#it's not the name of the story or anything

[jobean12-blog]

Midnight Confessions

Light SPOILERS ahead!!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: A late night gives you the opportunity to flirt with Bucky and the next night he comes right back for more.

Author's Note: There are some Thunderbolts spoilers here- none really story related so much but more character driven. So reader BEWARE :D I had fun writing all the ridiculous dialogue in the beginning and it's a bit chaotic but I hope it makes you smile! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: fun and fluff, flirtiness, tension, sweetness

You set the timer and place it on the counter, leaning back with a sigh. While it seems everyone else in the tower is asleep, you’re as wide awake as the bustling city below. This is the second batch of cookies you’ve made this week, but no one seems to be complaining.

After contemplating something on the TV you decide instead to read, hoping it will make you sleepy.

No such luck and just as you’re starting the next chapter you see a dark shadow at the entrance of the kitchen, you’re body stiffening.

“It’s just me doll.”

At the sound of Bucky’s voice, you instantly relax.

“Jeez you’re quiet,” you whisper.

He chuckles lightly and steps into the kitchen. His hair is slightly mussed as if he’s been running a hand through it and his tee shirt clings to the broad lines of his chest and toned biceps. With a hard swallow you let your eyes drop lower, to the way his pants sit low on his waist but still hug his thighs.

“Can’t sleep?” you squeak out, dragging your gaze back to his face.

He shakes his head no and moves closer, revealing a surprise. The guinea pig Yelena rescued from the lab sits atop his left shoulder, tucked close to his neck and partially hidden by his hair.

You sit up with a gasp and rush over to him, cooing quietly and without a word plucking the piglet from his shoulder.

“What are you doing up?” you ask the guinea pig in a sweet voice.

“I probably should have let him sleep but as soon as I made noise he started squeakin’.”

You look up at Bucky and notice his soft expression as he watches you with the guinea pig.

“It’s a boy?” you ask.

“Actually, I don’t know,” he replies.

“Hmm,” you say as you pet it’s soft fur. “I bet it’s a girl.”

“That works too,” he smiles. “Are you making cookies?”

“I am…they should be out…,” and you walk over to the timer, “in three minutes.”

“Great doll. I could use a snack!” He slowly rubs his stomach as he stretches, revealing the dark trail of hair that disappears enticingly into his sweats.

The guinea pig squeaks and draws your attention away before he catches you staring.

“She needs a name,” you state as you cradle her in your arm.

Bucky is silent for a moment before he blurts out, “Cookie.”

“That’s cute,” you giggle, “but I think you’re just hungry.”

He doesn’t disagree and keeps thinking.

“She’s brown and white so…BACON!”

You stop petting the piglet and narrow your eyes at Bucky.

He holds his hands up in surrender, but you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Are you going to wash the dishes?”

Bob’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it but Bucky spins around at the sound.

“Bob!” both you and Bucky exclaim.

“What’s going on in here?” Bob asks as he looks between you and Bucky.

“We can’t sleep, and I made cookies,” you explain.

“And we’re trying to give the guinea pig a name,” Bucky adds.

“Ok,” Bob says. “I’m going to wash the dishes.”

“Do you want help?” you ask him. “I can dry the bowls.”

“Sure,” Bob says.

You hand the guinea pig back to Bucky. “Don’t get comfy. I want her back when I’m done.”

“Anything you want doll,” he says with a wink.

“How about Piglet?” Bob chimes from the sink.

“Like in Winnie the Pooh?” you ask as you slide up next to him and take the first bowl to dry it.

“Yeah…she’s kinda tiny…,” Bob says.

“So, you think she’s a girl too!” you say happily. “Bucky was calling it a he.”

“Not because I don’t think it could be a girl…I just…said he first.”

“It’s a girl,” Yelena says as she walks in.

“See! I knew it!” you sing song.

“What is going on here?” Yelena asks.

“None of us could sleep,” Bob answers. “So, we’re making cookies, washing dishes and naming the guinea pig.”

“Are the cookies ready yet?” Yelena asks, eyeing the oven.

“Just about,” you answer.

“Bob suggested Piglet…but I like Bacon,” Bucky says to fill Yelena in.

“Of course you would say Bacon,” she tsks. “I like Piglet.”

“Do I smell cookies?”

Walker strides in and heads straight for the oven.

“HEY Walker,” you whisper shout. “They’ll be out in a minute.”

He stops and plops himself down on a stool at the island with a huff.

“Why didn’t anyone invite me to the party?” he says.

“Because you’re an asshole,” but you and Yelena chime simultaneously but not without a smile pulling at each of your mouths.

“Can I least have some cookies,” Walker asks.

“Of course,” you tell him.

“Why don’t you name the pig, Hamlet,” Walker adds.

Everyone is quiet for a minute and tries to hide their smiles. “Actually, that’s cute,” you say, “but we’ve decided it’s a girl so maybe something…more…girly.”

Walker rests his chin in his hands but remains silent.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Ava says, appearing from the other side of the wall.

Bob startles at the sink and Walker rolls his eyes.

“No one can sleep, we are about to eat cookies, and we need a name for our girl guinea pig,” Yelena sums up quickly before opening the oven just as the timer dings.

“Pipsqueak,” Ava says flatly.

Yelena smiles. “I like that. She does squeak…a lot.”

“But she’s brave,” Bob says. “She survived the lab. I wouldn’t call her a pipsqueak.”

“But Piglet is scared of everything isn’t he?” Bucky muses. “So that wouldn’t work either.”

“Oh,” Bob sighs. “Yeah, he is.”

“Still like Bacon,” Bucky mumbles to himself.

“WHO SAID BACON?” Alexei booms when he walks in. “We eat?”

Yelena hangs her head with a sigh and Ava rolls her eyes.

“No bacon,” Bucky says sadly. “But we have cookies.”

“Hm, that will do,” Alexei says as he walks over to Yelena and pulls out the hot tray with his hand.

“You should let them cool,” you say to Alexei as he goes to grab for one.

“No, no…I like them all gooey and melted and messy…” He pops half the cookie in his mouth and hums happily.

Bucky slides over; the guinea pig nestled in the crook of his metal arm as he grabs for a cookie.

Walker reaches over the island to grab his own.

“They’re still hot guys!” you scold but give up with a sigh when half the tray is gone in under a minute. “You better grab one,” you whisper to Bob.

He turns from the sink and wipes his hand, reaching for a cookie and placing it on a napkin near him. “I’ll let mine cool,” he says with a small smile.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and lots of mumbled praises over the cookies, you ask, “so what are we naming the guinea pig?”

Alexei yells out, “ALEXEI!”

Everyone answers with a determined, “NO!”

Alexei deflates and takes another cookie.

“So far we ruled out all the suggestions,” you say, leaning back on the counter next to Bucky.

Without prompting he hands you the guinea pig. You gently hold her up and look her over.

“I have so many ideas but none of them seem to fit,” you huff.

“All mine are related to food,” Bucky shrugs.

“I still like Alexei,” Alexei grumbles.

“Hamlet isn’t girly enough,” Walker says.

“Piglet and Pipsqueak make her sound too timid,” Ava adds.

Finally, Yelena says, “what about Nat?”

All eyes turn to her, soft with unspoken words.

“That’s perfect,” you say quietly and everyone agrees.

Once the few remaining cookies are packed away and the kitchen is clean you walk over to Bucky who’s leaning against the wall, Nat once again cradled against his chest in the crook of his metal arm.

“She likes that spot,” you say quietly as you gently stroke her back.

“Yeah, maybe because it’s cool,” he says and then softly touches her nose as it twitches.

You watch him for a moment, so sweet and gentle with the little furball.

“You’re so cute,” you say softly.

“She is right,” Bucky agrees.

“She meant you super soldier,” Alexei chuckles from behind you. “Not pig.”

“She’s a guinea pig Dad,” Yelena dead pans.

Alexei waves his had dismissively. “All same.”

Your eyes meet Bucky’s, and you see the tops of his cheeks, just above all the dark stubble lining them, turn light pink.

“You meant little Nat right?” he asks.

“She definitely meant the guinea pig,” Walker says with a yawn as he walks by. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

Ava follows close behind him. “Me too. And she meant you Barnes.”

Alexei slaps Bucky hard on the back, jostling Nat in his arms and Bucky glares.

“Oh. Right, sorry,” Alexei mumbles then smiles wide. “She thinks you are cute.”

He walks away rubbing his stomach.

Only Yelena and Bob remain, Yelena with a smirk lifting her lips and Bob with wide eyes.

Your eyes stay on Bucky, and you lean in closer, still petting Nat. “No. I meant you. You’re really cute. Especially with her. It’s sweet.”

“She said he’s cute,” Bob whispers to Yelena who’s full on smiling now.

“Da,” Yelena nods, grabbing Bob’s arm to pull him down the hall.

“Does she like him?” Bob asks as he passes by you and Bucky.

Yelena laughs but doesn’t answer and keeps tugging him away.

The two of you are now alone and you watch Bucky’s gaze quickly drop to your lips before he says a quiet, “thanks.”

“Hope you can get some sleep,” you tell him then kiss his cheek. “Night.”

“Night, doll,” he whispers as he watches you walk to your room.

The next night when you’re still awake after midnight you head to the common room but when you don’t see a sign of anyone else you decide to go watch a movie until you fall asleep. The light knock on your door an hour later surprises you and when you open it to find Bucky on the other side you’re even more surprised.

“I didn’t wake you did I doll?” he asks in a rush.

“No, don’t worry. I was watching a movie.”

“I thought I saw light under the door so I figured you might still be up.”

“Did you want more cookies? The leftovers are in the cabinet.”

“Actually…Alexei ate them all. I checked…”

You snort laugh and grab Bucky’s hand, pulling him through the doorway.

“Of course he did,” you say as you plop down on the small couch.

Bucky follows and then stands there as if he’s unsure what to do next.

“You can sit,” you tell him.

He does.

“Are you watching The Goonies?”

“I am!” you say excitedly. “I’m so glad you’ve seen it.”

“Classic 80s.”

“Exactly,” you agree.

You settle back into the cushions and let your shoulder brush his. As the movie continues your body relaxes against him and he lifts his arm to rest it along the back of the couch. His fingers brush your shoulder and when he feels your skin pebble beneath his touch he does it again. Your breath catches in your throat and you audibly swallow.

The movie ends and you’re still pressed against him, his arm now circling your shoulders as his fingertips ghost over your skin.

“That’s one of my favorites,” you say and turn to meet his eyes.

“Mine too,” he whispers, curling his fingers around your arm so you turn your body into his.

His eyes wander over your face, their soft reverence only sharpened when they stop on your lips.

“Doll…I…”

Whatever he wants to say is lost in the moment and he presses his mouth to yours, softly at first, but when you slide your fingers into his hair and tug him closer, he hums low in his chest and deepens it, parting your lips.

His knuckles skim down your arm before splaying at your back and pulling you into his lap. His hand slips under your shirt, every caress of his fingertips slow and teasing as if he’s savoring every moment and committing it to memory. His kisses are sweet and languid and the hair lining his face scratches the soft column of your neck as his lips trail downward to your hammering pulse.

A deep and satisfied hum rumbles through his chest and you press yourself closer, feeling the hard lines of his muscle beneath his shirt.

“Bucky,” you whimper.

He lifts his head to stare at you, his breathing fast. His metal thumb lifts to trace your swollen bottom lip before he slides it behind your neck and brings your lips back to his, nibbling the same spot then soothing it with his tongue.

You moan into his mouth and the sound snaps what little control he’s holding on to and suddenly you’re flipped to your back, your wrists in his metal hand and pinned above your head. His eyes teasingly trail over your body, and you go pliant in his hold, your legs falling open as he settles between them.

He leans down, dipping his head to run his nose along your neck, breathing you in before his lips are on yours again.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, his hand releasing your wrists and sliding lower to stroke your curves. “I knew you would be.”

“You’ve thought about it?” you ask as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, licking his lips. “I came over here with the intention to ask you out on a date…”

“Is this not…?”

He cuts you off. “This is exactly what I want…you’re what I want. I’m just…trying to be a gentleman.”

Your lips form an O shape, and he kisses you again.

“I’ll go on a date with you Bucky,” you murmur between kisses.

“Good, that’s good,” he says, his warm hands continuing their exploration of your body while his lips trail down your neck.

You arch into him and slide your hands from his hair down his back, scraping lightly with your nails.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

When his eyes lift to yours he wears a pained expression.

“A gentleman,” he repeats.

“Right. A date,” you say.

“Fuck,” he mutters again but doesn’t move an inch.

You stare at each other, the tension building in the small space between you before he dips his head and kisses you again. His lips find the spot just below your ear and he whispers, “if you don’t tell me to go now…”

“I don’t want you to go Bucky. I want you to stay. I want you.”

