona pauses for a moment to look at you, his eyes locating you almost immediately. “I love you, you’re doing great!” You mouth to him in pure excitement. Leona cracks a small smile before getting his head back in the game. He scored six more times that night.

“Get my car door, isn’t that sweet? Then pull me to the backseat ~”

Azul gives you total gentleman treatment! You haven’t opened a door in ages and you completely forgot what carrying a bag feels like.

“Thanks for tonight, Azul.” You smile at him as the two of you begin to approach the entrance of the Ramshackle dorm building. “I had a great time, as always. You didn’t have to walk me home, again, though.” You chuckle lightly. Azul gives a small smirk back, but his eyes gleam at your comments. His hand squeeze yours just a little tighter, and a faint blush starts to creep up his face.

“I’m glad,” He says softly. “And you know I’d do almost anything to spend more time with you.” Your front door comes fully into view and you feel as if it’s ending all too fast. Despite how many dates you’ve gone on, the rush of being out with Azul is something you’ll never get fully used to. He always leaves you craving him and his company. The two of you come to a still at your porch, and he turns to face you. He whispers your name, bringing your hand to his mouth and lightly kissing your knuckles. You swear that no fairytale prince could ever compete against him.

“I’m high from smoking your jokes all damn night ~”

You’re the first person Kalim looks at when he tells a joke. Taking you to his family home proved that he was absolutely serious about you, and it’s so evident that his siblings can see how much he loves you too.

The group of younger siblings burst into another fit of laughter at Kalim’s joke, as if they had never heard anything funnier in their lives. “Again, Kalim,” One of his brothers tugs on his sleeve. “Tell another one!”

While Kalim’s jokes were inevitably corny, you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as well. The smiles of the little children were infectious, their energy fueling your own joy. Kalim tells another joke, but his eyes weren’t focused on his siblings’ reactions. No, he wasn’t even looking at their faces at all. His eyes automatically find your figure with each joke he tells, and he feels his heart swell each time you laugh. With your head thrown back and your eyes wrinkled with giggles, he’s never seen a sight more beautiful.

“Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me? It’s just a game, but really, I’m betting on all three, for us two ~”

Vil likes to mention you in his interviews, and he does it almost unconsciously. Questions about his romantic life are inevitable with someone of his level of fame, but he handles each one with grace.

The studio lights would be blinding for most, but Vil’s been in this industry for so long that he’s gotten used to it. The questions from the interview have been rapid fire, and Vil responds to each one with a graceful, almost calculated response. He’s been running on autopilot the entire morning; well, until your name gets brought up.

“Now, I just have to ask,” The interviewer crosses her legs and leans in towards Vil, as if he was telling her a secret. “Kiss, marry, kill: Taylor Swift, Katy Perry, and your partner, Y/N?”

He doesn’t hesitate for a moment before answering the question. “I wouldn’t kill any of them,” Vil responds with a small smirk. Kissing you is as easy as breathing to him, and the idea of marrying you sends a chill down his spine. He loves you like he was made for it, and his devotion shines like a glittering gem. Vil continues his response. “But the first two options are reserved for Y/N and Y/N only.”

“Brand new, full throttle. Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto ~”

Idia likes to have some sort of physical contact with you at all times. At first, he was really jumpy, but your touch has become a comfort to him.

You hum as you lean onto Idia, your head resting on his shoulder. The lights in his room are dim, save for the bright TV near the edge of his bed. Your left arm is linked with his right one and you nuzzle your cheek into the fabric of his sweater. The clicking sounds of Idia’s controller lull you into a drowsy state, the late hours starting to hit you.

Idia looks away from his game to gaze at your sleepy figure, and he feels his cheeks start to heat up. It’s definitely not the first time you’ve done this, but the intimacy of it all still brings a warm, fuzzy feeling into his chest. The idea that the two of you could simply link arms, sit in silence, and do your own things and be content astounds him just a little bit; He thought you would’ve gotten bored. Your affection for each other runs much deeper, but you can feel all of it in the form of linked arms.

“No one’s ever had me, not like you ~”

What’s there that Malleus doesn’t do for you? But seriously, one of his favorite things to do with you is stargaze at nighttime, where his affection for you is at an all time high.

The night air is soothing as the chill creeps up your skin, keeping you awake. Malleus sits next to you, his presence being a comfort. The moon is bright tonight, the field quiet, with the occasional chirp from the nearby birds. The stars in the sky create a masterpiece of little lights, and Malleus can’t help but stare at you like you’re a work of art.

Malleus rubs his thumb into the flesh of your hand, gazing at you with hearts in his eyes. He feels the sudden need to ask a question that’s been weighing on him for a little while. His voice rings in your ears.

“You truly don’t fear me?”

You giggle lightly, letting go of his hand and turning to fully face him. Your fingers brush past his cheeks, cupping them gently and bringing your foreheads together. “I could never,” You whisper, smiling brightly. “Not when you love me so deeply.” His heart swells with affection. You open your mouth to continue, but his lips crash against yours before you can get another word out.

[cloveroctobers]

BURNING SUN | MANNY ALVAREZ (TLOU) — summer prompts

A/N: there was a debate in my head to see if this was going to be manny or Joaquin based. It was a little difficult seeing Danny being mean lol but an actor is gonna ACT! Decided to do this prompt with grumpycatBF! x sunshinedogGF in mind, felt very coded with how I imagined it. Let’s see how that works out? Also the way I didn’t know the last episode was the final episode of the season? Yikes!

WARNINGS: language, fluff, sprinkle of dirty talk, & manny being his mean self towards another made up character.

PROMPTS ARE FROM HERE & I’m using: “the lady over there just asked if we were a couple." "well, we did just kiss." "i know but it's still cool that we've finally been asked, don't you think?"

𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎.

“Hey, the lady over there just asked if we were a couple.” You nudged Manny’s shoulder as he was currently leaning over the railing, peering out into the stadium.

You came back to his side, shaking an ice cold water bottle his way, pressing your back against the railing instead, facing away from the sun that kept you warm from behind.

He turns slightly, looking over his shoulder while cracking open the bottle you handed over to him, “What gave one-legged Cathy that idea?”

A elbow is sent his way and shush from you is all the warning he needs. He smirks before taking a swish from the bottle, moving his eyes from the woman with the cooler of waters at the front entrance of the stadium and back to you.

Manny loved watching you in the sunlight.

He knew if this earth blew up for good, your soul would probably head back to where it belonged. Right where another planet burned bright and made life here on earth worth living.

You were his damn sun.

Something he wouldn’t get too mushy about in public but it was no secret.

Manny Alvarez adored you.

You cracked him right open and held his heart in your hands.

If he had to burn for that—not something you would have done on purpose—he’d probably thank you for it.

“Don’t call her that,” you hiss, “She’s a nice lady that I actually like to trade books with monthly.”

This came as no surprise…you could strike up a conversation with a damn tree if you really wanted to. You just had the aura about you, doe-eyes that always smiled while you talked and matched your wide grins.

It was almost majestic how you still managed to see the good in the way the world shifted for the worst.

Manny snorts, “And you haven’t found locks of hair buried in the pages anywhere? The lady is not only nosy, but fucken weird babe.”

“She’s becoming my friend who just wanted to know if we were a couple.” you defend, turning to face the direction of the sun now, letting it shine over your face while closing your eyes.

Manny leans close enough to you that you feel the ghost of his lips against the shape of your ear, “Well, we did just kiss…before you left my side to go chat with Cathy. My tongue also nearly tickled your esophagus.”

