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lizzyiii · 5 months ago

Note

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen smut

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bookshelf-dust · 7 months ago

Text

gentle fingers, gentler boy

carmen berzatto x fem!hairdresser!reader

gif by @hotch-girl

word count: 3,589

warnings: swearing, joking mentions of arson, one donna mention, i don’t think anything else??

synopsis: carmy needs a haircut—desperately. or so natalie tells him. she sends him to you, and it’s safe to say carmy never would’ve expected a trim would turn into the best date he’s ever had in his life.

a/n: hello, my loves! don’t even ask my why this fic has taken me so long to write because i couldn’t tell you. but i do imagine it has something to do with the fact that i have the attention span of a goldfish these days. anyhow, i wrote this as a kind of predecessor to this fic, because something about carmy and his hairdresser gf is so special to me. let me know what you think!! happy reading <33

————

“You really do need a haircut, Bear.”

Sugar leans up against the office door frame. Her younger brother is hunched over the desk, an Igor incarnate, flipping through a pile of papers Cicero left for him.

Richie’s voice booms throughout the kitchen. “I been tellin’ him that, Sug! It needs a wash, too. He’s startin’ to look like Jack…Jack…” He snaps his fingers, searching for a name. “The psycho asshole from The Shining!”

“Jack Torrence,” Marcus chirps.

“Jack Torrence!” Richie claps, making Sugar roll her eyes. She moves closer to Carmen, leaning against the corner of the desk. She crosses her arms.

“I told you, Carm, you can go see my girl. She’s never done me wrong.”

That small, gentle smile she has grows on her lips. Natalie gently pushes her brother’s shoulder. “And hey, she stopped me from getting bangs again a few weeks ago.”

Richie’s hands fly upward, pressing together in a prayer pose. “Thank fuck. Bangs were never your look, babe.”

“Shut up, Richie!” Sugar and Carmen’s voices ring out simultaneously, as if they’d rehearsed for this very moment of synchronization.

Carmy’s clogs drag against the tile floor as he braces his palms against the desktop and pushes himself backwards. He scrubs his face with his hands, leaving it tinged red when he finally relents.

He looks up at his sister, a firm wrinkle formed between her brows. Carmen huffs.

“What did you say her name was?” Carmy asks, eyes darting to the clock, searching for the time only to realize no one ever fixed the damn thing. “Hey, Richie! Can you get some fuckin’ batteries in here?”

Sugar’s eyes squeeze shut at the volume Carm’s voice has just reached. But nevertheless, she pinches her nose and says your name.

“She’s like, fifteen minutes down the road. She went to school for it, she respects shy people, and I promise–she’s not gonna cut your ear off.”

Richie rounds the corner at that exact moment, a pile of double A’s shoved in his pocket. He pulls the analog clock off the wall and pries open the back panel. “Oh, you mean like that time Mikey snipped the tip of his ear clean–”

“Oh my god, enough, Richard!” Sugar’s hands fly around in front of her face. Unfortunately it only encourages Richie further, laughing to himself as he snaps four batteries into place. He’s still laughing—clapping his hands together because he’s so tickled—when he walks back toward the front of the house.

Carmen’s fist covers his mouth. He’s tempted to laugh himself, but he at least knows better by now. Natalie sighs loud enough for the people across the street to hear.

“Look, Carm. I’ll even make the appointment for you if that would help, but it’s gotta happen. You look like shit.”

Carmy snorts, standing up from the wonky office chair. “Thanks, Nat.”

Sugar’s phone is already in her hand.

“So that’s a yes? What time would be best? Actually, I’ll just tell you when you’re going. Settled.”

————

“You getting off, Leigh?”

Your coworker ties her hair up in an artfully messy bun. “Yeah, babe. I took a half day because it’s date night tonight.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, shimmying her way across the floor so she can plant a sweet kiss on your cheek.

“Your mom got the kids?” You ask, laughing to yourself as you rinse the leftover conditioner from your sink.

Leigh claps her hands. “All weekend, girl!”

You toss your gloves in the trash, letting her hug you and bounce up and down in glee. She deserves this. She hasn’t gotten a night out with her husband in months, their three-year-old twins keeping them more than occupied.

“I hope you have fun tonight. Drink something with Irish cream in it for me, will you?”

Leigh’s hands pat your cheeks gently. “Oh, you know I will. Just wish you were getting out there too.”

You wave her away, and she’s quick to hold up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Is Natalie’s brother still coming in today?”

Your eyes dart to the clock over her head. “Should be here in like, five minutes.”

The doorbell chimes.

Both yours and Leigh’s heads snap in that direction.

“Or…now.”

“Oh, fucking Christ.”

Your eyes flick back to each other immediately, having spoken at the exact same time. Leigh is not gonna let your outburst go.

There’s already a devilish grin growing across her face. “You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

You dart around her. “No. Those words never left my mouth.”

She catches you by the belt loop. “You’re right, I believe your exact words were ‘Oh fucking Christ, he could bend me over right here.’” Leigh’s laughter bubbles up and you fear she might keel over.

“That is an exaggeration,” you huff.

Leigh slings her worn out, bright red purse over her shoulder. “Bet you were thinking it though.” She risks a glance over her shoulder. “You’re not wrong though. His arms are huge. And you better go help him before we get a bad Yelp review.”

You start to wave her away. “Yeah, alright.” You follow her towards the front desk. “Have fun tonight,” you shout, “and remember to make sure you have meds for tomorrow’s hangover.”

She fake gasps, pausing just beside where Carmen is standing. “Me? Hungover? Never.” Leigh lowers her sunglasses just slightly and directs her next few words at the man in front of her. “She’ll take real good care of you, youngest Berzatto.”

The doorbell chimes as Leigh makes her way out to her beat up Mustang, leaving you and Carmy alone out front.

He laughs awkwardly, shuffling towards the front counter to meet you.

“Sorry about her,” you say. “She’s full of it. Anyway, Carmen, right? Natalie told me you’d try and come by today.”

Carmy’s cheeks burn with embarrassment from being put on the spot. But also because you’re so…pretty. He manages to pull together a few coherent words.

“She really said try?” he asks, the barest of smiles gracing his lips.

You cross your arms and walk over to your station. “No. It was more of ‘He’ll be there at 4:30 tomorrow or else I’m going to burn down The Bear and keep the insurance money for myself.’”

Carmen scratches at his curls. “Yeah, that I believe.”

You gently pat the back of your leather chair. “You can sit whenever you’re ready. I realize I never really introduced myself.” You say your name, and even if it’s a name Carm has heard a hundred times before, it somehow sounds hypnotizing falling off your lips.

The leather backing is cold through Carmy’s t-shirt. He hopes the shiver that moves down his spine when you thread your fingers through his hair passes off as the coinciding goosebumps.

“So, what are we thinking today, Carmen?”

His big blue eyes blink at you through the mirror. “Carmy,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, running a wide-toothed comb carefully through his curls so that nothing snags.

“You don’t have to call me Carmen. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.” A low laugh tumbles over his lips. “Carmy is fine.”

You smile at him. “Okay, Carmy. What would you like me to do with your hair today? Buzz cut? Mohawk?” You walk around to face him head on. “Extensions?”

You notice how nervously he plays with his hands. But you get it. You’re hoping to make him as comfortable as you can, and not just for that good Google review.

Carmy runs a hand over his mouth, hiding the sweet smile that’s growing there. The crinkles by his eyes give it away. You’re so fucking charming he can’t stand it.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking just a trim? It’s kinda long over my eyes, and sometimes it’s good to see things.” You giggle.

Good god, how’s he gonna get through this?

“Maybe a little shorter on the sides, too.”

“Like a mullet?” You quip.