[anremithrl]

In all the hills of Nolorei, no name was spoken with more bemused admiration—and in equal parts frustration—by the Arcane Constabulary than that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

When I first heard it, it was as a muttered expletive from that befuddled dwarf whose crime scene had, according to his account, been “prematurely and unnecessarily solved” by a man neither enrolled in the Guild of Sages nor licensed by the Circle of Justice.

Holmes, it was said, was either a rogue diviner of the old school or a conjured simulacrum made flesh by some forgotten theorem of logic. Tales of him were almost certainly exaggerated. Some claimed he’d exposed a ring of elven counterfeiters in Arithmorei without ever stepping into the forest. Others insisted he’d unmasked a shapeshifting fae by the scent of its boots.

No two tales agreed on his origin. Echoriath, said some; others claimed Neros, or even distant Swanward. I had no reason to believe he was anything more than a myth conjured by failed detectives to explain away their own shortcomings

He was, surely, a kind of folklore that grew in every telling.

But then, on the sixth month, he took up residence in Eldalar, my city.

The stories only grew more absurd. He had recently been in Veloria, and it was said that he unmasked a were-hydra by the way it folded its laundry. Before that, in the frozen north, a frost giant chieftain reportedly gifted him a ring of loyalty after Holmes predicted the outcome of a tribal war using only a map, two spoons, and a broken harp string.

He had hardly left the strange abode I had heard rumours of, and was conjectured to be irritable and antisocial.

And so when my mistress at the River Academy received a summons—signed only “S.H.”—requesting “a capable assistant, preferably quiet, literate, and ambulatory,” she handed it to me with the weariness of one discarding a cursed object.

“He’s rejected all I’ve sent so far. Best get this over with.”

The address led me to a most peculiar place. Not cursed—no whispers in the stones, no shadow at the edge of sight—but wrong. Not enchanted, but fundamentally… foreign.

It was made of brick—brick. But unlike the sand-coloured bricks of the Chiss, these were reddish orange, roughly cut. Not arranged in the dome-like structures they used either, here it was arranged into precise, utterly graceless lines. No flowing silverstone, no cantilevered spellwork, no ivy guided by gentle charm to trace the contours of a roof. Just angles. Right angles. Everywhere.

A strange green sign bore writing in an unfamiliar but legible script. Brass letters, blocky and undecorated.

I knocked.

“You are late, Watson,” a voice called from within.

A tall, oddly Swanward-looking man peered out.

“Not… Watson,” I said awkwardly.

He waved this off. “Yes, but you’ll find it’s easier if I keep calling you that. I’ve no time to alter habits. No point in it anyway. You’ll do just as fine if I call you Watson as anything else.”

He said this offhandedly, immediately returning to what seemed to be a pheonix feather, dipped in a strange chemical, under a microscope.

There were shelves—but not carved or grown. They were hammered and nailed into place, groaning under the weight of paper-bound tomes. Some of these lay open, written in a blocky, monochrome script. Incredibly precise. I could hardly imagine the handwriting of the person who had formed them. How were they so precise, uniform, and soulless?

There was a fireplace, entirely unconnected to any heat-stone, which he fed manually with blackened lumps of fossilized tree. The resulting smoke drifted into a chimney like some relic of age of shadows.

The walls were papered—papered!—with patterns so intricate and repetitive they made my eyes twitch. Across the floor stretched a patchwork of rugs that had clearly never met. One bore the woven crest of a beast that no Guild recognized. Another was covered in stylized lions that repeated at jarring intervals.

Strange objects cluttered the tables. Vials of some form of potions, though none I recognised. Artifice, I guessed. The last thing I had expected.

“You aren’t going to interview me?”

“I already know all I need.”

“What—”

“Freshly educated—there’s scroll dust still on your sleeves. Ink under your nails. You walked here; shoes are worn, cheap make. Left heel cracked, recent. Scuff marks on your knees to match. Marks of dust on your belongings as well. You no doubt tripped on the way here, and spilled everything. Hence why you are late. Left-handed. Recently unemployed. From the southern quarter. And that charm against scrying in your pouch? Ineffective and not of your crafting.”

He didn’t even glance up.

How in the nine hells? I stared at him for several seconds, hand still halfway to the pouch at my belt where the charm nestled. He must have had the Sight, it was a rare skill. Incredibly rare if it could break past my charm.

“I didn’t bypass the charm. Haven’t the Sight anyway.”

I didn’t believe him. He was lying. But I racked my brain for another explanation all the same.

I decided I would find out eventually. I had a more pressing curiosity.

“One thing,” I asked. “You’ve turned away all the others. Why me? None of your reasons have told me that.”

“You paused before you entered, to note the strange architecture. Once inside you have looked around with great interest. You didn’t believe me, but still considered other explanations. So, you are Watson.”

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be.”

“You’re curious. One of the best qualities of Watson. So of course, you want to figure all of this out. You’ll accept.”

He stood up from the microscope with a start. “We have to go. Come on.”

“But-”

“You were about to ask for a gold piece a day. Hoping that I'd at least settle for seven silvers. My numbers may be slightly off. You know your duties, they’re on the slip. I’ll give you two gold pieces and we’ll skip this nonsense. Come on.”

He strode out without turning back to check if I was following.

That was how I became assistant to the strangest man in all of Earendor—a man who called himself Sherlock Holmes, wore a ridiculous longcoat, and spoke of London as if it were a real place.

If Sherlock Holmes was Isekai'd to a fantasy world he would just deduce the rules of this world and get back to solving crimes. He'll find an elf girl sidekick,name her Watson, and pretend like nothing happened.

[chrattvibe]

you can make it up but can you do smt like chris being really pda with the reader and like matt and nick make fun of him but the reader loves it

៹ Seen. chris sturniolo.

The pins fall with a clean, solid crash.

“STRIKE!” Chris shouts, in his head. On the outside, he stays cool, just turning around. When he notices my phone recording him, he does a silly celebration dance. Then he searches for my eyes once he sees I stopped filming.

"Did you get that? Did I look cool?"

He walks over with that proud grin and his arms already wide open, expecting a hug. I don’t even get a chance to stand — he drops right next to me on the seat, wraps me in his arms, and hides his face in my neck. I run my hand down his back and feel a soft kiss on my skin.

Just a few feet away, Nick rolls his eyes from his seat.

"You guys are actually disgusting." he mutters, right before it’s his turn. Without waiting for a reply, he heads off to grab his ball.

"Don’t say that!" Chris says, now properly settling next to me, slipping an arm around my waist.

"He’s joking, relax," I say when I notice his frown. I rest my hand on his chest, smiling. His face softens and he adjusts his hat, brushing his hair back.

Chris doesn’t even flinch at his brother’s comment. He pulls me in with that cozy warmth he only gives off when he’s comfortable. He fixes a strand of my hair and caresses my cheek. He looks so comfy, like we’re sitting in his living room, not in the middle of a bowling alley under blue lights and surrounded by people.

"Careful, anyone here could take a picture of you," I say, gently holding his wrist. "Chris Sturniolo spotted flirting with a mystery girl at downtown LA bowling alley..." I read aloud in the voice of a random gossip account.

"Couldn’t care less right now," he says with a lazy smile, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

"I just don’t wanna cause you drama or headlines. I know what the Chris girls might say," I add, teasing.

He looks at me, suddenly serious.

"Then let 'em know. Let 'em all find out. You're good for me and that's all that matters."

His words catch me off guard. I smile — it’s the only thing I can do. I gently cup his face.

"Did you spike your Pepsi and not tell me?"

"I’m just drunk in love with you," he says, immediately back to being goofy. I roll my eyes, and he flashes a long, sweet smile before giving me a slow kiss and lacing his fingers with mine.

Matt walks past us with a slice of pizza in one hand and a lemonade in the other. He hears the tail end of it and raised his eyebrows.

"Wow. Did I miss something? Chris became boyfriend of the year while I was grabbing food?" he says, sitting across from us.

"First of all, I’ve always been boyfriend of the year. And second, you didn’t miss anything important. Just made the best shot of the night." Chris says with a shrug.

"Cocky." Matt mutters with a mouthful of pizza. My name flashes on the screen, signaling it’s my turn.

Chris gives me a wink, a little squeeze on my thigh, and I head off to the lane.

While I’m lining up my shot, the boys keep chatting behind me.

"Are you two celebrating an anniversary or something and we’re just the third wheels now?" Nick says, dropping down next to Chris.

"What are you talkin' about?" Chris chuckles, sipping his soda.

"We’ve seriously lost you, kid." Matt says, cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms.

"I’m just happy, dude. I’ve never felt like this before..." Chris says quietly, like he’s confessing something they all already know.

"We’re happy for you. It’s weird seeing you like this, in public. Makes me wanna throw up, but it’s kinda funny." Nick says, earning a light punch in the arm from Matt.

"We’re just messing around, okay? But keep those corny Instagram stories in close friends for now. The world’s not ready for two cutie like you guys." Matt teases with a grin, getting up to take his turn. "But seriously, we’re happy for you. Both of you." He claps Chris on the shoulder and heads off.

Matt gives me a half-smile as we cross paths, and I head back to Chris. I stay standing next to him, and one of his arms wraps around my thighs from where he��s seated, resting his head on my stomach. I run my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

And this time, I don’t care if anyone sees us or recognizes him. Because I like seeing him like this too — almost wanting to be seen.

Masterlist!

Notes: thanks to the person who made this request! I hope you find this post and like it <3 let me know!

—chrattvibe.

[bueckersworld]

SORRY ABOUT YOUR SHIRT

SYNOPSIS: a spilled drink, a ruined shirt, and one unforgettable first meeting. you weren’t looking for anything serious—but then paige bueckers bumped into you, and everything shifted.

WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, mild suggestiveness/flirting.

WORD COUNT: 3.0k. info. masterlist. taglist. just for the summer.

────୨ৎ────

miami is alive.

not just loud—but alive. neon signs flicker against polished windows, the scent of citrus and smoke weaving through the air, and bass-heavy music vibrates through the floorboards of the packed rooftop bar you’re standing in. people sway under the warm night sky like they’ve never known a bad day. and for once, you’re trying to join them. you’re here to forget. to loosen the grip of routine, to be someone untethered—at least for a little while.

your friends laugh around you, deep in some chaotic story about someone’s ex and a boat they weren’t supposed to be on. you’re only half-listening, sipping something cold and strong, fingers resting on the condensation-covered glass.

you tell yourself this is what you needed. a trip, a break. no strings, no expectations.

just freedom.

and then, out of nowhere—impact.

a sudden bump, a jolt against your side, and—

“shit—oh my god!”

ice-cold liquid splashes across your chest, soaking your thin tank top in a second. it takes you a beat to register what just happened.

your eyes shoot down to your shirt, now clinging to your skin, and then up to the person responsible.

she’s standing there, mouth parted in horror, a cocktail glass in one hand and panic written all over her face.

blonde hair pulled back like she didn’t spend too much time on it. sun-kissed skin, long lashes, and piercing blue eyes that lock onto yours in disbelief.

paige bueckers.

you recognize her instantly, but not because she’s trying to be recognized. if anything, she looks like she’s trying to blend in—lowkey hoodie tied around her waist, sneakers instead of heels, drink in hand like she belongs here just like everyone else.

“i am so sorry,” she blurts, immediately grabbing a handful of napkins from the bar. “i wasn’t paying attention—I was just trying to get back to my table—god, your shirt—”

you blink at her, stunned, then glance down again, water dripping down your side. “well… that’s one way to say hello.”

her eyes go wide—then a laugh escapes her, soft but real. “wow. okay. if you’re making jokes already, maybe you’re not about to punch me.”

“wasn’t planning on it,” you smirk, accepting the napkins she offers. your fingers brush for a second, and there’s this tiny spark of electricity—maybe from the nerves. maybe something else. “but i’ll take your name in case this shirt needs replacing.”

she grins. “you sure you don’t already know it?”

you raise an eyebrow.

she nods toward your phone on the table. “you’ve been trying not to look at me all night.”

your mouth opens, then closes. guilty.

“okay, wow,” you laugh. “full of yourself much?”

“not usually.” she shrugs, smile widening. “but i had a feeling. and now that i’ve basically ruined your outfit, this felt like a good time to confirm.”

“paige bueckers,” you say, mostly to show her you’re not clueless.

“guilty.”

“you’re a little smaller in person.”

she gasps in mock offense, hand to her chest. “wow. rude and soaked.”

you grin, blotting at your shirt, still cold and sticky. “you’re lucky i’m not wearing white.”

her eyes flick down, fast, then back up. “trust me, i noticed.”

you weren’t planning to blush tonight—but here you are.