You’re shaking your head at him, peeking at him through one eye but the smile hasn’t left your face—as usual, “i know but it's still cool that we've finally been asked, don't you think?"

Manny brushes a fallen eyelash away from underneath your eye, you don’t flinch, “I think people are too bored around here, peach.” He used that as a nickname for you since your lips always tasted like the fruit thanks to some random lip balm you found while scavenging with Mel. He loved it—even if it gave you a mild allergic reaction at first.

Manny smirks, “But if they want something to really talk about, I can let my tongue tickle something else.”

Your mouth drops open, you should be used to Manny’s bluntness by now, but it still catches you. A laugh slips out anyway.

Reaching over with your free hand, you try to squish his cheeks together, but Manny manages to dodge you easily. The dark haired man steps back bobbing and weaving while you chase after him for a moment. There’s an easy grin on Manny’s face, aiming his water bottle up and out like a weapon.

“You’re gonna have to be quicker than that.” He taunts as you start to pout, slow and exaggerated, standing across from him.

Light spills around you as you meet his dark eyes and if there’s a heaven, Manny hopes it looks like this. Better yet, you let him in through the golden gates. The longer he stares at you like this, it does something to his chest. It’s almost as if it’s harder to breathe normally—his chest tugs tight, warm like sand and aching. He has to move, lifting his cap that he has placed on his head backwards, to run his hand through his slightly sweaty hair, exhaling before jamming it tight against his head, to hold him together and stop swooning.

Your hand inched out towards his, he intertwines them before sneaking a hand around your back, tugging you right towards him so that your noses almost kiss.

“Careful Alvarez,” you send him that wide-grin as you barely peak around, “Wouldn’t want anyone reporting back to Uncle Issac.”

Manny can’t help but to roll his eyes, followed by a snort.

The thought of the ruthless leader of WLF was not lost on him. The greying man may respect his work ethic (despite his smart-mouthed ways) but Manny was positive that Issac could tear him from limb to limb if he ever dared to hurt you.

Not that Manny ever planned on it.

That would be a nightmare within itself.

Manny still finds himself leaning into your orbit, a quick peck is sent to your lips, you just barely caress his sharp cheekbone, he pulls away as fast as he can because he knows that if you had the chance to fully kiss him back, there would be a whole lot more someone would report back to Issac if he had a longer taste of you.

Your grinning teeth press over your bottom lip as Manny licks his own lips.

“I’ll see you tonight?” He checks in, knowing it was time for you both to depart to your roles of the day.

You lock your hands behind your back, swaying from side to side, “Only if you plan on taking me dancing.”

Manny scoffs as he starts walking backwards and can’t help but to toss in, “Depends on which kind you’re in the mood for, gorgeous.”

He winks, turns on his heels, and jogs away. Once he reached the corner and out of your sight, Manny still feels the heat rising in his chest, his head dropping as he walks, a stupid smile splitting over his lips.

Manny couldn’t outrun you if he tried, he’d already surrendered, long before your lips ever touched his.

He’s brought out of his love bubble when his walkie crackles on, “Hey asshole, stop sucking faces with you know who and get to work.”

Annoyance creeps in fast, threatening to ruin his good mood. He yanks up his walkie to respond back to his shit-talking friend, “Shut the fuck up, Owen. You know I’m always clocked in.”

In response, he gets nothing but laughter from the guy, making Manny shake his head and send a two finger salute to one-legged Cathy who’s now perched on her cooler, shooting him a knowing smile.

Which, yeah, creeped him out—especially since last week she tried talking to him and Nora about love spells at some dusty little booth she’d set up near the mess hall. The pair of friends ended up laughing it off over some god-awful homemade hooch.

Manny didn’t believe in love spells, but maybe Cathy was onto something with her witchy ways. He might even consider skimming—stealing—a book to spot a coincidence or two.

But if anyone had him under one, Manny was glad it was you.

To be kissed by a golden sun, spell or no spell, hell, things were already a solid deal.

𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎

Continue with my summer anthology prompts here.

[wondersky]

2:08 AM

Pairing: Idol!Chris x YOU (fem reader) Genre: Friends to Lovers or something like that. Fluff.

Summary: Late night tired confession between Chris and You.

A/N: This is pure delulu self indulgence. Written in one take. Grammar don't know her. There is a nsfw part 2 in the works already. I maybe obsessed with confessions :)

You hear the music before anything else. Something mellow and kind of messy, looping on itself like he couldn’t quite finish the thought. 

The door is cracked when you reach it. You knock once, more out of courtesy than anything else, and nudge the door open with your elbow trying not to drop the take out bags. 

“I don’t want to hear it!” You joke, Trying to be casual “I figured you hadn’t eaten, or like slept or even seen sunlight since Sunday."

Chris doesn’t turn around, just lets out a soft laugh from where he is sitting, hunched over a mixing board. 

“You would be correct” He says. His voice tired. “What time is it?”

You look at your phone “2:08…AM”

You set the bags down on the couch. He finally swivels in his chair to look at you. He’s in his usual  black hoodie which is fitting him a little too oversized these days. His hair is messy underneath the backwards cap. There’s dark smudges near his thumb, signaling to him scribbling lyrics into his notebook. His eyes are puffy, and there’s this kind of… worn-out vibe about him. But he smiles when he sees you. Small and soft. The kind of smile that says, thank god it's you. 

“You always bring food exactly when I need it” 

You shrug pretending you’re not flustered “Maybe I’m psychic” You tease “Or maybe I know you run on caffeine only if you’re not force fed.”

He cracks a smile, shaking his head, not saying anything. 

He comes over and sits beside you on the couch while you take out and open containers of food. He sits still, just watching like he’s memorizing the curve of your hand. 

“Earth to Christopher, You doing okay?” you finally ask. 

He hesitates “Yeah. Just tired”

“Liar” 

He lets out a breath, letting his head fall back and leaning it against the soundproof wall behind him “Okay. No.”

“Talk to me” You say, glancing over. 

His eyes flick to you, red rimmed and unreadable. 

“Do you ever get tired of pretending? He says, voice low “Like…pretending something isn’t there when it is?”

Your heart stutters “What do you mean?”

He swallows, slow. His eyes fall down to your lips and stay there. 

“I mean…this” he whispers “Us”

Silence. A beat too long. 

“I can’t keep doing it” he adds, his voice hoarse “I can’t keep acting like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t feel it. Like I’m not thinking about you every time I actually write something I care about. Or when I’m sitting here hoping you’ll walk in and then you actually do.”

You’re breathless now. Your heart beating too fast 

“Chris–” 

He looks at you and everything in his face is just hope and fear and honesty all tangled up.

“I know we said we’re friends.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees “But that’s not what this is. At least it’s not for me. Not anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

You reach out to him without thinking, hand brushing his arm. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath. 

“I didn’t think you felt it too” you whisper

His head snaps towards you. “Do you?”

“I’ve felt it for months.” You admit “But you never said anything, so I figured I was imagining things and so I didn’t say anything either.”

And that’s all it takes. 

Chris moves so fast you don’t have time to second guess. He pulls you into his lap, one arm around you waist the other cupping your jaw. He kisses you like he’s been holding it in for years. LIke every unwritten lyric was really about you. Like this moment is the first time he’s breathing right. 

When he finally pulls away, his lips hover yours, desperate still. 

“Stay” He whispers “just tonight. Please.”

You nod. Because you were never going to leave anyway.