He snorts. “Nah, not a full mullet. Maybe where it’s barely noticeable that it’s shorter there? I’m also shit at taking care of it, so if you could help with that…”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth. Carmy has to clear his throat, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “How ‘bout this. I’ll take you to the sink and give it a wash, and then we’ll trim it, and I can have you help me style it so it’s easier when you’re at home?”

Carmy nods. “Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.”

Your hand slides across the back of his shoulders as you move away and towards the back room full of head-sized basins. “Come on then, Mr. Berzatto. Let’s wash that pretty head of yours.”

————

“That feels so good,” Carmen says, the words leaving his mouth before he has a moment to think them over. “Wait—is that a weird thing to say?”

You laugh from your place behind him. “No, not at all. That’s why I keep my nails a little longer, because my clients always tell me this is the best part.” Your hands are covered in a lavender-scented shampoo, your fingertips massaging the foam into his scalp. “A good head scratch does wonders for the soul.”

You watch Carmy’s lips lift at the corners. His eyes are closed, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he dozed off. You’re always happy to keep a conversation going with clients, but the silence is just as well.

The sounds of foils getting folded in place by your coworker out front, the air conditioner, the radio—it’s all oddly soothing. The radio station Leigh always sets it on has the oddest selection of music choices for one given channel. Not that you mind that either.

You rinse Carmen’s hair out and apply conditioner to the mids and ends of his curls. You blindly grab a comb, muscle memory putting it in your grasp in seconds.

Carmy swears he’s gonna knock out. He’s trying about as hard as he did in school when he knew he should be paying attention to whatever math lesson but couldn’t keep his eyes open. And when your words reach his ears, he thinks you’ve just read his mind. Sensed the sleep pricking at his eyelids.

“You do have really nice hair, Carmy. Anyone else in your family have curls?”

You watch the way his brows knit together. “I think my mom? You’d never know it though. She’s straightened it every day since I was a teenager, like even when we weren’t leaving the house.”

You focus on your final rinse of his hair, allowing him to continue. “When I was a kid though, if she showered before bed and I needed her, her hair would be all wet and curly. That’s the only time I saw it like that.”

Carmy sits up when you wrap a thin towel around his head, holding it secure as he follows you back to your station.

“Leigh, the woman leaving when you came in? She has lots of clients like that. A lot of people weren’t taught how to take care of their curly hair.”

“Is that a hint?” Carmen quips. It makes you snort.

“Just a gentle one.”

Carmy watches while you cut his hair. Every once in a while your tongue will poke out, or you’ll wiggle your hips to a song on the radio. When you’re almost finished, what Carmen thinks is a Madonna song comes on.

You start humming, and Carmy knows he’s done for. Richie would call him whipped. He probably will tomorrow morning, just by reading Carm’s face.

“Out of the sky, I close my eyes…heaven help me.”

Carmy lets out a little laugh because you’re doing this little dance as you sift through his curls. You hear it, and it only encourages you more.

“Big Madonna fan?” he asks, his hand rubbing over his mouth to hide the boyish grin there. The tattoo on his hand catches your eye.

“She’s good for the soul.”

You crouch in front of him, rummaging through a cabinet for he doesn’t know what. “Your tattoos are pretty, by the way,” you say. It takes him by surprise.

“Oh. Thanks.”

You emerge with two bottles. “Do people not usually compliment them?” You spray his hair down with cool water, getting it to the stage of damp you need for the products to work.

Carmy laughs lowly. Maybe with a little hint of embarrassment. “Nah, they usually ask me what the hell they are or if I was drunk when I got ‘em.”

“Were you?”

He meets your playful gaze. “Only for a few.” Your smile is downright gleeful.

“M’kay, Carm. Let me give you the rundown.” He straightens and you get a glimpse of the chef he left at The Bear to visit you today. “So this is a leave-in conditioner. After you shower, you put just a little of this in your hands—like this—and kinda run it through your hair all over. Just so it’s in there well.”

You demonstrate, and for the first time, Carmy finally understands how people can look at him and question his ability to cook so seamlessly. That’s the way you do hair. Like it’s as easy as breathing for you.

“And this is a gel. It’s super lightweight, so it won’t feel gross or anything, and it’s not expensive either. You wanna use a little more of this, but not by much. You can do the same sort of thing, because your hair takes shape really easily since it’s not damaged any. And once that’s distributed, I want you to scrunch it some, just to get any excess product, but also to help any curls that need encouragement.”

You bite your lip because Carmy is nodding along, giving you his complete attention and it’s fucking adorable.

“And if there’s any curls by your face or anything, you can use your fingers to define them so they look how you want. You think you can do all that?”

Carmy laughs. “Not a chance.” Then you’re both laughing, and it feels so comfortable anyone would think you’d known each other for years.

“It takes practice. I’m gonna give you these to take home and use.” Your hand disappears in your back pocket for just a moment. “But if you want to put your number in my phone, I can always send you instructions if you need help…”

Carmy pauses. Freezes, even. You look at him nervously, afraid that maybe your ability to read the room has evaporated. Luckily, he proves you wrong.

“Wow. That was smooth.”

You exhale and laugh into the back of your hand. “I’m never that smooth, I don’t know how I managed that,” you chuckle. Carmy’s fingers fly over your keyboard.

“Thank you for today, really. I usually avoid the hairdresser at all costs.”

“Sugar did tell me that,” you grin.

“M-maybe I could make you dinner or something, for putting up with me…?”

Your face warms. “I’d like that, yeah.”

Carmy blinks. His phone goes off where you’ve shot him a text with just your name and a smiley face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rubs his hands together. “Okay, cool. Alright, yeah. What do you like?”

“I wouldn’t say no to pasta. Pasta is good in all forms.”

————

“You can tell me if you hate it. I won’t be offended.”

“I think you might have a nervous breakdown though, and you’re too pretty for that.”

Carmy blushes, shaking his head at you.

“What?” you laugh. “It’s true.” Your voice has a sing-song lilt to it. Over the past few weeks you’ve gotten to know Carmy a bit better. He’s been busy though, so it’s taken longer than expected to have dinner together.

He made up for it by providing you with pasta and cheesecake for dessert. He’s wearing this thick sweater, your eyes locking on his forearms where he’s rolled up the sleeves.

Sugar was so excited when you texted her after his hair appointment.

Natalie B: How’d it go? Was he a total pain in the ass?

You: it went well! got him all sorted out. he offered me dinner as a thank you (after he paid, of course). would that weird you out??

Natalie B: OMG NO!! He’s got such a giant stick up his ass, maybe your charm pulled it out! Go have fun. Leigh was telling me you hadn’t been on a date in forever last time I was in anyhow.

You: brb blocking both of you shitheads ♥️

You hadn’t expected a haircut to lead to any of this, but sitting here, in Carmy’s sparsely furnished apartment, looking at the soft smile on his face and the nervous way he’s fussing with his fingers as you eat the dinner he made you, you’re grateful.

Not that you’ll tell Natalie that. Or Leigh. They don’t need that ego boost.

You wipe your mouth on a napkin and look up to see that Carmy is gazing at you expectantly. You laugh, his eye contact making you a little nervous.

“It’s good, Carm. Really good. You can eat.”

He swipes his hand down his face, but when it comes down to grab his fork, he lets you see his smile. “I’m glad you like it. Not too much parsley or anything? I didn’t add lemon because Sugar mentioned you saying you didn’t like pasta with too much lemon juice in it.”

Your mouth drops open. That’s such a small, easy to forget thing. Maybe you will have to give Nat a hug.

You reach out to touch his hand. Tentatively, just in case it’s too far. “That’s so sweet, Carmy. It’s perfect, really. And honestly the lemon thing is from one very overpowering pasta experience. Maybe whatever you make me will be better.”