⸻

“let me buy you a drink?” she offers, shifting her weight. “it’s the least i can do after ambushing you.”

you glance at your table. your friends are too caught up in their own chaos to notice you’re halfway to falling for a girl with a crooked smile and stained fingers.

“sure,” you say. “but i’m ordering something expensive.”

paige lifts a brow. “oh, you’re dangerous.”

“you started it.”

the bar is crowded, elbows and perfume and bodies that move like they’re made of rhythm. paige leans in close to order, voice low and confident, and you catch yourself watching her instead of the bartender. she’s not just pretty—she’s magnetic. calm in the noise. she looks at you like she’s actually seeing you.

you wonder what the hell she’s doing in a place like this when she could be anywhere else.

“here,” she says, handing you a fresh drink. “not exactly couture-level apology, but it’s cold and overpriced, so that counts for something.”

you take a sip. “not bad. still want a new shirt though.”

“i can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or threatening me.”

“can’t it be both?”

her laugh is effortless. loud. her hand brushes your arm, and it feels like a deliberate accident.

the music shifts, slower now. a little more sultry. the kind of beat that invites leaning in closer. neither of you move away.

“you here on vacation?” she asks, her fingers drumming on her glass.

you nod. “long weekend. you?”

she hesitates. “yeah. sort of a post-season getaway with some old friends. nothing serious.”

you smirk. “funny. same.”

she looks at you, head tilted like she’s trying to figure something out. “you’re not what i expected.”

“you were expecting someone taller?”

“i was expecting someone to be mad at me. not… talking to me like this.”

“like what?”

her eyes fall to your mouth again, only for a second. “like they don’t want the night to end.”

you sip your drink to hide the way your breath catches.

“it’s the shirt,” you say. “it brings people together.”

she laughs again, shaking her head. “you’re something else.”

“so are you.”

eventually, she glances over her shoulder. her table is waving her back, one of her friends mouthing something clearly teasing.

“i should probably go,” she says, reluctant.

“you should,” you agree, even though you don’t want her to.

she hesitates, then pulls her phone from her pocket.

“only fair i get your number. you know—for shirt reimbursement purposes.”

you raise an eyebrow. “strictly business, huh?”

“strictly.”

you hand over your phone anyway, watching as she types something in. her contact name pops up—paige (drink assassin)—and you laugh.

“smooth,” you say.

“you’ll thank me later.”

she lingers for a second too long after returning your phone. like she wants to say something else.

instead, she just offers a crooked smile. “don’t wash that shirt yet. it’s got history now.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.”

“you’re welcome.”

and just like that, she’s gone—disappearing into the crowd with one last glance over her shoulder, her friends tugging her back toward the table.

you look down at your shirt. still wet. still clinging.

you smile anyway.

© bueckersworld

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ chapter one, how are we feeling?? 😓😓

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

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[inasimad728]

These days are very difficult for me as a pregnant woman. I haven't eaten anything for four weeks except bread. The price of flour has reached $1,000 and the price of the injections that the doctor said I should use daily has reached $500. I swear that I am afraid of losing my child due to the lack of food and my inability to buy bread and injections. Please, you are my only hope. He is my first child 🥹

Unfortunately, when I went to the doctor today, I saw many pregnant women suffering from malnutrition and lack of medications. The doctor examined them and told them that there were deformities in their babies. Please, I am a first-time mother and I do not want to lose my child 😭😭😭

The bombing and siege are still ongoing in Gaza.

I ask for your support in sharing my story on your pages and donating to me.😭😭

To donate click here👇🔗

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #425 )✅️🇵🇸

@dirhwangdaseul @bonkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @killing-stalking-posts @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria-art @postanagramgenerator @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @vamprein @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako-archived @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @schoolhouserockk-blog @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests2thequestening @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @sealsdaily @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @yekkes @hotvampireadjacent @tododeku @marxism-transgenderism @sporesgalaxy @moringmark

You do not have to be Palestinian to defend our cause and rights. You must simply be human.🥹

[thediormulan]

PICK A CARD

THE COURTING PHASE- HOW WILL THEY WOO YOU?

This isn’t a situationship. It’s sacred courtship—slow, intentional, and kissed with clarity. In this collective reading, you’re not chasing—you’re being chosen. Four piles. Four prophecies. One truth: someone is about to woo you like a ritual. No gender roles. No fluff. Just soul-deep devotion wrapped in warmth. Pick the pile that feels like a whispered promise. And if you want to go deeper—to name them, feel them, claim what’s next—you’re invited to book a one-on-one Velvet Offering: a private prophecy stitched just for your story.

It doesn’t begin with fireworks. It begins with stillness. With the breath they take before speaking your name like it’s something holy. You’ll know it’s them by the way they pause—not out of hesitation, but reverence. Their tone changes around you. Their voice lowers not in seduction, but surrender.From the beginning, this love feels like someone laying down their armor and asking, “May I come in?”

And darling, they wait at that threshold patiently.They don’t come in hot—they come in steady. Their presence doesn’t rush the room. It lingers like incense in the air, like the heat from a candle long after it’s been blown out. You’ll notice how they never miss a moment. How their affection feels like a series of gentle check-ins: “Did you sleep okay?” “Did you eat today?” “Just thinking about you.”

Simple, consistent, sacred.And when your guard starts to lower, you’ll see it in their eyes. That soft awe. That quiet admiration that never demands, only observes. They don’t need to be poetic—but somehow, they are. Every glance, every half-smile, every time they catch themselves staring just a little too long—it’s all a love poem in motion.

Their courtship lives in the ordinary.In bringing your favorite snack after a long day.In making space for your silence, not filling it.In playing you a playlist that somehow knows your past better than your therapist.They don’t play games. They keep their word. They show up when they say they will.You’ve known chaos. They offer calm.

You’ve known noise. They offer the kind of silence you can rest in.And it won’t be a grand gesture that makes you realize this is different.It’ll be the moment they ask about something you mentioned weeks ago.The night they send a meme that makes you laugh while crying.The way they remember the tiniest parts of you—because they were paying attention the whole time.

This is what love sounds like when it’s real: a voice that softens, a hand that doesn’t grab, a gaze that says, I’ve already chosen you.No loud proclamations. Just presence. Just proof.And one night, they’ll whisper something small—something silly, like “I missed you”—and it’ll hit deeper than anything anyone’s ever screamed.Because this isn’t performance. This is prayer.This is romance written in lowercase, not because it’s small—but because it’s gentle.

You’ll find yourself exhaling without realizing it.You’ll hear them say your name and feel safer just because they said it.And when they realize they love you?They won’t say it right away.They’ll just breathe it.Again. And again. And again.

Channeled Song: “Blessed” – Daniel Caesar

Angel Numbers: 1414, 1122, 717

Confirmation Letters: T, M, S, A, J

This isn’t a love that interrupts.

This is the kind that leans in.

They don’t push past your pain—they sit beside it, hand resting near but never clutching. They watch the way your body tenses before vulnerability and build their love in response to that tension.

Every time you prepare to explain, they’ve already made space.

You tell them you were ghosted once, and suddenly, they’re the one confirming plans, not leaving you unread. You express how long it’s been since you’ve been prioritized, and they begin showing up before you ask.

They don’t just hear your “I’m fine”—they decode it.And they respond with actions, not promises.This is a love built on sacred reparation. They aren’t perfect. They won’t always get it right.But they’ll always make it right.They text back after a misunderstanding—not to defend themselves, but to ask how you feel.They memorize your love language. They ask about your grief and don’t flinch when you answer.

They don’t just love you… they learn you.

Confirmation Letters: L, E, D, B, Y

Angel Numbers: 515, 411, 202

Channeled Song: “Still” by Seinabo Sey

“I don’t want perfect—I just want honest.”

They felt it the first time they met your eyes:

That you were not someone to approach lightly.

This isn’t arrogance.

It’s earned elegance.

Your energy is velvet steel—soft but unbending.

You don’t play hard to get. You simply don’t hand over sacredness to anyone who doesn’t offer reverence. And they feel the weight of that. Every date, every text, every word—echoes with the choice: “Do it right, or don’t do it at all.”You don’t audition for love anymore. You embody it. And that turns their hesitation into action.They plan dates that feel like devotion.

They introduce you to friends not for clout—but as ceremony.They touch you like they’ve already said a hundred silent prayers of gratitude for the access.You don’t raise your voice—they just listen closer.You don’t chase—they find themselves rerouting their whole life just to stay in your orbit.And the truth is? You never gave an ultimatum.

They just understood the assignment.

Confirmation Letters: R, A, K, V, Z

Angel Numbers: 1331, 707, 888

Channeled Song: “Golden Hour” by Kacey Musgraves

“I don’t know how I could’ve ever been without it.”

The world taught you how to hold everyone.But this time… someone shows up to hold you.They enter quietly—not to avoid being seen, but because they recognize the sacred in your stillness. They notice how hard you’ve worked to feel soft. And they don’t ask for more. They offer less.Less performance.

Less pressure.

Less pretending.

They cook for you without comment.

Buy your favorite tea just because.

Read your silence as scripture—not something to be broken, but something to be respected.When you cry, they don’t panic. When you get quiet, they don’t flee.They wrap their presence around you like a soft cloak and simply say,

“You don’t have to carry this alone.”You’ve spent years being the strong one.And they make rest feel like worship.With them, your softness becomes a sacred altar—not a liability.And they kneel before it every time they show up and whisper:

“I’ve got you.”

Confirmation Letters: H, C, N, E, W

Angel Numbers: 144, 626, 404

So… which pile traced its fingertips across your chest and whispered, “I’ve already chosen you”?

Drop your pile. Reblog if you’re ready to be courted like ceremony.

And if your soul’s still craving more—if your body already knows who this is—

you’re invited to book a private one-on-one Velvet Offering made just for your timeline.

Channeled by Dior Harris

Stay infinite. Stay divine. Stay velvet.

À bientôt, mon ange.

[spicy30]

Ich bin ein Jäger

Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader

Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)

cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???

Rating: 18+

Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?

(Not Proofread)

WC: 10.4K

It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it.. 

This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night. 

Christmas. 

Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.) 

Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.) 

A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.

Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break. 

“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.

“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table. 

He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter? 

Before anything Remmick smells the food.

Can’t have no garlic. 

He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.

Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)

Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.

It’s no way to live.

And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.

Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place. 

A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.

No one says his name.

And then he sees you again.

You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.

He stands.

Walks slow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.

“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face. 

“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring. 

“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.

“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.

“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.

…

The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger. 

Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.

“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.

“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.

“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.

“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”

You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”

“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself. 

And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.

Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.

Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.

(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)

Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.

The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.

You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.

“Hello,” you say.

Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.

“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.

Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.

“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”

“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.

“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.

You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.

Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”

You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.” 

“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”

You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.

“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”

You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.

“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”

The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.

He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.

He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.

Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.

Smart girl.

He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.

Remmick’s smile fades.

No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.

And so he does.

The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.

He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.

And yet, here you come.

You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.

He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.

The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.

You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.

“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.

Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.

Just a little one.

The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.

Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.

“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”

You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.

Remmick catches that.

He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.

There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.

He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.

(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)

“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.” 

He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.” 

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.

The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.

Just the quiet.

And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.

(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)

Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.

The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—

You're gone.

Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.

A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.

There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.

Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.

He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.

Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.

Not ever.

Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.

The gator charges.

Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away. 

“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.

But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.

“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.

“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.

“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.

Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.

“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.

You’d just been on his right.

“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking. 

“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.

“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.

From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.

Got him droolin’.

After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.

Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”

Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.

“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.

Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.

Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)  

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.

Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”

Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”

You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.

“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.

“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”

Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.

…

You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches. 

You’re out every night. 

Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with. 

Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him. 

Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.

“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”

The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”

Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white. 

Like bone. Like rot.

The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.

“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.

Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.

“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”

As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece. 

“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.

“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.

Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.

“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.

“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”

You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.

“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”

Remmick didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Not for a long second.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”

“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

The vultures started circling again.

Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.

He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)

The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.

Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.

“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”

He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.

Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.

He heard you.

You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.

Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.

Remmick watched from the treeline.

And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.

Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.

Not a second later, there was fighting.

Remmick strained his ears.

He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”

Then a cry of pain.

But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.

It was his. The newborn.

Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.

The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.

Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.

You looked... lost.

Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.

“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.

Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.

Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”

“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.

“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.

You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.

Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.

“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”

But he had heard it.

He had heard the claws tear into flesh.

He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…

That had been your skin.

But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.

Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.

The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.

Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.

You just smelled like something dead.

Old, rotten blood.

Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.” 

Remmick simply stayed silent.

“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?

S’alright. He’d take it.

“The police—oh god, the police.” 

Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.” 

You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”

Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.

“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”

He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.