Read Part 2 here

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ Touch Her Soft Lips and Part

Optimus Prime x Reader - transformers prime

Tyres rolled silently despite the weight they carried; the packed snow did much to muffle him as he neared your home. The sky was a deep blue, and it reflected upon the crystalised snow around him, casting the world in an ethereal glow you’d told him was called ‘the blue hour’. It was beautiful, yet Optimus couldn’t admire it just yet, not until he reached your house.

Winter tyres had never crossed his mind. He hadn’t need for them in Jasper, and rarely did he ever have to drive on snowy or icy roads but coming over to visit you after days apart had been important as he’d grown worried for you. It wasn’t often you stayed away for so long, and if you did then you’d usually give them a call to tell them of your schedule.

The radio silence had gnawed at him, so now, after nearly accidentally sliding off the road as the ice and snow had taken him by surprise, he slowly transformed as your house came into view. The windows appeared mostly dark at first, but upon further inspection, Optimus could see a soft, warm light coming from within the entryway. A light you usually kept on whenever you went outside so you wouldn’t be plunged into darkness should you come home late.

In other words, you were not at home.

Optimus looked around, trying to see possible tracks of your car leading away, but the snow laid out from your garage was undisturbed. Looking closer, he found partially snowed-over footprints leading away from your home and out towards a narrow path leading into the forest. Relieved to see proof of life, he’d yet to set his concerns aside as the footprints were clearly a few hours old. There wasn’t a single cloud upon the darkening sky, and you must have been gone for quite a while.

Trying not to rush, Optimus slowly follows the path, pedes finding unsteady ground as he holds his servos out to push away looming branches on both tall and smaller trees. A few moments where he almost stumbles have him mumbling a few small words in Cybertronian. Not swearing, but merely frustrated by his predicament and slowness. For all that he knew, you could be hurt and freezing in the snow, and here he is stumbling like a young sparkling trying to take its first steps.

The path grants him mercy the further he proceeds as trees grow farther apart and the land opens, revealing a fully open expanse. Optimus takes in the sight that Earth offers him. A great lake stands frozen, stretching far out and over to the great mountain on the other side, its giant peak standing like a hook towards the sky. All had yet to release its hold of the blue hour, though it was the lake whose blue tint stood out the most, the thick ice full of cracks, and it sang as the temperature dropped with the approaching night; ice growing thicker still.

And there, far out in the middle of it, was you.

Moving swiftly and with the grace of one of Earth’s swans, Optimus watched as you spun and slid across the ice. Feeling confused as to how you managed to move so quickly and easily, he tried to look closer as you unknowingly came a little closer, and beneath your feet were blades, gliding effortlessly across the frozen lake.

Yet again feeling amazed by the creativity of humanity, Optimus watched in silence for a while, appreciating and admiring the sight of you. A long, white woollen coat keeps you warm, a flowing blue scarf adorns your elegant neck, and a woollen hat hangs far down along your back, a puffy, woollen ball dangling at the end of it. It looks handmade. It must be made by you, crafty as you are. He smiles, admiring you even more.

“Optimus!” you shout, startled at the sight of him as the light of his optics caught in your peripheral. You’re still far away from him, but your voice echoes and he hears you clearly. He’s sorry for startling you but the warmth that flows through him at the sound of you has him forgetting it almost immediately.

He doesn’t reply but merely watches as you come towards him, a precious flower not made for him yet still seeking his presence and touch. His digits twitch and his optics are soft, never releasing your form as nearer and nearer you come. He sits down on one knee, ice cracking beneath him but no water comes out; all turned solid so close to shore.

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, slightly out of breath as you come to a halt. Your cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold, breath is visible in the air, and Optimus takes a moment to admire the sight. Admiring the life that spreads warmth throughout your small body.

“We had not heard from you in many days. I began to worry something was amiss,” said he, still watching you. Some of your hair was hanging out, framing your face. The dwindling blue light cast you in a lovely glow, your eyes glittering along with the snow and ice surrounding you; perfectly made for the land you’d been born to. Unknowingly, he reached out a servo, and you took it without thought, shocking him and making his spark jitter as you suddenly kissed him, cold but soft lips touching the outer part of his index digit.

“I’m sorry. There was a snowstorm five days ago and I’ve had little to no cell service. I sent messages to Miko, Jack, and Rafael in hopes that they would reach you, but it seems that it was faulty,” said you, smiling regrettably up at him. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, Optimus.”

“You need not apologise, y/n,” said he, intakes deep as his frame threatened to overheat despite the coldness surrounding him, the touch of your lips warming him from within and out. “You did what you could to reach us. I should have attempted to contact you sooner. Forgive me for my lateness,” he said, and your face split as a fond smile stretched across your mouth and eyes, and softly you chuckled as, once more, you kissed his digit, and this time Optimus’s cooling fans kicked in as his spark melted.

“You are now and forevermore forgiven, Optimus,” said you, chuckling still and resting your cheek against his servo as he reached around to hold you. Your feet slid across the ice, and he glanced down.

“These… shoes you wear on your feet. They are adorned with blades."

“Ice skates,” you said, sliding your feet back and forth with ease. “We use them to better travel across the ice, or to perform, or to just play,” you said, shrugging your shoulders as a light shudder passed through you. Being still seemed to give the cold a chance to sink its claws into you, but you resisted when he attempted to lift you up and instead shot him a hopeful smile. “Hey, won’t you join me out on the ice?”

Optimus glanced out over the lake. “Will it hold me?”

“Yes,” you said, sounding certain. “It will. I know it.” And with that, you snuck out from his hold and far too easily slid out further onto the lake, and Optimus felt the need to reach out and grab you again, already missing your softness and warmth.

It took him a few careful steps to test the ice as well as finding how slippery it was, but one step after another he gained more confidence. It didn’t take him long to reach you in the middle of the lake, his optics trained on you as slowly but surely you were cast in a bright green light. Your eyes looked upwards to gaze upon the arrival of the northern lights, and your mouth opened slightly; awestruck.

“Oh, Optimus, look how beautiful it is,” you whispered, unable to look away from the dancing light above you. Likewise, Optimus could cast his optics away from the living painting before him. You, standing amid thick, cracked ice cast in a green glow from above, yet none of it drowned you out. Instead, you were like the stars upon the night sky, glowing bright with life.

“You are beautiful,” said he; unconsciously. Speaking from his spark.

You turned to look at him, startled by his words and frozen still by his intense stare. His optics, so bright and blue, were warm and lovestruck as he bore a tender smile upon his face plate, and your heart fluttered at the sight as your breath caught in your throat. And still, even as the flush of your cheeks was now a mixture of cold and heat, you smiled back at him, admiring the way the light above danced across his frame.

Words were thrown to the wind as eyes and optics stayed locked in silent whispers, and bladed feet hung in the air as warmth engulfed chilled skin, cradling it close and protectively as metal touched soft lips, locked in a moment of ancient and new affection; fragile, but deeply burning love intertwining.