Carmen takes a big bite of pasta and a swig of beer so he has time to collect himself. “Maybe we can fix your lemon-related trauma.”

“As long as there’s a backup snack in case the lemon PTSD can’t be fixed.”

You both burst into a fit of giggles. The rest of dinner goes by, filled with conversation about everything and nothing—Carmy’s lack of knowledge about current television, your love of reading and need for someone to share the plots with.

Carmen is making you a plate to take home with you when he’s finally psyched himself up to ask his question. He says your name and you peer at him from your spot against the counter.

“I-uh…I’ve been trying to do my hair the way you taught me, but I can’t get it right. I was wonderin’ if you’d show me? Maybe? You don’t have to—”

“Of course I can. All you had to do was ask.” You push off the counter and beam at him. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

You’re lucky you already learned the way to his bathroom so that your streak of confidence would continue working so well. And when you squeeze out some of the hair gel into Carmy’s hands, you know he just needed an excuse. He’s got it down pat.

He runs his hands through his hair, scrunching clumps together every now and then, finger-curling the pieces up front and by his ears. Now you’re just waiting to see what he really wanted to say.

You cross your arms, attempting to look serious, but you can’t hold back the grin spreading across your face.

Carmen looks over at you, drying his hands now that they’re free of product. He’s never been great at reading people, but that look in your eye tells him he’s a shit actor.

“So, that didn’t fool you, huh?”

You giggle. “Not at all, Berzatto. You couldn’t even fake how well you’ve learned to do your hair.”

Carmy takes a step closer to you, rubbing his nose self-consciously. “I’m very bad at saying what I’m thinking. Or saying what I want.”

“I can see that.”

He squints at you, his lips ticking up just slightly.

“So what is it you want but are too scared to say?” you start. “Do we need to play hangman?”

That would normally get a laugh out of him, but he’s too on edge. Inhale. Exhale. Oh, just fucking say it, Carm.

“I wanna kiss you.”

Your ears burn. You release your bottom lip from where it was pinned between your teeth. “I was hoping you’d say that. Please do.”

You push up on your tiptoes, suddenly bursting with excitement and hoping that’ll convey to Carmen that he doesn’t need to be nervous because you want this just as bad.

It works.

You put your hands on Carmy’s collarbones the second his fingers slip into your hair. Your nervous system lights on fire, thoughts of how much surface area his palms cover racing through your mind. He kisses you all shy and hesitant at first, like he’s nervous he won’t do what you’re hoping.

His lips are warm, and you can feel the spots where he’s chewed them raw. You can’t help but think that kissing him might be a good way to break that habit. His nose presses into your cheek, tickling you and making you giggle.

Carmen pulls away, smiling at you. “What’s so funny?”

“Your nose was tickilin’ my cheek.”

“Oh? Like this?” He starts dragging his nose across your face and then down to your neck when he feels you start to laugh harder. He thinks he’s finally cracked the code. It seems like pasta and nose tickles are the proper way into your heart.

————

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

rb banner from @steph-speaks

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atereaste · 3 days ago

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Sevika as a housewife

CW: Smut

AN: do you know how hard it is thinking of headcannons for this woman? I tried my ABSOLUTE hardest to make it as cannon to her character as possible and I made sure to make it lengthy as possible. Also this was based off this one fanart I found on here that I sadly can’t find.

She’s usually up at 6AM. Not because she wants to but because that is when Anaya wakes. No alarm needed. She’s already halfway out of bed before the fussing starts.

Makes real breakfast like eggs, toast, potatoes, and a ridiculous amount of bacon. Claims it’s “for the baby,” but we all know who eats six strips before you even get up.

Has your coffee ready like clockwork. Never smiles when she gives it to you. Just grunts, “Mornin’. Go kick ass.”

She's not the apron-wearing, Pinterest mom type. She Never wears the classic housewife look. It’s all muscle tanks, joggers, band tees, and sometimes that old leather jacket she refuses to throw out. Cigarette behind the ear, not lit (she tries to quit for her daughter, but old habits never die).

Has her hair tied back, scars on display, robotic arm gleaming under the kitchen lights.

She doesn’t call herself a “housewife” but acts like one every day. If someone else calls her that, like a friend or a family member She grunts, lights a cigarette, and mutters, “Yeah. So?”

She acts like she’s annoyed when you tease her about being a housewife, but she secretly loves it.

Sevika never saw herself settling down, but once she did, it hit her like a punch to the chest, this quiet, domestic life? She’d kill to protect it.

Handles all the heavy lifting around the house literally and emotionally. Leaky roof? She’s on it. Baby teething and screaming all night? She’s the one pacing the hallway with her tucked to her chest, whispering calm nonsense. but she still makes your coffee just the way you like it every morning.

Keeps the house spotless but not fussy. Everything is practical, efficient, and deeply hers. You tried to buy decorative pillows once she threw them like a discus into the hallway.

Baby-proofed the entire house herself. Installed corner guards, outlet covers, and baby gates that require two hands and a prayer to open.

Her name is Anaya, a soft name that Sevika picked out, surprising you both. (You can change it if you want)

Anaya got your eyes and Sevika’s scowl. Chubby cheeks, big curious eyes, always grabbing her mama’s metal fingers.

Her daughter is the only creature on the planet who makes Sevika melt. Big, soft cheeks, giggly snorts, and chubby hands reaching for her scarred face? Yeah. She’s a goner.

Sevika is not soft by nature, but you and the baby bring out a version of her that’s damn near unrecognizable to anyone who knew her back in Zaun. She's a "tough on the outside, but a absolute marshmallow for her girls" kind of wife.

I hope this is a safe space but Sevika 100% listens to jazz like deep, brooding stuff. She prefers instrumental tracks, trumpet, sax, stand-up bass. Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, Chet Baker when she’s feeling tender.

Late at night, she plays old vinyl on a secondhand turntable she restored herself. The low hiss of the record starting is practically sacred.

She doesn’t explain her choices, but you’ve caught her pausing at certain solos like they say something she doesn’t know how to put into words.

It’s always on low volume in the background while she cooks or tidies the house.

Anaya’s lullaby is jazz. Sevika rocks her while humming along, sometimes adding her own quiet rhythm with her metal fingertips on the baby’s back.

In the early mornings, you’ll find her at the kitchen table with coffee, newspaper, and a Coltrane record playing gently. Hair still messy from sleep, house quiet except for saxophone and birdsong.

She has a hidden stash of photos of the baby on her communicator like hundreds. Pretends she doesn’t take them. You know better.

Wears a necklace you gave her with the baby’s initials on it under her shirt. Only touches it when she’s stressed or tired.

She slow dances with you in the kitchen while dinner simmers. No words, just the rise and fall of horns, her hands on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder.

If you’ve had a rough day, she’ll put on Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday, pull you into her lap, and let the music speak for her.

Once, you walked in and found her in the nursery rocking Anaya to “Naima” eyes closed, swaying in rhythm, completely at peace.

Surprisingly good at cooking. She doesn’t do fancy, but her food hits like, home. Lots of stews, grilled meats, and roasted vegetables. She seasons like a pro and uses that cybernetic arm to mash plantains like a boss

Savory over sweet. Her palate leans toward rich, bold flavors spices, sears, and anything cooked low and slow.

Heavy-handed. No measuring cups. It’s all instinct. She cooks with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s feeding people she loves.

“Trust me. If I’ve made it more than twice, it won’t kill you.”

Anaya strapped to her chest in a carrier while she stirs a pot.

She doesn’t always say she loves you. But she seasons your rice exactly how you like it. She cooks with one arm so she can hold the baby with the other. She leaves leftovers in the fridge labeled with your name.