You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.

Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.

“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.

Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.

“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.

“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him. 

Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.

…

Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.

You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.

(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)

Justice don’t run right here.

Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.

“They come yet?” you asked.

Remmick shook his head.

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart. 

“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either. 

He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.” 

“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you. 

All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross. 

He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not. 

He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood. 

There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.

Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday. 

You missed church today. Still not a word.

Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.

You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.

Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one. 

“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.

Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”

“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him. 

Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”

Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.

“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”

Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”

“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”

“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.

You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.” 

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.

“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.” 

Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”

You gave a deep pause.

 “It’s better.”

…

This damned door.

Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.

“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.

“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.

“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.

“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.

“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.

Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.

Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.

The scent hits him like a wave.

Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.

“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.

“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.

He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another. 

His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.

You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.

He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away. 

The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.

Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.

But he can’t.

He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.

Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.

“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.

“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.

And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp. 

He got his answer, alright.

You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil

And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.

But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.

He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.

You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.

Well… first time for everything.

Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.

He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.

Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.

He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.

Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.

And depending on how this goes…

It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.

…

You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later. 

Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here. 

Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar. 

Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.

You’re radiant. 

Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.

Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”

“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”

Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”

There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.

And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.

Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”

“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy. 

He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.

You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.

“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.

“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”

Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.

“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”

You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”

“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young. 

“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive. 

Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.

(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.) 

You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.

Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.

You flinched. The spell broke.

You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.

Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.

It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.

The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.

He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.

But patience was running thin.

And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.

No more knocks. No more interruptions.

Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.

He was coming to you.

And so he did.

Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.

Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.

“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.

He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”

You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”

“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.

“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.

“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”

“But what if they—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.

“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.

Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”

There was a pause—one thick with knowing.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.

“Come on in, Remmick.”

And he did. 

Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.

His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.

“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.

He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.

Let’s see what your little ring was good for.

His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.

Strange.

Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.

God, it felt good.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.

His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.

But then again… maybe it was never meant to.

“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”

He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.

“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.

“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.

“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.

He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.

Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.

Not in fear.

In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.

He didn’t like that smile.

Not one bit.

Then came the sound.

That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.

From you.

He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.

And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.

The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.

Now it belonged to you.

Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.

(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)

“Me too,” you whispered.

Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[twosandwich]

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[brownsugarcoffy]

The Vine Between Us (2)

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again—burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (1)

A/N: Thank you for all the love on the first chapter! I really do appreciate it! Feedback is very much welcome, and if you would like to be added to the taglist, just let me know. Enjoy!

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The air seemed to settle, but Annie felt anything but steady. Her stomach churned. She gripped the red basket tighter, her knuckles pale against the handle. Pearline said something, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.

“Elijah,” she murmured, not as a name, but a wound. One that hadn’t fully closed in nine damn years.

Pearline leaned on the cart. “Annie?”

Annie let out a short breath that didn’t feel like relief. “He looked right at me, Pearline. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t left me without a goodbye or a damn word.”

“You never talked to him since?”

Annie scoffed, tossing a box of cornmeal into the basket like it had offended her. “Not once. He didn’t write. Didn’t call. Nothing.”

“I thought Stack sent you letters?”

“He did. Two. That’s it. Told me they enlisted. Said they left the next morning after graduation. But Elijah? Nothing. Not even a ‘I’m sorry.’” Her voice was rising now, emotions climbing up her throat. “We were kids, yeah, but I loved him, Pearline. I thought he loved me. He let me plan out our whole summer together, let me sit there talking about the future like we had one—and all the while he knew he was leavin’.”

Pearline looked at her gently. “Maybe it was hard for him to say goodbye.”

Annie gave a sharp laugh. “You don’t ghost someone you love because it’s hard. You show up. You explain. You give them something—a note, a moment, a goodbye kiss, I don’t care. But he gave me nothing. He took the boy I loved and vanished like it never happened. And now he’s just… back. Lookin’ at me like we’ve only been apart a season.”

She paused, swallowing hard, then added, “You know what the worst part is?”

Pearline shook her head.

“I waited. For months. I’d check the mailbox like a fool. I'd look out the window every time a car slowed down. Mama thought I was sick. And then Stack’s second letter came. Told me Elijah got quiet. Said he wasn’t the same. Said to move on.”

Pearline touched her arm. “Have you ever written back?”

Annie shook her head, eyes glassy. “What was there to say? ‘Thanks for the crumbs?'"

The two stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the freezer aisle filling the space between their memories. Annie blinked away the sting in her eyes, gathering herself again.

“I don’t care how good he looks now,” she said tightly. “I buried him nine years ago. I’m not digging up bones.”

Pearline didn’t argue. She just nodded, pushing her cart toward the register. “Well… if you change your mind, I hear The Cypress Lounge got the kind of ghosts that sing when you listen real close.”

Annie watched her go, the ache still pressing against her ribs like old bruises. She wasn’t ready to see him again—not like that. Not when all she wanted to do was ask why and hit him in the same breath.

The screen door creaked open as Annie followed her mother up the front steps, grocery bags tugging at her fingers. The sun had started to drop, casting long shadows across the porch. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, a lazy hum that made the evening feel heavier somehow.

“You gon’ pout all night or help me put these greens in water?” Mama asked, setting her bags down on the kitchen table with a soft grunt.

Annie didn’t answer right away. She moved through the kitchen like she was underwater, setting things down without care, her mind still circling the moment Elijah’s eyes locked on hers in Bo Chow’s. Nine years, and he hadn’t flinched. Like he expected her to still be there, standing still.

“I saw Elijah,” she said finally.

Her mother didn’t look surprised. “I figured. Ruby called me from the parking lot. Said she spotted you at Bo Chow’s, lookin’ like you seen a ghost.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Of course Ruby nosey self did.”

“She was just picking up some turnips, and saw you ducking behind cereal like a sinner hiding from the deacons,” her mother said, with a knowing look. “Said he looked good, though. That was her exact phrasing—‘that boy aged like a mahogany tree and shame on him.’”

Annie scoffed. “Of course she’d notice that.”

Her mother started unpacking the collards, her hands working with muscle memory. “You still mad at him?”

Annie let out a bitter breath. “Mad? I was ruined, Mama. He left me like I was nothing. Like we were nothing. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t even call. Just disappeared with Stack and never looked back.”

“Stack wrote you.”

“Elijah didn’t.”

Her mother nodded slowly, rinsing the greens. “You were young. So was he.”

“That’s no excuse. He could’ve told me. He owed me something.”

Her mother set the colander down, turning to face her. “You right. He did. But maybe he didn’t know how to face you. Maybe leaving was harder than you think.”

Annie shook her head, eyes starting to sting again. “Then he shouldn’t have let me dream about a future he never intended to give me.”

Her mother walked over and cupped her face gently. “You held on too long, baby. You let that silence become your whole story. Maybe now’s your chance to write a new ending.”

Annie pulled away, blinking back tears. “I’m not interested in happy endings. Not with him.”

Her mother didn’t press. She simply kissed her forehead and returned to the sink, humming an old blues tune under her breath. Annie stood still, the weight of the past pressing against her chest like a stone.

Later that night, after the greens were cleaned and stewing low on the stove, Annie sat on the porch with a glass of sweet tea sweating in her hand. The crickets were out now, and the breeze carried the soft scent of honeysuckle from the side of the house. Her mother was rocking beside her, shelling peas into a bowl like she always did when she wanted to talk without pressing too hard.

“You hear from that teacher fella lately?” Mama asked, keeping her eyes on her hands.

Annie took a sip, not looking her way. “Nah. I let that go.”

“That’s what, the third man this year you done ‘let go’?”

Annie gave a half-shrug. “It wasn’t working.”

Mama smiled faintly. “It never does when they start talkin’ forever, huh?”

Annie’s jaw tightened just a little, but she didn’t respond.

“They don’t measure up?” her mother asked lightly, but the words had weight.

Annie looked out at the yard, where the porch light barely touched the overgrown grass near the fence. “It’s not about measuring up. I just... don’t feel it. Not like that.”

Her mother was quiet for a moment, and then said, almost to herself, “You felt it once though. All the way through.”

Annie’s breath hitched just a little, but she forced herself to stay still. “That was a long time ago.”

Her mother nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m not hung up on Elijah,” Annie said suddenly, a little too fast. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I ain’t say his name.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Her mother looked over at her, warm eyes sharp with knowing. “You’ve had good men, Annie. Kind ones. Smart ones. Ones who wanted to build something real with you. But you run every time they open that door.”

Annie looked down at her glass. The ice had melted.

“I guess I just ain’t the buildin’ kind.”

Her mother didn’t push. She never did. She just kept shelling those peas, soft click-clack sounds filling the quiet.

But Annie knew. She knew her mother saw the space inside her heart where Elijah’s ghost still lived. The part of her that had never healed right. Like a broken bone that fused crooked—strong enough to carry on, but always aching when the weather changed.

And no matter how much she denied it, or how many smiles she forced through new dates and fresh starts, that pain had made her cautious. Distant. Every time love reached out, she pulled away just enough to keep from bleeding again.

Her mama let the silence sit a minute longer before dropping another shell into the bowl and saying, like it was nothing more than a passing thought, “You know… Stacks used to light up like a Christmas tree whenever he saw you.”

Annie blinked, caught off guard. “Stacks?”

“Mmhmm,” her mother nodded, a little smile playing on her lips. “Even when y’all were just kids. Always hanging around the house askin’ where you were. But Lord, he was too busy chasin’ every girl with good hair and fast hips.”

Annie huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah. Stacks flirted with anything that moved. He was always trying to charm his way outta trouble.”

“Still, that boy looked at you differently,” her mama said softly. “Not like the others. And not just ‘cause of Elijah either.”

Annie shook her head, lips tugging upward despite herself. “Stacks was just a clown. Sweet, sure, but not serious. Not back then.”

Her mother gave her a sideways glance. “Maybe not. But you never did give him the time of day.”

“That’s because I only had eyes for one person.” The words slipped out before Annie could catch them, and she immediately regretted it.

Her mama didn’t press. She just reached for another pea pod, her voice gentle. “Funny how you still talk about Elijah like you seventeen.”

“I don’t,” Annie said, too quickly.

“Mmhmm,” her mother replied, which was her polite way of saying yes, you do.

Annie sighed and leaned back in her chair, watching the porch light flicker like it was thinking about giving up. Her heart felt tight in her chest, the weight of memories pressing in. She thought she’d buried that chapter of her life deep enough that even her mama couldn’t dig it up, but somehow all it took was one encounter at Bo Chow’s and her world was unraveling.

And now her mother was talking about Stacks like he might be an option, as if Annie still had something left to give.

“Stacks was always a better talker than Elijah,” her mother added, almost sly now. “At least he wrote.”

Annie didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Because her mother was right. Stacks had written to her, twice. Letters that came months after they’d vanished. Words that tried to explain what Elijah never did.

Her mama set the bowl down, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to face her daughter. “That boy left a hole in you, baby. I know that. But I also know you never let anyone else even try to fill it.”

Annie looked away.

Her mother hesitated, then smiled faintly. “You remember how you used to love to walk barefoot in the greenhouse?”

Annie’s brows lifted. “Of course.”

“I saw you one night. Slipping out through your window. I got up to get some water, and there you were, tiptoeing like you were a spy or somethin’.”

Annie blinked. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t have to. You were lucky it was me that saw you. If it had been your daddy...” Her mama shook her head, laughing under her breath. “He liked Elijah, sure. But he was no fool. He knew Elijah was still a boy—and boys have eyes, especially for girls they ain’t supposed to be out with that late.”

Annie’s cheeks flushed with memory. “You knew all this time?”

“I knew more than you thought. I remember the way you used to come home glowing like the moon had whispered secrets in your ear. And I knew it was only a matter of time before that boy either broke your heart... or tried to keep it.”

There was a long silence between them.

Annie finally whispered, “He didn’t try to keep it. He just left.”

Her mama softened. “He was young. Didn’t know how to be honest. That’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. And you’ve been holding that silence like it’s yours to carry.”

Her mama looked at her long and deep. “You may not owe him a second chance, Annie. But you do owe yourself a real one.”

After dinner, Annie helped her mother clear the table, both of them moving in a quiet rhythm honed by years of coexisting in the same modest kitchen. The clink of plates and the soft scrape of forks filled the silence between them. Her mother wiped the last of the crumbs into her palm and tossed them into the trash before speaking.

“Why are you so quiet over there, child?”

Annie gave a half-smile. “I’ve just been thinking.”

Her mother didn’t press. She knew Annie well enough to let her thoughts settle on their own time. But when Annie leaned back against the counter and said, “I might go out for a little bit,” her mother stopped rinsing the sink.

“Where to?”