Next Music: Scott Buckley - Hymn To The Dawn & Celestial

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

congrats on 1k love, so deserved !! can i request han w the prompts 🧷, 🌕, 💋, 🌸, and 🧋 for the time capsule event pls ?? :3 tysmmm <33

📚 — paring・hannie x reader // genres・fluff, cookies time capsule event!! // words・1.6k // the event・wanna open your relationship time capsule? click here to request!

a/n・tee hee thank you sooo much, so crazy coming from you figuring i'm down bad for your nerd!ji series (was this lowkey based off that? yes. am i ashamed? absolutely not.) hanji being a hot nerd is so coded. to anyone reading this go check out her page her stuff is awesome!! (sorry this is kinda shit, i'm going through it right now lolol p.s there is an ungodly amount of ramen mentions in this)

🧷 — the first time you met ➵ ꒰ 0 days into your relationship ꒱

jisung is a certified loser, so naturally, he was head over heels in love with you before you two ever actually had a conversation. the first time you formally met—not him daydreaming about you in chemistry or stalking your social media—he had already been caught staring at you at least 20 times within the last hour. you've never seen a man pale and then blush so fast in your life; it was almost impressive. "do i have something on my face?" you muse, leaning forward on his desk. he's rehearsed his first real conversation with you for literal years, but alas, the moment you actually look at him, all those cool-calm-collected skills he religiously googled go poof in his brain. "w-what? n-no?? you d-don't have anything on y-your face?" his ears are so red that he can feel them, which means you can see them, and that only makes him more embarrassed. yeah, that is not a fun combo. you send him an amused smirk, running your finger along his desk. "you sure? you seem to really like my face." oh. my. god. he wants the earth to crack open and swallow him whole, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat as if this wasn't one of the most embarrassing moments in his life. "no! i-i haven't been, um..." you give him an unconvinced look. he sighs, sinking deeper into his seat, face practically on fire. "sorry..." at first, this was all a silly joke. but the way he seems so embarrassed before you, fiddling with his fingers underneath the desk and bouncing his leg as if he's going to run away, makes you think this isn't actually a joke to him. you smile, soft and disarming in its sweetness. "don't sweat it, just maybe... next time watch where you're looking." half of him expected you to laugh at him for having this silly crush, but the way you acted, how kind you were, made the delulu part of him flare up like no other. he couldn't stop thinking about you for the rest of the week, but he knew deep down, there was no possible way he could talk to you again. god had different plans because—of course this would happen to him—a week later, you get assigned to him for peer tutoring. yeah, he was so done.

💋 — the first kiss. ➵ ꒰ 1 month into your friendship ꒱

you were 'just friends' when you first kissed han jisung. he had just made a large bowl of spicy ramen, as one does, while you were finishing up some problem questions he wrote for you. you were almost finished with them when you looked over, a large splotch of sauce slathered over his bottom lip. you let out a little chuckle, motioning to his lips. "you've got something right there." he perks up, ears turning bright red. "r-right here?" he scrambles to wipe it off, but fails miserably. "no," you laugh, pointing back to where it is. "it's right there." perhaps it was because he was so flustered, but no matter how many times you showed him where it is, he just couldn't find it. he huffed in frustration, cheeks all cute and red. "i'm gonna go check the mirror." "don't worry about it," you say, pulling him back down by the sleeve, crawling to him and pressing your lips together. time stills, and when your tongue pokes out to lap against his bottom lip, he's truly convinced this was some sick, wet dream. when you finally pull away, jisung almost melts into a puddle on the floor. he should say something smooth, win you over with his totally-not-just-in-his-head flirtatious skills, but no. in classic jisung fashion, he stammers out—"d-did you, um, did you get it?" you can't help the laughter that spills from your now red and puffy lips. he can't stop thinking: shut up! shut up! shut up! you're making a total fool of yourself! "yes, jisung, i got it." "o-oh yeah, t-that's really good, w-we wouldn't want..." yeah, he doesn't say anything after that. don't worry, you didn't leave the poor boy to wallow in humiliation for long. the classic "what are we?" conversation happens the next day.

🌕 — the first night. ➵ ꒰ 1 month into your friendship ꒱

the first time you spent the night at his apartment, it was a mix of food, anime, and laughter. han has been plotting this night ever since you brought it up. he literally made an entire note on his notes app labeled super-awesome-first-night-with-my-gf. the first bullet on the list—woo my girlfriend into thinking i'm actually really cool and not just a simp. the second bullet—make tons and tons of ramen. only one of those bullets got checked off that night. anyways, the ramen was pretty smack. all jokes aside (guys tell me im so funny), you had a blast. you both huddled under the covers and didn't stop laughing until you were doubled over, stomachs cramping. he shared his favorite anime show and his super-secret-spicy-ramen recipe, which he swore up and down wasn't just ramen and cheese (it totally was). and maybe, secretly, he did woo you—just a little bit.

🌸 — the first time he got jealous. ➵ ꒰ 4 days into your relationship ꒱

it's pathetic really, how quickly han can get jealous. you weren't doing anything to evoke jealousy, you were just... talking. that's what bothered him so much — you were talking — to a tall, hot, white guy that looked nothing like him. he doesn't wanna admit it, but bagging the most beautiful girl in school came with a rap sheet of insecurities. you had only been dating for four days, but he was already worried about you also seeing how far out of his league you are. i mean, come on, you two weren't even in the same sport. (he just needs to be kissed bc what is this gorgeous baby talking about??). he'd be so pouty when you come back and sit down beside him. jisung isn't the "imma fight this hoe" kinda guy. he is the "imma cry in the corner and imagine fighting this hoe" kind guy, so when you see him avoiding your eye and pawing at his thighs, you know almost immediately. "hey ji, you good?" he scoffs, looking at you like you were crazy. "me? good? pshh, i'm so good. i'm cool, man. i'm so cool. cool like... ice..." you both cringe at that. it's silly, he knows that, and it isn't like he thought you were cheating or something — he was just... insecure. and you, being literally perfect in every way, noticed, cupping his cheeks and gingerly pointing his face toward you. "baby, talk to me, what's wrong?" he doesn't look at you when he mutters, shy and embarrassed, "who was that guy... you were talking to?" you really, really liked jisung, so you don't let out the laugh that threatened to leave your lips as you say, "who? my cousin?" han jisung has never been more horrified in his life. "your cousin?!" "yes, my love. he's my cousin." he takes another look at the fine-ass specimen of a man, then back to you. yeah, it checks out. though, meeting said cousin after that was really weird, but that's a different story for a different time.

🧋 — the first time he realized he wanted to marry you ➵ ꒰ 2 years into your relationship ꒱

han jisung realized he was going to marry you when you were looking like a total mess. work had made him feel like the entire world was sitting on his shoulders, back aching and heavy as he slipped off his shoes, stepping into the kitchen to find you—bent over the stove, stirring a heaping bowl of ramen. it was 3 in the morning, and he had taken extra shifts to help pay for bills, and quite frankly, he doesn't remember the last time he ate. you were in your hello kitty pjs, hair tangled and rustled from the power nap you took before making his meal, and the sight alone is enough to make tears spring into his eyes. "baby," he whimpers, strolling up behind you to wrap his arms tightly around your waist. you jump, but when you catch a whiff of his scent, your body relaxes into his touch, so familiar it feels like coming back home. you smile, giving the noodles one final stir before pouring them into a bowl and handing them to him, garnering it as if you were a 5-star michele."i hope you like it!" he was so tired, so tired he could collapse onto the kitchen table and never wake up again, but with you, around you—it didn't matter—he was going to eat your food gosh darn it. he took a bite and suddenly, he wasn't tired anymore, he was starved. your eyes sparkle like he just handed you the moon when his wobbly lips turn into a firm, convincing grin. "this is so good, baby. thank you." you give him this look, like you were staring straight into time, like you were imagining a life with him, and you liked it. that was where it started. it was the strangest phenomenon—it bloomed inside his chest, this feeling, and then, with disorienting intensity, it all—clicks. that's when he realized he was going to marry you, sitting there on kitchen stools, sipping on the best ramen he's ever tasted in his life.

[shhhsecretsideblog]

Working Late

Had this idea stuck in my head for past few days so had to write it up. Quick little oneshot, 1.6k words. Self inflicted birth denial, clothing birth, voyeurism, but soft fluffy ending. Enjoy.