Does all the errands while wearing the baby strapped to her chest like a living shield.

The grocery store staff are terrified of her. No one questions the tattooed woman grabbing eight jars of applesauce and staring down anyone who lingers too long in her aisle.

If anyone tries to say anything about her being a housewife, she dares them to say it again. Proud protector of her home, her woman, and her daughter.

NSFW

Sevika’s housewife vibe completely flips in the bedroom. All that restrained energy, all those controlled gestures unleashed.

She’s slow, intense, and hyper-focused. She watches your reactions like a hawk, cataloguing what breaks you.

Very much a giver. Obsessive about your pleasure. She doesn’t finish unless you do first , sometimes more than once.

Kitchen sex happened once after you teased her while she was cooking she bent you over the kitchen island with one hand still holding a spoon.

She didn’t even take her apron off. Just dragged your panties down, muttered “Should’ve behaved,” and wrecked you until your legs gave out. Afterwards, feeds you bites of whatever she was making, while you sit on the counter in just a shirt and nothing else.

She adores your body after having Anaya. Scar, stretch marks, softness she’s obsessed. She kisses your stomach like it’s holy ground. “You made her in here,” she murmurs against you Sevika’s housewife vibe completely flips in the bedroom. All that restrained energy, all those controlled gestures unleashed.

Some nights she gets overwhelmed by it goes down on you like it’s worship, mumbling thank yous between your thighs.

She doesn't need formal dom/sub labels, but there's power in how she touches you. In how you let her.

Sometimes she calls herself “Daddy” in a low growl especially when she’s fucking you from behind with your legs shaking and her hand around your throat.

But more often, she calls you “mama.” In reverence. In filth. Whispered against your skin as she takes you apart: “Let me make mama feel good. Let me take care of you.”

Quickies while Anaya naps. Always risky. Always worth it.

The dryer buzzer goes off? She ignores it. You’re already bent over the washing machine, her hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

When you come out flushed and trembling, Sevika smirks and goes, “Laundry’s done, babe.”

You say one thing about being tired or tense and she’s immediately kissing your neck, dragging you to bed, muttering “Let me help you unwind.”

That always leads to you face-down in pillows, ass up, her mouth on you like she’s starving, refusing to stop until your legs are shaking.

She loves holding you by the throat not rough, but firm. Controlling.

She’ll squeeze just enough to make you whimper, then lean down and whisper, “That’s my girl. So fucking good for me.” You melt. Every time.

Her other hand always finds your clit when she does it. She knows exactly what you need and exactly how slowly to give it to you.

Sevika lives to use the strap on you. She takes her time choosing it, watching you undress, making you ask for it. She prefers when you’re tied down for it spread open, blindfolded, dripping for her.

When she slides in, she mutters, “Miss this, didn’t you?” and absolutely rails you through the mattress until you’re begging her to stop and she’s smirking like the devil.

She always says “We’ll be quiet.” You never are. Baby monitor’s on. House is still. She promises to go slow, gentle, quiet. Five minutes later, you’re sobbing into the sheets while she pounds into you, teeth in your shoulder, sweat dripping down her neck.

“Told you we couldn’t be quiet,” she teases afterward, licking her fingers clean.

You’ve never experienced focus like Sevika’s mouth between your legs. She doesn’t just eat you out she commits.

Buries her face, groans into you, holds you down when you try to run.

You’ll come once and she’ll keep going. Twice? She’s just warming up. She gets off on how wrecked you get under her tongue.

She jerks off to the memory of it later. Usually in the shower. Often thinking about the exact sound you made the third time you broke.

Sevika loves fucking you in front of the mirror. It's not just visual it's about power. She wants you to watch yourself fall apart for her.

She stands behind you, hand around your throat or arm across your waist, whispering filth in your ear:

“Look at that face. You see how pretty you are when you beg?”

She makes you keep eye contact with your reflection. Every orgasm, every whimper—“Eyes up. Be a good girl.”

Sometimes she fingers you from behind while you sit in front of the vanity post-bath. Just a towel, her mouth on your neck, and your reflection wet and wrecked.

Sevika gets off on almost getting caught. Like when Anaya napping, and she bends you over the kitchen table with the baby monitor in full view.

“Keep your voice down,” she warns right before she slaps your ass and shoves two fingers in.

She loves fucking you in places you shouldn’t be: laundry room, balcony, the hallway, even the nursery rocker (when she’s feeling especially risky).

One time, she forgot the curtains were open. Now the neighbors won’t look you in the eye and Sevika? She smirks every time.

You already have Anaya but Sevika still talks about putting another baby in you like it’s her life’s mission.

She’ll say it in your ear while she’s fucking you, voice low and wrecked:

“Gonna fill you up again. Look so fuckin’ pretty knocked up.”

Even when she’s not using her strap, she fingers you through an orgasm while kissing your stomach, murmuring,

“Wanna see you round with my kid again. You’d carry it so well.”

The idea isn’t just sex it’s ownership, devotion, obsession. She wants every inch of you marked by her.

Early morning. Anaya’s still asleep. Sunlight through the curtains. You’re in her old t-shirt and nothing else. Sevika wakes up hard, sees the little wet patch on your shirt, and groans,

“Still leakin’ for me, mama?”

She wraps an arm around you, pulls your tit into her mouth, and suckles while fingering you slowly from behind.

You’re half-asleep and already moaning, legs trembling as she rubs slow circles over your clit and murmurs, “You’re so soft like this. So mine.”

She makes you come twice before breakfast. Her face never leaves your chest.

I’m gonna make a part two of this but of just basic Sevika headcannons cause I have so many written just let me know if you wanna be tagged in that Ⓒ atereaste

#atereaste library 📚#sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #sevika #sevika smut #arcane x reader #arcane x you #lesbian #wIw #sevika my love #sevika imagine #sevika season 2 #sevika fanfic

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amal336699 · 3 months ago

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In one corner of Gaza, drowning in destruction and echoing with suffering, sat Umm Saleh, a woman in her fifties, beside her modest tent hastily erected after losing her home in the latest bombardment. Her face told stories of patience and resilience, with lines of time etched on it as if they were records of unforgettable events.

Umm Saleh, who once lived in a small house filled with the voices of her children, now bore witness to the agony of displacement. She was forced to flee with her children after a shell hit their home, leaving behind years of memories and simple belongings she never imagined would become unattainable.

Every morning, Umm Saleh leaves her tent in search of sustenance to feed her children. She goes to bakeries providing aid, waiting for hours under Gaza’s scorching sun. Despite the exhaustion that weighs down her frail body, she carries the bread, dampened with her tears, and returns with a fake smile that conceals the worries of a mother striving to protect the remnants of her family.

At night, when everyone else is asleep, Umm Saleh remains seated at the entrance of the tent, gazing at the dark sky. She reminisces about the days gone by, about her home that was once filled with warmth, and about her elderly, ailing husband of 70 years. Despite the pain, she finds remnants of hope in her heart—a hope for a day when peace will return and her children and grandchildren will live in a new home brimming with joy.

In moments of solitude, Umm Saleh finds solace in prayer and supplication. She implores God to protect Gaza and its people and to wipe away the dust of sorrow from everyone’s hearts. She often repeats, "We are here to remind the world that we are stronger than war, and we will rebuild our lives anew, no matter the cost."

Umm Saleh is not just a displaced woman but a symbol of patience and strength in the face of harsh circumstances. Her story, like the stories of thousands of mothers in Gaza, embodies the continuous struggle for life in a land torn apart by war, yet still blossoming with hope.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #519 )

#help gaza #help palestine #free palestine #free gaza

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prettygrlwrld · 1 month ago

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Sins of Desire

Pair: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black female reader

Genre: Sinners, angsty, love/hate relationship, horny teenage

Warning: 18+, mostly background/fluff

Summary: the “Smoke Stack” Twins just did a violent robbed the Clarksdale First National Bank and Stack comes to you to lay low for a couple days until their boat leaves for Chicago.

