#chews through block of wood

[potatobugz]

ohhh thinking about jay in skybound. that fucking eyepatch. ohhh ohhhhh

[shokocide]

PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need a drink.

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

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

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

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look away. “He local?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

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

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

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

Someone’s moving out there.

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

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

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

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

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

-

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

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

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

You both stop—almost head to chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Choso.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

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

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

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

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

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

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

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

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

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

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

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

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

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

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. “Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

-

You need eggs.

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

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

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

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

Still no sign of him.

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

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

No Choso.

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

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

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

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

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

-

The bar’s quieter tonight.

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

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

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

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

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

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

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

“You mean termites?”

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

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

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

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

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

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

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

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

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

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

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

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

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

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

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

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

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

Then he nods.

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

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

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

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

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

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

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

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

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

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

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

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

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

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

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

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

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

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

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

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

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

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

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

Choso.

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

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

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

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

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

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

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

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

-

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

It didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

Because holy hell.

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

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

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

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

“What?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

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

You like him.

You like him.

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

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

You glance over. “On the porch?”

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

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

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

He nods once. “It shows.”

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

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

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

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

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

-

[you]: shoko

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

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

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

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

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

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

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

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

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

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

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

-

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

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

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

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

You blink. “Saturday?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

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

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

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

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

You swirl the ice once more.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

-

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

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

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

And still, you keep looking.

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

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

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

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

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

You tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

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

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

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

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

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

You swallow, then nod.

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

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

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

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

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

“You alright?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

“…No.”

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

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You follow without thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

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

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

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

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

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

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

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

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

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

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

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

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

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

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

To your mouth.

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

Your heart slams in your chest.

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

But you don’t.

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

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

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

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

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

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

But still—he leans in closer.

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

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

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

He doesn’t move far.

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

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

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

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

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just barely.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

-

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

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

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

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

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

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

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

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

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

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

The days that follow feel different.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

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

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

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

-

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

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

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

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

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

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

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

-

It starts with a rumble.

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

You don’t.

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

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

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

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

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you murmur.

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

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

The silence stretches.

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

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

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

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s him.

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

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

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

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

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

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

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

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

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

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

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

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

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

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

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

“Still suits you.”

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

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

Then—soft.

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

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

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

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

“Glad you agreed to come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

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

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

“Choso—”

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

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

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

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

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

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

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

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

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

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

Because it’s not calm anymore.

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

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

“Almost there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

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

“Good.”

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

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

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

Like it matters.

And it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

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

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

“You don’t have to—”

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

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

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

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

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

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

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

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

He sees it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

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

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

And then you bottom out.

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

And for a second, everything goes still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you do.

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

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

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

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

“Baby…”

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

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

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

“Choso—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groans.

And then it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

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

Choso loses it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

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

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

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

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No need to rush. Not tonight.

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

[inbabylontheywept]

my winter trick for getting fruit in my diet is buying two big frozen bags of mango chunks and then using them as ice cubes. this is also good for my insanely shitty teeth because it removes temptation of chewing hard ice and replaces it with the temptation of sucking soggy mango cubes through my teeth, sloppy style. which is also terribl, but in a more abstract way that my dentist cannot bill me for.

however.

the tragic curse of mangos is that a ripe mango is so perfect you could nail it to a cross and get double forgiven for all your sins. whereas an unripe mango is like balsa wood with faint hint of Tart. so its a terrible gamble with each bag. and my current bag is severely unripe. so i am sucking the flavor out of what might as well be wooden blocks while mourning what could have been.

[prael]

Delicacy

ILLIT Moka x male reader smut

Happy (kinda late) Moka Day!

Masterlist word count: 5,401 Kofi(donations/commissions)

"Ladies and-a gen-entleman! Step right up! Ge-get yourself a-a mystical item today!" The old Murgo's voice is loud, his tone is jovial. His accent is hard to understand and his stuttering speech patterns would indicate a man who is not well-educated, though you've always expected he puts it all on for show.

His skin is scruffy, full of moles and unkempt facial hair that creeps down to his thin neck. The elderly man's uniform consists of a long, purple-sleeved coat—sleeves that fall every time he waves an arm at the next item he tries to flog.

"Y-you sir! Consider this, this is truly a-a magical mirror, for as long as you lo-look into it, it will make you b-beautiful." He smiles at the group before him, pearly white teeth contrasting with his murky skin colour. They are the only noteworthy things about him, other than his height, a whole foot smaller than the usual man.

The rough-looking labourer by your side mumbles, "What a crock of shit!"

While the bald man at the front calls "I'll take it!"

Murgo, as Murgo so often does, announces the catch, "Very wise pu-purchase. Now, just remember, the m-magic only works if you look a-at in complete darkness."

Murgo collects his due payment and the man at your side shakes his head as he turns away. "Idiots," he grumbles before he walks away.

"You there!" Murgo singles you out. "Do you fancy trying a-anything?" He asks you with a smile.

Murgo's entire stall is packed full of oddities, and none of them are ever what they seem. You may not believe in Murgo's little items, but it's always interesting to come and see what he has to sell today. It's nice to consider his fantastical excuses and embellishments.

"M-may I interest you in a fan-antasy?" He sing-songs. "You must ha-have a wish to make come true? Consider this ma-magical music box! One wish! M-Make it come true!" He boasts about another silly item, something that always leaves you rolling your eyes. Wishes cannot be bought.

"Tha-that's a look of uncertainty. Well, how about this." Murgo holds out a hand containing a single chocolate. A perfect, colourful item shaped like a square. "Gen-entleman, please m-may I present, a most magical item to y-your attention! A chocolate! Bu-but not any chocolate! They say this one tastes of m-mocha, and its ingestion a-allows you to live a fantasy."

You scrunch your brow.

"Ingested fantasies might seem an im-impossibility, but I have p-proven through a rigorous scientific process..."

You know he's lying, as always, but you're not about to interrupt though. You doubt the old man actually has much training in anything even related to science, and everything about him can only lead you to believe that he doesn't own many resources to test things on anyway.

"...so, sir, I urge you!" Murgo finishes his meaningless rambling by saying, "Try and taste your fondest dream. Try the ma-magical wonder and live a dream so real, so plausible that y-you'll forget who you are!"

Live a dream so real... He's definitely lying, but you are curious as to the taste of his chocolate.

Your eyes switch from Murgo's insistent, excited stare to his chocolate, and back to Murgo's knowing smile. "Just this once," you tell him.

-

You sit at your kitchen table, staring at the little rectangular block that rests on the wood.

"A fantasy, huh?" you contemplate. You lean in close and give it a sniff; it certainly smells like chocolate, with a hint of mocha.

Shrugging, you hold up the chocolate and drop it into your mouth. Immediately, it melts away and you're overpowered by the delicious flavour. It's milk chocolate, but you find hints of cocoa and coffee mixed between your lips.

You chew a few times and then swallow. At that moment, Murgo's words ring around your mind. 'Live a dream so real,' they repeat.

You sit and you wait. Staring expectantly at the table, you blink blankly at the slab where the chocolate once rested. You tap your fingers. You scratch the back of your neck. And still, nothing.

"Wow." You shake your head, chastising yourself for thinking so optimistically, and push out the chair.

As you stand, your head spins. The world about you warps into another form, a dark space resembling nothing you have ever seen.

The ground crunches beneath your feet. Gravel, perhaps? Black grazes at the surface, but you can't quite make out any details. As if a curtain has fallen to obscure your vision.

You spin around and wave your hands to find a purchase with something.

And then you feel it. Feel... her?

Small, smooth hands in your own. They let go before too long, and then those hands brush up your forearms.

A shadowed girl—clearly a girl by her soft curves—gently touches your cheek, and you grab her hand again. A soft gasp escapes her, and then she giggles. "Do you know how hard it's been, to be stuck inside a piece of chocolate? Of course, you don't. Why would you?"

This... isn't real. Could you be dreaming? Could you be high, or drunk, or passed out? Perhaps poisoned? You bring your fingers to your face to ensure you're not gushing blood or anything odd. Nope, normal. Completely and utterly normal, so... what the hell?

She whispers as her fingers move along the waistband of your pants, "Did you like the taste of the chocolate? Of... Moka?" She laughs. "My name is Moka, do you understand? Mocha and Moka!"

She has the cutest laugh. Soft, genuine, and one that leaves you smiling. Smiling? You ask yourself what you're doing and how you possibly ended up with some mysterious woman pawing your crotch. Regardless, you answer.

"Yeah," you say, her laugh encouraging you to express honesty. "Definitely not a bad product at all."

"Of course not!" Moka cheers. You catch a glimpse of a smile in the shadows that surround her. "After all, I was made with all the finest ingredients to give a taste that absolutely anyone can enjoy! And you're no exception, are you?" Moka's weight presses against you, and she leans close to your ear to murmur, "This little bump in your pants proves that."

You let out a sharp breath, but no denial. Moka may be shrouded in darkness, but you don't have trouble appreciating her presence. You can feel the warmth from her body, her rounded breasts that are all too tempting to touch.

"I'm so confused..." you whisper.

"Good." With the utterance of one word, you see the brightness of a smile. How wonderful and expressive her face is. The darkness clears and the mystery goes with it. The girl in front of you can only be described as utterly breathtaking. She's wearing this smile that turns up a little more on one side of her mouth than the other, and you're absolutely enchanted by its beauty. There's this beauty mark on her nose, such a cute mole. And then her eyes... you could very happily lose yourself within them.

"So incredibly confused," you repeat, and watch with fascination as a lock of her dark hair slips past a black strip and over her flushed cheek.

Moka kisses you. A gentle, testing peck, but there's no time for timid, because she pounces, and suddenly you're drowning under her affection. Kissing her like this is all you can think about, and the way she tangles her small tongue around your own is wildly erotic, both innocent and sinful at the same time.

You are too complacent, but then Moka brings her body flush against yours. You don't know where she came from, you have no idea why she's here and what's going on, but your body is certainly not questioning that right now. Her lithe form under your touch is as smooth as the chocolate she came from.

"Take me," she all but purrs, "It's what I'm here for."

"But you're..."

"Not real? A fantasy? Exactly. That's all the reason you need to let go," she whispers and there is a clarity that brings her words like truth.

Real or not, you can't deny it. You want her, this exotic enigma. You tug her close, fingers tracing a curve, your lips following a line. Her body, her skin, you adore her. Every facet, every inch, you crave her. You take hold of Moka and lift her, she lets out the gentlest of squeaks but instantly wraps her legs around you, and just the sound and feeling of her draws a shudder out of you.

"I spent months in Murgo's storage, just waiting for someone like you. Every single day growing more and more frustrated as I waited. You can't imagine being that pent up, can you?"

She's taking off your shirt. Impatiently running her hands down your torso, like she can't get enough. You stumble until you plant her against the wall, holding her firm and kissing her with all the frustration she feels, biting and sucking and leaving her breathless.

Moka wraps her arms around your neck, curling her heels, pulling you close.

"I can't imagine it, but you don't have to wait for another second though." You squeeze at her taut thighs, making her whimper with delight.

"Taste me," she whispers and you take your lips to her neck. It's not exactly what she has in mind, but she knows it's inevitable. All roads lead between her thighs.

So you fall to your knees before her. Hands up her thighs, driving up the frills of her skirt. She's a delicacy, soft and pink, beautiful, just waiting to be savoured. And the moment your lips touch the inside of her thigh, she gasps, one palm smacking the wall behind her. The tension, the excitement, the breathless little whimpers that escape her, every little thing, has you completely engrossed.

The whole time you press a barrage of kisses against her thighs, moving closer to her core with each passing second, but the light, teasing kisses draw a litany of frustration out of her.

"P-please..." Moka whimpers.

The breath from her plea leaves her in a shudder. She huffs, already trembling. You test how wet she is with your fingers, feeling her damp warmth, her sticky arousal coating your digits. You're unable to resist running your fingertips up the folds of her pussy, using the natural slickness to help move, dancing around her clit and drawing cries from the breathless girl. Her pleasure is plain to see, the rising blush reaching her chest and the deep breaths escaping her.

You slide a single finger inside her, then quickly two, slowly finger fucking her pretty pink, twisting around and feeling her wrap around you.

"You like it?" you murmur and it's not like you could call anything happening now an act of romance, but you turn your head and kiss her thigh. Such a tender moment is shared despite the sordid acts.

Moka huffs, her fingers clinging to your shoulder. "I need it." She sputters, moaning and thrusting down to meet your slow motions. "Oh... It's so good..."

"It's about to get even better," you say.

You lap your tongue along the seeping moisture of her beautiful cunt, and you lick over her slick folds and lap up everything she has to offer. With deep, intense licks, you give her pussy the attention she's been begging for.

"Ahh! Oh, yes!" she shrieks, falling back against the wall and panting with pleasure.

The sweetness of her nectar assaults you, and your tongue finds the little spot that has her moaning each time you lick near it. Faster and faster you circle her clit, watching as her knees quiver and twitch. Closer and closer, your tongue working her into a frenzy.

"More... I-I... yes, don't stop!" she cries, pulling your face against her. She wants more, she won't wait, and she twists and tangles her fingers into your hair, pushing and grinding her dripping sex against you. "Can you imagine it? I was made for pleasure. To give and receive, only to be forced to hide away, all alone? To suffer every day, tortured by my need?"

Moka whimpers and struggles to keep her breath even. You must want to do something about that, don't you?

You grab her thighs, lifting her off the ground and shifting your hands under her, grabbing her soft, plump ass cheeks. She cries at the movement, but then her legs are wrapped around your shoulders, clutching you to her desperately. You eat her little pussy out furiously, ravaging her drenched folds as she cries out, screams filling the room as you pick up the pace. Your tongue dances around her clit, your fingers sinking deeply into the soft flesh of her cute little ass.

"Oh god... I can't stop myself," her desperate cries fill the room.

You cannot deny this girl, even if you wanted to, so you devour her sweet cunt, and watch as her eyes close, the pleasure becoming too much as her body explodes with euphoric release. She screams, desperately riding your face, her entire body quivering and twitching as she cums. The juices drip down your chin as she rides the wave of intense bliss, rolling her hips, indulging in it, prolonging it for as long as she can.

Finally, the surge of her overwhelming orgasm ends, but she slumps, nearly lifeless in your grasp. You struggle to keep her up, and she keeps trying to grind her sensitive folds against you, but her exhaustion finally hits her. So you take her, back in your arms, and toward your kitchen table.

There she lays, shaking and sweating, struggling to catch her breath, and you want nothing more than to pry her delicate figure from that dress. You strip her, your mouth kissing every newly exposed surface of her perfect body.

"This is how things should have been, how life should have been," Moka mumbles, her dark hair swirling beneath her as she lays across your table. Her sweet skin comes into sight and you can't help running your hands along the feminine curve of her stomach. Her perfect breasts fit in the palms of your hands and you trace circles around her taut nipples as she sighs happily.

You undress, and she watches, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. Her expression is suddenly guilty, as though admiring a man naked isn't something a girl should do. But you caress her face, she's your beautiful enchantress, and that moment of hesitation seems to pass as she leans into the palm of your hand. Her eyes shimmer with acceptance, and she's accepting of all the dirty things she's thinking, all the things she's about to say. "I...I want you inside me," she whispers.

Your cock is erect and eager, so hard, aching, throbbing with the desire to know her warmth, and you line yourself with the wetness between her legs.

Gently, you lean forward, pressing the tip against her tightness. "Are you ready?"