You were working late again. The sun had set hours ago, the dark evening sky barely visible through the windows, the office an unusually quiet ghost town. Unfortunately the conference call with your American counterparts could not be moved and with the time difference you had to stay late, long after the rest of your company had gone home for the day. Well you weren’t entirely alone this evening; your wife, and joint business owner, also stayed late deciding to finish up some things before she went on maternity leave next week. It made sense to work the same hours and go home together.

When your meeting was finished, you packed up your things and headed down the corridor towards her office. The door was slightly ajar, you were just about to knock and enter when you heard a long quiet moaning sound.

You paused, putting an ear closer towards the crack in the door, a smile pulling at your lips realising what she was doing. The pregnancy had made her insatiably horny, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d relieved that itch here in this office. Though you were a little miffed she hadn’t invited you this time deciding to go at it solo.

“Mmmnggh- oh god!” Moaned your wife beyond the door.

The arousing sounds had an immediate effect on you, turning you on despite the late hour and the long work day. You quietly opened the door a little more, wanting to watch and catch her in the act. But instead of seeing her in her chair with one hand down her pants as you expected, she was standing, her back to the door, bracing the wooden desk and swaying her hips.

“Oooohhhh-…don’t come now…” she moaned quietly.

What on earth was she doing, you wondered. The question was soon answered when she grunted and slightly squatted in front of her desk.

Oh my god, she was in labour! Panic clenched your heart. You should rush into her office, to help and support her, but her continued moaning and grunting kept the arousal firm in your pants. You couldn’t go in there like this.

“Mmmmmffh- baby wait a bit longer please!” She panted and shifted around the room, unaware of your presence. “Your daddy is in an important m-meeting… mnnnnhh… when he’s finished he can - take us - to hospital… then you can come o-outtt… nnnnngghh”

You watched the way her hips circled in between each contraction, the way her knees dipped at every pain, the way her beautifully tight round stomach having dropped low on her hips a few days ago contracted visibly through her thin dress, the way her swollen breasts heaved with every laboured breath. The sight had you frozen, in fear and fascination and arousal, leaving you standing in the dark corridor watching her through the gap in the doorframe.

“Oooohhhh it’s so low…. Mnnnnghhh-oh god! I t-think..I need to p-push… hooohooohooohooo no! Not now… daddy isn’t here yet…”

Your labouring wife grasped the edge of her desk, moaning and whimpering. Her stance had widened, her knees were buckling, and yet you couldn’t move. Every sound escaping from her lips pumped more blood to your groin.

“Nnnnngghhhh!” She leant an elbow down on the desk, her other hand cupping the swell of her heavy stomach which just accentuated the size of her full term bump. It really was huge, you had no idea how she managed to carry the extra weight and still dress the way she did - in her staple black dress and heels. Even when heavily pregnant she was still every inch the successful corporate woman you fell in love with.

“Hooohooo- you can’t come out now baby…. Please. Oooohhhh…Don’t push… don’t push…”she panted a mantra to herself.

You were transfixed; watching her struggle and sweat and labour in the office where your baby was probably conceived.

Suddenly she grunted, a deep gravelly sound, and you nearly climaxed in your pants.

“Oh my god…was that- shit, my water just b-b-broke!” She looked past her swollen stomach to see her stiletto heels now soaked in amniotic fluid. “Ooooohhhhh… Y-you’re really coming n-now aren’t you little o-one? Hoooooo- where’s… where’s your dad?”

Rubbing her contracting stomach and raising her head, your wife looked towards the door. You had no idea why but you disappeared out of sight the second she looked up, concealing yourself behind the wooden door. You should go in, you should help her, she was having your baby. And yet, your legs didn’t move.

“Okay… okay baby. Looks like hooooo it’s just you and m-me…” You heard her say, still out of sight but well within earshot. You heard movement inside the room and took a chance peeking round the door.

She had kicked off her heels and lowered herself to the ground, kneeling beside her desk with her arms up gripping the edge. She hummed, rocking slightly back forth, clearly preparing herself for the next wave. Then suddenly she sucked in a gulp of air before letting out a long lowing sound, deep and primal, and sinking back on her heels as she pushed. Hard.

Your jaw slackened, watching fascinated from outside. This woman was incredible, absolutely beautiful, listening to her body and following her instincts, birthing your baby right here in her office. You fell more and more in love with her with every grunting sound she made.

“Mmnnnggghhhh!!!!!!!” She roared, “fuck…. The head… I can feel it coming….”

She let go of the desk, a little unsteady without the support, scrambling underneath her flowing dress. Oh my god, she was delivering your baby, right here right now.

“Oh oh oh no- I can’t…. get-them-off!!!!” She cried, and you realised she was still wearing her underwear and was struggling to get them past her hips with her widened knees.

“Hooooohoooo oh baby wait a second… need to make room… I’ve got to take them off… I’ve got to…. I’ve got to…. Oh shit I’ve gotta pushhhhhh-NNNNGGGGGH!”

Your wife growled again, bearing down with everything she had despite her underwear blocking the baby’s exit. It was the hottest sound you’d ever heard. She gasped in between pushes, trying to tug her knickers out of the way. But to no avail.

“Oohhhhhhh I can feel you…. Oh my god there’s your h-head-hoooohoooo.” Her dress was pulled up and you could see her cupping the bulge that was pushing against the fabric of her underwear.

You baby was crowning, but your wife was struggling. The fierce lioness from a moment ago, who was confidently delivering her baby unassisted, was starting to panic. The baby was coming out and she was pushing hard, but she couldn’t move to take off her underwear, the head retreating after every push by the restrictive fabric. You could see the panic gathering in her eyes as she failed to break free from her knickers and her body struggled to birth the head. Tears welled in her eyes and it broke your heart; the spell of your voyeurism vanished in a heartbeat.

You immediately threw open the door and rushed over to her.

“Oh sweetheart.” You whispered, kneeling down beside her.

“You- you made it. Hooooo The baby…. is coming….” She grasped on to your for dear life, pulling at the lapels on your suit jacket as she grunted and pushed again.

“You are doing amazing, darling.” You encouraged, supporting her weight under her arms.

“Get-my-pants-off-now!!!!” She growled against your chest.

“Okay, just hold on to me. I’ll get them off.” You assured, moving her trembling hands to your shoulders, freeing your own to help deliver this child.

The thin material stretched across her widened hips, you hooked your thumb on either side and pulled down but they would only go so far with her knees splayed.

“I need to you move a little bit-”

“Move?! Are you serious? I can’t move! Grrgghhh!”

“Just a little bit darling, I need your knees closer together so I can get these knickers off…”

“I can’t… this baby needs to come out now. Oh god I need to push!!!!! Just get them off-get them off!!!”

You tried to rip the fabric but it was stretched too tight you couldn’t break it. Frantically you looked around to see if anything else could help, and thankfully your eyes found the scissors on your wife’s desk. Grabbing them quickly, you carefully cut the fabric at one hip and they immediately fell to the floor.

“Oh thank fuck!” Your wife gasped, still clinging on to your shoulders she widened her legs and sank closer to the floor in a deep strong push. “Here it comes…. MNNNGGGHHHHH!”

Before you could react, the head popped out with another gush of fluid. Your wife eased her grip on you, panting heavily in relief.

“Hoooohoooo- oh my god… that’s our baby.” Her hand cupped the newly born head, and she looked up at you and smiled.

“You are incredible.” You kissed her sweat-dampened forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in labour?”