“Pearline said she might stop by Cypress Lounge tonight. Thought I’d catch up with her.”

Her mother slowly turned off the faucet and dried her hands on the dish towel. “The lounge?”

Annie gave a small shrug. “Yeah.”

“Hmm.” The sound carried meaning. Not quite judgment, but not surprise either.

Annie rolled her eyes with a teasing smirk. “And yes, I know who owns it.”

Her mother raised a brow. “Stacks and Smoke. That ain’t no secret, child.”

“They’ve probably done well with it,” Annie said, unsure why she felt the need to defend them.

“They always knew how to hustle,” her mother replied, her tone neutral. “Still... walking into their world again ain’t like passing through the produce aisle at Piggly Wiggly.”

Annie chuckled despite herself. “I’m not going there for them, Mama. Pearline will be there. It’s just a lounge. I’m grown.”

Her mother didn’t argue. She just gave her that long, knowing look that seemed to see through the years and right back to the girl who used to sneak out late at night to meet Elijah behind the Greenhouse.

“Well,” her mother said finally, “if you’re going, fix your hair. And don’t let that boy’s dimples undo all your common sense.”

Annie laughed. “You talking about Stacks or Smoke?”

Her mother smirked. “Don’t play coy. We both know which one made you lose sleep.”

Annie shook her head and grabbed her purse. “Good night, Mama.”

“Be safe, baby.”

As Annie stepped outside into the warm Delta night, the weight of memories pressed on her chest, but so did the thrill of seeing Cypress Lounge not as a symbol of the past, but a place where she might reclaim a little piece of herself.

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The Cypress Lounge pulsed with rhythm, low and thick like molasses. Laughter drifted out with the smoke, but Elijah was known to most as Smoke leaned against the brick wall out back, cigarette glowing between his fingers. The night air was heavy with humidity, but the quiet outside was a relief from the blues buzzing inside.

Only Annie and the elders ever called him Elijah.

He hadn’t heard his name said like that in over a decade, and somehow it still felt like it belonged to her.

He took a long drag, exhaled slow.

“You thinkin’ about Annie?”

Stacks’ voice broke the silence like a gentle elbow to the ribs. His twin brother, same face but always a little brighter around the edges. Stacks wore the same face, but with mischief tucked into the corners of his grin. Always had. Even now, older, sharper, wearing a tailored vest and easy charm, he was still the same boy who cracked jokes in the middle of a storm.

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

Stacks didn’t need him to.

They’d always understood each other without saying much.

But the truth was, yes. He was thinking about Annie. Hell, she never really left his mind. Not when they left town, not during all those long years in the military, not once in the ten years since.

He hadn’t said goodbye.

He hadn’t sent a letter.

He just disappeared.

It was the one thing he regretted. Even now.

Stacks had written to her. Twice. Checked in. Explained what happened, best he could. But Smoke? He hadn’t had the guts. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too damn much.

And now she was back.

Of course she’d still be beautiful. Of course the moment he saw her it’d feel like the world flipped upside down.

Stacks knew the history. He’d known it even back then.

He’d had a crush on Annie when they were just kids. Everybody knew it. But even at ten years old, Stacks had seen it. That look in Annie’s eyes, the one she only gave Smoke. And for all his wild boy charm, Stacks never got jealous. He just smiled, teased them both, and let it be.

Because if there was one person in this world Stacks would never betray, it was his brother.

And Smoke knew that. Always had.

Growing up with their father, who was mean and drunk more often than sober, had taught him how to anticipate pain. He’d learned how to take a hit before it landed. Learned how to stand between Stacks and a swinging fist, how to bite his tongue and swallow his screams. His father never touched Stacks. Smoke made sure of that.

Maybe that’s why he clung to Annie so hard back then. She was soft in a world that was bruised. Her laugh made things feel normal. She believed in him when he barely believed in himself. She saw past the fists, past the scars, past the silence he wore like armor.

And God help him, she was still the only girl who ever made him smile without trying.

He hadn’t seen that smile in the mirror since he left.

He didn’t know what it meant now that she was back in town, or whether he even had the right to say her name anymore.

Smoke crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and rubbed a hand down his face, like maybe he could wipe the memories away. No luck. Annie lived behind his eyes now. Every part of this damn city held her name in it.

Stacks leaned beside him, silent now, eyes cast toward the alleyway like he was watching for ghosts.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if we never left?” Stacks finally asked, voice low, thoughtful.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched the shadows stretch across the bricks, thick like ink in the heat.

“All the time,” he muttered.

“You ever regret it?”

Smoke tilted his head back. “You don’t?”

Stacks shrugged. “Some days. But I think we needed to go. To survive. Pops was gettin’ worse. I don’t think we woulda made it much longer.”

Their father’s anger used to thunder through the walls late at night. A bottle always in his hand. Hands that were too quick to swing. Smoke had learned early to stay ten steps ahead of him, not just for his own sake—but to protect Stacks. If it wasn’t for Smoke, Stacks would’ve taken the worst of it. That’s just who their father was.

So they hustled. Ran the streets before their voices even cracked—fixing radios, selling bootleg tapes, flipping whatever they could get their hands on just to put food in the fridge. They had dreams, sure, but hunger and fists didn’t care about dreams. They cared about survival.

One day, Smoke decided enough was enough. The military wasn’t just an escape—it was the only road that looked like it led out.

But it cost him Annie.

“She was mad,” Stacks added, voice softer now. “She wrote me back once. Told me she was done waiting.”

“I deserved that.”

“She cried in that letter, Smoke. You know how hard it is for a girl like Annie to admit she cried? She trusted you. And you disappeared.”

Smoke clenched his jaw, pain flickering behind his eyes. “I was gonna write. Every day, I meant to. But I didn’t want to give her false hope. I thought if I just cut it, it’d be easier for her.”

“You were trying to protect her.”

“Yeah. And I ended up hurting her more.”

Stacks gave him a look, one brother to another. “You gonna let her keep thinkin’ you didn’t care?”

Smoke turned his head, eyes sharp. “No.”

“You still love her?”

Smoke didn’t even blink. “Always did.”

Stacks cracked a smile, no jealousy in it, just understanding. He had known, even as a kid, that Annie was always looking at Smoke—even when she was standing right beside him. And he couldn’t be mad. Not when Annie was the only thing that ever made his brother smile like that.

Then he clapped a hand on Smoke’s shoulder. “Then you better fix it, big bro. Before someone else steps in.”

Smoke stared into the night, jaw tight. “She ain’t the type you just win back with flowers and apologies.”

“Then don’t give her that. Give her truth.”

Stacks stepped away, voice trailing off. “We’ve got a club to run. And you’ve got a woman to face.”

Smoke stayed where he was, staring at the stars, the weight of memory flashing in his mind. It was a memory of when he first spoke to her.

Smoke wiped down the kitchen counter, scrubbing at the sticky ring left by a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Their father had stumbled in late the night before, angry and mean with nothing in his pockets but excuses and the sharp stench of regret. Now he was passed out in the back room, door wide open, mouth hanging slack.

Smoke tossed the rag in the sink and let out a breath. The walls felt like they were closing in.

“Yo, come on,” Stacks called from the hallway, already halfway out the door. “We hittin’ Mr. Gary’s before it gets packed.”

Smoke grabbed his white t- shirt, slid it on, and followed his twin into the humid Mississippi morning. The sun was bold overhead, baking the pavement, making everything shimmer like heat was trying to erase the whole town.

Stacks bounced down the sidewalk, full of energy, snapping his fingers and breaking into a loud, off-key rendition of the Ying Yang Twins.

“Wait 'til you see my—”

“Stacks,” Smoke warned, glancing around.

Stacks just laughed. “What? I’m sayin’. That song go hard. You just mad you ain’t got the vocals for it.”

Smoke shook his head, but there was a smirk trying to creep in. As usual, Stacks was showing out, dancing and spinning a coin between his fingers like the world had never hurt them.

They turned the corner near 12th and saw Mr. Gary’s ice cream parlor just ahead, the old hand-painted sign barely hanging on. The scent of sugar and waffle cones drifted out into the street like an invitation.

Stacks slowed. “Yo. Yo. Ain’t that the girl from math class?”

Smoke followed his gaze.

There she was.

Annie.

She was sitting outside the shop on the bench, one knee up, licking a grape popsicle like it owed her money. Two thick braids framed her face, and an old Saints jersey hung over her cutoffs. She looked like she belonged on a whole different planet—cool, unbothered, sharp-eyed.

“She new,” Smoke murmured. “Moved here from Louisiana.”

“She fine,” Stacks corrected, grinning. “Watch this.”

He sauntered ahead with all the charm he could muster, chest puffed like he was walking into a music video.

“Hey there,” he said smoothly, leaning against the bench. “You in our class, right? I’m Stacks. You probably noticed me already.”

Annie didn’t even blink. “Only thing I noticed was somebody always talkin’ when the teacher tryin’ to speak.”

Stacks froze, smile faltering for half a second. “Dang. That’s cold.”

“I’m from Louisiana. We say what we mean,” she said, then looked past him. “Your brother the one that don’t talk?”

Smoke, still a few steps back, raised a brow. “Sometimes.”

Annie gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Good. I like the quiet ones. They don’t waste your time with nonsense.”

Stacks laughed too loud. “See? She like you already.”

Annie cut him a look. “Boy, don’t flatter yourself. I ain’t said I liked either of y’all." Smoke walked up beside his brother, unsure of what to say.

Annie turned to him. “You got a name or you just go by ‘Shadow’?”

“Elijah,” he said, voice quiet. “But everybody call me Smoke.”

Annie licked her popsicle, then said, “Smoke, huh? You look like you don’t play around.”

Stacks jumped in. “He don’t. Always got that serious face like he solving algebra in his sleep.”

Annie stood up, brushing crumbs off her jersey, and walked between them like royalty on a mission.

“Well, nice meetin’ y’all. Don’t be weird next time.”

And just like that, she was gone, her braids bouncing with every step.

Stacks let out a low whistle. “Man... she really just...she got attitude.”

“She got presence,” Smoke corrected, still watching her walk away.

Stacks looked at his twin and shook his head. “You catchin’ feelings already?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stacks grinned. “Me too."

Elijah brung himself back to reality as he heard Stacks calling his name from the side door of the lounge. He wasn’t the boy Annie used to sneak off with to the greenhouse under moonlight. He was the man who left without a word, but he was ready to write his wrongs.

TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chrisevansmentee @margepimpson @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @bigjh @est1887 @tadjoa @thickmadame

[bearyfast]

The Envelope - LN4

Partnering: Lando Norris x impliedfem!reader

(There is no reader in this story but he talks about reader, no name is stated and reader never actually appears)

Type: Angst

Summary: Lando finally opens up at a therapy appointment and then goes home to deal with his grief- over whose death? The love of his life's, who happened to leave him a mysterious envelope.

Warnings: mentions of drugs, death, grieving, overdose, pregnancy, therapy, and suicide. (Let me know if I've missed any and I'll add them!)

F1 Masterlist

“It's been two months since our last appointment. How do you feel after the break?” The voice broke through Lando’s thoughts, making him realise that he hadn’t been paying attention since he sat down on the stiff couch.

“Fine,” Lando spoke as he looked up to the woman’s eyes slowly, seeing the look in her eyes that let him know that she didn’t believe him. “I’m fine.”

“Lando, this is a very difficult process to go through and understand, someone who was a constant in your life for years, someone who you loved-”

“I know what I lost, thanks. No need to remind me” Lando’s cold voice interrupted her as he looked to the ground again.

Dr. Maryes looked at him with sympathy- something he was sick and tired of seeing in people’s eyes when they looked at him recently. The woman, Dr. Maryes, was a therapist that his team had gotten for him; something about “needing to handle his grief better” or some stupid spiel like that.

He understood why he was there, he just didn’t want to be there. Lando didn’t need some therapist who understood nothing about you and his deep love surrounding everything to do with you to tell him how to deal with his feelings.

“I’ll never know what that felt like Lando, to lose what mattered most to you in the blink of an eye, while you couldn’t do anything; all the way across the globe.” Dr. Maryes told him softly.

Over the last few sessions with her, it had been a constant battle with Lando. He didn’t want to accept her help, feeling as though he was betraying your memory by moving on- like he was forgetting you by allowing himself to live.

“But you have to remember that she would want you to live. Isn’t that what you said in our last session? That she always wanted you to put yourself first, putting her own career on hold to follow you around the world for Formula One. She would want you to be happy instead of wasting away” Dr. Maryes always avoided using your name, knowing that it would just set Lando back even further than he already was.

As he just stared at the carpeted floor of the therapist’s office, Lando gave a small nod. That was you, always the one to sacrifice your own happiness so that you could see Lando flourish and thrive. 