"For however long I've waited," she breathes.

She's quivering under you, full of tension, gripping the edge of the table tightly. The expression on her face is so vulnerable, open and raw, so beautiful. Her chest rises and falls with her need, and there's a hunger burning in her, a fire begging to be ignited.

"Please," Moka begs.

"Gentle..." you tell her, though who it's meant for, you're not entirely sure. But you take a deep breath and ease into her slickness.

She gasps, her grip around the side of the table tightening. It takes a moment, but she grows accustomed, her tension dissipates and her trembling is overcome. She laughs, and the sound is nothing short of stunning. Chime-like, the light, airy melody fills the room as she touches herself. Cupping her supple breasts, and tugging her pink nipples, she indulges in her lust and rocks gently against your hard shaft.

"Fuck away my lusts. Fill the void, be the man I've needed so badly," her sweet voice begins to sing with pleasure, her pitch rising.

Her cunt is so warm and inviting, so wet, stretching tightly around you as you pump back and forth. Wet noises sound with every pass. Moka's eyes glaze over and her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you even deeper.

Your thrusting finds a comfortable, easy rhythm, and soon your hips are slapping eagerly against her every time you push in. Wet noises fill the air each time you drive into her deepest parts.

"God, yes..." her desperation only heightens, "Use me, please. Don't stop, fuck me."

"How could I ever?" you pant, both leaning in, sucking the taste of her chocolate mouth, twirling her tongue, drinking her intoxicating exhales.

She's a dream, this girl is made for indulgence. Her arms hook under yours, hands grasping your shoulders, digging into your back, desperate for some way to anchor herself. You want to touch every part of her, soak up her delicious little whimpers and commit them to memory. As your breath runs ragged and your heart pounds in your chest, nothing other than her is present in your mind. Nothing else matters. She is the pure embodiment of desire.

As the feverish motion speeds up, her soft breasts bounce and her entire body shimmers. Sweat glistens along her slender form and you push her to limits she's never known. Her cries run longer and louder until she's screaming, moaning your name, muttering incoherent praise.

"Moka..." you whisper her name, lacing her with what little you can say with a mind lost in the overwhelming bliss of her body.

It isn't long before your rhythm begins to break down. A rising and falling beat, speeding and slowing, stuttering with your every breath. She's drowning with you, and yet floating all at once. Latching onto you, refusing to let go. Desperate, clamping tightly onto you as you enter her deeper with each sharp thrust.

Panting, drenched, bodies so close. Your hard, feverish heat, her spiking lust, colliding with explosive fervour as you surge forward, burying yourself inside her and grunting as you shudder.

Unbridled and relentless, the swelling heat pulses through you and down your length. Rippling through her, filling her cunt, pouring into her. Her cries peak alongside yours. She shudders and shakes as your pulsing cock pumps a shockwave of ecstasy through her.

Delirious laughter escapes her when her rolling euphoria subsides, and her satisfied smile when she strokes her hand down your hot chest... everything about her... the delight of satisfaction washes through her.

Just what was that? That woman made you feel desires you could never imagine possible. Never could you have imagined something would make you feel as if you were flying.

Never could you imagine her.

And yet here she is.

"Can we..." she seems uncertain now, nervous, unsure.

You take her hands and kiss them. A delicate display of adoration that causes her nervous smile to transform into something happier, more certain. "What is it, Moka?"

She presses her finger to her lower lip, searching for the right words. "We can do this again, can't we?"

You can't resist chuckling at the blush that reaches her chest and the shy way she turns her head.

"Of course," you say.

-

Now you understand, even if vaguely, what happened and how things came to be; your actions and hers.

But, as always, the question remains... can a fantasy ever stay?

Moka is sitting outside on the small porch of your humble home. Fond memories occupy your thoughts; nights filled with bliss; mornings spent listening to her joyous voice.

"Are you having doubts?" she asks, unable to meet your gaze.

You sigh and rest against the rail. Her feelings are difficult to understand sometimes, but you have this odd connection, as if an invisible bridge exists between you, allowing you to feel her as she can you. She wants your happiness, you know that, she craves it, and yet...

"Will you stay?" you ask her quietly, a little afraid of the answer.

The setting sun casts pink across the sky. From the lush valley, there's a stream that cuts across the landscape, shaded by the greenery, broken only by the towering tree that stands tall in the distance. Its wide leaves filter the sunlight, casting gentle patterns in the trickling water. It really is such a peaceful place to live.

You stand and enjoy the moment. Fresh air, the calming simplicity of nature.

"I'm sorry," Moka's voice is only a whisper, "I don't know the limits of the magic that brought me here. If I stay, would I be stuck as a human? If I leave your side, would I ever be able to return? It's as much of a mystery to me as it is to you."

"Should I ask Murgo?"

"That fool? He didn't even know the chocolate was really magic. No," her voice grows firmer, "Don't trust the words of that merchant." Her hands clutch tightly at her knees, "I do have this feeling. I can't quite explain it, but, I've been feeling it since you first tasted me."

"Feeling?"

"A pulling—a tug—toward you, away from you too," she says. "Magic, desires, loneliness... maybe they've been woven together. I can't be sure."

"Not sure I understand."

"I feel it now. There's this need to be satisfied. And when I'm not, it feels like the magic will just tear me away."

You push away from the railing and step towards her. She's sitting, knees pulled against her chest, wearing nothing more than a white linen gown. Seeing her so small...

"So, if I just satisfy you..." You reach out and gently brush your knuckles along her soft cheek. Moka leans into your touch, her deep brown eyes gazing up. Your fingertips push through her silky dark hair and cup her delicate chin. As she stares at you, you can feel the deep, yearning emotion within her. "Then you will stay with me."

"I think—"

You interrupt her with a kiss. Softly locking your lips, bringing her comfort. Just a moment, simple tenderness. Then passion, as you open your mouth and taste the pure sugar of her tongue. Slipping around yours, her hot exhale, her warmth, both erotic and meaningful.

You can only pull away by taking her with you, pulling her up from the chair. Eagerly, Moka smiles and steps into your arms. Squeezing her tight, holding her around the waist, breathing her scent, feeling the tension inside yourself. She kisses you back with the same intensity, lips tight on yours, warm and dripping as they open, teasing you with her sweet taste.

You stumble back towards the railing, bodies entwined. Tilting your head, her chocolate flavour can make anyone addicted. Kissing her, nipping, sucking, biting her lip. Sinking into her warmth, her body. Lifting the hem of her short gown, running your fingers along the silky skin of her thighs. She arches back into the wooden railing, and you break apart the kiss as she sinks into the support behind her.

You take hold of her shoulders and turn her. She braces against the railing and leans forward, showing off that inviting, delicate shape. Between the arch of her back and the curve of her cute ass, she begs to be taken. And that thin linen may as well not even be there; it's so taut, so transparent.

You move behind her. In the fading light of the evening, the shadows reveal more than they hide. Lifting the cloth and leaving her bare. Running your hands down the lines of her hips and sides, your fingers lightly trace back up her ribs and finally, you cup one of her light breasts. Her nipple presses into the palm of your hand, and she's so sensitive, arching at even the slightest touch.

She looks back at you, her eyes longing, knowing what comes next. Spreading your fingers down between her legs, you run them along the slick, wet flesh waiting for you. She's already ready, dripping, and your fingertips only tease her. Bending, lining up your rigid cock against her wetness. You place your other hand on her hip and ready yourself, preparing to push forward.

"I'll never grow tired of this," you say.

Moka looks back at you, blushing, hair over her face as she tries to look through the veil. Before she can respond, you push, and she lets out a sharp cry at being filled. With her firmly held, you slide in and out of her dripping cunt. It's not a frantic, hurried pace, but deep, intense thrusts that give Moka what she needs—give her relief.

"Ah! That's so deep... so deep."

Her moans spill out without restraint. Such a vibrant voice, full of the lusts she's harbouring. Holding her firmly, plunging deeper and faster, her tiny pussy wrapping tightly around you. Wet, slippery squishing echoes through the empty air. Slaps sounding with every time your crotch strikes hers. It's all so lewd and brings you ever closer, keeps driving you.

The deeper her chest falls, the more she arches, and a deep moan escapes as her body shakes. Her orgasm comes strong, fast, and powerful, making her legs quake and her voice stutter. But you hold her and keep fucking. Slipping against her back, clinging to her waist, burying your face in her hair. Her trembling sex tenses and flexes and still she moans, incoherently telling you just how good it feels.

You've lost track of the number of times you've filled her tight cunt in the past few days, so this is just another one of many. She loves it, though; loves feeling you pour so deeply inside her. She'll do anything to feel it. So you fill her. Firm thrusts as you pump her full of your cum, right there on the porch.

-

During the moments she spends staring out the window, you run your hand down Moka's back. She hums a little sound, appreciating the act, and snuggles into the blanket further.

"Cold? I could go get the fire going again if you like."

Moka stares blankly, fixated on a flower just outside the window. She blinks and laughs suddenly.

"Hm? Sorry, what did you say?"

You repeat what you said and she quickly responds.

"It's alright, but there's something I need you to do."

"What is it?"

"Lie on the bed, let me ride you. I want to feel you fill me. I need it." She reaches a hand up and cradles her own breast, grasping at it and squeezing the supple mound.

It's getting worse—her constant need. Like an itch, she says. Something has to constantly be done to keep it from being painful. It's barely been two hours since you were last inside her, and it seems to be the only thing she can think about.

"Please. I just need a little more..."

You can't bring yourself to deny her. Not when she looks at you like that. So you stumble backwards, pulling her naked form along with you, and ungracefully land on your back. Already you're growing hard, just from looking up at her dainty body and recalling all the wonderful acts you have performed and thinking of what is yet to come.

Moka runs her hand through her hair and gazes downward, a serene look washing over her delicate features.

"Smiling suits you," you tell her.

Again, you watch her eyes light up at that little kind of praise. "Thank you," she says, blushing as she clambers across the bed to kneel above you. She fixes her knees on either side of your hips and runs her palms over your chest, teasing your body as her breasts sway before you.

"Oh..." she purrs as she rocks back and forth, rubbing her bare sex up and down your length. "Oh, yes..."

You hum with delight, but remain still for a moment, listening to the happy sounds she's making, letting her indulge in the simple foreplay.

Eventually, she can take it no longer. "Here..." She lifts herself with her thighs and wraps a single hand around your hardened cock, steadying it and gripping tight. With a single gasp, she guides you inside her. Her moisture envelops you and she's so tight, the way her pussy seems to suck you in all the way to the base. But once you reach that far point, you both let out a loud moan of satisfaction. She's got all of you, every last inch of your shaft has found its home inside her.

Moka rests there for a moment, staring down with these innocent, almost vulnerable brown eyes. From the soft feeling of her velvety interior and the cute, lewd look of her blissful face, you can't help yourself, and buck up into her, plunging even further in. She lets out a gasp and stumbles forward, catching herself on your chest.

"I'm sorry! Are you alright?" you ask.

The dark-haired girl giggles—something that pleases you more than you can describe—and returns to that dainty smile. She pulls her hips and then drives them against you, before groaning, "More than alright."

Moka finds her rhythm. Rolling and grinding her hips, each motion punctuated by her spiking arousal. Her small cunt welcomes the friction, drips with desire. You grip her waist, helping her balance as she bounces in your lap, pushing herself harder and faster each time. She pushes harder, taking more of you, and soon she's crying out your name, begging you to fill her with everything you have.

Her gorgeous form rocks above you. Thrusting vigorously, her little breasts barely bouncing in a way that you can't take your eyes away from. Moka digs her nails into your chest. Her moans and cries grow increasingly desperate.

"You're amazing," Moka moans through her pleasure, voice quivering and trembling with it.

You can feel her clenching tighter and tighter, her insides quaking as she begs, and pleads for release. It brings your climax close, and despite the urgency of her pleasure, she maintains a controlled rhythm. Not so fast as to short-circuit things, keeping you on the very edge of euphoria.

"God, I love the way you..." she exclaims as a bright flush blossoms across her face. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, muting her sound.

"What?" you struggle to speak as her slick folds wrap so tightly around you.

You don't know what it is, but something catches her attention. Her movements slow and she's searching, somehow peering through the dark outside. The noise has stopped too, usually at night there's a cacophony of singing insects and rustling, fluttering wings, but now nothing. No wind or creak or creasing leaf. Quiet. Dead quiet.

Moka slips off of your cock and crawls backwards to the end of the bed.

"What is it?" you ask.

Moka's lips twitch. Anxiety sets in over her features and she steps away from the bed, toward the window. Moonlight kisses her skin, the pale rays dancing on her shadowy form. Your heart falters and you realise... you really do want her here. Like this. Always.

"Moka?"

A strong gust blows and the window swings open. Her silky hair whips against her face, catching on her lips. She raises her hand, fingers hovering lightly in the moonlight. You remain motionless in fear of breaking whatever is occurring. Nothing feels right, not a single thing. As if the fabric of reality has been slashed in two.

The wind howls. The lights flicker and the fireplace across the room somehow brings itself to light. She turns to face it and the flames illuminate Moka's eyes. They glow a pale violet, the hue all wrong, ghostly. A tremble comes over her, and she says just five words. The last five words you'll ever hear from her.

"I'm sorry. I'll miss you."

Her hand turns to dust. The grains reflect the moon as they blow out of the window. You watch as the rest of her body follows, leaving only the imprint of where she once stood.

Time moves slowly—too slowly—like your heart, which can't beat. Something has broken, something in you, though not a sound passes through your lips. Tears stream from your eyes. The pain, the sorrow, the emptiness—it all feels irreparable. You can't bear it, and without a single word, without a single sound, the world goes black.

[axescryinwater]

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the apartment was quiet in the best way. the kind of silence filled with low music from an old record player, the occasional thump of alpine leaping off furniture she wasn’t supposed to be on, and the rhythmic scrape of a whittling knife against wood. you sat cross legged on the couch, a bowl of cherries balanced on your knee, fingers stained just a little red. alpine was curled beside you, batting lazily at your sock with one paw between quick cat naps. you plucked another cherry from the bowl and popped it in your mouth, letting the sweetness distract you from anything else going on in the world.

across the room, bucky sat in his favorite chair, hunched over a block of wood he’d been shaping for the past few days. his brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together in that way he did when he was deep in a project. you weren’t entirely sure what it was going to be, a bird maybe? or a wolf? but whatever it was, you could already see the quiet pride in the little details he carved.

you watched him for a moment, chin propped in your hand. his hair had fallen in front of his face again. you knew he’d huff and push it back soon, probably without even realizing. it made you smile.

eventually, he looked up, catching you staring.

“what?” he asked, a slow grin tugging at his mouth.

“nothing,” you said innocently, though your voice gave you away. “just admiring the view.”

bucky snorted and set the carving down, brushing wood shavings from his jeans before making his way to the couch. alpine immediately stretched and climbed into his lap like she owned him—which, to be fair, she kind of did.

he leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. “you’ve had, like, ten bowls of those."

you plucked another one from the bowl and held it up like a peace offering. “they’re good.”

he rolled his eyes fondly but took the cherry anyway, biting into it with a soft crunch. you watched him chew, then reached for another, tongue fiddling with the stem like you’d done a dozen times already.