“I didn’t realise I was in labour, and when I did… hooooohoooo you were on your conference call. I knew it was important and I thought I had plenty of t-time… ooooohhhhhh god. I’m feeling pressure again….”

“Do you need to push? Is it time?”

“I think so… mmmnnnnh… are you ready to meet our b-baby?” You wife asked, a smile still tugging at her lips despite the rising pain.

“Of course, let’s meet our baby.”

Your wife shifted, stealing herself ready for the peak of the contraction that was building. Her hands braced against your shoulders, while your own were poised ready between her thighs.

Your beautiful wife grunted again, deep and long, as she pushed. You held her hips steady when she twitched and yelped as the shoulders stretched her wide, and a few seconds later your baby was born into your hands. A baby boy born at 8:56pm on the floor in your wife’s office at the company you’d build together.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐩𝐚 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤

Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings → fluff

Summary → At Tony's birthday, you reveal your pregnancy, leading to mixed reactions.

You and Peter were on your way to the compound, your nerves making the drive feel like an eternity. Peter was gripping the steering wheel too tight, his knuckles white with anxiety.

"I'm telling you, he's gonna kill me," Peter said, his voice trembling. "He’ll blast me off Earth, and I’ll never see my kid."

"Peter, stop being such a drama queen," you said, trying to keep the mood light. "Dad loves you."

"I’m serious, babe!" Peter's eyes darted around the road as if he was expecting an Avengers-level attack at any moment. "He won’t be happy that I made his daughter pregnant."

"We're married, Peter," you reminded him with a teasing smile.

"I KNOW!" Peter practically shouted, his stress palpable. "But it’s Tony Stark we’re talking about! He’s a genius billionaire with a high-tech suit. I don’t even have a suit like him!"

You chuckled, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "Relax. It’s going to be fine. Besides, you’re not just telling him you’re going to be a dad—you’re giving him a grandkid. He’ll love it."

Peter gulped. "I hope so."

As you pulled into the compound’s driveway, you could see your dad’s birthday party in full swing. The decorations were up, and everyone was mingling. Tony, Pepper, and Morgan were surrounded by the Avengers, with Happy looking over the festivities with his usual vigilance.

You and Peter walked in, and Morgan immediately ran over to hug you. “Y/n!” She squealed, her excitement almost palpable.

“Hey, Morgan!” You replied, giving her a big hug. “Happy birthday to Dad, huh?” You said while looking around the exaggerated decorations.

“Yeah.” Morgan chuckled.

Peter fidgeted beside you, his hands twisting together as his eyes darted around nervously. It was almost comical how out of sorts he seemed, like he was bracing himself for an impending disaster.

“Pete, you look like you’re about to face Thanos again,” Tony quipped, striding over with that signature smirk of his. He clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, then turned his attention to you. “Hey, kiddo.” His tone softened as he pulled you into a quick hug.

You smiled, trying to sound nonchalant despite your own nerves bubbling under the surface. “Just a little something,” you said, holding out the neatly wrapped box. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Oh, honey, you didn’t have to,” Tony said, his lips curling into a grin as he took the box from your hands. “But you know I love gifts.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his predictable response. “I figured,” you said, crossing your arms playfully. “But this one’s actually from the both of us.”

Tony glanced at Peter, who offered a sheepish smile. “Yeah, uh, we both worked on it,” Peter mumbled, his nervousness still evident.

Tony’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he held up the gift. “Well then, let’s see what brilliance you two have cooked up.”

If only he knew.

_____

Dinner was served, and despite the delicious food and lively conversation, Peter couldn’t seem to relax. He kept playing with his fork and glancing at the clock, as if hoping time would slow down or speed up.

Finally, it was time for the presents. You exchanged knowing glances with Peter and headed over to where Tony was opening gifts.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Tony said, grabbing your gift first, tearing into the wrapping paper with his usual flair. When he pulled out the onesie with "The Best Grandpa's Grandkid" printed on it, his face registered confusion for a moment.

Everyone else was busy chatting with each other, but you watched Tony’s reaction closely. As the realization hit, his eyes widened, and a huge smile spread across his face.

“This is… this is…” Tony started, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. “I’m going to be a grandpa?” Everyone's attention was on you and Tony now.

"Happy Birthday, dad."

All the avengers started congratulating you. Natasha was the first to approach you. She enveloped you in a warm hug. “You’re going to be the best mom,” she said with a sincere smile.

Wanda joined in, her own hug equally comforting. “You and Peter are going to be amazing parents.”

You felt a lump in your throat as their kindness washed over you. “Thanks, guys. It means a lot.”

Pepper smiled at the display of support and stepped over to you, her eyes glistening slightly. She kissed your forehead gently. “Oh, honey, you grew up so fast.”

Sam and Bucky, who had been watching the whole interaction with smirks on their faces, couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. Sam clapped Peter on the back hard and said, “Looks like the kid’s having a kid.”

Bucky chuckled, adding, “Guess we’ll have to start calling you ‘Spider-Dad’ now, Parker.”

Peter laughed nervously, his face still a bit pale. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Steve approached, giving Peter a reassuring pat on the back. “You’ll do great, Pete. You’ve got this.”

Tony looked at you with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. “My little girl is going to be a mom,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “You grew up so fast, Y/n.”

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his tears betraying the emotions he was trying to keep in check. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured, kissing your forehead.

As Tony pulled back from the hug, his gaze shifted to Peter. Peter’s face went pale. He had a brief moment of relief as he saw Tony’s smile, but it quickly turned into a look of terror as Tony’s expression shifted.

Tony’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Peter, the smile gone. “How dare you make my little girl pregnant!”

“Dad,” you said, trying to keep your tone calm, “let’s not start with this.”

“Um, Tony, sir, I-I can explain,” Peter stammered, his face turning red.

“Tony, honey, calm down,” Pepper said, stepping in with a soothing voice.

“Oh, I’m calm, Pep,” Tony said through gritted teeth. “But Parker’s gonna die tonight.”

Peter’s eyes were wide as he looked to you for help. “Y/n, say something!”

“Dad,” you said, stepping in between Tony and Peter. “Do you want your grandchild to be fatherless?”

Tony huffed, looking between you and Peter. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But only because I don’t want to be a grandpa to a kid without a father. Parker, you better take care of my little girl or so help me—”

“I will!” Peter interrupted, trying to sound as earnest as possible. “I promise, Mr. Stark, I’ll do everything I can.”

“Dad, relax,” you interjected, stepping between Tony and Peter. “Peter’s going to be a great dad. He loves me, and he’s going to love our baby.”

Tony’s face softened a little, but his protective instincts were still on high alert. “Alright, alright. Just… make sure you keep my little girl happy. And don’t mess this up.”

Peter nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “I promise. I’ll do everything I can.”

“You better.”

Everyone else, who had been watching the scene with a mix of amusement and concern, slowly started to relax as Tony’s anger subsided. Morgan ran over to Peter and hugged him tightly.

“You’re going to be the best dad ever!” She declared.

Peter looked at Morgan, his eyes misty. “Thanks, kid.”

Happy came over and slapped Peter on the back, almost knocking him over. “Welcome to the family, kid. If you need any help with the whole ‘being a dad’ thing, let me know.”

Peter managed a shaky laugh. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

Pepper wrapped her arms around Tony, giving him a gentle squeeze. “See? It’s going to be alright.”

Tony took a deep breath, finally letting go of some of his tension. “Yeah, alright. I guess I’m just going to have to get used to this.”

The rest of the evening was filled with congratulations and warm wishes. Tony seemed to be in a much better mood as he began to accept the news. The whole party eventually gathered around, with everyone offering their support and excitement.