You cared so much about him that even if you were sure when you were younger that you would never get married, Lando now constantly fiddled with your engagement ring that was on a necklace around his neck after the police gave it back to him. It was only a gold band with a few small but nice diamonds, just the way you wanted it, so he could wear it while racing.

“She was always the best part of me” Lando mumbled, reaching up with one hand to hold your ring in his fingers tightly.

“Sometimes closure can come from having something from the person to remember them by,” Dr. Maryes spoke after a moment of silence. “That ring on your necklace, can you tell me about it?”

Lando swallowed as a single tear was in his eyes, quickly wiping it away before speaking again.

“When we were kids, she used to say that she would never get married. So when we started dating I remembered that, but after three years she just started… hinting at engagement rings-” Lando’s voice cracked slightly as he talked about you more and more.

“It’s okay, talking about it is good. Is there anything else you have of hers?” She asked.

“Yeah. She had a locket that I got her on our first anniversary, it has a little- a little- a picture inside,” Lando stumbled over his words as he thought about you more. “With… us. Together. On our first date, when we had our first kiss.”

“Why don’t you wear that as well? Along with the engagement ring” Dr. Maryes asked as she leaned forward slightly; this was the most she had gotten out of Lando the entire time he had been talking with her.

“I just- everytime I look at the picture, her smiling face, her innocent features-” A sob broke out but he continued speaking. “I don’t know, it gets me thinking about things I know I shouldn’t.”

“What things, Lando?”

“Maybe if I forced her to come with me, if I had noticed earlier, if- if I would have been better then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did. I mean- I spent the most time with her, I should have noticed the behaviours-”

“Lando, it’s not your fault-”

“But it is. There were signs. I ignored them because I thought she was getting better, I thought she was getting over it, over the addiction. But I was wrong, and she died because of it”

That was the first time that Lando had actually opened up about his feelings towards what happened to you. Yes, his friends had speculated amongst themselves that he felt guilt about your death since he knew about the addiction but he thought that you were getting better.

You had been seeing your own therapist about your own… issues. Lando himself had seen an improvement in your behaviour- hell, you had even brought up having children without any hinting from Lando.

It brought  him to tears even thinking about the fact that you were so far gone when you said that to the point of definitely having no idea what you were saying. Maybe it was all the drugs, making you happier, making you want children after years of not thinking about it, and that’s what hurt Lando the most in the days after he found out how you died. 

How the Coroner's Office said that the orderdose had been building up for weeks, months even, in small doses.

How he will never know how much of the last few months you spent together making Lando think you were getting better, making Lando think that you wanted children, making Lando think that everything would be okay. He’ll never know how much of that time you knew you would be overdosing on purpose a few months later, leaving him alone.

Clearly you had known, that much was clear not even just from what the Coroner’s Office said; a note had been left on the kitchen counter addressed to him, though Lando hadn’t brought himself to read it yet. He knew that it would just bring him right back to the start of his grieving.

Dr. Maryes must have kept talking since the end of the session came quickly, but Lando didn’t pay attention at all, too much into his thoughts to even think about listening to others.

“That’s all the time we have today, Lando. What I want you to take away from this session is that grief morphs the feelings of love and pain into one, you might spend the rest of your life trying to make sense of a decision she made in silence, but she wouldn’t want that” Dr. Maryes finished, getting up and leaving the room- knowing Lando might take a moment to leave on his own.

After an hour, Lando finally made it through his own front door.

It didn’t take an hour to get to his home- no, not a home, it was now just a house. Just an empty shell of a house without your blooming presence. Without the smell of your constant baking in the kitchen, the flowers that used to be everywhere in the apartment- which were now all dying due to Lando not taking care of them. You lingered but you weren’t there.

Instead of coming straight home, he took the long way that had barely any people on the street- the paparazzi and people in general were looking at him like they were waiting for him to fall apart on the sidewalk every since the news of your death spread (which they somehow found before Lando even told his team).

As he walked through the empty apartment, Lando kept his eyes on the ground. All around the apartment were photos of you two together, photos of you with your nieces and nephews, and just little touches that reminded him of you everywhere he looked that he couldn’t bring himself to put in a box but couldn’t bear to look at either.

“Goddamn it, Max” Lando groaned once he saw containers of food on his kitchen counter which was now clean instead of being filled with old plates and probably moldy food that he hadn't been bothered to clean up. 

Giving Max the spare key to the apartment was obviously a mistake, seeing as Lando hadn’t left in weeks he had the ability to turn Max’s food away at the door, but since he was out at the therapy appointment Max must’ve come in by himself.

Max also left the letter from you on the table, leading to Lando frantically checking the seal to make sure it hadn’t been opened. Obviously he knew that Max would never open it without his permission but he couldn’t help but check, seeing as the aging, months-old seal had become a comfort for Lando.

Though when he picked it up to turn it over, for the first time he touched the centre of the envelope instead of just the edges.

One would think this wouldn’t make a difference but Lando realised that what laid inside the envelope was in fact not a letter, or not just a letter. Instead inside the envelope was something like a… stick. He always assumed the reason the envelope was thick was because she wrote a thick letter, maybe a lot of pages, not this.

“No, don’t do this to me, love” Lando whispered like a broken man at a sudden thought about what could be in the envelope, choking out another sob as his heart somehow shattered for what felt like the thousandth time since your death.

As curiosity got the better of him, he slowly opened that seal with precision not even seen on the race track, his shaky hands looking away before he could even see what was inside.

Lando moved to grab his phone out of his back pocket- as much as he wanted to seal the envelope up again and cry whenever he saw it, he knew that he needed support from the one person who knew him best, but who he kept pushing away.

“Lando?” Max’s voice came through the speaker as Lando’s hands gripped the edge of the counter-top to the point of his knuckles turning white.

“I just- fuck, I don’t know what to do, Max” Lando’s voice got shakier as he spoke more, his eyes burning down at the opened envelope without looking at its contents.

“Talk to me, Lando. Tell me what’s wrong, let me help you” Max frantically said in a calm way, not knowing if Lando would just hang up on him if he took too long to answer.

“You know how before everything happened I told you that she brought up children?” Lando asked rhetorically before gulping and speaking again. “I- I touched the envelope today, and- I think there’s a- a- a you know… inside”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, afraid of making it come true.

“Oh. Well, she clearly wanted you to know, and I think you should open it. I’ll stay on here the entire time, you can hang up if it gets too much, but we both know not knowing will kill you inside”

Max is right. It would kill him inside. Maybe not just inside but all together.

Why would she leave it for him if she didn’t want him to know?

But what if it’s positive? What if she killed herself knowing that she was pregnant with his child? Would that make him see her differently?

But what if it was negative? Would it make every little worry go away? Or would he be even further broken knowing that he never had a chance of having children with her? Giving him the negative test just to rub it in?

“Okay.” Lando spoke after minutes of silence and just thinking. “I’m going to open it, please just- I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not doing this alone, I’m with you the whole way, Lando. I’m here” Max reassured him, bringing a comforting presence to Lando’s cold apartment.

Slowly reaching for the envelope, memories flash past his eyes; your first kiss, when you first started hinting at engagement rings, him proposing, you being there at his first Formula One Grand Prix win, your first time at a race, him at your university graduation- you bringing up children.

“What do you think about children?” She asked Lando, leaning over the barrier at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

“Children? What- you want them?” Lando asked her, leaning closer to her as well with a smile once she nodded slightly. “Really? With me?”

“Of course with you, Lan. Who else?” She teased, kissing him softly with a giggle.

“God, you make me so happy, love. If anything happened to you I don’t know what I’d do” Lando grinned before kissing her cheek and rushing away to his team.

Lando should have noticed the happy glint in your eyes fading at the mention of him losing you, he should have told your therapist about what he was seeing at home, but he wanted to believe that you were getting better.

The stick dropped from the envelope and landed upside down, the side that Lando actually wanted to see facing the counter.

With the drop and then silence, Max spoke again. “Everything alright? What does it say?”

“It’s fucking upside down mate.” Lando whispered. Any other person would just flip it around, maybe ask ‘why can’t you just flip it over, answer all your questions?’. “I can’t do it.”

“What? Do you need me to come over?”

“No, I- I just- I can’t do it. What if the results ruin the image that I have of her forever? She’s- she’s fucking perfect and if this is a result that I don’t like I don’t want to know, Max”

Even if he doesn’t know which result he would prefer, Lando knows that whatever the outcome is- it will change his view on your memory forever, and that’s something that he can’t just ignore to look past it onto all the good ones. Lando can look past the drugs and the overdose and the lying- he’d seen what it did to you, how it changed you and how you genuinely were trying to get better at some point; that it had just gotten to be too much.

But either you knew you were pregnant when you overdosed or you were almost taunting him with the fact that you weren’t pregnant and you had brought up children? That was something Lando could not bear to think about, let alone look past.

“Shit- I’m coming over, Lando. Don’t move and don’t leave the apartment, okay? I’ll be there in a minute, it will be alright” Max’s panicked voice came through the speaker as Lando could hear him walking, almost running, to his car.

Even with Max coming to help him through it, Lando still couldn’t do it. Maybe it was for the best, it might make it easier to move on.

With one final breath, shaky hands, and more tears running down his face than ever but somehow time moved slower than ever. Picking up the pregnancy test, he placed it back into the envelope and sealed it again, leaving it back in the place where he found it.

A mystery envelope for another day, maybe when he was on his deathbed,  maybe next week, maybe in ten years- who knows. But for when he was better and it wouldn’t change how he saw the beautiful, kind, amazing woman he used to know and now only see’s in his dreams and in his mind.

It might kill him to not open the envelope, but it would kill him even more to know.

[ineedpaigebuckets]

ALWAYS YOU

chapter 1

synopsis: paige surprising azzi in quarantine, and realizing just how hard it's gonna be to fall in love with her best friend.

an: GUYS PLEASE, i pray, give me feedback, tell me how it is, tell me what you wanna see in future chapters or future stories anything!!! also thank you @averyisnotpresent i love you beautiful!

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the second paige bueckers opened the door to azzi fudd's room, she knew she was fucked.

she'd spent the last week crying over facetime, while her best friend azzi did everything in her power to make her feel better. her senior basketball season, something she’d poured her heart and soul into, was canceled with covid, and the future suddenly felt like an empty court. azzi had stayed up with her every night, whispering comfort through the screen until paige's eyes shut from exhaustion. when one night the tears didn’t stop, azzi made the only offer she knew might help. "come stay with me. for as long as you want.”

and of course, paige jumped at the chance.

azzi told her to come next week, but Paige couldn’t wait. she wanted- no needed- to be near her. so she texted tim and katie, quietly coordinated a surprise, and booked an earlier flight. maybe, just maybe, showing up unannounced would be the first thing to make the both of them smile in days.

dragging her suitcase down the quiet hallway, she pushed open the bedroom door slowly, heart thudding against her ribs like it was trying to warn her. the sight of azzi, curled up on her back, an open book resting gently on her chest, lips parted slightly as she breathed, soft curls spilling like poetry across her cheek, stopped paige cold in her shoes.

she looked like something out of a dream paige didn’t know she’d had until this moment.

dropping her stuff, she stepped inside, quiet as she could. she knelt beside the bed and hesitated, then gently brushed a curl off azzi's cheek, her fingertips trembling. she'd always known there was something about azzi- something that pulled at her like gravity- but seeing her like this, so peaceful, so heartbreakingly beautiful, it hit paige just how deep she was.

she ran her fingers along azzi's cheekbones, traced the soft angle of her jaw, paused at her lips. her throat went dry. her heart clenched with something she didn’t want to name yet. slowly, tenderly, she leaned in and pressed her lips to azzi's forehead, her palm cupping her cheek like something sacred.

“az,” she whispered, thumb grazing her skin.

azzi stirred, eyelids fluttering, and breath catching in her throat, and paige yanked her hand back like she’d touched fire. azzi's eyes blinked open, dazed and confused, and they both looked like they’d been caught doing something they couldn’t explain.

“paige?” azzi rubbed her eyes, sitting up fast, like maybe this was all a dream. paige stood up and shifted awkwardly on her feet, rocking slightly, trying not to look like she’d just kissed her best friend awake from her sleep.

“what the fuck, big head,” azzi finally said through a breathless laugh, tugging paige's hoodie like a lifeline- the hoodie paige had stolen from azzi months ago. she pulled her down onto the bed and they collapsed into each other, rolling and laughing and tickling like kids, like nothing weird had just happened. but it had.

it really had.

eventually, the laughter faded. the silence that followed was different—charged. paige, still tangled in azzi's arms, laid her head against her neck, her voice soft and vulnerable.