“hey,” you said, glancing sideways at him. “did you ever hear that thing about cherry stems?”

he raised a brow. “what thing?”

you smiled, trying to sound nonchalant. “supposedly, if you can tie a knot in the stem with just your tongue, it means you’re a good kisser.”

bucky blinked. then he smirked a little. “oh really?”

you nodded, biting back a grin as you held up a stem. “wanna try?”

he plucked it from your fingers without hesitation, eyes glinting with mischief. “watch and learn.”

you watched as he worked the stem between his lips, brow furrowed in concentration again, but this time, it was entirely for your benefit. alpine chirped softly, as if judging the performance.

a few moments passed, and bucky pulled the stem out, tied in a surprisingly perfect little knot.

you stared. “okay, show off.”

he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop a little. “guess you’ll have to test the theory now.”

your breath caught just slightly, heat blooming in your cheeks. “maybe i will.”

he was still smiling when he kissed you, it was slow and warm, the cherry bowl nearly tipped off your lap, but neither of you really cared.

from the corner of the couch, alpine meowed in protest.

bucky smiled lazily while kissing you, his hand fisting into your hair in an instant, tugging you even closer. the cherry bowl hit the floor with a thump, but neither of you paid attention. his lips move against yours like a slow burn, he pulled you closer, one of his legs sliding under you to bring your body against his own, the warmth of him spreading through your entire body. he tugged at your lower lip with his teeth, gently, before he finally pulled back with a soft gasp of air. he murmured, “enough proof for you?”

you hummed out a soft laugh, tilting your head in order to brush your lips against the underside of his jaw. “maybe,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, one of your legs slinging over his hip. “but it wouldn’t hurt if you wanted to provide more. just to be sure.”

he chuckles, and you feel his free hand slide up your back, his palm tracing your spine. he pressed his lips to your neck, his breath warm as his lips grazed the sensitive skin just behind your ear. “well, i’ve always been something of a overachiever…” he murmured, his mouth moving slowly down your neck. he slid his hand under your shirt, his fingers a warm brand against your skin, as his mouth found the hollow of your collarbone. you let out a soft sound, arching against him, as he traced the line of your collarbone with his kisses, his fingers dipping lower, the touch a slow burn against your stomach.

his lips moved against yours, slow, lazy and warm, his hands moving to your hips, gently guiding you to straddle him. you tasted like the sweet, tart flavor of the cherries you'd been eating. as his hands drifted upward under your shirt, fingertips tracing their way over your back. he murmured your name, his voice low and a little rough, against your lips, and when he pulled back to meet your gaze, his cheeks were flushed.

his lips were soft and warm, the kiss slow and deep, your mouths moving together in a gentle rhythm. your hips pressed against his, and his fingers traced a slow path up your bare spine, his kisses grew just a little more insistent, his tongue slipping between your lips as he tugged you closer. the hand at your back slid under the edge of your bra strap, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just below, the touch sending a cold shiver through you.

the kiss heated, his tongue slipping into your mouth, exploring the wet heat of it, before coaxing your own tongue into his mouth, tasting you with slow, lazy strokes. he let out a soft groan, as you pressed your hips down against him, his hands gripping your waist to guide your movements. you felt the hard muscle of his thighs against you, the tension in his body a clear sign of his desire. he was beginning to kiss you desperately, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your stomach flip, lips moving against his in a messy and needy kiss. palming your waist gently.

he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a little breathy. “do you believe me yet?” he murmured, his eyes half lidded as they roved over your face, taking in the way your lips were still slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

you hummed out a laugh, rolling your hips again, feeling a little thrill of satisfaction when his expression shifted, his eyes closing for a brief moment as he let out a low groan. “i don’t know,” you murmured, “i think i might need a little more convincing.”

[heartsongss]

three. we heroes.

masterlist.

a/n: guys im putting up a poll soon for the love interest because its a bit of a Choice and I want ppl to like it so watch out for that gang

One week later, you find yourself catching the train into Gotham. It’s 6:30, and the train is surprisingly packed for the time. You figure that even in Gotham, where rent is permanently cheap, people need to make a living. Insurance, and all that.

You chew on your nail, eyes watching the entrances and exits everytime the bus stops, but no monsters climb on, staring at you hungrily. Just more humans, blissfully unaware of the horrors hidden even further into Gotham’s heart. Would they run in fear, horrified by the odd contortations of monster flesh? Or would they accept it. Gotham is the home of human monsters, after all.

What is an empousai to Bane? What is a hellhound, all angry and drooling blood, to Killer Croc? Nothing. It's just another beast out for their blood.

The bus hitches to a final stop and you get off, near the heart of Gotham. Camp owns an apartment they use as their Gotham home base. You’ll start the Cull here and end it there, too. You wonder when your family will arrive. You know that they found out last night, as you watched through the windows as they climbed into a Camp van.

You were in bed by the time they got home, carefully ignoring the sound of them entering the house. Distantly, you could hear their whispers. Not the full things, only small snippets of conversation that relate to you.

“...(Y/N)...”

“It doesn’t….”

“...Weak!...”

You fell asleep to their thoughtlessly cruel words that night, and you made sure to be out far earlier than they’d be up waiting for you, intent on spending as much time away from them as you can. Hopefully, the Cull will save you from them. Maybe they’ll forget about you all over again, letting you fade into the background again, nothing more than the normal one.

You open the door of the apartment complex, hurrying through the halls and into the elevator. You press the button for the fourth floor, watching blankly as you pass the prior numbers. It’s all so close, now. In just a few hours, you’ll be fighting for your life. All of Gotham will be asleep, ignorant to the real monsters in their home city.

You’ll protect them all.

From block to block, borough to borough, you’ll keep them all safe. The elevator stops, and to step out to walk to the apartment door. You fiddle with your keys, unlocking the door and sliding in. There’s a few dim lights scattered about, illuminating eleven figures.

Katie Gardner, Travis Stoll, June Woods, Clarisse La Rue, Mary Leblanc, Will Solace, Lucy Black, and Jamie.

Your eyes widen at the sight of your friend. You had no idea that he’d be here today! He smiles tiredly at you, doing a two finger salute in a greeting. Smiling at him, you go and sit by his side. Clarisse stands just as you sit, looking out at you all.

“As you know, some of the Justice League will be involved in this year’s culling. We’ve supplied them with Celestial Bronze weapons, and Lady Hekate pulled the mist from their eyes. We’ll be working in groups of six. Three Demigods, three heroes.”

You nod, fiddling with your bracelet. You’ve named it doron, for gift. It was the first thing you ever got from your mother, and your most cherished. It’ll protect you well, tonight. You look to Clarisse, raising your hand.

She points to you, silently telling you to ask your question.

“Who’s working with who?”

“I was getting to that.” She says, deadpan.

You scowl at her, chewing on her lip.

“Katie, June, and I will be with the Flash, Wonder Woman, and Superboy. Travis, Mary, and Lucy will be with Batman, Wondergirl, and Red Hood-” You sigh in relief, “And (Y/N), Will, and Jamie will be with Superman, Impulse, and Nightwing.”

Fuck. Fucking shit. You try not to let the panic show on your face, reaching out to clutch at Jamie’s hand. He squeezes it reassuringly, tapping his foot in a panicked beat.

Clarisse barrels on, uncaring, “We’ll meet at eight today and get everything in place. Ensure they understand we’re doing it our way, never theirs.”

She takes it personally, you can tell. Something must have happened during the discussions. You don’t care much, though, a bit distracted of being on a team with your older brother. Your eyes flick to the clock. It’s seven. One more hour before you’re face to face with your family, walking them through the yearly massacre held in Gotham.

You’re so fucked.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Wonder Woman is leading them through a recap. Discussing do’s and don’ts, how they differ from baseline humans. She’s particularly focused on Bruce, who’d made the mistake of condemning the demigods who had killed.

He said they were cruel, and that nothing - even winning those wars - warranted so much death on their part. He said they should be jailed.

Clarisse, Dick thinks her name was, was royally pissed. She had turned on him, eyes wild, and spat, “Do you have it in you to lock up your own child?

The room had gone silent. Clarisse, breathing heavily, stared hin down and said, “(Y/N) did the most damage out of all of us. They fought for their survival. For our survival. You want to persecute them for that?”

Bruce hadn’t been able to answer. Mostly because Clarisse had been led out of the room and hadn’t returned. That was when Wonder Woman had taken over, explaining (Y/N)’s ancestry. She admitted that Clarisse would have known more, and she’d try to get her to talk the next day, but she hadn’t been with Wonder Woman this morning, apparently with the demigods in charge of the Cull.

Wonder Woman was still talking, saying, “They’re unconventional. They’re used to fighting with what they have, so they’ll probably make use of their surroundings. Including you.”

Dick nods. Bruce, beside him, grunts. His hands are clenched, tightening in a rhythm. He’s stressed. They all are, really. They hadn’t thought (Y/N) was so… scarred. They hadn’t even noticed! The poor thing must have been so scared. They couldn’t go to their family for help with the monsters following them… They hadn’t even been to camp! What if they were homesick, those summers spent away?

He frowns. Jason bumps his shoulder, looking at him through his helmet. Jason had taken it hard. It was different, but he knew what it was like to fight. He knew what it was like to be so scared, but unable to do anything but face it. It’s horrifying. 

They can fix it. After all this, they can talk to (Y/N) and fix it all. They must be so tired! It’s okay, though. Because they can rest with the family. It’s okay.

Diana’s voice filters through his senses again, “We’ll be meeting them at their safehouse in half an hour. From there, we’ll help with their preparations. They’re setting up some seals to keep monsters in, and preparing the spell to put most humans to sleep. That will happen around… twelve? one? It takes them a while to prepare themselves.”

They approach the Zeta tubes. Diana pauses, looking out at them. Her eyes stop on Dick, Bruce, and Jason. A silent plead to stay calm, a silent message.

They are strong enough.

“You remember your groups? Good. Gods help us all.”

[dinogoofymutated]

Circus freaks

Nightcrawler/GN! reader - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - Part 4 WAZAAAAP. I missed you guys!! I'm not entirely happy with this chapter bc I feel like the ending is a little fast, but once again the word count was getting a little too long and I felt I might need to seperate it again. I put it to a vote, and although it was hella neck and neck unlike any vote i've done before lmao, Splitting chapter 3 was the option that won. Next chapter will be all about Kurt and reader learning about each other all over again TWs: Fire, Smoke, museums. Cliffhanger, Very slight comfort. Depictions of nightmares and burning animals, not a lot of kurt in this one bc the buildup is too good not to milk my bad guys.

    The drive from the airport is long, rainy, and sleepy. The cab is cramped and smells a little strange, but the driver is polite enough and happy to accept your cash. Your stomach is turning in knots with every twist and turn down the long, wooded road, and through the gaps in the trees, you can see a tall roof in the distance. The gate to the long driveway is open, which eases a bit of your nervousness. The shadow of a bird flies overhead as the cab begins to slow, and you can only hope you’re right about all of this when the impressive front door comes into view. 

    The cab drops you off without much care, speeding away just about the second you get both feet and your suitcase on the ground. Must not be a fan of the area, you guess. You open your umbrella as fast as you can, trying not to chew on the inside of your cheeks while staring at that door. It’s a wonder how something with such cutesy spring wreaths can feel so intimidating. 

    Just knock already! The crow (now named Otto, through no choice of your own), caws, landing on your shoulder. You’re not surprised at his entrance, a bit comforted by the familiar weight on your shoulder if anything. You make a face at him, before taking a deep breath. You straighten your spine a little before walking to the door.

    For a school of such renown, the yard is pretty… empty. There’s not a soul outside, but you are here at 10 am on a Monday in the pouring rain, so… Regardless, school must be in, right? You assume it would be, but the exaggerated amount of time you spend waiting at the door begins to make you question yourself again.

  Your breath catches a little when you hear the deadbolt unlock, trying to look polite as the door opens just a crack and a scruffy man stands in the doorway, holding the door so that his shoulder blocks out any sort of entrance. He has a rather sour look on his face, eyes barely flicking towards Otto before landing back on you, looking you up and down in a way that’s entirely too intimidating. 

    “Hi. I’m looking for the Xavier’s school?” You say sweetly. He doesn't say anything and abruptly shuts the door in your face. 

    Wow, that guy’s got an attitude problem. 

    That was an understatement, you think. You take another breath to shake it off, and knock again. This time, it opens back up before you finish knocking. The same man stands before you.

    “What do you want?” He grumbles, curtly.

    “I-I was hoping to speak to Charles Xavier. I understand that you must be very busy people but-” You don’t even get to finish your sentence this time before you feel the whoosh of air as the door closes again. You make a face at that, trying to keep composure while you try to decide if you’re feeling pissed or just disappointed. All this build-up to get here, just for a door in your face. Otto lets out an offended huff, and you feel the weight on your shoulder shift as he hops off. With a few flaps of his wings, he grabs hold of the doorframe, twisting so that he himself can incessantly rap at the door. 

    The door opens again, and the man looks angrier this time. Otto swings upside down from the frame like a bat, cawing at him in a taunting manner. The man begins to open his mouth to yell at you about god knows what, when he’s interrupted. 

    “Logan?” He sighs as a voice calls out from behind him, and you give him a curious look as he rolls his eyes. “Open the door. Don’t make those poor souls wait in the rain any longer.” The man, Logan, you’re assuming, takes a step away from the door as he opens it wide, making room for a man with a bright smile and a wheelchair to stroll to the doorway. Otto hops down from the doorframe, landing back on your shoulder while giving Logan a smug look you’re choosing to ignore. You recognize the face of the man in the wheelchair from many different magazines and news stories, but seeing him in person still lights a spark of hope in your heart. 

    “Good morning,” You start. “You must be Professor Xavier. My name is-”

    “I know who you are, my dear.” He says, hardly even stopping to think. “There’s no need to worry. Come, Welcome to Xavier’s school for gifted youngsters.” He makes way for you to step inside, and his warmth makes you smile and relax a bit. You do your best not to be a rude guest, shaking your umbrella out and wiping your feet before stepping through the doorway. You pass by Logan as you do so, holding the door open and still looking a bit sourly at Otto on your shoulder. Once the door is closed, Otto promptly shakes the rain off of his own feathers just as you set your umbrella in the holder, causing both you and Logan to grunt unhappily and Charles to chuckle. 

    The inside of the school is the exact opposite of the courtyard. It’s bustling with life, people of all kinds running out and about, some with books or otherwise. They chatter comfortably, some waving to the professor as they pass. Every one of them is a mutant and its… amazing. You can’t help but stop and stare in wonder at everyone living so freely and without fear. The exact opposite of how you had been feeling all these years. It takes the brush of Logan’s shoulder against your own for you to realize that the professor has started moving again, and you hurry to catch up.

    “I suppose if you know who I am, you might know why I’m here?” You begin once you do, letting that treasonous little spark of hope burn a little brighter. You know there’s no guarantee he’s here, nothing but a headline and a torn newspaper article about the X-men as your tip. Otto had brought it to you, having found it god knows where. You had been looking for years at this point, only running on word of mouth, beak, and muzzle. But this? This had a photo. One stained and wet and with runny ink- but you felt that you could recognize that figure anywhere. Charles chuckles at the thought. 

    “I do.” He hums, “Kurt’s going to be delighted to see you.” He finishes. You feel your heart jump at the words. You reach his office, and he rolls behind his desk, inviting you to sit down.

    “So he’s- is he?-” You trail off, and the professor’s face turns rather sympathetic. Logan is standing in the doorway, and Xavier nods him on, not that you really remembered that he was there anyway. Your heart begins to sink, falling straight into your stomach as the door clicks shut, Logan closing it behind him on his way out. 