PART 1

It was a muggy day in the Mississippi Delta for it be February. The sky was swallowed up by thick gray clouds, and though the smell of rain was distant, the air was heavy with promise. I was fixin’ a bit of food for the road—some cornbread, cold chicken, and pickles—for Ma to take on her trip to Memphis. She was headed up there to buy new fabrics for the shop.

Ma’s the seamstress ‘round here. Patches up old field clothes and makes church dresses for trade. Lately she’s been dreamin’ of doin’ her own designs, and I been helpin’ her sketch ‘em out.

But we only had enough money for one bus ticket, so she went on ahead, leavin’ me to mind the house and finish up the work.

“Aight now, girl,” she said, slingin’ her pocketbook over her shoulder. “I’ma be gone till Saturday evenin’, back in time for church. You finish the Jones boy’s shoes and Miss Doris’ skirt, y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I nodded, “I’ll have it done ‘fore supper.”

⸻

Later that afternoon, I was sittin’ by the back window, hand-stitchin’ Doris’ skirt. The light came in just right at that angle. The hum of cicadas buzzed low, and the wind stirred the tall wheat in the field out back. I thought I heard shufflin’—soft, cautious. Didn’t sound like Mr. Jones. That man walked like he was stompin’ on sin itself.

Maybe it was just my nerves. The house always feel different when you’re alone. I muttered a prayer and bent back over my needle.

Then I heard it.

“You sho’ you gon be safe here?”

My hands froze. That voice—low, smooth like molasses—but it curled in my ear like smoke.

I stood up slow and walked to the corner, picked up my daddy’s shotgun, and backed against the wall near the back door. I kept the barrel pointed straight, sweatin’ like a sinner in church.

And then, creak.

The back steps.

I peered through the mesh screen and there he was—Stack.

Sweaty, bloodied, shirt torn, and lookin’ like the devil just kissed his cheek. Elias “Stack” Moore. Lord help me.

He pushed the screen open careful, lookin’ around like he wasn’t sure if anyone was home.

When the door clicked shut behind him, I stepped out from behind the wall, raised the gun to his back.

“Elias, what you doin’ sneakin’ ‘round here?” I asked flat.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn ‘round.

A slow grin pulled at his lips.

“Hi darlin’,”he said, voice slicker than church shoes on a wet floor. “I just needa lay low a couple days, ma. Nothin’ more.”

I studied him, tight-jawed. He had that same look in his eye he always had when we were kids—like he already got what he came for and was just waitin’ on you to realize it.

“You bring the law to my doorstep and I swear fo’ God—”

Before I could finish, he spun ‘round, slapped the barrel aside, and pressed me to the wall so fast I barely had time to curse.

“Relax,” he whispered, leanin’ in close. “Heard your mama gon to Memphis… Thought I’d come see ma’ girl.”

My breath caught.

Stack had always been trouble—but the kind you couldn’t stay away from. First kiss, first mistake, first heartbreak. And now he was standin’ there, pressed against me like no time had passed, like the blood on his shirt wasn’t still warm.

I shoulda pushed him off of me, slapped him for even showing up on my doorstep on the run from the law and if I had any good sense I wouldn’t allow him to pull me into his mess.

But all I could do was breathe—slowly taking in his intoxicating scent.

He had my back pressed against the wall staring so deep into my eyes he could see the soul that he’s stolen so many times before. Hovering over me, one hand on the wall above my head, the other lightly applying pressure on my hip as if he was reminding me that he knew my body.

“Why here Stack?” I whispered, not daring to meet his unrelenting gaze. “Why me?”

He leaned in closer, so close I could feel his breath on my neck—sending sinful shivers down my spine.

“’Cause you the only one who ever made me feel like I wasn’t already halfway in hell.”

God, what is this man doing to me?

He knew just what to say to make my knees go soft and my heart stupid. I hated him for that. Hated how his voice made me remember summer nights behind the church, bare feet in red dirt, the way he used to say my name like it was a song he didn’t know all the words to but kept hummin’ anyway.

“You ain’t stayin’ long,” straightening my shoulders, “by sunrise Saturday mornin’ you betta’ be gon and I mean it!” trying to maintain any semblance of control over the situation.

He smiled—half grateful, half smug. “Yes ma’am.”

He lingered for a moment, just staring down at me before he chuckled taking a seat at the table.

“You still got that cot out by the well house?” he asked, eyes driftin’ to the side room.

“It’s dusty,” I muttered.

“I ain’t picky.”

⸻

We didn’t talk much as I fixed him a plate—cold cornbread, beans, and the last of the ham. He watched me move around the kitchen like he used to, like he’d never left, like this wasn’t a damn crime scene waitin’ to happen.

“You still hum when you sew?” he asked after a minute.

I shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t startin’. I’m rememberin’.”

He leaned back in the chair like he owned the place, one leg draped over the other, that same crooked smile that once made me ruin a good Sunday dress behind the tool shed.

I hated how much I wanted to sit on his lap and slap him at the same time.

When he finished eatin’, I handed him a towel and told him he best get washed up before he bled on the floor. He nodded, unbuckled the gun and holster strapped to his back, and laid it gentle on the kitchen table like it was holy. Then headed out back to the pump, barefoot, leavin’ faint drops of blood behind him on the porch wood

I watched him through the screen door as he stripped off his shirt and poured water over his head, muscles flexin’ like sin itself. The blood ran off him slow, pink in the basin. He winced a little—bullet must’ve grazed him—but not enough to stop him.

I quickly diverted my attention, hummin’ ole hymns to steady myself , hands scrubbin’ dishes that were already clean. The heat between my legs said otherwise, but I wasn’t gonna let him know I noticed.

Not yet.

I pulled out clean linens for the cot, tried to busy my mind, but then I heard the screen door creak and that unmistakable sound of him behind me—barefoot, quiet, intentional.

He came back in with just a tank top and some pants—showing off those strong arms that could take protect you from anything, sculpted by defined veins that could carry any burden—even yours.

Your back was turned, but you could feel the sinister smirk on his face.

“You still him when you nervous?”, he asked lowly, already knowing the answer. But he be wouldn’t be Stack if not for his pompous asshole tendencies—like that of a child who teases a girl instead of telling her he likes her.

“You still get on my nerves?” I retorted, attempting to mask my nervous habits that he painstakingly remembered.

He chuckled darkly—causing you to cautiously glance over your shoulder—and there he was sizin’ you up, like he you were standing naked infront of him although you were fully clothed.

“The cot’s ready”, you muttered as you tried to slip past him—but I didn’t get far before I landed in those big, warm arms.

“Two days,” you warned, but it came out softer than I meant it to.

“That’s all I need,” he murmured, still lookin’ at you like you were his last prayer—searching for a sign that you were still his.

⸻

Note: I wrote this at like 2 AM because I couldn’t sleep. We gone see if it’s worth finishing 😂.

#sinners 2025 #x black fem reader #x black reader #stack x reader #sinners fanfiction

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wvyik · 2 months ago

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signed, sealed, seduced. d.w. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: she’s high-maintenance, deadly, and doesn’t take shit from anyone; especially not from dean. but when their worlds collide, the hunt becomes personal… and a whole lot more complicated.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, (i couldn’t help myself) tons of sexual tension, mild explicit content, cursing, dirty jokes, fluff + filth combo, (because why settle for one?), some light violence, a sprinkle of possessiveness, lots of playful banter, reader is so bela talbot coded, frenemies to lovers.