“azzi, I missed you so much. like… i just love you. you're the only person i ever wanna talk to. you're my person.” she paused, then added with a nervous chuckle, “when I came in here and saw you asleep- with your book and everything- you looked so pretty. you always look pretty. is that weird?”

she pressed herself closer, her eyes squeezed shut like she couldn’t bear to look at her while saying it. “you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen. you're perfect. like… annoyingly perfect. you're annoying.”

azzi swallowed, hard, because she didn’t know what to do with this. paige's words were muffled against her neck, her body warm and heavy on top of her, her arms around her like she never wanted to let go. and maybe azzi didn’t want her to. but she couldn’t- shouldn’t- think about it like that. Not like that.

“damn, paigey,” azzi said, laughing a little too loud, trying to pull herself out of the fog of emotions. “you in love with me or something?”

it was a joke. that's how it always started—how it always had to be, because joking made it safe.

but the moment the words left her lips, the air shifted. they both went still.

paige pulled her head up slowly, grinning like she wasn’t sure if this was a game or something much, much bigger. “what if I am?”

azzi's breath caught. her whole body flushed, heat crawling up her neck, flooding her cheeks. she shoved Paige’s face gently, trying to laugh it off, but her heart was pounding so loud she was sure paige could hear it. or feel it. paige was still on top of her, for god's sake. it was too much.

too real.

she'd always known paige meant more to her than she should. that the little glances lasted too long, that her heart always did this fluttering thing when paige smiled, that sometimes- when no one else was around- she caught herself wondering what it would feel like to hold her like this without pretending it was a joke.

but azzi wasn’t gay.

or, maybe she was. she didn’t know. she didn’t want to know.

because being gay meant changing everything. it meant giving people something to label her by. it meant losing control of her own story, becoming that girl, the girl who liked other girls, instead of just being azzi. she wanted to be her own person. not someone else’s idea of who she should be, or worse, who she was allowed to love.

but paige… paige wasn’t just anybody.

and that terrified her.

so she smiled, pushed her onto the mattress, and said, “you're so dumb.”

and paige, always too forgiving, laughed like she hadn’t just handed azzi her whole heart for what felt like the millionth time.

later that night, they lay side by side in the dark, the quiet hum of the dmv outside the only sound between them. paige's arm was still thrown loosely around azzi's waist, like it had been since they laid down a few minutes ago, except neither of them had actually fallen asleep. not really.

paige's breathing was slow, steady, but azzi could feel it, how awake she was. paige always had a way of making her presence known without saying a word. her fingers kept brushing the hem of azzi's hoodie like she needed the contact to breathe.

azzi stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart doing laps in her chest.

she loved Paige. she loved her more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life. and not in the casual, best friend way she told other people about. it was the kind of love that made her stomach flip when paige laughed, that made her want to win every game just to impress her, that made her want to reach out and touch her even when nothing was wrong. it was the kind of love that settled in her bones like a truth she didn’t want to admit out loud.

and paige? paige never didn’t say it.

she told azzi she loved her like it was her favorite sentence. she looked at her like she hung the damn moon. she clung to her like her world started and ended with her, and sometimes azzi let her, let herself fall into that warmth, because it just felt so good. but every time paige got too close to the line, azzi pulled back. laughed. changed the subject. nudged her. anything to keep the world from shifting under her feet.

because if she admitted it, even just once, what did that mean for the rest of her life?

“are you okay?” paige's voice broke the silence, gentle and curious. she always knew when something was wrong. azzi had the worst poker face around her.

azzi rolled onto her side to face her, nose to nose now in the dim glow of the moonlight slipping through the blinds.

“yeah. i'm good.”

“you sure?”

azzi nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.

paige stared at her for a long moment. then, “do i make you uncomfortable when i say stuff like that? about you being pretty. or loving you.” it wasn't that paige was taking it back, but she just felt guilty- because what if azzi didn't want it... what if. she never told azzi she was in love with her, but she knew everyone under the sun could feel it.

azzi's stomach twisted. “no,” she said, too fast. “you don’t.”

paige nodded, eyes flicking down to azzi's lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. “it's just… sometimes it feels like i'm saying too much. and you never say anything back.”

azzi didn’t have an answer for that. or, she had too many, and none of them felt like the right one.

instead, she reached out and brushed paige's hair off her face. her thumb lingered against her cheekbone. it was her way of saying i love you, without the weight of the words.

paige leaned into it. “i just don’t get it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i'm doing wrong. everything changed and nothing even happened."

“you're not,” azzi said quickly, heart aching. “you're not doing anything wrong.”

paige gave her a sad smile. “then why does it feel like i'm the only one who’s really here?”

azzi couldn’t answer that either.

because she was sure. in all the ways that mattered. but being sure didn’t make it easier. being sure didn’t make her brave. loving meant standing in a spotlight azzi wasn’t ready for, meant admitting things she wasn’t ready to claim.

so she didn’t say anything. she just scooted closer and buried her face in Paige’s neck, wrapping her arm tight around her waist, hoping it said what she couldn’t.

paige held her back, because of course she did.

that's the thing about Paige- she loved azzi in the loudest, softest way imaginable. in forehead kisses and early morning texts and always choosing her first. in showing up, in holding on. she didn’t know how to not love azzi out loud.

and azzi loved her in secret. in stolen glances, in late night clinging, in not being able to sleep unless paige was there. she loved her when no one was watching, because that’s when it felt safe.

but it wasn’t fair. not to either of them.

and in the silence, paige felt the weight of that unfairness settling on her chest like a stone.

“i'm gonna fall in love with you so bad it’s not even funny,” she whispered, half asleep, half audible, but azzi heard it- of course she did, she always did.

a zi smiled into her collarbone.

you already did, she thought.

but she still didn’t say it back.

[avonsdrabbles]

The most significant lesson I ever received in Literature classes was that everything is actually about abortion.

My regular teacher was out for the day, so the “this guy works here but nobody quite knows what he’s supposed to do” substitute was in for her. His name was Mr. Moony. I suspect, knowing more now, that Mr. Moony was the special education coordinator for gifted and talented students. But that’s all besides the point.

The only thing that mattered about Mr. Moony for this story is that every student knew you never learned anything when he was in, because he was always batshit insane. He would completely disregard plans, throw them away, and tell us to do something different.

When he came in, we had just finished reading Waiting for Godot. We were well on our way to an AP Lit exam, tired and worried, and we had a practice essay coming up based on this play. And he said, “you’re all burnt the hell out, so I’m going to write an essay for you.” We all cheered because, hell yes, a lecture day. We didn’t have to do shit. We could all tune out and stop caring.

And then he started going.

We were enraptured. This man deconstructed the two act play into a masterpiece, quoting ancient literature on theology and God, as well as personal details about the author, to reveal to us all that, actually, Waiting for Godot was the author’s roundabout way to show the anguish behind the politics of the pro-life/anti-choice movements, and the author’s criticisms of abortion.

He went on for a half hour, writing faster than we could really keep up with. By the end of his rant, we were all nodding along. At the end, he slammed his hand on the board and shouted “ABORTION” to really make his point.

“So, do you all think that’s what this story is about?”

The majority of us nodded, myself included. And this man looked at us, scrunched his face like Kermit the Fucking Frog, and went, “no the fuck it’s not. I made all that up.”

There was a beat of everyone feeling like their time was wasted. Some students very frustrated because they were trying to take notes and just realized it all was fabricated. One or two who were angry about being woken up to him shouting abortion.

And then he looked at us. “How many of you only believe it’s about abortion because that’s what I just told you to think?”

Quite a few raised their hands.

“Then I did English good.”

The rest of the time of class was spent with him teaching us various styles of analysis, though sadly my amnesia has claimed most of this part from me. I remember my belief in English being entirely shaken at this point. But at the same time, I also got what he was saying, and it opened my eyes to new things.

There is no right answer in literary analysis. There’s just answers people want to hear, or answers that are compelling, or answers that aren’t those things. The answer that Waiting for Godot was about abortion was not something all of us wanted to hear, but he made the answer sound compelling — and so we were riveted.

My next essay I wrote for that class was about the setting of the play, and how the entirety of Waiting for Godot centers on the anxieties of losing the modern family — and even modern life as we know it — to technology, and via that idea, the climate crisis.

I got a 100%. My teacher highlighted my (thankfully anonymous to the class) essay, particularly because the first sentence was “compelling,” due to my absence of proper grammar rules; I’d started it off by just saying, “trees.”

That was the day I really knew I loved English — not just enjoyed reading and writing, but genuine love of playing with the language. And it’s this love that I try to instill into my students.

The biggest misconception in public schools is that literary analysis is about proving you can be right or wrong about a book you read

Literary analysis isn’t about the book

It’s not even about being right

It’s about performing an investigation and presenting your case to the jury

It doesn’t matter if your defendant killed that guy or not. If you can convince the jury he didn’t, you’ve won

And the incredible life skill of spinning bulletproof bullshit out your ass with a handful of facts and a prayer is soooooooo much more valuable than anyone’s ever gonna tell you

[jaytipede]

... JJ's introduction! ── ✎ᝰ.

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

Hello! My name is JJ! I'm fairly new to using Tumblr so apologies for any weird mistakes LOL. You probably know me from either TikTok or Instagram as the girl with the characters named Cookie and Jasper. If not, welcome! Let me introduce myself!

Once again, my name is Jay or JJ! My pronouns are she/her. If it isn't obvious by now, I am an artist and I love to draw and write stories! It is my number one hobby. The project I am currently working on (and will be for a long while) is titled "How the Cookie Crumbles." I am a very secretive person on the internet, so there is not much I can think of to put in my introduction! If you can't tell, I am a very bright person and I love cuteness... which is ironic, considering my story-telling is the total opposite. Speaking of...

⚠︎ TRIGGER WARNINGS! ⚠ ←

If you're new around here, my story-telling contains incredibly heavy discussions that are not for the faint of heart! The story's theme centers around different forms of grooming, hoping to shed light on various types of abuse, SA, etc. If you are sensitive to these subjects, I don't recommend following! While there is more to it than just that, those are the central themes. My goal is to represent these topics as tastefully as I possibly can, I can assure you that I always have the best intentions! I am incredibly open to criticism when it comes to representing things tastefully (and generally speaking) so feel free to criticize the morality if needed! I will always do my best to listen to others concerns.

BOUNDARIES! ←

On the topic of criticism, please do not criticize my art unless asked! While I never want to do something morally incorrect, my art style, designs, etc. are not as serious. You will know if I want criticism, as I usually speak very literally!

Fanart of any kind is okay, as long as it is in good faith and NO NSFW, please!

Feel free to send me as many asks as you want! I may not be on top of them 24/7 but I will try my best to get to them!

I am okay with DMs, but please remember, strangers: a response does not automatically mean we are friends! Do not behave in a parasocial manner towards me! You may think you know me, but I do not know you! Always keep that in mind!

If you are unsure of a boundary I may or may not have... please ask! I have a very open-mind and will never judge anything harmless!

Please do NOT interact if you are:

Homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, islamophobic, etc.

Racist, sexist, ableist, discriminatory, etc.

If you invalidate a person's pronouns/gender/identity (yes, even neos/xenos!)

If you're a pedophile, sexualize minors, joke about rape, etc.

If you are "proship" or anything of that nature.

If you support, participate, tolerate, or justify any of the above.

If I deem you any of the above, or if you make me uncomfortable in any way... I will block. No questions asked.

Fandom Wiki! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Some of my followers put together a fandom wiki, which is so sweet! I do not edit anything in here as to not take away the fun for y'all, so not all the information may be accurate. For the most part though, I believe it is. Keep in mind that some information is missing as well! Here is the link! ->

Anyways...

Yeah! That's all I can think of, currently. I hope my story can help you feel a little less alone in the world!

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

[antimony-medusa]

Was wondering with all your excellent thoughts on creator's boundaries and keeping fan things in fan spaces, do you have any thoughts on the opposite happening, as in creators going into fan only spaces?

I was thinking about this because I have seen multiple streamers read fanfic on camera that had "if you're the streamer please just ignore this" written on them and that always feels like it's slightly icky to the boundaries of the fanfic writer but I can also see the argument that it has the streamers name on it, therefore they can do what they want with it.

Also felt a bit weird with Wilbur posting something he intended to be canon for the dsmp on ao3, a fandom space explicitly for fan creations, but that's a slightly different can of worms

Would love to hear your thoughts if you have the time!

Right. So, my formless thoughts after having written an essay for most of the day.

I do not— love— creators in fandom spaces. I have not seen any specific instances of creators reading fic that has "if you're the streamer please ignore this", but I have seen multiple instances of creators reading fic specifically with the intention of finding fic that's weird/funny/bad and making fun of it. They always seem to end up on self-insert fic obviously written by some 16 year old with a crush, too, and read that out to thousands of people to make fun of it, and man. It doesn't feel great!