    “Not quite. Not yet.” Xavier says. Otto scoffs on your shoulder, hopping over to perch on the other chair while he grumbles something you can't really hear. You try to calm your nerves, doing your best to stay optimistic.

    “But he will be, won’t he?” You ask, voice cracking a little. Xavier smiles again, beginning to gather some files on his desk.

    “He’s become a valuable and irreplaceable member of my X-men, and as such, I had tasked him and a few others with something rather urgent a short time ago. I apologize for that, if I had known you were coming I would have kept him here instead.” All these years of looking for him, and you missed him by what, a week? It’s disappointing, but… You still found him. All that’s left is to finally see him again. The thought of it surfaces with a new kind of anxiety.

    “How long will he be away?” You ask. The professor shakes his head, reaching for something in the filing cabinet by his desk.

    “I wish I had a better answer to give you. I know many things, but it’s hard to know just how long they will be gone. It could take weeks for him to return to us.” His words make you frown. You feel conflicted, and you quickly realize that it probably should have been a good idea to have made a better backup plan before you actually got on that first plane. You taste that bitter feeling of disappointment again as the professor turns around, facing you with a small manilla packet with a number on it. When he hands it to you, you realize it contains a room key. You look up at him in confusion, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

    “You’re welcome to stay at the school for as long as you’d like while awaiting his return, if you are comfortable of course.” You furrow your brow, opening your mouth to speak-  “-and no, I promise you won’t be inconveniencing anyone at all.” He finishes. You relax a little, smiling softly back at him.

    “...Thank you. I would appreciate that greatly.” Otto begins to caw again, rather peeved at the lack of attention he was receiving. As if he could understand Otto even better than you, Xavier is quick to speak up again.

    “Why don’t we start with getting the two of you something to eat? I know your journey must have been very tiresome.”

     Oh, did he have any idea.

     In the weeks that go by while you stay at the mansion, you try to make yourself useful. You're certainly no certified teacher, but when the professor asks you to help out with a few classes, who are you to say no? In time, this place that seemed so unusual and yet welcoming was just another factor of life. Kids are comfortable in their own skin, unafraid of being discriminated against, being taught by other mutants just like themselves. Being taught by you, sometimes. It felt good. And yet, there's still a part of you that hears Stephan's words ringing in your head, no matter how hard you try to shake it.

    You make friends while you're here. Many of which come and go as members of the X-men, and yet every time the Blackbird lands, the one person you want to see is absent. Jean is the first one you become close with. She’s kind, and you find that the two of you have similar taste in books. The first time you met, she recognized you before you could even introduce yourself. 

    “You're Kurt's friend?” She had asked, and although you felt a little strange with the title, you very quickly became known as Kurt’s Friend with the other X-men as well. Sure, they weren't wrong, but you were a bit more than friends, weren't you? You felt like you were. All this time making friends with the others, having movie nights and going out together with Jean, Ororo, and Rogue… It should have made you feel like you were settling in- and sure, it had. But the longer you stay here, the more anxious you become. 

    Every time you look in the mirror, you remember just how different you are now. You were barely 17 the last time you saw Kurt, and it's been many years since then. You've changed. He's changed no doubt. What did he look like now? Did he still think of you? Does he remember your promise, and is he mad at you for taking so long to find him? Surely, he wouldn’t be, right? You've heard from the others that he had bounced around a few places before landing here, so it's not like he made himself easy to find. These anxious thoughts overwhelmed you, and the past still followed you like a dark cloud.

    You feel like you’re burning up when your eyes flick open. Your bed is warm and the sheets are sweaty, your heart still pounding with fear as you shake off the nightmare. Otto is gone, the window cracked open from his nightly escapades, but you know he'll return in the early hours of the morning. Your hands are burning painfully again, and when you turn on your bedside lamp, you can't help but stare at the scars on your hands. You haven’t had full feeling in them since the fire, and yet that phantom pain, just like the nightmares, refuses to leave you.

    You dream about that night often. You dream about the bodies. The smell of charred flesh and fur. You dream about Nyla, speaking to you in that wise way of hers as she burns and melts into the vision of her corpse you have never been able to shake. You used to run out to the stables on nights like this, fresh after the incident. Your dad had bought Bubbles at auction after she was deemed unfit to perform, so you would talk to her until you had calmed. Nowadays, you'd call your dad and ask him to check on her. Tell her you loved her and missed her. But tonight, you simply venture into the kitchen instead.

   You don't bother turning the lights on, having walked the path from the cup cabinets and to the water filter a few too many times before. It's not the first time you've been up this late at night, and it's far from the last. You still feel hot and overwhelmed, choosing one particular seat at the island that just happens to be under the air vent. The cool air brushes against your skin in a welcome prickle, and you quietly take in the feeling.

    The lamp in the corner turns on in a flash, and you jump violently in surprise. Logan is standing there with a hand on the string, cocking an eyebrow at you. You sigh, hand over your heart as the rapid beating begins to slow only slightly. 

    “You scared me.” You whisper, hardly having enough energy to do anything but rub your eyes and take a deep breath. You hear Logan hum in response as he leaves the lamp and strolls behind the counter, opening the fridge and beginning to look through it.

    “Third time this week.” He says, but you don’t really understand him.

    “What?” You ask, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he pulls out a soda from the back of the fridge and offers one to you. You shake your head at him, and he shrugs. The soda can clicks as he cracks it open, sitting across the island from you. 

    “Third time this week you’ve been up this late.” He clarifies, after taking a long sip. You let out a small “oh” in response, frowning as you look down at your water. The two of you sit in silence for a while, before Logan speaks up.

    “...They getting worse again?” He asks. You bite your lip, not really knowing how to respond. You don’t really know what to think about the fact that you’ve been here long enough for Logan to establish your sleep patterns well enough to know you’ve had nightmares this often. You know he’s probably aware that you’ve had far more nightmares this week just by your scent in the mornings, but you’re thankful that he doesn’t say anything. 

    “...Yeah.” Is all you can muster at the moment. Logan takes another sip, and you’re once again grateful at the fact that he doesn’t look like he pities you for it. Hell, with the bare minimum you knew about him, you were sure he probably related to the restless nights. It’s quiet between you for a time, the two of you sharing the silence almost comfortingly if it weren't for the heavy topic. He doesn’t pry about your dreams, and you don’t ask about his own. 

   “Do you think he’ll like me, when I see him again?” You whisper eventually. Logan looks at you, and he doesn’t have to ask who you’re talking about. After all, who else would it be?

    “Do you think he won’t?” Logan returns. You press your lips into a line, thinking.

    “I don’t know.��� Logan scoffs at that, and you give him a look that he rolls his eyes at. “I haven’t seen him since we were kids, Logan. I don’t know what to expect.”

    “Exactly. You haven’t seen him in years- but you’re here. Aren’t you? And we already knew who you were when you showed up. Isn’t that enough to prove to you he still cares?” Logan’s tone is blunt, and you wish you could agree with him, but you don’t. You stare down at your palms again, and if Logan notices, he doesn't say anything. 

    It’s been two months since you’ve been at the school. You help out here and there, fill in for the others when they need a substitute, and do anything that makes you feel less like a freeloader, really. No one can say for sure where Kurt is, and you get the feeling that the others cannot really talk about it. As long as he was safe, that’s all that matters. Not that you really knew if he was or not. 

    There’s a field trip today. Ororo, Rouge, and Scott are absent on X-men duties, so you volunteer as a chaperone so that Jean and Logan aren’t overrun by the students. The morning starts early. You load kids onto the bus, hand out some mini-muffins for breakfast, and Jean finishes the role call while waiting for Logan. The bus is a little older and the seats are rather cramped, but the air is electric with the kid’s excitement despite the early hour. Otto is by your side as always, choosing to ride with you for once instead of flying overhead. The kids are smothering him with attention and feeding him muffin crumbs, and he lavishes in it. Logan rolls his eyes at the bird when he finally gets on, and the students cheer as the bus begins to move. You were sure many of them hadn’t been to a natural history museum before, and you hadn’t either. Their excitement was contagious, and you quickly find yourself looking forward to the day ahead 

    That energy from the morning is a distant memory when the fire alarm in the museum begins to go off. Walls have crumbled, the building is smoking, and the footsteps of sentinels are loud as they wreck everything in sight. You keep your kids close, constantly counting heads as you try to lead them to safety. But the smoke is thick, and your palms are once again burning as you try to shake your past while braving the present. 

    The students had been separated into three groups earlier that day, one for each of the chaperones, and you all had different schedules for the museum while agreeing to meet up at the pavilion for lunch at a specific time. It had started as such a good day. But good things never last, do they? Not for you, they didn't. 

    Some of your students are crying, others coughing from the smoke, and the older ones are simply tired. It’s hard to see where you’re going, the smoke mixed with the dim and dark museum lights a bad combination. You can still hear the distant footsteps of the two large sentinels that interrupted the day, and every once in a while, the bone-chilling sound of their blasts. The hallways are empty as you try to find the emergency exit, most of the other guests taking the chance to bolt out the most obvious ones-or hell, the holes in the walls that had been blasted open by the sentinels as they wrecked the place. But you weren’t any other guests, you were mutants, and that meant getting out of danger by taking the least obvious exit possible. 

    You don’t know where the fire is, but you know it’s raging within the building. You needed to get these kids out, and soon- but as you continue to follow each and every glowing sign pointing to the exit, the smoke only gets thicker. The building begins to shake again, and some of the students cry a little louder. You’re counting heads again when everything stops, and a sharp caw meets your ears. Otto swoops in, a shadow in the dark hallway as he lands nearby, chest heaving. The sight of him only makes you panic more. He knows he can’t be in here- the smoke is too much for his lungs, deadly for a bird of any size. 

    There’s an exit close by! The staff have propped open the doors because the fire is spreading faster- He hacks something horrible, a noise that only makes your anxiety worse. The guy with the attitude problem is leading the sentinels away, but you gotta get out of here soon. You swear under your breath, and as you turn to count heads one more time before instructing your group, you become aware of a tugging from the girl clinging to you.

    “Where’s Alyah?” She asks, right as ice shoots through your veins. You’re missing two. 

    Oh god. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

    Theres no time for this. You can’t dwell on it, not now. The students are scared, faces a reflection of terror as you look at them all. The plan comes out of your mouth before you have time to think it through enough.

    “Jan, I need you to do something for me.” The teen steps forward nervously. The eldest of the group, Jan was 17, with a shielding mutation that was stronger than Vibranum with the proper focus. “Alyah and her brother are missing, and I need to go find them.” Jan starts to shake their head, already ahead of you.

    “No, no no. I can’t-” They begin. You step forward, placing your palms on their cheeks in an attempt to soothe, making them look at you.

    “Yes, you can. Look at me. Otto is going to show you the way out, I just need you to keep everyone together, and prepare to shield in case the building goes down. I know you can do this. I’ll meet you out there as soon as I can, I just need you to get everyone else out first, Okay? Okay?” They're still shaking their head no, but you don't have any other choice. The last thing you want to do is put this all on someone so young, but you needed Jan to be strong for both themselves and the others. Otto Caws again as the building starts to shake, and you know the time for this conversation is up. You take a step back as the youngest of the group begins to hold onto Jan. They look at you, and then the others, and then back at you. They purse their lips and nod, and you know they’re going to be okay. 

    You only stay long enough to make sure the entirety of the students in your group are following Otto to the exit before you quickly retrace your steps down the smokey hallway. The building continues to shake, metal and concrete bending and screaming as you desperately try to figure out where the two kids could have gone. You counted all 15 at the paleontology section, and again at the hominin artifacts… 

    You can’t begin to panic. Not now. Eventually, you have to stop. You breathe as deeply as you can, and you try to gather your senses. There’s no one to ask, no animal or bird or person, and in times like these you wish your mutant ability had been anything else- and then you hear it.

    There’s muffled cries coming from the adjacent room. You quickly make your way over, stepping over debris and fallen statues, and in the corner of this small room is Alyah and her brother, Malachi. You breathe a sigh of relief, rushing over to them as they call out your name.

    “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” You ask them, trying to be as calm as possible. Malachi only cries, rushing forward to hug you. 

    “I’m sorry.” Alyah cries, grabbing ahold of your shirt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get lost. Malachi tripped- and I was trying to help him but when we got up we didn’t see you and-” You shush her, gathering her in a big hug with her brother. 

    “It’s okay! You’re okay. We just need to leave, alright? We need to leave now.” You tell her, doing your best to still stay calm. She doesn't have time to respond before the building rumbles again, sending the three of you unsteady on your feet as the ground begins to shake. There’s a screech above you, and you barley manage to cover the heads of the two young mutants as the doorway collapses into rubble. No, no no no. The kids begin to cry louder, scared. Mindless reassurances fall from your mouth as you stare in horror, trapped in the room with no way out. 

    The kids curl into your arms, and you don't know what to do. Another loud rumble makes you flinch as the shaking gets worse. You pull them in close, hunching over them as they sob. The room smells like sulfur and brimstone, the noise of the building too loud to hear anything else as the bones of the museum begin to give out, crumbling on top of you.

    A second later, your head is spinning.

    The warmth of the stuffy, smokey room is gone, replaced by the cool air of the breeze. Someone's arms fall away from you, and when you open your eyes, you're outside. Your heart is still beating like it's going to give out as you whisper to Alyah and Malachi that everything is okay, leaning back enough to check on them, brushing hair away from their face and making sure that you're all here, somehow.

    “Are all of you alright?” A voice behind you asks- and it's… familiar. 

    It's like the world stills. You see the look on Malachi's face when he recognizes the figure of one of his teachers, a bright smile spreading across his cheeks as he pulls away from you and bolts for the man.

    “Nightcrawler!” The boy cheers. Your eyes follow him as he jumps into the arms of a familiar face. Elf-like ears. Yellow eyes, and fuzzy blue skin. You stand in shock, Kurt swinging Malachi around in a big hug as Alyah joins her brother and Latches onto him as tight as she can muster. He's saying something to them, but you can't hear it past the blood thats rushing in your ears.

    “Kurt?” His name comes out a little more broken than you intended, but he hears it all the same. The smile on his face instantly drops as his head snaps away from the kids and over to the spot where you stand. He's frozen for a second, but the recognition in his eyes is immediate. Kurt sets Malachi down carefully before disappearing completely. It takes only a fraction of a second before he's back again in a puff of smoke and his arms are tightly wound around you.

    “You’re here? Mein Gott, I cannot believe that you are actually here.” He says airily, almost in complete disbelief. You're hugging him back just as tightly, face buried in his chest as your hands clutch at the fabric of his suit. You don't know what to say. You've been looking for years, and then you waited for months knowing he's right at your fingertips. And now that he's finally here, you don't have any words. His face is full of joy when he pulls back a bit, hands coming to cup your cheeks as he takes a good look at you.

    “Look at you, more beautiful than ever!” Kurt cheers, and your hands come up to hold his wrists as you shake your head and laugh at him. He hasn't changed, has he? His smile falters only slightly when he sees the scars on your hands, but he looks up before he says anything, and his eyes go wide with panic. 

   You’re gone from the spot instantly, Kurt having teleported you to the kids, grabbed them, and teleported away before you could even form a thought about the situation. Once you get your bearings, you realize the four of you are far, far away from the spot where you had been standing, and in your place is a crater of smoke and ash, a sentinel now standing in your place. Its head moves, searching for the mutants it had missed, but you don't see it for long as Kurt grabs you by the shoulders. 