⤿ notes: thank you anon for the request!! im happy to oblige, such an awesome idea btw >ᴗ< think mr. & mrs. smith meets supernatural with just a pinch of unholy sexual frustration.

The first time you ever met Dean Winchester, he tried to shoot you.

In his defense, you had just scammed a warlock out of a cursed amulet that he’d been trying to track for three weeks. In your defense? He was being a little bitch about it.

“You stole it,” he’d growled, all puffed chest and righteous fury.

You’d just smiled, blood-red lipstick flawless, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “I acquired it. Stole is such a blue-collar word.”

He hated you instantly.

They say hate is just the other side of passion. Dean’s starting to believe it. Every time you roll your eyes, every time you sass him, every time you bend over in that tight little pencil skirt that definitely wasn’t accidental— he gets closer to just snapping and pinning you to a wall.

And you know it.

You flirt like it’s war. Batting your lashes just to watch him sweat. Dropping dirty little one-liners that leave him choking on air.

“So serious, Dean. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying not to get hard.”

He whips his head toward you. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh relax,” you hum, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m not gonna jump you. You’re not my type.”

He scoffs. “Good.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I like men who at least pretend they don’t want me. It’s more fun when they break.”

You’re a ghost in the hunter world. No last name. No phone number. Just rumors and red lipstick. You’ve sold hex bags to demons and then double-crossed them for hunters. You flirted your way through vampire nests and stole angel blades from under Heaven’s nose. Nobody knows whose side you’re really on.

That’s your whole thing.

Dean hates that it turns him on.

The job takes you to Louisiana. Swamps, heat, and the kind of cursed object no sane hunter touches without gloves, prayers, and a last will and testament.

It’s an old Creole relic. An amulet that traps souls in a loop of violent death. You’ve seen it before. Once. You didn’t walk away clean.

Dean doesn’t ask about it.

You don’t offer.

Instead, you two ride down in the Impala, sniping at each other the whole way. He complains about your luggage (“We’re not staying at the goddamn Ritz!”) and you call his music “sad divorced dad anthems.”

But underneath the sarcasm, something’s shifting. You catch him looking at you longer. Laughing under his breath at your jokes. And when you fall asleep in the car, head resting against the window, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances at you, once, and turns the music down.

The house is cursed, because of course it is. Two people already dead, one missing, and a sulfur trail leading straight to the basement.

You go in first. Dean protests, obviously.

“You’re not bulletproof, you know.”

You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Neither are you. But I look better while risking my life.”

He doesn’t argue.

Not out loud, anyway.

Inside, the air is heavy. Thick with bad energy. The kind that sticks to your skin. Dean’s right behind you, flashlight sweeping, gun drawn. You’re holding a small dagger you stole got from a Haitian priest once. Dean always makes fun of it— until it saves both your lives.

Which it does.

Twice.

“You okay?” he breathes after the second time, chest heaving.

You glance at your bleeding shoulder and shrug. “Ruined another blouse. Guess you’ll have to buy me a new one.”

He glares at you, then rips part of his flannel and presses it to the wound. “Stop joking.”

You blink. His hands are warm. His voice is serious. “You could’ve died,” he mutters.

You smile, softer now. “So could you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. And for once, there’s no banter. No sarcasm.

Just that look.

That goddamn look.

The one you’ve seen flicker in motel rooms and over diner coffee, in the lull between hunts. The one he always hides before it can mean anything.

This time, he doesn’t hide it.

He brushes your hair back, careful of the blood. And you let him.

You defeat the cursed object together; barely. It shatters in a flash of flame and screams, and when it’s over, you’re both on the floor, breathless, singed, bleeding.

You laugh.

Dean groans.

“You’re the worst,” he says.

“I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but stops. Because he’s realizing you might be right.

Next thing you know, the air in the motel room is heavy. You’ve both cleaned up—sort of. You’re in a silk robe now, blood rinsed from your skin but not from your memory. Dean’s wearing an old band tee with a rip near the collar and sweatpants, barefoot, jaw still clenched. He hasn’t looked at you since the kiss.

You don’t know if that’s a good sign.

You sit across from him at the little table between the beds, picking at your nail polish, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something. Anything.

“You could’ve died today,” he finally mutters.

“You already said that.”

He looks up, eyes sharp. “You didn’t react the first time either.”

You shrug. “I didn’t feel like getting all misty-eyed about it while covered in ghost goo.”

Dean leans forward, elbows on the table, and you swear— his gaze softens. Just for a second.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your stomach flips. Violently.

And now you’re just… staring at him. He’s not looking away. He’s not covering it with sarcasm or barking an insult or making some gruff joke about how everyone dies in this line of work, sweetheart. He’s just sitting there, looking at you like losing you would gut him.

You don’t do emotions. Not like this. Not in daylight. So you smirk, instead. “God, you’re being so clingy.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, but it’s not amused. It’s devastated.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend this doesn’t matter.”

You open your mouth to toss something clever back, but nothing comes. Because it does matter. And you both know it.

So instead, you get up.

Walk over.

Slide into his lap like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

His hands automatically grip your hips. His breath catches.

And you whisper, “I don’t want to lose you either.”

It’s the softest he’s ever seen you. And he looks at you like he’s memorizing it — like this might be the only time he gets to see you with your guard down.

Then he presses his forehead to yours. You sit there for a long time, just breathing each other in. Not kissing. Not speaking. Just holding.

The line between friends and lovers? It’s already blurred. Hell, it’s obliterated.

You slide your hand up the back of his neck. His breath hitches. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

“I’m not gonna run anymore,” you whisper. “So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear.”

Dean exhales shakily.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. You sink into him like he’s home.

It’s not neat. It’s not soft.

It’s messy.

Years of denial crash in one second— teeth, tongues, groans swallowed into skin. You push him back further against the mattress and climb over him, still straddling his lap, your hands yanking at his shirt like you’ve waited lifetimes to touch him without consequence.

Dean flips you, presses you into the mattress, mouth hot on your neck.

“Should’ve done this the second I met you,” he mutters into your skin, voice wrecked.

“You were too busy pretending I annoyed you.”

“You did annoy me.” He grins against your collarbone. “Still do.”

You moan when his hands slide under your robe. “Shut up and take it off.”

Dean’s hands are on you; rough, urgent. His fingers digging into your waist, your body pressed flush against his. His breath is ragged, hot on your neck. You’re both trembling, not from the cold but from something deeper, more raw.

You gasp as his lips meet yours again, his mouth is hard against yours, like he’s trying to consume you. And you’re not exactly pulling away either.

Your hands are on his chest, pushing his shirt off, nails scraping against his skin, making him groan low and deep in his throat.

“You sure about this?” he growls, his hands sliding up your thighs, his grip firm and possessive. His lips move down your neck, kissing and biting, and you can’t stop the shiver that races through you.

“I’ve been sure since the first time I laid eyes on you, Winchester,” you breathe out, your voice shaky but bold. The words feel like they’ve been building up for months, desperate to spill out.

Dean’s hands slide lower, just shy of where you need him. “Yeah? Then why’d you keep running from me?”

You’re not sure if it’s the heat, the pressure, or the way he looks at you with that fire in his eyes, but you snap, your patience snapping like a rubber band. You rip his belt off, hands shaking but determined.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this too,” you snap, before kissing him hard again, all teeth and tongue, pushing your body against his, aligning the two of you in one swift motion.

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat, a low growl escaping his lips as he finally lets you have control. His hands are on your hips, guiding you, the pressure between your legs sending an electrifying jolt through your entire body.

The world outside the room disappears. There’s nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the slick slide of skin on skin, and the rhythm you’re both setting— raw, frantic, desperate.