As the night went down, you and Peter found a quiet corner of the compound, away from the hustle and bustle of the party.

“See?” You said, wrapping your arms around him. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Peter let out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, it actually went better than I thought it would.”

“Now we just have to get used to the idea of being parents,” you said with a smile.

Peter grinned, his anxiety replaced by excitement. “Yeah, I think we can handle that.”

You both stood there, imagining the future and the new life that was growing inside you. It was a perfect end to an eventful day, with love, laughter, and a new chapter about to begin.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[midascrow]

Lucifer x GN!Reader

A Fan of the Devil?

———————//————

synopsis: Charlie’s father is introduced to the hotels “Gardener”, and comes to find out that they’re a fallen soul from above. He’s also surprised to learn that they’re a fan of his.

warnings: religious pressure(?)

an: Part 1? If this is well received ofc. This is told from Lucifer’s perspective and therefore his view and inner thoughts regarding what’s going on around him. I also threw in the idea that he’s bad with names cuz that feels very accurate to me lol

—————————————————————-

He hadn’t expected his daughter’s friends to be so….eccentric, upon meeting them. Of course he knew Charlie’s heart bled gold for any sinner around, but he thought-, more so he hoped that she would keep somewhat better company.

Especially in the revelation of this “RaDiO DEmOn”.

Baggie- Mag- Vaggie, was alright he supposed. She loves his daughter, perhaps just as much as he does,that much he was sure. And while he was a bit disheartened by having not known of their relationship prior, he was still content and moved by the way the two leaned towards each others embrace as they spoke.

His heart ached. Just a bit.

“Are they up in their room again?”

“I think they’re in the Garden again, hon.”

Garden? The hotel had a garden?

“Oh! Oh maybe we could-“

“I don’t know…you know how they can be about us going in there..”

“Pshhhh! I’m sure it’ll be fine Vaggie! Plus remember how they always talked about meeting him??”

Meeting who? Who’s meeting who??

Was there some kind of owl in here?

“Dad!”

“Ah!”

Charlie blinked down at her father in an awkward beam, watching his red eyes dart around nervously, for a moment or two. “Who?!-“ His throat dried and swelled in embarrassment, cracking his voice as he fixed his pride with a dust off his hat. “Uhm…Yes? Char?” Nailed it. Totally. Very cool and suave of you big boss.

His daughter smiled, a crease in her brow before she clasped his arm and tugged him forward, away from the peering eyes of the others and down a long corridor. “There’s someone- Well-there’s someone who’s been dying to meet you! Yknow ever since they arrived here it’s just be non stop-“

Someone wanted to meet him? Why??

Surely they were a weirdo.

His grimace must’ve given him away, because Vaggie, who he hadnt noticed following them till the moment of, gave a small hum, to cut through her girlfriends words.

“They were a bit of a fanatic on earth apparently.”

He dead panned.

“A cultist.”

“No.”

“A satanist?”

“That’s not even what satanists do!”

“…..”

“….A banker-“

“Just-!….Wait and you’ll see.”

He fell silent at that, a frown pulled onto his pale lips as his feet dragged him towards wherever they were headed.

He was a bit stumped when they came upon two large doors, both decorated in shimmering glass mozaics, depicting two dividing scenes. An Angel; hands carefully cupped around a beautifully red apple, kneeled down towards the other mural, was depicted on the right. And on the Left, in the same position, with the same red apple, a demon.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Wow Honey! I uh- Didn’t know this door even existed! It’s very cool, yes yes very cool- now let’s head back to the-!” He called nervously, a half witted laugh leaving his sharp tooth smile as Charlie nodded vigorously, shiney eyes aglow as she took hold of the golden handles of the ornate doors, pulling them open with a mighty huff as a golden light spilled from inside.

It was startling to say the least, fact proven by how Lucifer felt his wings practically shoot from his back in defense, feathers cascading down in time with the petals and leaves that followed an imaginary breeze through the threshold.

His ears strained to hear the quiet sound of rushing water and leaves shaking, birds chirping and insects buzzing quietly somewhere in the back.

His skin warmed. Not in the way it naturally did from hells weather, but as if the sun was beaming down on his skin for the first time in eons. Of course, he knew it was fake. But it was so close.

“Oh- shit! Charlie!” A voice barked beyond the golden glow of the garden, a figure stepping out from the shadows of a large bush, covered in leaves and flowers as they stumbled clumsily through, racing towards the door and slamming it shut, completely ignorant to the king beside their hip, who’s gaze pierced them in silent wonder.

He hadn’t felt that in a while.

“What did I tell you about coming in unannounced! You could throw off the entire ecosystem! The slightest temperature shift might make one of the flowers wilt or one of the fruits shrivel! At least warn me before-“

“Ahem.”

The sinner paused, shoulders jumping stiffly as they froze, finger pointed towards Charlie rudely from their rant before their gaze shifted to the side.

He heard the way their breath hitched, and his chest puffed slightly in pride, wings fluttering just slightly.

“Hello there.” He was being cheeky, he knew that, though his smile felt a tad too genuine, caused by the sheer awe that glimmered across the sinners face at the sight of him. “Lucifer Morningstar, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to dislike that look. He was the avatar of pride after all.

And a small part of him took a rather large enjoyment in the stuttering and stumbling of the sinner before him.

“Y-Your highness! Oh my gosh-“ He grinned “I wasn’t expecting your company- I would’ve dressed more- well I-“ Vaggie coughed from the side, redirecting their attention as they picked the stray foliage form their hair and clothes in a frenzy, towards the garden around them.

With a startled gasp they quickly stepped to the side, nearly tumbling in their haste as they held their arm out, presenting the garden to the king. “It’s..it’s an honor to meet you Sir.” Your voice was steadier, but still thick with anxiety that stuck like molasses to your tongue.

He watched your hand tremble, just slightly. Like his.

His wings fluttered again. A warm feeling bursting through his chest and into his eyes, giving them that shine that reflected the faux golden glow of the sun in the large green room. “The pleasures all mine, My dear. Do you mind explaining what it is you have-.…here”

His smile faltered, gaze stuck on the tree that stood tall and proud in the center of the spacious garden. Its leaves and branches stretched far, each adorned by beautiful red..apples, that hung and shimmered in the light. He expected the familiar ache of guilt to swarm his heart, but was surprised when he found himself breathless instead.

“I hope it’s..somewhat accurate. I’ve only seen recreations of course, never the real thing..” Your voice was a bit muffled in his mind.

He felt you step cautiously beside him, as he continued to gaze reverently at the scene before him. Shadows and memories danced past his eyes and through the patches of sun that decorated the floor. He swore he could hear quiet calls and whispers mix with the rustling leaves.

“You made this?” It wasn’t really a question.

Plants weren’t common in hell. Especially none such as this. They simply couldn’t grow in the rotted soil that spread across his kingdom. And there was simply no pure water to be found that could sustain them. So how-

“I might’ve take a few things before I fell.” You laughed shyly, cheeks warmed under the sun and the intense gaze of the King that snapped towards you.

Lucifer finally got a proper look at you. At your eyes and your features. Your afflictions. There was no denying you were a human soul. It was clear as day and still beat deep in your being. But..

“You were in heaven?” He gasped, eyes wide, mouth agape as he turned fully towards you, the grip on his cane tight as he scanned over the few demonic markings that lined your body, and the big golden X that flashed across your entire being. For only his eyes to see.