    “I've got this from here. I just need you to get back to the bus. Jean and the other students are waiting there already.” His face is serious, his brows furrowed, and completely different than you had ever seen before. You nod, reluctant to leave him the moment you finally had him back- but he gives you a reassuring smile, and you realize he already knows. 

   “I’ll be back for you, Schatz. I promise.” He pulls you close again, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, and as quick as he came, he’s gone once again.

[whereubeenloca]

Tupperware

Part 6 of the Neighbor! Reader series: Table of contents

Summary: You return Carmy's tupperware

Pairing: Carmy x Reader

Tags: VERY Slow burn, Awkward, Jealousy, Claire mention

Word Count: 908

a/n Sorry for the wait! Life got in the way for a while, hope y'all enjoy!

Wanna be added to the tag list? Comment/ MSG me!

Tag List: @criesinlies @amberpanda99 @marchsfreakshow @leminjelly

This isn’t weird.

Why would it be? What’s weird? Nothing. You’re just nonchalantly returning containers to your neighbor in a super chill, super cool way. Sure, maybe you panicked at the idea of returning empty containers. And yeah, maybe you spent way too much time trying to bake the most perfect cookies ever. But you totally don’t have a freezer full of mistakes that you’ll be slowly whittling your way through. Of course not, that would be ridiculous. 

The stairs creek as you reach the landing leading to Carmy’s door. Your hands are full so you elect to kick the bottom corner of the door instead of a knock. Carmy is quick to answer, a smile spreading across his face as he sees you. 

“Hey- sorry, I didn’t text first. I just uh, wanted to return these?” You smile sheepishly, shifting the containers in your arms. 

“Sure, yeah come in.” He says, stepping aside to let you in. 

His apartment looks similar to yours. A short hallway leads to a kitchen and living area. The kitchen to the right is walled off completely from the living room. His walls are white, no photos, no posters, and he doesn’t even have hooks for his coats. You peek at his living room, simple furniture but not much else. It looks like he just moved in.

“Kitchen’s over here.” He says, guiding you to your right. 

He has an island, your kitchen doesn’t have that. You carefully place the containers into the center.

“You have butcher block counters? How’d you get Randy to install this?” You gape, running your hand over the wood.

He scoffs in response “Randy didn’t do shit, it’s a cart.” He explains, tapping his foot to the side. A hollow sound rings out. 

“Oh, wow. Fooled me.” You smile. He laughs.

“So…” Carmy interjects, gesturing to the containers. “Whatcha’ got?” 

“Cookies. Nothing special.” You say, poking the lid of the tallest deli container. 

He pops open the container, picking the first cookie on the top and biting into it. “S’pretty good.” He says between bites. 

“You think? I uh, browned the butter n’stuff. Tried to make them fancy.” You say, digging the toe of your sneaker into the tile.

Your eyes wander around his kitchen as he eats. He keeps it clean, that’s for sure. The counters are bare save for a knife block and a roll of paper towels. His sink is empty, your eyes finally land on the dish rack. A pot, two plates, and two wine glasses stare back at you. You hate how your stomach twists, quit being weird. 

Carmy makes a face like he’s focusing, waving his hand around vaguely as he chews. 

“Cinnamon?” He says finally. 

“What?” You ask, snapping back to reality.

“In the cookies.” He says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Did you put cinnamon in them?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s good, right?” You give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind goes into overdrive. 

You don’t even hear his response, all you can think about is who he had in here. He probably made her dinner, something nice. He probably walked her through the whole thing, talking about every ingredient, and explaining each step. If he made her dinner it’s probably serious, right? It must be, you don’t just do that as the first date. You rub your thumb over the surface of the butcher block counter, tracing the same deep cuts over and over. 

You focus your eyes back on Carmy and he’s staring. Why’s he staring, what the fuck is he staring at. His mouth moves again and you don’t quite catch it. Oh shit, you’re in the middle of a conversation. What was he even talking about? Fuck, think of something to say, anything-

“Can I uh, use your bathroom?” The words fumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. 

Okay, maybe not anything. 

“Oh, yeah sure,” Carmy responds, cocking his head to the side a bit. He nods towards the hallway. “First on your left.” 

“Thanks.” You breathe, crossing the kitchen quickly. 

You shut the door behind you, taking a moment to steady yourself. It isn’t weird to use your neighbor's bathroom, is it? No. Of course not. The bathroom is small, the fan blows obnoxiously as your eyes skim the space.

 One step forward, you glance towards the toilet. No waste bin, no pads. That’s a good sign. You’re snooping, that’s weird. You shake off your thoughts as you peer into the tub, hands clasped behind your back. It isn’t snooping if you don’t move anything. You’re just seeing. Three-in-one shampoo, body wash, loofah. 

She isn’t here often, maybe it wasn’t as serious as you thought. Now you’re speculating, that’s weirder.

You turn to the sink, the final test. Not a test, you’re not testing anything. Hand soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss - huh, didn’t peg him for a flosser. You smile to yourself as you reach over to the toilet and give it a flush to cover your tracks. You run the sink and wash your hands. 

Maybe it was nothing, maybe she didn’t even sleep over. As you dry your hands from the situation, you step forward only to be met with a small metallic click. Your gaze shifts to the tile, scooting your sneaker back to reveal a small golden hoop earring.  You reset your jaw before kicking it under the lip of the sink, out of sight. Good luck, girl.

[nayaesworld]

The Beast in the Woods

Warnings:SMUT,breeding,supernatural situations

Aaron Pierre X OC!Willow

Part 2

In which the lion and lamb fall deeply in love with each other and bind their beings as one…

Life felt truly and utterly complete for Willow. The handsome man that harbored a beast deep inside him had swept her off her feet and made her feel so bubbly and warm inside. Even though most days she felt obsessed with him, he assured her he felt the same way as she did maybe triple fold. The two were connected at the hip, when one moved the other moved. A graceful display of love. Her scrapbook in her living room now filled with pictures of them taken from her digital camera, pictures that somehow captured how they truly felt in the moment they were taken. Willow was at peace, happy, and in love… she said the last part a lot to herself sometimes it didn’t feel real. She loved this man, loved everything he stood for and loved how he worshiped her. She was a goddess to him.

Draped in one of Terry’s shirts she crept into her kitchen where she heard him rustling around.

“I can hear you my love… you couldn’t ever hide from me.” She smacked her lips as he laughed aloud at her attempt to creep up and scare him.

“You’re no fun… you never met me get you.” She pouted and crossed her arms over her chest giggling as he reached out for her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She sighed to herself as he sucked and licked at her neck, his large hands groping and palming her cheeks through her black boyshorts.

“Mmm.. but I always get you, and I get you good every time” And get her he did, Terry had managed to completely turn Willow out. She was eager to learn how to please him, and he was eager to teach her.

They fucked often. On every surface and every position. Everytime she thought she had been put in every position possible, he’d bend her body a new way. Willow was severely surprised that she hadn’t fallen pregnant yet. Would it be so bad if she did…?

“It’s not fair… you have your hearing and smell. I could be down the road and you’d still hear me before you ever saw me!” She exclaimed and giggled as he tickled her against her butcher block island.

Her hands found his warm face and she caressed him, peering into his ever expressive eyes.

“Did I tell you how much I love you today?” She playfully questioned him while trying her best to jump into his skin. Close was never close enough for her and she needed to touch him whenever he was near her.

“Mmm… you did my baby… but I’m never tired of hearing it. If I said I loved you more would you believe me… girl I’m obsessed with you..” He squeezed her into him, soft and content was it anything better?

A heavy downpour covered the cozy cottage and the woodlands, hard white rain coming from the sky in angry spurts of water. Willow loved the rain though, the sound would serenade and calm her. It nurtured her plants and everything around her, she was grateful. But this weather called for something hot and hearty, and her vegetable garden had sprouted nice juicy tomatoes and a tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich sounded divine.

Opposed to getting her freshly washed curls wet again, she sent Terry out to snatch a few tomatoes from their green vines. She laid her tomatoes,garlic,onions,and bell peppers onto a baking pan to prepare to roast them in her oven. She cracked black pepper and salt on top and slid them into her preheated oven, setting a timer on her phone she glanced around for Terry.

“Baby?…where did this man go so quickly” She chewed her bottom lip as she looked all over the house for him. For a man of such size and height he always managed to evade her, quiet as a church mouse and cunning as a panther.

Finally the sound of running water led her to her bathroom. Pushing open the door her dark brows scrunched as she finally made out his massive form fully clothed and sitting against the shower wall soaking wet as his head laid in his palms and he breathed heavily.

“Terry baby oh my god..Are you ok?!” She rushed to fling open the glass door, ice cold water stinging her hand.

Not caring about the icy water raining down onto her, she grasped his head into her hands and gasped. His skin was searing hot and his usual soft green eyes had been replaced with honey gold ones with blown pupils. He breathed heavily and raggedly in her presence, scaring her.

“Willow baby…please move away.. I-I don’t trust myself right now… you need to leave me be.” His words came out rushed and she was confused on whether or not she’d be able to leave him in this state as he requested.

It took everything in her to turn away from him and rush to her kitchen to shut off the oven, she didn’t need a fire starting.

_________________________________________________

Terry didn’t see this coming. He thought he’d get away with loving Willow and his instincts would sit on the back burner while he restricted himself. A joke was what it was, because he had known better than to suppress his nature, yet he couldn’t bear to put it all on her. His feelings for her were raw and real. Deep inside him he knew this day was coming, but primal instincts didn’t follow the human calendar so he had no time to prepare.

Heat had came for Terry. All of his kind had to experience it one day but none of them were ever truly prepared for the carnal experience. A Lycan in heat was a Lycan in love, a Lycan bound so tight by their mate that they could only see them; and no future without. Terry had felt all these things for Willow times infinity, he looked back often at the dull life he lived before her and realized he was never actually living; just existing.

Terry being in heat symbolized everything he truly felt for her and everything he wanted them to be, a husband to her; and a father to their future children. She was his soulmate and his supernatural soul had solidified that. There was no life for Terry without Willow and tonight he’d make sure she knew and believed that.

“Baby?… I know you wanted me to leave you… but I can’t, I need to know for sure if you’re ok!” His keen hearing allowed him to hear Willow’s honeyed voice over the loud shower.

Gathering himself his legs shook as he stood to his full height to turn off the water.Peering through the partition glass of the shower he watched her grab him a large fluffy white towel to dry off with.Stepping out of the shower he felt his hot skin cool off in her presence, she was the one; the only one.

“Let me help you please…you’re scaring me baby” he let her help him out of the soaking clothes he breathed in her sweet scent and let it take him away. Standing fully naked he grabbed the towel from her and wrapped it around his waist.

“Your eyes.. I’ve never seen them look like this before, does this have anything to do with what you are, being a Lycan?” Her curious hands ran up and down his body, seemingly checking for signs of harm on his body.

“I’m not afraid, I accepted you fully and completely a year ago when you showed up near my house… nothing is keeping me from you.” She continued on talking but stopped when she peered up into the intense gaze of his.

“I’ll tell you everything… starting with the fact that this is even happening to me right now is your fault.” A sly smirk graced Terry's face as he backed her into her room.

“My fault…bu-but how… what did I do?” The little gasp she let out made his dick swell just a little; he knew he would explode at the lightest touch.

“You little sneaky vixen… look at how you just seduced me and fucked up my head..and I just let you. This that you see in front of you is my body’s raw reaction to you.. I crave you so badly baby, I’m in love with you .” Terry watched as her pretty brown eyes seemed clouded by his words, and he burned to touch her.

“It’s all on you baby…you make me feel like this, it’s all solidified now…there’s no going back. I’m in heat, baby…my body is begging for me to make what we have a lifelong love…to marry you and give you my babies..” He let her slide her soft palms along his bulky arms and felt the tingles that were left behind. She leaned up on her tippy toes and kissed him beneath his ear and whispered.

“So do it..”

_________________________________________________

Terry engulfed Willow into his heated embrace and began to slide his hands underneath his shirt that she was draped in. He felt her plump nipple pebble up under his touch as he tugged on them and ran the pads on his fingers over them.

“Hold the shirt up, let me eat my pussy.” Terry grumbled and sank down onto the plush cream carpet on her bedroom floor. He tugged down her boyshorts and she placed her hands on his shoulders to step out of them.

He placed her leg onto his built shoulders and let his pointer finger and thumb open the lips of her vulva. His plump lips gave open mouth kisses and he slowed his slurping and paced himself.

Willow was sweeter than any fruit or any treat he’d ever consumed, and he found it hard to control himself when they often tangled in the sheets.

“Ouu baby fuck…why are you eating my pussy like this?” Willow threw her head back and grinded her pussy across Terrys face.

“Mmm fuck mama feed me my pussy…I want you to nut.” Terry wagged his tongue back and forth as he sent Willow to another dimension with French kisses to her clit.

“Tell daddy you love him…I said tell daddy you fucking love him!” He nipped her inner thigh and stood to his feet.

“Ohh I love you..I-I love you so damn much!” Willow squeaked and held onto Terry as he carried her to her king sized bed.

“You about to get your money's worth out of this bed…I hope you know that. Might fuck you into the mattress mama..” Terry grabbed up a few plush pillows from her bed and placed them between the headboard and the wall, he didn’t want damage to the walls or paint.

The location of something very special came to the forefront of Terry’s mind; a ring. A pear shaped ring with a green quartz gemstone, a dazzling engagement ring that captured the beauty and love for greenery and nature that Willow held. A true embodiment of what Terry truly felt for her every passing day.

The ring normally sat in its box nestled in her nightstand, he had to move it often to be sure she never stumbled upon it and most days he just resorted to keeping it on his personal. He wanted the proposal to be huge and elaborate but today had taken him completely by surprise and his instincts urged to do it as soon as possible.

“Willow baby… forgive me for not giving you the absolute best when it comes to what I’m about to ask you, but I-I just couldn’t wait any longer. You know how much I love and care for you; how strongly my heart beats for you. Would you grant me the privilege of loving and caring for you for the rest of both of our lives…Willow will you marry me?”

He watched her big eyes fill with tears and she nodded her head quickly. “Yes yess I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you in every lifetime!” He hurried to grab the ring and hit onto his knees to place it onto her slim finger; it fit perfectly.

The shiny celadon green ring clashing with the creamy smooth brown skin of her hand was the perfect contrast, and she beamed internally and externally.

“You ready for some loving Mrs.Richmond?”

With a flirty smile and a bite of her lip she pulled him closer “Always ready Mr.Richmond !”

Promises of a 2025 baby had Terry flipping and tossing Willow every which way but loose,and the pillows behind the headboard? Useless. The bed squeaked and groaned under the ravenous couple who were hell bent on going straight through it. A permanent dent in the shape of them would be sure to form.

Hands locked with hers Terry rutted into her. “You want my babies… you want me to make you a mommy..hmm?” Expecting Willow to give him an answer right now was pure insanity as she shook and shuddered beneath him, the girl was literally dickmatized.

Rising slowly out of her stupor she locked her Legs around his hips. “Please daddy..yess I want you tooo, I want you to nut in me so badly!” Willow’s tongue slithered into the shell of his ear, nipping and sucking.

“Fuck me baby…harder. Uhn daddy my pussy…you’re so deep!” Opening his eyes to finally look down into hers he watched tears of pleasure cascade down her pretty face,her lip wedged between her teeth trying to quiet the loud screams in her throat.