However, I do see the argument that if has their name on it they can do what they want with it, but especially if you're talking about fic with "streamer don't interact" on it, like, I feel like creators are misunderstanding the purpose of that story. That's not intended for them to look at it, the writer is probably mortified that they saw it. It is not the same thing but the emotional equivalent is approximately aligned with my friend comes over, I say "make yourself at home", and my friend starts going through my embarrassing medical devices. Like I did say make yourself at home but why are you sorting my meds and googling what they're prescribed for? You were technically invited but idk man. I kind of thought that you weren't going to go through my medicine cabinet??? Now you know that I have some serious medical issues which I have not been talking about, and that's hovering in the air between us? I just wanted to discuss video games with you?

Okay like, I see the argument that creators should be able to look at anything that has their names on it and do whatever. But I feel like creators just baseline do not get fandom, a lot of the time, which is fair! Fandom is a bunch of people getting way too fucking into a creator/concept/story and then displaying their thoughts for the edification of other people who are also distinctly abnormal about that idea. And if creators walk into a fandom space with 'fandom" above the door, nobody's going to enjoy what happens. I was DMing with a friend today and we were talking about emduo trusting each other enough to fall asleep together and then we just spammed crying emojis at each other for a while because oh my god character feelings. I don't want Philza to see that! That's for my friends who I have my "instead of brain there is emduo" feelings with. I don't even do that in front of my normal friends who I discuss life goals with. Fandom is for people who have decided to go absolutely around the twist about their blorbos, and like if you are a normal person, and especially if you are a normal person who shares a username with the guy I'm torturing, you are going to find this space weird.

And so you get creators who walk into a space, and then it's weird, and then they are uncomfortable and say hahahah these guys are weird, and nobody profits! Nobody is having a good time! This sucks for everyone involved!

I feel like if creators are in a place where they go "If I google my name I will see shit but that's on me" and then they google their name anyways, that's one thing. But most of the time they don't even have that framework, it's just walking up to someone you don't know and going "huh huh huh are you talking about me what are you saying can I see" but in this case the people you're talking too are kind of obsessed with the ongoing roleplay at lunch you have with your friends where you're playing out betrayals and bloody deaths over the mashed potatoes, and nobody is going to be happy if those people detail the extended bloody death scene they wrote for you, much less the alternative happy ending where platonic arranged marriage stops the war.

There's a thing where like the saying is "eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves" and like, it's not the same thing here, but it holds. If they wanted you to know, they would have TOLD you. And they're not telling you cause they know the aging down a character into a sad baby to be kidnapped is not going to hit the same to the guy whose name it is. They're keeping that over here, archive locked, where only the other freaks obsessed with the lunch roleplay are sharing notes. Drags hands down face. Like the thing is I do understand on a baseline if people want to see what other people are saying about them, but the thing is, it does not ever go well. I do see the argument of well I should see what you're doing to my persona, but like— fandom is weird. If you have a fandom of any sort, and you are aware you have a fandom, you should know that even if entirely platonic, the fandom is doing horrible things to your character. War crimes are just the start. You either need to be prepared to see the war crimes, or know how to filter and bounce your eyes, or you— and I think we would all be much happier— can just stay away. Like let the weirdos in their discords talk about giving your character a mental breakdown, they're just following the honourable tradition of putting blorbo in a hydraulic press, but if THEY know that it would be weird to show it to you, why are YOU breaking into their house to find the weird stuff? This doesn't sound like a winning social activity for anyone involved.

Anyways yeah. I don't love creators in fan spaces. Click the box to make your fic not googleable and consider archive locking. Can we PLEASE keep fandom space and creators separate.

[thbbie]

༄ shanks x reader (based on this ask)

shanks knows you're needy, you love touching him, having him touch you, hearing sweet words and all that. he really doesn't mind, he's the same way after all.

you guys are always huddled close, touching some how. and oh he could be shameless with it sometimes. it's just his nature, why would he be bothered with others when you are all that could ever matter?

so when you get upset with him, and decide to head off to bed early, without him, he knows you just need some space. some time to think, you can't sleep well without him, and he's the same exact way. shanks needs to hold you to feel you always, but especially when he sleeps.

it was something stupid, one of the crew members telling the story of the time shanks complained about clinginess in a partner after an unpleasant encounter with pushy people that wouldn't accept his polite but clear no as an answer. he isn't the type to needlessly start a fight so continued just brushing them off.

that wasn't about you, it wasn't even a thought that crossed his mind when he's with you.

shanks wants more of you, as much as your willing to give him. touch him more, talk to him more, laugh with him more. anything, anything with you.

he follows you back to his cabin a little later, fining you curled on the far side of your bed. you're on his side, holding his pillow close to you, arms and legs wrapped around it tight and your nose buried in its softness.

the red haired man cannot help but smile at that, such a sweet thing you are, cling to his pillow to fall asleep. there's a pang of guilt though that persists, he really doesn't feel that way.

shanks climbs into bed behind you, laying on his side and pulling you in by the waist; you don't need his pillow when you have all of him to yourself.

instictivly you find yourself wanting to turn to face him, to bury your face in his chest and wrap your arms around his waist but you don't. not yet. pushing the need below the surface, you're mad at him right now.

the smell of him envelops you, salty from sweat and sea, and somehow, so incredibly reminiscent of home. your home. shanks.

he presses kisses to your body, whatever he could reach from the awkward angle; your hair, the tip of your ear, the back of your neck, that sensitive spot near the base of your jaw — he was successful in getting your attention at least. scratchy stubble tickling you with every brush against your skin

you turn in his arm, maneuvering your position from face if away to facing him directly. your brows knit and voice firm, "i'm still upset with you,"

"mmmhm i figured." voice low, heavy and heavy, his hand roaming your body, applying gentle pressure " but you can't sleep like that. your tense, if you sleep now you'll hardly feel rested when you wake" his voice is smooth, brown eyes soft and dilated.

"turn around for me. yea- theree you go" "shut up" but you do it anyway, embarrassed by the way he's speaking but still you listen, turning in his hold so your back is facing his chest once again.

"let me help you relax. do you get the most of your sleep" he hooks your leg over his hip when you're situated comfortably against him.

shanks pulls your shorts aside, fingering the little twitchy nub between your legs, stroking you where he knows youre sensitive slowly turning you breathless. he just watches you, with so much fondness he watches you melt away under his tender touch.

he slips a finger into you, dragging slowly along your walls, his touch is so spft it feels teasing, he keeps it up until you begin bucking into his hand. grinding your hips into his hand and pushing yourself closer to him, chasing your pleasure.

you need more. "s-shanks. stop teasing i- ahhh~"

pulling his finger out of you, sliding his tip against your entrance, still gentle still teasing. he doesn't push in until your hands grasp at his forearms nails digging into his tanned skin with a shaky pleading cry of his name. that's what he wanted so he'll give you what you want.

he slips into you, inching in slowly till his hips are flush against yours. he lets out a deep groan when he does, feeling you gripping him so tight, shushing your quiet slurred " 'ts too much" pressing sweet kisses to your hair, his hand comes up to play with your puffy nipple.

twisting and turning the little hardened peaks between his rough fingers while you adjust to accommodating his full length.

he starts to thrust slow, the sweet words from his lips don't cease, your head feels fuzzy ands you're so warm. so comfortable and blissful in his hold.

the pace he sets is still slow, rocking you to sleep with his body, lulling you with his low groans and endless praise. shanks still plays with your puffy nipples, but he stops when he feels the stimulation gets distracting.

you're tired, he knows. he wants nothing more than your rest, so instead is warm hand moves to your belly; pressing into your softness with a comfortable weight while rubbing soothing circles into the skin.

"i love you you know"

he stops the moment of his hand and pauses mid-grind when you don't reply, "[name]?"

"mmm~"

shanks peaks over your shoulder at your face; asleep. your brows are no longer tugged close together and your lips aren't curled in a frown, a soft serene expression on your resting face instead.

"heh, sleep well, sweet thing."

he watches you for a little longer, still buried to the hilt inside you and looking all to pleased with himself, though the feeling of pride is dwarfed by the fondness he feels looking at you in such peacefulness.

he kisses your temple softly and watches the methodical rise and fall of your back until his own eyes turn heavy with sleep, weighing down until he can longer stop it from taking him away.

his last thought is a quiet prayer to who knows who that he'll get to see you in his dreams too.

zoro ver. law ver

[augustjoy]

But She Loves You.

Based on the following ask: Hi can I request hotch X reader that owns a cat – That’s it, that’s the ask lol! I took this and RAN AWAY with it. I have two cats sooooo this was an easy one.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader Angst/Fluff Word count: 800

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, unspecified age gap (reader is mid/late 20s/Hotch is late 40s), reader is a cat owner, cat’s name is Charlie, Hotch is not an animal person, mention of Haley’s death, mention of Jack, Fem reader, no physical description, reader has hair, some explicit language, I think that’s it – LMK if I missed any!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

Aaron Hotchner was not an animal person. Now…that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like animals, in fact, he loves them, he is basically a dog whisperer. Growing up, Aaron wasn’t allowed to have pets, his father didn’t allow them…and after he was gone, the boys were too old to be begging for a puppy for Christmas.

His desire for a pet never really came around. When he and Haley got together, their focus had been having a child, which didn’t come easy for them. Then, once they had Jack, he became the center of their universe…that and well, Haley didn’t want to take care of a baby and a puppy all while Aaron was away all the time.

Truthfully, Aaron hadn’t even thought of getting a pet, and Jack didn’t ask. Spending time at his aunt’s house with her dog had proven enough to satisfy his need for animal companionship.

--

Aaron met you eight and a half months ago, you’d been reaching for a box of cereal on a shelf just out of your reach, he’d come up behind you and grabbed it for you. You’d thanked him and offered a kind smile, one he couldn’t get out of his head for the next week or so.

He’d been beating himself up over having not asked for your number then and there…so, when he saw you at the grocery store once again two weeks after that first encounter, he’d asked you to dinner.

That night had gone well; Aaron had been a perfect gentleman all evening. He’d gone as far as walking you up to your door and giving you a goodnight kiss, with the promise of a second date.

You relationship had blossomed from there.

--

With Aaron’s busy work life, it took some time before he actually spent time inside your place. When he finally did…he got to meet Charlie.

“So, Charlie can be kind of temperamental, just ignore her. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.” You explained.

“Charlie?” Aaron questioned.

“My cat, silly!” You laughed. “I told you about her. She’s an orange tabby, a total wild child when she wants to be.”

“Right…” Aaron nodded.

“You are so not an animal person.” You let out a chuckle.

“That’s not true! I just…I”

“…Have never had a pet.” You finished for him.

--

Aaron was convinced that your cat was secretly plotting his demise. He claimed she purposely went after him and his things, any chance she got. Scratching his briefcase, chewing on the laces to his dress shoes, sleeping on his head at night, burying her food bowl with his socks…the list went on and on.

You had told Aaron that she was just trying to get used to him being around. She could tell he wasn’t fond of her so she was just responding…it wasn’t anything personal. You could tell he was agitated…especially because Charlie had taken an early liking to Jack.

The first time Jack came over, Charlie snuggled up in his lap, purring. And yet your damn cat would hardly let Aaron near her. Playing this teasing game, where she’d rub against his leg and the second he’d lean down to pet her she’d swat him away or run off.

--

It took months, months of back and forth between Charlie and Aaron before they finally took a liking to one another. The shift had happened slowly. Aaron would be the one to feed her, scratching gently at her head as he set her bowl down.

She’d nudge his arm, begging to be tucked under it while she slept, curling up gently on his chest while the two of you laid out on the couch watching movies. Which is where you were now.

“So have you given it anymore thought?” Aaron asked.

“I don’t know Aaron, you don’t think it’s too soon? And what about Charlie…” You asked.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t have asked if I thought it was too soon. And I don’t know, maybe we could rehome her.” Aaron teased, scratching Charlie’s chin.

“Aaron!” You gasped teasingly swatting his chest. To which Charlie moved to nip at your hand. “You’d never rehome her!”

“She’s a little shit babe. Look at her, she’s trying to bite you!” He laughed.

“Because she’s protecting you!”

“Yeah well…” Aaron smirked at you.

“But she loves you! You’d never seriously consider giving her up!” You shot Aaron the biggest frown you could muster.

“No, I’d never give her up…Charlie is too damn sweet.” Aaron continued petting her head while she purred. “We will be sure to set up her cat condo in your reading room at the house sweetheart. She will be the queen of the castle…that is if you ever agree to move in.”

“Okay…yes! We will move in with you!” You smiled, hugging Aaron.