His voice breaks as he pulls you closer, his lips pressing against your ear. “God, you feel so good, baby. So fucking good.”

You don’t hold back. The tension, the need, it’s been bubbling beneath the surface, and now, it’s exploding. You move against him, your body finding its rhythm with his, chasing that overwhelming heat, that burn that has nothing to do with the hunt, with monsters. It’s just the two of you now, tangled in sheets, no masks, no pretenses.

Dean groans as you shift, his hands gripping your hips tighter. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Should’ve had you like this from the start.”

You smile, teeth grazing his jawline as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your breath uneven. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

“You feel so good,” he mutters between kisses. “Damn, you feel better than I imagined.” His voice is low, strained, the heat in his tone like fire. “Always knew this was gonna happen… didn’t realize it’d be this fucking good.”

Your movements become faster, rougher, and Dean matches you, his hands gripping your hips harder as he takes control of the rhythm. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, the soft, breathy moans you both can’t hold back, fill the room. And you can feel his eyes on you, burning with an intensity that sends a wild thrill straight through your core.

His name is a whisper on your lips as you both fall into it. That final, explosive moment when you can’t tell where you begin and he ends. It’s pure, intense, all-consuming.

And when you both finally collapse into the bed, gasping for air, sweaty and wrecked, there’s no question.

You’re not just two people sharing a night anymore.

You’re tangled up in something deeper.

Something that’s not going to fade in the morning.

After, you’re tangled in the sheets, your head on his chest, his hand lazily tracing patterns across your bare back.

“You’re mine now, huh?” he murmurs, voice all husky and smug and soft.

You hum. “I was starting to think you’d never ask...”

Dean kisses the top of your head. “We’re really doing this?”

You look up at him. “Yeah. We are.”

Dean’s face breaks into a grin, clearly amused, but his eyes flicker with that intense, familiar heat. “You sure you’re ready for all this, sweetheart?” He motions to himself dramatically. “I’m a lot.”

You pause, staring at him, before letting out a mock gasp. “Oh no. Does that mean I’m gonna have to be the one saving you next time?”

Dean laughs, the sound rich and full of life. “Baby, the only thing you’ll be saving is my dignity— if there’s any left after last night.. And maybe if you get lucky a few monsters along the way.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.” You give him a wink, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you out of trouble, huh?”

Dean leans in, catching your lips in a kiss that’s lighter than before but still packed with that unmistakable Dean Winchester intensity. “You’re my trouble now, sweetheart.”

And for the first time, it feels like everything’s exactly as it should be.

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tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡

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gweelczz · 24 days ago

Text

“Home to Her”

Bo Chow x Rosetta (Rose)

Genre: Slight angst if you squint, fluff

Warnings: mentions of religion and prayer

Summary: Rosetta gives Bo the silent treatment, he puts her in her place the only way he knows how. With love

The sun hung low over Clarksdale, brushing the dusty fields with gold as Bo Chow trudged up the front steps of their little wooden house, grocery sacks heavy in his hands. His sleeves were rolled up, dark with sweat and flour from a long day at the store. He kicked the door shut behind him and set the bags down with a low grunt.

“Rosie?” he called, his voice roughened from the day’s work but warm, just like always.

No answer.

He frowned, wiping his hands on his apron before untangling it from his waist. His boots thunked heavy on the floorboards as he made his way into the kitchen. There she was — Rosetta — sittin’ at the little round table, arms crossed, her beautiful face set like stone.

Bo paused. Took her in.

Her deep ebony skin caught the evening light just right, like the richest soil after rain. That great big afro of hers crowned her head like a halo, and those gold eyes, usually sparklin’ like God’s own stars, wouldn’t even lift to meet his. She was silent, lips pressed so tight they turned pale at the corners.

Bo narrowed his eyes.

“Rosetta Mae Chow,” he drawled slow, dropping his voice low and stern, the way that always got her attention. “Ain’t no wife o’ mine gonna sit there stewin’ like that. Not ‘fore even tellin’ me what’s wrong.”

Still she said nothin’, just squeezed her arms tighter around herself like she was holdin’ somethin’ in too big to carry.

He moved — one long stride, two — then he was standin’ over her, broad arms crossed now, jaw tight.

“You fixin’ to give me the silent treatment in my own house, Rosie? After I done worked sunup to sundown to bring you home what you needed?”

Her chin wobbled. Not much — just a little. But Bo caught it. He always caught every little thing about her.

“Now,” he said, voice softenin’, “you look at me, Rose. Right now.”

Slowly, like the weight of it hurt her, Rosetta lifted her head. Those gold eyes, glassy with unshed tears, finally met his.

Bo felt like he’d been shot through the heart.

He dropped to his knees right there, on the hardwood floor. Cupped her hands in his big calloused ones.

“Talk to me, baby,” he said low, thumb strokin’ the back of her hand. “Tell me what’s hurtin’ that pretty soul o’ yours.”

For a second, she tried to hold it in, tried to be strong — but it broke. A tear slipped down her cheek, catchin’ on the mole under her left eye.

“I don’t…” she choked out, her voice small, tremblin’. “I don’t deserve you, Bo.”

He blinked. “What kinda foolishness you talkin’?”

“I’m serious,” she said, the words tumblin’ out now like water outta a busted pipe. “You coulda had anybody… some fine, proper woman who don’t got a big mouth, who don’t sit around talkin’ to spirits and burnin’ herbs like some old witch… You deserve better than me.”

Bo stared at her, stunned. His Rosetta — the strongest woman he’d ever known — really believed that nonsense?

He gathered her hands tighter in his, holdin’ on like she was the only thing tetherin’ him to earth.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice droppin’ so low it rumbled in his chest. “Ain’t another soul on this earth — white, black, yellow, or otherwise — who could do what you do for me.”

Rosetta sniffled, lookin’ down, but Bo gently tapped her chin up.

“You hear me, baby. Ain’t nobody pray over me every mornin’ and night. Ain’t nobody stand at the crossroads at three a.m. beggin’ the Lord and all the good spirits to keep me safe.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, lettin’ her feel the heat of him, the truth of his words.

“You made me that mojo bag I keep on me day and night. I done made it through knife fights, sickness, angry drunk men in that store, and I ain’t never once been touched ’cause you put your love and your faith into that thing.”

Her tears were flowin’ now, but Bo just wiped them away with his thumb, patient and gentle.

“You think some ‘proper woman’ would do that?” he asked, voice a little rough. “You think some ‘fine’ lady from up Jackson way would even know how to love me the way you do?”

He leaned back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“I ain’t just loved by you, Rosetta. I’m protected by you. Watched over by you. Blessed by you.”

He kissed the palm of her hand, right over the lifeline, like he could kiss away all her hurt.

“I’m here. Still breathin’. Still buildin’ our life together ’cause God and your ancestors and you made sure o’ it.”

Her chest hitched with a sob, and Bo pulled her into his arms, holdin’ her tight against him.

“You the best thing that ever happened to me, Rosie,” he whispered against her hair. “I don’t want nobody else. Ain’t even a thought in my head.”

She clutched him back like she was scared he’d slip away, but Bo just held her stronger, rockin’ her slow in the middle of the kitchen.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice breakin’.

Bo smiled against her temple. “I know, baby. And I love you. Always have. Always will. From the first time I seen you dancin’ barefoot in that cotton field, laughin’ like you ain’t got a care in the world.”

He pulled back, thumbin’ away the last of her tears.

“You mine, Rosetta. God made you for me, and He don’t make mistakes.”

She gave a watery laugh, small and sweet, and Bo took her face in both hands, kissin’ her deep and long, like he had all the time in the world to show her just how much he meant every word.