“Mm mm let it out my baby… let daddy hear how good I’m fucking you…FUCK I can’t wait until you all swollen with MY babies!” Terry’s vision blurred and the veins in his neck protruded like they would pop from his strong neck. A loud sigh slipped from his mouth as his dick pushed out more cum than he’d ever thought he could produce, he was spent and he let his weight drop onto Willow.

He picked up her hand where the ring sat and kissed along her ring finger; his wife,his mate, and the future mother of his offspring. He lifted from her after some time and let his hot hand come down between them to press his palm onto her lower belly, almost like he was putting a spell on her womb to quicken her body into a pregnancy. His forehead sat in place of his hand and he pressed feather-like kisses to her soft belly, in a few weeks there’d be a baby forming inside.

“Thank you Willow. A lifetime of solitude would be worth fighting in every dimension if you were the end goal every time…I hope as your husband to one day pay you back tenfold for all you’ve made me feel and see in our time together.”

“What if I feel everything you just said? Before you I would’ve never imagined a love so sincere and sweet, it just didn’t seem possible for a girl like me…and yet here I am a wife to be with you by my side. It’s safe to say I’m the real winner here.”

The newly engaged couple stepped into the shower together high off of each others presence. They cleaned each other and washed each others face with their matching skincare products. Dressed in cozy holiday clothing and thick socks Terry insisted on finishing the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches that Willow had abandoned earlier.

Once the food was ready the two cuddled on the plush sofa sharing a bowl,dipping the buttery cheesy sandwiches into the savory and herby soup. They coordinated hand feeding each other scraping the bottom of the bowl quicker than they’d like to.

A cheesy hallmark movie played in the background meanwhile the two sat lip locked for a second time since exiting the shower. Throw cover thrown over them and their wooded paradise turning into a mini water oasis, pure content rolled over them as a new brewing need for each other captured them. As long as Willow had Terry and Terry had Willow, the fast paced and ever changing world around them would never penetrate the shell their love provided.

———————————————————————————

A/N:Heyy guys (tucks hair behind ear)this is the end of my little beast in the woods fic. I really do hope yall enjoy and stick around a while if you’d like,for future updates with our favorite guy, I’m not done with him yet 🫦

@simplyzeeka @zillasvilla @blowmymbackout @kimuzostar @playgurlxoxo @kumkaniudaku @megamindsecretlair @pocketsizedpanther @theereina @keyaho @brattyfics @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @fakxmbj

[skippingstonez]

Can I request a sky or wild x reader where reader has a crush on them and Link is unaware. And the reader has a tendency to draw him, and somehow he finds the sketchbook and goes through it to see the numerous drawings of him. But he didn't know the reader even drew in the first place, I think it would be really cute

*starts writing this, intending to use Wild*

Sky: *over dramatically breaking down my door* Change it

Me: But-

Sky: *raising the master sword menacingly* Change. It.

Me: Yes sir!

A Sketchy Confession

(Sky x Reader) Warnings: None, but Sky insisted it gets a little steamy at the end and who was I to tell him no <3

You bit your lip, chewing on it unconsciously. The pencil in your hand marking the paper repeatedly in an attempt to capture the landscape ahead of you. You huffed, erasing some of the lines before trying again. The tiny body of water rippled, disturbed by a leaf that had fallen from the tree above you from the warm summer air. You debated whether or not to add the newest addition. Having almost completed the drawing you had set out to do well over an hour ago. 

Soft footsteps approached, breaking your concentration in a need to know who had finally found you. 

Sky walked past the small fence of Wild’s house to where you were sat by the little pond beyond the stable. He was just wearing his white shirt and pants. The usual green tunic and chainmail likely left back inside the house. The blue detailing by his collar pulled out the blue of his eyes as they spotted you.

You closed the small notebook resting on your knees as he sat down beside you. Forcing your face to remain calm and relaxed as his knee bumped against yours.

“Nice hiding spot.” He chuckled, “I thought you'd gone with some of the others to check out the shops.”

“And give up the opportunity for some peace and quiet? No thanks, think I'll keep hiding here for a bit.”

Sky laughed, leaning on your shoulder. “Mind if I join you? Legend’s trying to help Wild organize his stuff and I'm not about to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Not at all. But if someone finds us I'm offering you as a sacrifice to their shenanigans."

Sky clutched his chest, dramatically gasping as if he was mortally wounded. “Ugh fiiiiiine, I guess that's fair.” He pulled out a small knife from his pocket and a block of wood a size bigger than his hand.

“What have you been up to out here anyway?” 

“Just keeping busy,” you answered, pushing the notebook to the side nervously. The only one in the chain that had seen the inside of it was Legend due to an unfortunate mix up which he still hung over your head. 

Wars, being really big on keeping notes and journaling, had given all of you little notebooks as a way to encourage you to do the same. Most of the chain quickly forgot about it in favor of their own preferred hobbies. Legend and Wild seemed to be the only others to use it frequently enough for you to notice which led to you and the grumpy Vet getting them mixed up one day. 

Journaling had never been your thing. Words were tricky enough in normal conversation let alone trying to express the thoughts running through your head at any given moment. Still, you felt bad not using the small gift which is how it ended up as a sketchbook rather than a journal. 

Drawing had kept you sane, especially so on the hard days. Sketching out the thoughts and feelings that overtook your mind. Unfortunately, after using it for sometime, it had seemed that there was a particular someone filling up most of those thoughts. So much so that the notebook was now full of sketches and quick doodles of the knight sat directly beside you.

Something which, after a rather charged chat with Legend about, you refused to let Sky, or anyone else in the chain know about. You'd rather get stabbed by a Lizalfos than die of embarrassment.

“What are you making?” You asked, redirecting the conversation away from the item tightly in your hand.

“Oh this?” He held up the piece of wood. “Not quite sure…any requests?”

You thought for a moment before answering. “Have you done that flying bug thing in your bag?”

“Oh you mean my beetle? That's a great idea! I'm gonna go grab it for reference. If I'm not back in 5 minutes just know,” He paused, throwing an arm around your shoulder. He pulled you close to him and you just knew your face was likely turning red. “It's probably Legend’s fault.”

You snorted, shoving him off as he got to his feet and made back towards the house. He turned back, shouting over his shoulder. “Wish me luck” He said with a small salute. You rolled your eyes but saluted back. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered around at the thought of spending time with him.

Alone.

You smacked your face lightly. You needed to get a grip on yourself before he came back. You grabbed the notebook, stuffing it deep down into the depths of your bag. 

__________

“Make sure you've got everything,” TIme’s voice rang out. “Once (Y/N) and Wars get back we’ll head out.”

Sky finished stuffing the last of his things back into his bag, clasping his sailcloth over his shoulders. He gave his surroundings a final scan, double checking that there wasn’t anything left behind by mistake. 

He got to his feet, stretching his arms over his head with a quick huff.

“Sky! Let's get going!” 

“Coming!” He strolled over to where Legend and Four were headed towards. A quip about Legend’s new hair color already poised on his lips. 

Something on the ground caught his eye, making him paused to take a closer look. It was a book. It's dark brown cover having nearly blended in with the bark of the tree.

He picked it up. The lack of title or name making it near impossible to distinguish whose it could be. 

“Sky come on!”

“Coming!”

He mused over the small book as they walked. Flipping through the dozens of drawings that covered its pages. 

The detail work was exquisite. Each line carefully crafted to enhance every feature within the confines of the picture. Sky didn't know much in the way of art, but the little he knew helped him understand just how much work had been poured into each one.

And there were a lot.

“Here I thought Wars was the narcissistic one.”

Sky nearly dropped the book as Hyrule appeared next to him.

“Clouds above Rule! You startled me.”

“Do I wanna know why you have a book full of drawings of yourself?”

Sky rolled his eyes, snapping it shut. “It's not mine. Don't suppose its yours is it?” 

Sky handed it over, letting Hyrule flip through some of the pages. “Nope, definitely not mine. Hey Vet!” Hyrule called out. 

Legend’s head snapped towards them from where he was by Four, pausing to let the two of them catch up before walking beside them. “Need something?”

Hyrule handed him the notebook, “Don’t suppose we can add drawing to your list of random talents could we?”

Legend opened it up curiously before slamming it shut again. His head swiveled to the back of the group before glaring at Hyrule. “Where the hell did you get this?”

Hyrule shot a finger towards Sky who immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut. Legend glared at him, waiting for a response.

“I-I found it as we were leaving this morning. I didn't know it was yours-”

“It's not.” He snapped.

“Wait if it's not yours then whose is it?”

Legend looked towards the back of the group again as if afraid of getting caught. Sky couldn’t help but try to follow his gaze only for Legend to slam the small book into his chest.

“Gee Sky, a book full of drawings of you. It's an absolute mystery as to who it could belong to.” His voice was overflowing with sarcasm that Sky was not appreciating. Sky crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze towards the Vet. Hyrule awkwardly looking between the two of them.

“I already told Hyrule, it's not mine.”

“Oh you have got to be kidding me.” Legend groaned, rubbing his temples. “Please tell me you aren’t that oblivious.”

“Excuse me! I am not oblivious! Now are you gonna tell me who it belongs to or not?”

“By the three… you seriously need me to spell it out for you Bird Brain? There isn’t a single person in this group you can think of that this might belong to?”

“Obviously not since I still have it! I don't recall anyone here talking about being able to draw so please, enlighten me.”

Legend grumbled, obviously frustrated about the current situation. “Try the girl back there that's painfully head over heels for you.”

Hyrule snorted, hands slamming over his mouth to keep in his laughter.

“(Y/N) doesn't draw.”

“Obviously, she does Sky. Or did you not look through the damn thing?”

“But…no. No, she would have told me!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me Sky. She's embarrassed. Did you really expect her to waltz up, show you the dozens of drawings she's done, of you no less, and actually admit she's the one that drew all of them? She might as well have just confessed her love while she was at it.”

Sky's mind went blank.

Was Legend really telling the truth? Had you drawn these and not told him? 

No. No you would have told him. Surely Legend was mistaken and it was someone else's. Maybe it was a shared notebook and that's why there were so many of just him?

Sky couldn't even convince himself that his reasonings were true. Deep down, he knew Legend had to be right. Even deeper, he wanted him to be right.

Because if the Vet was right, and you had drawn all of these. Then was the Vet also right about your feelings for him?

“You… you think she likes me?”

Legend tugged so tightly on his hair he was surprised it didn't rip out of the man's skull. 

“For fucks sake Sky! What do you think?”

“Buddy” Hyrule chimed in with a pat to his shoulder. “Come on, surely you suspected as much right? I mean she practically grows hearts in her eyes when you're around.”

Really? If that was true then how had he never noticed anything? 

“Alright let's stop here for now and take a break.” Wars announced, handing a few chores out before everyone could scatter.

Legend and Hyrule walked away, having been out on scouting the perimeter. Leaving Sky to think about their conversation. 

There was just no logical way that this was yours. He forged the Master Sword, defeated countless numbers of monsters, puzzles and a God for Hylia’s sake. Surely he would have noticed if his companion had a crush on him or at the very least had been drawing him for weeks on end.

“Uggghh where is it!?” Sky looked up, watching you practically dump out the entire contents of your bag. He got to his feet, making his way over to you quickly to try and help whatever problem had arisen.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't find my notebook! I swear I put it in here last night but I can't find it!”

Notebook?

Sky paled, shoving the notebook into his bag before you could see.

“Oh,” he said nervously. Why was he feeling so nervous all of a sudden? “Do you want help looking for it?” He offered. His mind yelling at him that the one he had just shoved in his bag was the same one you were looking for. That Legend had been right. That you were the one that had done those wonderful drawings.

Hylia, Legend was right.

“No!” You said a little too quickly. “No, it's fine. I'm sure I'll find it eventually..” You began shoving things back into your bag. Not caring about keeping anything organized. “But thanks, I appreciate the offer.”

You walked off, shoulders sagging slightly.

Sky's heart raced in his chest as the realization of it all slammed into him like a Loftwing at full speed.

You liked him. 

Goddess how had he not seen it until now? You, wonderful, beautiful you, liked him.

He walked to the edge of the small clearing, taking out the notebook again when no one was looking.

He flipped through its contents once more. Admiring all the work you had done. He knew he needed to give it back, and he would. 

But what was the harm in waiting a day or two?

Just until the perfect moment presented itself.

Then he'd give it back.

And hopefully more.

___________

“Sky? You over here?” 

“Here!” He could see you approach out of the corner of his eye. Placing the shirt he had been scrubbing at for the past few minutes on the rock beside him.

“Oh uhh sorry I can come back later!” You stammered. Hand raised to cover your eyes when you realized he was shirtless. 

Sky chuckled. “Come on (Y/N) we all know you’ve seen worse. I'm just trying to get some of the blood out from earlier.” He said, motioning to his pieces of clothing drying nearby. He waved you over, patting the ground next to him. 

You walked over sheepishly. Kneeling down with a respectable distance between you and the knight. “Want any help?”

“Nah that's okay. I got most of it out already. Buuuut~ I'm actually glad you're here!” He leaned over for his bag. Shuffling through before pulling out the small brown notebook. “I believe this belongs to you.”

He pushed it into your hands and your heart skipped a beat. You snatched it up, quickly flipping through the worn pages to confirm that this was indeed the one you had misplaced the other day.

“Sky this is…You found it! Oh my goodness thank you!” You hugged it tightly to your chest. Relieved to have your drawings returned to you. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you could draw?”

Your heart skipped again and this time you wondered if it was because it had finally cut its losses and simply stopped working. You didn’t dare meet his gaze. Keeping your eyes distinctly on the grass between you and him. You forced yourself to swallow, willing your voice to work.

“You...you looked through it?”

“Well…yeah?” Sky rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Only because I didn’t know it was yours! I found it on the ground and I was just trying to see who it belonged to! But then I saw all the work you put into those drawing and they were just so beautifully detailed that I sorta just kept going and-”

“Hold up,” You interrupted, having no clue where to begin unpacking all of the information he had just spouted at you. You were mortified at the thought that he had seen all of those drawings you had done of him. Not to mention- wait had you heard him right? ”You like them? You don't think..ya know, that it's kinda weird?”

Sky cocked his head. His eyebrows raised in confusion as if you had just spoken an entirely different language. “Are you kidding!? (Y/N) those look amazing!”

Heat invaded your cheeks and you prayed that he wouldn’t call you out on the obvious red spreading over your face. He shifted closer, a hand coming to grab at the notebook which you clutched onto tighter. Sky tugged at it again, giving you an incredulous look. You pouted but let him take it back.

He flipped through a few pages before pointing to a sketch you had done back in Wild’s era. The small field of wildflowers that overlooked a small village on the coastline. “I mean seriously (Y/N) do you see these?”

He turned the page, pointing to a rough sketch of War’s scarf wrapped around his sword. “I never even realized that scarf of his had some of those embroideries on it!” He flipped through some more pages, pointing out drawings on each page. He eventually paused, placing the book face open on your lap.

The only drawing on the page was one of the man beside you. He was standing against a tree, his hand outstretched in front of him as a small red bird fluttered around his head.

Sky leaned over, hovering his head over your shoulder. “That one’s my favorite.” He whispered. A soft smile on his lips as he admired the drawing in your lap. 

You replied just as softly, “Mine too.” A finger traced over the soft lines of the bird. Recalling how you had sat there for over an hour to memorize every detail of the scene laid out before you. His hand covered yours, running his thumb over your knuckles.