A virtuous soul cast out? Was that even possible? To turn away a true, virtuous soul, one of the few who had made it into heavens gate from their life on earth-

“It’s safe to say I didn’t truly agree with heavens teachings. It was too…polished.” There was an easy going smile that matched your tone, as you let your eyes wander towards the tree that wisely outshined every other plant in the garden. You continued.

“Heaven wasn’t my first choice. Frankly I didnt believe in it to begin with. But my folks were..somewhat of zealots. They wanted the best for me, I know that. But I missed…” You paused, seemingly thoughtful as Lucifer watched you with rapt attention, you both becoming ignorant to the two lovers that slipped out.

Charlie smiled softly to herself. Her dad needed this.

“I missed the free will that their religion took away from me.” Your gaze was knowing, almost wise like the tree when it peered back into his own, and Lucifer swore he felt something crack. Something lift from his shoulders and pulled his wings away, letting them spread proudly, in a way he hadn’t felt or experienced in years. Possibly ever.

“You know….I always enjoyed the story of you they told on earth.” Lucifer grimaced again, the vision of you dimming for a moment as he glanced away.

“Is that so? I’m sure they’re singing my praises.” It was a dry laugh, his hands gesturing in a faux confidence, but his lips quirked when he heard your muffled one.

“No, many aren’t. Most seem to align themselves with Heavens view…” You hummed thoughtfully and stepped forwards into the soft grass that peaked through the cracks of brimstone. Lucifer followed, instinctively. He felt leashed by your presence, though not necessarily in a bad way.

“Though there are plenty, who think a little more like me. There’s many versions of your story. I always knew that the original couldn’t be the full story. Too..one sided. Time on earth taught me that there was always a second side. Someone’s else thoughts-, perspective. Falling only confirmed that.”

You words tangled with your fingers that fluttered across the branches of a close bush, caressing a small flower that curled into your touch. “The first thing I did was look for the story. Of the garden. I wanted to replicate it, though admittedly there was never much detail to go off!”

You laughed again and the sound was quickly becoming a favorite of his. It was gentle..understanding. It almost hurt.

“And when I read the story..it was different. More romantic for sure.” You flushed softly, cheeks warm again as you recalled the way the story of Lucifer and Lilith warmed your soul. “But..more honest. Heart breaking even. I couldn’t believe how horrible it was must’ve been…and never knowing how amazing your gift was..” you turned to him again, your gaze so earnest and true that it made him step back.

Lucifer couldn’t deny the warmth in his own cheeks. You were pretty..pretty? That felt mundane. You practically glowed in the garden. And while it wasn’t a perfect representation of what Eden had been, it was better.

Eden had always been..one dimensional. It lacked the depth and feeling that Lucifer had hoped to give humanity. It was gorgeous, there was no denying that. But it wasn’t real.

This…This, is what he had hoped for the garden to be. Alive. Truly alive.

And…you brought it life…because of him? It didn’t feel right in a way. Having spent so many years locked away by himself and mourning the sin and ruin he had created from his own selfish wish.

Selfish? Had it been selfish? At the time, when he had done it, it didn’t feel selfish. He wanted humanity to live. To be alive! Truly, and honestly alive.

And you were so Alive. You were dead here in hell and yet you were breathing life into this gorgeous scene because you chose to. You chose to fall too. You chose to be in hell.

Because of him? Because of his…gift?

It was ironic almost. Laughable even.

Your lips pursed, a worried sweat on your brow as you lost that roaring confidence that bled into your words prior. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to preach or anything-“ He stopped you.

“So-.…you’re a fan?” His lips screwed into a wobbly smile, embarrassment creeping up his neck at his less then poetic comment, though the laugh you graced him with almost made the shame worth it.

“You could say that. I personally think I hold the title of number one fan, but you know beggars can’t be choosers I suppose.” You gestured animatedly, a small smirk on your lips as you professed your..favor towards the king, and he gleamed.

“Well!” His hands flew to his suit, straightening it out and letting his chest puff out from its slumped frame. “May I know the name of my, alleged, number one fan?” His words were coy, smug as he gestured to you with a flourish that he had shown to the other residents. (Of course till you had so rudely stunned him to silence)

The smile you gifted him was holy.

“(Y/N)…Your highness.” Your bow was playful, a little awkward and strained, but it made him laugh.

“(Y/n), hm? I’ll be sure to remember that.” His throat cleared briefly, “I…hope you wouldn’t mind me stopping by sometime again soon..I’d like to hear a bit more about your garden.” He liked the way you looked at him in this moment. Disbelieving but so hopeful. Like he was something, someone to gaze at in such a way.

“I’d be honored.”

Maybe you had a fan of your own now, as well.

———————☆

[passionwillow]

Smutty idea!

Deacon is nervous to be intimate with his gf because it's the first time he's been intimate outside of Anne so reader takes charge while he finds his footing.

Oh my GOSSSHHHH YES

No hate to Annie I really do like her character sometimes lul

The divorce left Deacon reeling for a while, so when he met you, it was like a tether back to Earth. Your easy smile, loud laughter, and dedication to everything you cared about had his knees weak and head fuzzy.

He took it slow, wanting to make sure this was something you really wanted: an older guy with a dangerous job and kids (he already knew he wanted you).

When he realized you were as committed as he was, his whole world lit up. He was head over heels.

The physical aspect of it is what gave him nerves. He hadn't been with anyone in bed since Annie, hadn't touched anyone but her for years.

When he finally had you there, laid out in bed all undressed, he froze. He felt like such a fucking fool, but there nerves, the anxiety, had him stuck. Luckily, you understood, and guided the way.

You pulled him down into a kiss, taking his hands and gently guiding them to your chest, to your hips and thighs, letting out soft moans as he took the hint and touched you.

You could feel his hands trembling as he cupped and kneaded your breasts, fingers pinching and tugging at your nipples and reveling in your moans.

His hands roamed over your stomach and hips, squeezing the soft flesh, so different from Annie's slimmer build. The way you arched into him, like you were craving him, made his skin warm and his cock harden.

His mind was spinning. Your scent in his nose, the soft warmth of your body beneath him. There was so much he wanted to do, so many things he wanted to try. He was always in charge, always knew what to do, but he couldn't fucking decide.

You looked up into his eyes, seeing the conflicting thoughts behind them and smiled, cupping his cheek and whispering. "I want you in me, Deac. We have all the time in the world to try things together."

His brain seemed to slow, the thoughts narrowing to you, underneath him. He cracked a smile and pressed his lips to yours, humming as you took his calloused hand and slid it between your thighs.

Oh, holy shit.

You were so wet, absolutely drenched, just from him. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips parted as he breathed heavily and eased a finger into you. You were so tight, so willing and you were all his.

Your eager moans had him slipping a second finger in, eyes fluttering open to watch the expression on your face as he prepped you. And you were praising him.

"Fuck, Deac-.. Just like that, oh my gosh.."

He couldn't take it. He slipped out of you and gripped his cock, tip slitted right against your entrance. But he still hesitated. Your hands cupped his cheeks and he looked at you, looked at the excitement in your eyes. And you were asking for him, asking for him to take you.

"Please, Deacon, I want this. I want you."

He thrust into you slow and steady, trying to stop and let you adjust but you were so hungry for him. Legs around his waist, hands clawing at his back, practically begging.

"Oh- yes, yes, please-"

He let you guide him, his head empty of everything except for you. Your walls around him, clenching tight, your thighs locked around his hips. Your nails digging into his back and clawing, your whines and whimpers and pleas for him go harder, faster, deeper.

He lost himself to you completely that night, and he was on his knees for you forever since.