“They’re amazing (Y/N).” You looked up, his face right by yours. The proximity alone making you blush furiously as his words stirred something in your chest. “You are amazing.”

His lips pressed against yours, taking you by surprise. 

You let your eyes slip close, moving your mouth against him. A feather-like touch brushing up the length of your arm. His hand coming to hold your face to his. Your fingers twitched towards him, only brave enough to rest just above his knees. You didn’t dare go any higher than that. The heat coming from him only serving as a reminder of the lack of clothing between your bodies.

A gasp escaped you as Sky pulled away. His mouth agape, chest rapidly rising and falling from the small pants that he let out. You pulled your eyes away from his slightly reddened lips, catching his eyes that stared back in disbelief. 

You both let out a breathy laugh, turning your face away into his shoulder. His lips pressed into your hair as you both sat there for a moment. 

You pulled away, unable to hide the stupidly large grin on your face. You closed the notebook that had stayed put on your lap. Holding it protectively to your chest. 

“Thank you Sky”

His mouth curved into a small smirk, “It was just a kiss (Y/N). No need to thank me.”

You hit his shoulder, rolling your eyes as he snickered. “Not that bird brain.” You stuck your tongue out at him for good measure and nodded towards the notebook. “For this.”

Sky’s face softened for just a moment. That smile that you had fallen in love with making a short appearance before morphing into an expression you had never seen grace the Skyloftian’s face. 

“Ya know (Y/N),” His arm snuck around to rest behind you. Supporting his weight as he leaned back in. “Seeing as you're quite the artist, maybe you should draw me.”

You snorted, “How much of that notebook did you actually look through? Because I'm pretty sure I have already.” You tapped him on the nose. Leaning away, only for him to follow after you.

“Mmm~ I'm aware.” He purred, glancing down at your lips that you chewed on nervously. “And you did such a good job too.” He snatched the notebook from your hand, tossing it lightly to the side.

“Hey!” You tried to grab it and he caught your hand. Lifting it up so he could place a light kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“You could draw me like this if you’d like.” Another kiss on your wrist as he looked up to your eyes. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. Breath catching in your throat as the tip of his tongue flicked over where his lips had just been.

“Sky-”

“Would you like that?” His hand pressed against your back. Pushing you closer to him till you were sat on his lap. You braced your hands against his shoulders. Fingers brushing along his collar bone that had him shuddering beneath you.

“Is there something else you'd like as well?”

“I…I want..”

“Tell me what you want.” His voice was breathy by your neck. The smallest trace of his lips grazing over the sensitive skin that made you shiver. His hands gripping onto your hips. Your mind already imagining the small circles of his thumbs pressed against another part of your body.

“Sky please..” you whimpered shamelessly.  You slid your hands across his chest, letting your nails drag lightly across the expanse of skin. His chest rumbled, chuckling while his mouth traveled just below your jawline.

“Please what?” He teased, pulling a small moan from your lips as he kissed right below your ear. 

“Use your words baby bird” He whispered into your skin.

“Kiss me. Please.”

His lips slammed onto yours, yanking you forward till you were pressed flat against him. Your hands tangled in his hair, giving a short tug that had him groan into your mouth. When you did it again he shot forward, your back hitting the damp grass with him hovering over you. His forearms trapping you in place as he slid his tongue over your bottom lip. 

*Ah-hem*

You both froze at the sound of Time clearing his throat. Both glancing up to see the man standing a few paces away. His arms crossed over his chest with his signature scowl of disapproval.

“I suppose it's a good thing I didnt send Wind to come collect the two of you. Now,” his face lightened ever so slightly as you both quickly sat up. “If you two lovebirds would keep it together, the rest of us would like to get moving soon.”

“Yes sir..”

“Sorry Time..”

Time just stared as you both scrambled to your feet. His face lightened into a softer, more contemplative smile as he twisted the ring around his finger.

Sky quickly grabbed his bag, throwing on a spare shirt while you grabbed the two still drying nearby, along with your notebook. Time walked off, muttering something about his wife being right that you didn't quite catch.

Sky's whole face had turned pink, adamantly avoiding your eyes. You stepped closer, holding onto his arm as you reached up and kissed his cheek.

“Just so you know,” you said. Beginning to follow after Time. “I’ll definitely be taking you up on that offer.” You winked as Sky's face turned the color of his Loftwing. Standing there dumbfounded for a moment before rushing to catch up to you.

His hand rested on the small of your back, letting you lean into his side as you walked back.

“Maybe we wait till the next inn though.”

[potatobugz]

sometimes when i think about demon slayer for too long i remember that tanjiro and zenitsu and inosuke and genya and kanao and muichiro and nezuko r all teenagers. they are not even adults. child. children.

hey guys did u know that tanjiro was Thirteen Years Old when his family died

[takumiraine]

Once Upon a Time chapter 7

<first> <prev> <next>

Danny is still going thru it. I’m not going to put it on Ao3 until I’m done with it. I have no idea about a master post though.

Some blood and a bit of puke in this chapter.

—

Danny was furious. Furious and terrified and alone.

Jason. His one friend. Red Hood. The man who had sworn he wasn’t a Bat. They were the same person. They worked with Batman. Bruce Wayne funded the Justice League. Bruce Wayne was Jason’s father.

He was going to be sick.

Danny stopped running to throw up in an alley, half bile, half swallowed blood. His nose was still dripping and oozing and throbbing and the force of his heaving set it bleeding in earnest again. He swore, spitting on the ground, before flattening himself into the shadows as the trill of police cars sped by, heading the direction he had just left.

He had to find a way to contact Tucker and Sam. Tucker was monitoring the GIW passively, and it was set up to know if anyone searched for him. If there was suddenly more chatter or a mobilization. But if the Bats were watching him…

Danny checked the street and darted another couple blocks before pressing against another wall and checking. When he got to his building, he scampered up to his apartment and locked himself in. Not that the locks would do anything against anyone that seriously wanted to hurt him but…. He moved his bed up against the door too.

Danny went to sigh out of his nose and spattered half clotted blood everywhere again. “Ancients fucking damn it!” Danny felt tears springing to his eyes at the thought of yet another mess he’d have to clean up before he could pass out. He went to the bathroom and growled at his reflection in the mirror. The break in his nose was obvious and he knew that if he didn’t fix it now, it would slowly fix itself over the next week or two.

If he had a shitton of food and a way into the Zone without drawing suspicion he could heal it in a couple hours but…

A deep breath in and a gritted yell out, and Danny was able to reset it, icing it in place with the little bit of his powers he was able to use without drawing attention. Gotham had a lot of random cold spells from that one supervillain. Danny wasn’t going to argue it.

He changed his shirt, and washed out the blood in cold water, gingerly wiping off his face as he went. Once it was laid in the kitchen sink to dry, Danny took the duct tape he had in his drawer and taped his windows shut.

The point was to make it obvious if they were tampered with and make a lot of noise in the process.

From there, he pulled his blankets into the tub, crawled on top of them and went to sleep, thankful it was the weekend. He would get the blood off the wood in the morning. He didn’t sleep well, waking up with barely muffled shouts and gasps for breath as the memories of broken bones healing while being used, burns so bad he couldn’t feel them regrowing nerves, the concussive blast of the Fenton Bazooka, the shredding feeling of the Fenton Ghost Peeler haunting his unconscious mind.

The irony of his parents handing over their otherwise harmless weapons to the GIW who upgraded them into the most painful versions possible under the guise of protecting him from Phantom was not lost on him.

He did not go to campus Saturday or Sunday, but showed up for his Monday class the slightest bit late, anxiety chewing through him like squirrels liked to gnaw through cables. Jason was in their usual spot, but Danny slid into one nearest the door, frowning when he caught Jason looking at him. He knew he was still all bruised up, he had to ration again, and aside from some bottom of the barrel cheap ass junk food, he hadn’t eaten this weekend at all.

He could feel Jason’s eyes on him most of the lesson, and Danny kept his head down, scrawling his notes the best he could with battered and split knuckles. He felt one of the scabs tear and absently lifted it to his mouth, making sure he didn’t bleed all over his notes. From across the room, Danny felt something from Jason’s core and used his own to push back “no” and “asshole”.

Jason might not be able to tell exactly what Danny meant, or even why, but he should be able to get a vibe. Judging by the small flinch, barely perceptible even when Danny was looking right at Jason, Danny was fairly certain his point was made.

The end of class came and Danny was the first one out the door, pushing his core down to nothing and ducking down another hallway and into a doorway of an empty classroom. He sat against the wall there to do his homework, rather than being predictable and going to the library.

Jason was well aware that he had fucked up. Danny looked half dead, more than the first time, with bruises on his face and hands and up his sleeves. Then Danny’s knuckle split and he sucked it into his mouth. Jason felt a pile of things swirl around the place in his stomach the pit occupied. Guilt tinged with arousal, followed by embarrassment at the arousal in this situation and then…. He felt like a wall slammed into the pit. He didn’t flinch, not anymore, but there was a hard blink in response. Danny’s glare told him all he needed to know. It had come from him. Somehow.

Then class was over and Danny bolted almost immediately. By the time Jason made it out of class after him, he was gone.

The next couple of classes went the same way.

Jason needed to find him, to talk, to explain, to apologize, to ask him how the fuck he knew. He almost got his chance on Wednesday when Jason was in the library with Babs, shelving books silently with her. Danny snuck around the corner and startled so hard he dropped the book he had been planning to check out, probably for their lit class. He looked between Babs and Jason for one tense moment, and Jason watched him go pale(r) in the bright lights. He opened his mouth and reached out a hand, and Danny flinched away, fear slamming into Jason like the force of that bomb. When he could breathe again, Danny was gone.

“He’s afraid of us…” Jason muttered, confused. “He took on six goons in the middle of the night and got stabbed, but still walks around Gotham at night without fear…. But he’s afraid of us.”

Babs looked up at him. “We need to find out what happened.” Her voice was matter of fact. “Before B stumbles into it and makes things worse.”

“I know.”

Friday, Jason got his chance.

Danny was creeping across the courtyard and Jason was just happening to cross at a different point. “Danny!” He called, just loud enough to be heard. He had his hands up, empty, as he approached. He was ready for the fear slamming into him this time, and ate the angry that followed behind it. “Wait. Please. It’s important.” Danny didn’t move, didn’t run, though he was scoping out exits. Jason made sure to leave him with several.

“You have one minute. Any other…. Associate…. Joins you and you don’t get another chance.”

“Fair. It’s just us.” Jason came close enough that he could talk without being overheard, hands still up. “I want to say I’m sorry first. I wanted to tell you, but it isn’t something I can really tell people and the relationship is complicated and we don’t really work together. But that’s not the point. B wants to know how you knew it was me and how the pit got to you. We tried to look it…. You… up but there was a weird firewall? Some account required shit and a number. One of the…. Others… called it and it went to a government information warehouse? She pretended it was a wrong number and it was on a burner that we destroyed after but- “

Danny looked ashen. “You called the GIW?”

“You know them?”

“They want to kill me. Again.” Danny crumpled to the ground, hunching in on himself. He took a step closer to hear what Danny was whispering. “-gonna fillet me… don’t have the shield, need to warn Tucker and Sam and…. No not Jazz. She’s normal… she’s safe… they don’t want her… they only want me… my fault…my fault…”

When it turned into Danny just repeating “my fault” over and over, Jason knelt beside him. Danny flinched, curled in deeper, but Jason just gently placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder, reminding him quietly of where they were and that he was safe.

It took time, but slowly Danny’s rapid and shallow breathing returned to normal. He looked up at Jason. “Why…? Why are you doing this to me?”

“We didn’t mean to call the government. Everything ever associated with you has had a firewall around it. Oracle can’t break in without alerting them. Why are they after you?”

“Batman and the league called them.”

“I…. They’ve never worked with the government.”

“Right.”

“Seriously.” Danny still looked skeptical Jason raised a hand calmingly. “Okay. Let’s pause that. Why do you think they would call them on you. What happened?”

“There was a lot of… weird and dangerous stuff happening in my town…. With me. I kept calling the league and leaving them messages. First asking for help… then asking for someone to just talk to me… make sure I wasn’t… going to hurt someone. Then the GIW showed up…”

“What does GIW really stand for?”

“We always called them the Guys in White, because that’s all they wore… but..” Danny took a fortifying breath. Jason noticed he was shaking. “Ghost Investigation Ward. See… my parents… were inventors and I accidentally turned myself into a halfa when I fixed something of theirs…”

Jason stared. It was a lot to take in. Bruce wouldn’t have ignored a kid asking for help. Hell, Supes or the Flash could have been there and back in less time than it took him to have a cup of coffee. So many questions ran through Jason’s mind, starting with why had he been the one the universe picked for this? Dick and Tim were both more emotionally available, able to give more than just a ‘there there’ or ‘that’s rough buddy’. Instead of the reasonable questions, like ‘what kind of weird things?’ or ‘what are you capable of?’ Jason just asked “Halfa?”

“Half ghost. Half human. Technically I died in my parents’ basement. But also I didn’t.”

“Is that how you knew it was me?”

“Yeah. Gotham has a little ambient ecto, all the violent deaths here. Not as much as home but, it works. You died once too though, pretty… permanently. But your core was still weak. It’s formed up a lot more with me, but it’s…. Like a fingerprint.”

“I need to tell B. That you’re being hunted by the government guys and why you think it was him and the league that sold you out. He’s going to want to crack the firewall, and probably hear your side of the story himself.”

“Just… when they come give me as much of a heads up as you can. We were… or you pretended we were friends. You owe me that much.”

“If I have to take on those dicks myself, I will. I won’t let them keep hunting you here. Those of us that died but got better have to stick together.”

Danny still looked suspicious. Jason didn’t blame him. “When he cracks the firewall, he’s going to learn who I really am. If…. If he wants me to trust him, I need to know who he really is.” Danny eventually said, quietly. Jason didn’t blame him.

“I’ll tell him that.” Jason didn’t know what Bruce would say to that. He assumed the answer would be as close to ‘No fucking way in any hell that exists or was ever imagined’ as Bruce got. But he would ask.

Danny nodded. Seeming smaller and way older than he should. Looking like a man that hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Like every drop of anything worth anything had been wrung out of him. Jason knew that feeling. He wanted to make Danny feel safe again. If Danny really did try to avoid hurting people, he deserved safety.

He could have outed Jason to the whole town. He didn’t. Jason thought that was something. “I’ll talk to him.” Jason promised again.

[fophelia1331-oldblog]

So. From a person going through a Pokémon phase. And a person currently intrigued by Home Safety Hotline. A crossover between the two of these would be pretty interesting.

Like 30 Pokémon eat or otherwise destroy mountains. Plenty chew on buildings. Some will poison you. The sandcastle will suck your soul out. Salamence exists. Absol would probably show up and freak people out.

"My son went missing in the woods and now there's a Phantump hanging around my house." Ma'am, that's your son. He died and became a Phantump.

Pokémon can change the weather. Stufful and Bewear can break bones or kill you. Sudowoodo camouflages as a tree and blocks paths. Snorlax falls asleep places and blocks paths. Ditto has pretended to be, not only Pokémon, but HUMAN PEOPLE. Inkay can drain your will to fight. And Malamar has EXTREME HYPNOSIS POWERS and are known to mind control people to do their bidding.

Honestly, I'd be more surprised if there wasn't a service devoted to helping people with hazardous Pokémon. That world certainly needs it.

[daycourtofficial]

I got cursed like Eve got bitten - part VII

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader | WC: 400 | Warnings: none

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Previous part | Next part | Masterlist

The two of you sat on the edge of the river bank, watching the water flow. The moonlight reflected off the water’s surface, Azriel’s eyes catching the occasional fish breaking the surface tension. You laughed, shaking your head causing some water to flicker over Azriel. He looked at you, your wet clothes clinging to you, much like his own clung to him. Some of his wet hair got into his eyes, blocking you from his sight.

“I’ll be back.” You whispered, “I have something for you.”

The anticipation ate at Azriel as he waited, the night growing darker around him. He watched the water, the black surface looking almost like a river of shadow. He felt naked, no shadows of his own creation lingered around him. He watched as something floated downstream toward him. He watched it, the shape of a box coming into focus. He stood with urgency, running across the shallow water to get to it.

He trudged through the knee deep water, trying not to fall with his urgent movements. He pulled the box from the water, the box dripping as he walked to the other edge of the bank. It was knotted with a dark blue ribbon, and his heart swelled at your signature wrapping for his gifts.

Pulling the ribbon back, he opened the lid to find your lifeless eyes staring back at him, maggots chewing through the skin of your face.

Azriel jolted upright in bed, his body covered in sweat. His shadows kept prodding at him, bringing him back to the land of the waking. He jolted from the bed, feet landing on the floor as he rounded the bedpost. He darted through the door, stopping right outside your door across the hall after his quick strides. He stood, slowly leaning his head to the door, listening for any sound he could make out. 

He tried stilling his breathing, the erratic shuddering obscuring his hearing. He pressed his ear to the door, listening, praying to hear anything.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

His heart calmed at the sound of your own beating, your slow breathing audible through the wood separating you. His arms begged to be wrapped around you, his wings aching to wrap around your own, the two of you forming a cocoon.

But he can’t.

He walked back to his room, feet silent and slow on the wood as he closed the door, a small attempt to shut out the past long enough to ease the ache of your presence.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

I got cursed series taglist: @doodlebugg16-blog @ceoofyearning @saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @willowpains @anarchiii @i-am-infinite @bsenpai @sstrohma @teenagellamaangel @allthatisbuck1917 @elsie-bells @rcarbo1 @pruvii

Thanks for reading 🥰

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Great Expectations 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes’ class is your most difficult, but he’s about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: monday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Friday arrives too quickly for your likely. Amid the usual cluster of readings, lectures, and assignments, you have Professor’s Holmes’ additional task to add to the pile. It feels unfair that he would point out your own efforts only to force more upon you. His praise hardly seems like that in retrospect. 

That you did the readings likely made your experience simpler, though the vague instructions leave you uncertain. No rubric, no objectives, no outline. Your format in the usual style and triple-check the word count before you resign yourself to fate or fortune, whichever favours you. 

As usual, Professor Holmes prefers a physical copy, neglecting the digital workspace designed by the campus for ease of access. He doesn’t seem to be the type for the easy way out, does he? You try not to malinger on your gripes and head off, promising to reward yourself with a double whip frap for your work. It’s certainly more than you’ll receive from your professor, even if you do manage to gleam your first A+ from the man. 

The softness of autumn mingles with the crispness of early winter. You mourn the orange and yellow leaves as they start to curl at the edges and brown, blowing across the pavement and catching on pantlegs and tree roots. Midterm season is almost over but it won’t be long before finals rise to haunt you. 

You come up the Herringbone building and look up at the romanticist arches and columns. The esteemed architecture has you feeling even smaller. Surely, the professor will only add to that. 

Inside, the air is dry from the heat blowing from the high vents and curved staircases crest the foyer. You follow the left one up and continue along to the small set of steps that lead up to a hallway with only three office doors. Holmes is at the very end. You went there once before when you needed to be signed into the course; he was certain to make you wait then threatened not to sign the form at all. 

You stop and stare at the frosted glass with his pedigree emblazoned on it. You contemplate just shoving the paper through his slot but the light is on. You raise your fist and gently tap on the wood. You bounce on your feet as you wait, tugging at the itchy collar of the blue sweater dotted with little clouds. In the warmth of the stuffy building and under your wool jacket, it’s stifling. 

You hear movement from within and ready yourself for the encounter. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to Professor Holmes without some degree of awkwardness. On your end, of course. He can’t be bothered to care what others think of him. 

The door opens and you try to smile but it feels like chewing rocks. He looks back at you without an ounce of emotion. You gulp. 

“Um, Professor, I have my paper--” 

He’s already walking away as you stand dumbly in the doorway. You blanch as he circles back to his desk and sits heavily in his seat. He leans forward and dips his head, bending over an open leather folio with a lined pad within. A curl falls onto his forehead and he reaches without looking for the pipe propped up on a mahogany tray. 

“Come in,” he says before he puts the pipe to his lips and bites down. He teethes on it as he snatches up a pen with his other hand. You warily obey and cross the threshold. 

“So, um, here you go,” you near the desk and lay down the stapled paper. He doesn’t look up. “Erm, thanks, professor. I hate to disturb, so I’ll just leave it here--” 

He sighs and sits up, flicking back the curl as he replaces the pipe on the tray, “they won’t let me light that, even with the window open.” 

You glance over at the drawn curtains and nod, “oh.” 

“You’re the first,” he interjects before you can summon any sort of response. 

“Ah, oh--” 

“You are rather quick, aren’t you?” He challenges as he rolls the pen between his fingers, his shoulders spreading wide against the puckered leather chair, “fleet of foot, as some Victorian ponce might say. Quiet.” 

You blink and purse your lips, giving a shrug. 

“You didn’t say hello,” he intones, “it is courteous when you see an acquaintance to greet them, though I suppose etiquette does continue to change.” 

“Um, I didn’t want to... impose?” You murmur. 

His expression remains cryptic. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else. 

“So you didn’t,” he shrugs, his vest bracing on his chest. 

“Sorry, er, sir. But um, there’s my paper, I’ll... let you be. I’m sure you’re busy enough--” 

“Terribly busy,” he confirms dryly. “Since I’ll have a new batch of papers to mark, I’ll be kept well in hand.” 

You clasp your hands together and sway, “right, uh--” 

“And you’ll be off like the rest of those dull girls, paying no mind to the real purpose of study, but rather the wordly pleasures of the modern campus. All that pumpkin spice and such.” He reprimands. 

“Oh, uh, professor...” you know better than to argue. He is set in his ideas of his students and what should make you any different than the rest. 

“Right then,” he reaches for your paper and barely glances at the title page. He flips to the short essay and his eyes skim. He reaches for the antique pen and marks up the page as he goes. He hums as he scratches with the nib. “Good point but clunky prose. No, redudant.” He scribbles his comments in the margins. He turns to the second page and sighs. He closes it and holds it out. “You show comprehension but you need refinement.” 

“Um, thanks, er...” you take it hesitantly and back up again. He watches you with his bold blue eyes, not showing a single crack in his veneer. 

“Go off and enjoy your weekend, don’t fret over the fault of others. Certainly, you show more promise than most who haunt my lectures,” he says. His tone is flat but his words are praising. The contradiction has you off-foot. 

“Thank you, Professor, have a good weekend too.” 

He doesn’t respond as he puts his attention back to another stack of papers. You turn on your heel slowly and scurry to the door. He clears his throat and you stop. 

“Perhaps I mightn’t have such a tedious weekend.” 

You glance back but he still has his head down. You nod and leave him be with a sharp inhale. You hold your breath in until you close the door from the other side. 

Only a few more weeks and you’ll be through this class. Hopefully, you won’t ever have to face the heart palpitations that come with each encounter after that. For now, you will focus on the last paper and the eventual exam. Those are hurdles that look higher the closer you get. 

📕

There’s a cafe off campus you prefer. The library kiosk and the franchised booth in the Student Rec Centre are always overcrowded. This place isn’t so bad. A local mom and pop with a single barista. Maude, the retiree turned businesswoman, works slowly but efficiently. Traffic matches her pace but is enough to keep her thriving. 

“I’ll bring it to you, dearie,” she smiles as she hands you a plate with a crumbly scone on it. You thank her and go to find a seat. 

The place is homey. The seating is mismatched. There are armchairs around a low coffee table, some long tables with thrift store dining chairs, and square table in the corner with two benches and some stools. The rug that stands center to the sitting space is faded but its patterns still visible. 

You claim one of the armchairs near the bookcases and sit. Despite the tense submission, you’re glad not be stressing over another mark. Another A- to add to the rota in Holmes’ class. You could do a lot worse given what you’ve overheard from your classmates. 

The door opens and closes, letting in a chilly. You keep your coat on as you balance the scone on the coffee table. You’ll wait until you have your mocha and savour them together. It’s a rare treat but the dropping temperature coaxed you into it. 

A familiar baritone pricks your ears. You glance over before you can bury your nose in your phone and flinch. What luck. You almost doubt it’s a coincidence. Twice in a row you’ve managed to stumble upon the Professor outside of class. 

Your shoulders sink as you turn back and plant your elbow on the armrest, shielding your face behind your hand. What do you do? Your mind races. Despite what he said in his office he does not radiate welcoming energy. You can’t just flee and leave your order behind; it isn’t fair to Maude and you wouldn’t want to waste the money. 

Professor Holmes’ voice carries. He orders a black coffee and two shortbread biscuits; the Saturday special. The elder barista takes his order and as usual, bids him to sit down so she can bring it to him. You chew your lip as time ticks on. Make up your mind. 

Too late.  

“Pardon, oh,” Holmes approaches and gives pause as you look up at him. “You aren’t reserving these for your friends?” 

He gestures to the other arm chairs. You shake your head and clasp your phone tight in your hands. He dips his chin and sidles around the coffee chair. He removes his jacket and hangs it on the rack between the bookshelves. He lingers there as he browses the titles on the spines. 

Maude appears with your mocha in a large mug on a matching saucer. You thank her as she sets it by your scone. She calls over to Holmes, “I’ll have your coffee and biscuits in just a moment, dearie.” 

He turns his head and nods but says nothing else. She shuffles off and you lean forward to take your mug. Somehow your chocolatey treat doesn’t seem so sweet any more. He backs up and lowers himself across from you. You shyly return his gaze over the brim of your cup. 

“You come here often?” He asks. 

The question has you off-guard as much as his presence. You slurp noisily before you pull the cup away and put it down. You take the napkin by your scone and wipe your lips. 

“Sometimes. Once in a while. Er, I... I make my coffee at home. Tea, more often.” You clamp your lip shut before you can ramble on. 

“Mm, yes, I prefer tea as well. I was suggested the dark roast here by a colleague however.” 

You don’t know what to say. You’re entirely unprepared for the conversation. You’ve never thought much of what he might speak of outside his lectures. His interests, you assume, would align with his expertise. 

“You are enjoying your time? You haven’t any schoolwork?” He asks. 

You slant your lips one way then the other. You look down at the bag by your feet and back at him. He wears a wool sweater with elbow patches; not quite casual but casual for him. 

“I was going to do my readings...” you say. 

“Ah,” he sits back in the chair as Maude brings his coffee and biscuits. He thanks her tersely. 

You bend over and reach for your bag. You slide out your notebook and open it to the printed articles stashed between the pages. You hope it’s enough of an excuse not to talk as much. 

“My class?” He asks. 

“Yes, sir, er, Professor,” you answer. 

“Those are available digitally, as I understand.” 

“I know, but I, er, prefer print.” 

“Mm, yes, it does permeate more effectively, doesn��t it?” He intones. 

You agree with a silent nod and try to focus. You’re too shy to check if he’s watching you but it feels like he is. He sighs and sips from his cup. 

“What were you on the hunt for then?” He asks abruptly before you can read the introduction for the fifth time. You look up, perplexed. “At the craft store?” 

You open your mouth then pause. Finally, you summon the answer, “thread.” 

“Thread?” 

“Yes, I... make little things. Sometimes. It wasn’t urgent. I don’t have my sewing machine in my dorm and... no time.” You shrug and let the papers lay flat on your notebook. 

He considers you as his cheek dimples and he leans his chin on his knuckles. He looks down at the cup he holds over one leg. He sucks his teeth. 

“Rather flat,” he dislodges his elbow and leans forward. “And what did you get? It smells intriguing.” 

“Mocha with peppermint,” you answer. 

“Mm, with whip?” He peeks at your cup and the melting glut of cream. 

“Yes, Professor,” you reply. 

“I think I might trade mine for the same,” he stands with his cup in hand. 

You watch him, confused and uneasy. So much for getting some studying done. You doubt you’ll be able to concentrate with him looming on the other side of the table. 

[brbzonedout]

-Movie Night

Pairing: E!42 Miles x Spider-person!reader

Warnings: Protectiveness…if that triggers you.

Outside of Miles’s window the streets buzzed with noise, from cars honking their horns to people yelling for their kids to come inside.

It was late at night as usual and Miles was sitting at his desk listening to music as he sketched out ideas for a creative writing paper that he couldn’t visualize properly.

knock knock…

That was unexpected.

Miles turned toward his bedroom window to see you standing out there with a excited smile. The boy smirked subconsciously wondering what you were doing here this late, especially without texting him first.

He opened the window and helping you crawl through.

“Don’t worry your mom knows i’m here,” you said landing on the hard wood floor of his bedroom.

“ho-”

“I texted her..anyways look!” you lifted your phone to his face showing him the disney plus app.

Miles squinted his eyes shielding them from the phones aggressive brightness, “What am I looking at?” he stifled a laugh.

You turned the phone back to your view, eye brows furrowed, “Are we not looking at the same thing? Little mermaid is on disney plus now so we can watch it!”

“You ran all the way here just to watch The little mermaid?”

The boy closed the window behind you and took your jacket off your back to hang in his closet.

“With you…” you stated with a smile kicking off your shoes.

With a sound understanding he turned back around to face you, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I coulda gotten snacks and shit.” the question came with a concern glare.

“Number one…” You held up a book bag full of both your favorite snacks.

“And two you wouldn’t have let me walk over here myself,” you grumbled, sounding slightly annoyed, seated on his edge of his bed in your hello kitty pajama pants. “then I would’ve had to wait for you to get me…then walk here….then have you walk me back home, then wait for you to get back home and you like to take stops so-”

He rolled his eyes and joined you on the bed. “Well yeah ima walk wit you, you know where we live right?”

“You realize i’m the Spinner right?” said in a whisper, matter of factly.

Miles sighed not wanting to have this conversation for the 3rd time this month. “Yeah ok y/n…lemme see the bag….please.”

You snorted getting ready to chew the boy out for his lack of manners, “I was bout to say- here.” after digging into the bag you handed over a platter of caribbean food from the place down the block.

“Wha- this is food food…”

“I may have also stopped at Mrs. Kiyana’s shop…allegedly.”

Miles stifled a laugh and took the platter. As he opened it he noticed you got everything exactly the way he liked it, jerk chicken with Jamaican cabbage, and plantains.

He held back a smile, “Thank you..” said in a soft whisper like tone as he reached his hand into the platter.

“Of course,” you reached back in the bag pulling out two forks. “I know you not about to eat that with your hands-”

The boy stopped in his tracks and awkwardly took one of them out of your hand. “Right, my bad..”

I might make a part two to this one as well. BUT I KIND OF LIKE THE WAY THIS CAME OUT!! YAY! Anyways thank you for reading<3

©brbzonedout