When they finally pulled apart, Rosetta leaned her forehead against his, breathin’ him in.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Bo chuckled low, the sound like warm thunder.

“You don’t gotta thank me for tellin’ the truth, baby. Come on now. Let’s get supper goin’. I ain’t lettin’ my wife cry no more tonight.”

She laughed again, stronger this time, and Bo helped her to her feet like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

And maybe she was

Bo helped Rosetta into the kitchen like she might break if he wasn’t careful, though they both knew she was tougher than most men he’d ever met. He moved easy, puttin’ the groceries away while she bustled about, lightin’ the little oil lamp over the stove, hummin’ under her breath now — some old tune her mama must’ve taught her.

The smell of fresh cornbread and stewed greens filled the house before long. Bo set the table while Rosetta stirred the pot, her gold eyes flickerin’ back to him now and then, full of a tenderness so thick it near choked him.

After supper — plates cleared and bellies full — Bo washed up while Rosetta wiped down the counter, their movements easy, natural, like a river flowin’ back into its bed after a storm.

The Mississippi night settled in outside, all crickets and warm, heavy air.

Bo sat at the edge of their bed, pullin’ off his boots, when he felt her come up behind him — all soft and sure, the way she always was. He looked up just as she set a hand on his shoulder.

“You ready, Bo?” she asked, her voice low and thick with somethin’ sacred.

He nodded. Didn’t matter how tired he was — he always wanted her prayers.

Rosetta moved in front of him, her beautiful hands pressin’ to either side of his face. Her thumbs brushed along his cheekbones, and Bo closed his eyes, leanin’ into her touch.

She started prayin’, her voice like a balm:

“Lord, I thank You for this man. For his heart, his strength, his spirit. I ask You and all my ancestors, the ones who walked before us, to keep him safe — to guide his feet, steady his hands, sharpen his mind.”

Bo breathed deep, lettin’ her words sink into him.

“Cover him with Your protection. Cloak him in Your love. Let no evil touch him, no hate prosper against him. May the road rise to meet him, and may he always find his way home to me.”

A long silence filled the room after she finished, thick with holy power.

Bo opened his eyes to find her starin’ at him, all soft and shining.

Without a word, Rosetta helped him shrug off his shirt, kissin’ his shoulders as she went. He climbed into bed, and she followed, pullin’ him into her arms like he was hers to shield.

Bo curled against her chest, breathin’ in her scent — warm earth and sage and the sweetness of baked apples from supper. She combed her fingers through his hair, murmurin’ soft nonsense words only meant for his ears.

He couldn’t help himself. He started kissin’ her face — her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the soft patch of skin by her jawline — over and over, like he was tryin’ to memorize every inch of her.

Rosetta laughed quietly, holdin’ him tighter.

“Ain’t never gon’ stop lovin’ you,” Bo mumbled against her skin, kissin’ the mole under her eye like it was a sacred mark.

“I know, baby,” she whispered back, rockin’ him slow. “I know.”

Outside, the Delta night hummed on — but inside their little house, wrapped up in Rosetta’s arms, Bo Chow drifted off to sleep with a heart fuller than any man had a right to carry.

#sinners film #sammie sinners #stack sinners #smoke sinners #bo chow sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners #x oc #x black!OC #bo chow #Bo Chow x OC #Bo Chow x reader #Bo chow fanfic

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thecameronchronicles · 8 months ago

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A Cup Of Sugar

TW: age-gap (reader's over 18.), dirty talk, sex without condom, manipulative behavior.

SUMMARY: Your next door neighbor and crush asks for a favor and leaves with something else...

A Cup of Sugar

The blue house with the white shutters has always been a staple to your cul-de-sac community since you could remember. Block parties pulled everyone together through fake smiles to save face for those who would more than likely be thrilled to not have to speak ever again. But in the politics of jealous wives and HOAs came one glimmer of peace in your existence.

The man in the blue house and white shutters.

Rafe Cameron.

He stood classified to his thoughts, his eyes always dancing over some shaven blades of grass paid to appear so perfect. He offered the waves to those to his caliber and always left you with a kind smile before slipping back inside. And this is how it had been for two decades. Since you were the little girl with pigtails who walked over with your parents to welcome him and his wife to the neighborhood before you could even look him in the eyes. And now, you dreamed of those eyes looking down on you for an entirely different reason.

You were always on the cusp of being noticed, putting increases effort when it was least expected. Even going out to check the mail you made yourself flawless in what you could, only ever getting the politeness from him.

At least until your eighteenth birthday. You caught his gazes lingering, your heart picking up speed, and his words a bit more adult than normal.

-------

A knock pulls you from the mundane afternoon where even the recent slew of TikTok trends over your FYP page do little to pass the time. Once opening the door, you silently curse not giving yourself a once-over in your camera before pulling it open.

"Mister Cameron. My dad isn't here..." The corner of his lips pull upwards.

"I know. I'm sorry to bother you, uh...do you have any sugar?" You stare, helplessly lured and anchored into the beckoning of him. Having always been attracted to the forbidden man across the street of blue eyes full of intimidation and cautious hands silently strong, you find it difficult to keep from showing it.

"Sugar? Um...let me check..." You move inside and hear him follow in uncertain steps before the door finally closes.

Once you come to the cabinet full of baking ingredients seldom used, already aware if you have any sugar it is probably more in brick form than edible, you play the time anyway to keep him in your company.

"Is Madison making something for Cheer or-"

"Let me help..." He stands behind you, shadowing you enough to nearly swallow you in his height alone, as he reaches over the cabinet.

"This cabinet?" You nod, facing him. His smirk remains on you as he makes no effort to actually seek out the sugar and simply holds his hand beside you as if to block you in.

"Mister Cameron..."

"Did you know that when your window is open at night that I can hear you in my backyard?" You blush, trying to imagine if there was anything embarrassing you had done. Played music too loud? Argued with your (now ex) boyfriend and it keeping him awake? Talked to yourself? Only God, it wasn't about him was it?

"Did I? I'm sorry. If I was too loud-"

"I can hear everything from the concerts you put on...to that which you do after you think everyone has gone to sleep..." He leans against you, his cologne dizzying you.

"I..." There is no mystery to his thinly veiled innuendo.

"You heard..." You can't say the words aloud, never having the chance as nobody else has ever been so brazen.

"Everything, Y/N. Or at least enough to know exactly what it is you need..." You blink in disbelief as all words thicken on your tongue, refusing to formulate.

"I-"

"You don't have to deny it. I know exactly what you need....Let me give it to you?" You swallow hard, trying to understand how this is happening. Manifestation truly works if your silent prayers had gone unanswered.

"I don't know-"

You are lifted onto the counter and he stands between your parted legs. It is a quick moment that feels as if it is in slow motion to the feeling of his hands on you.

"You want to know what else I know?" You swallow and nod, curiosity succeeding over logic.

"You can only come with my name on your tongue..." He kisses you with intent. Not to be gentle or loving but to claim. He doesn't wait for you to find breath or even steady against him as he uses the grip on your hips to pull you to him. You hold at his shirt for stability and it only makes him growl as your nails find him instead.

"You need what only I can give you, isn't that right, sweetheart?" You nod, too intoxicated by his touch to want to tempt fate to sober.

"I know nobody will be home for at least a few hours. You know how I know? Because I made sure of it. Now open those thighs for me-" You open and he scoffs, rubbing his jaw as he sees you not only eager but ready as you've completely soaked through your panties.

"I've had to listen for months while you got yourself off thinking nobody could hear you. But I did. And I wondered if you were doing it just to fuck with me or if you were really REALLY that desperate to come...next time, you say my name I'm taking it as a call and I'll make you come. Bet this sexy fucking ass on that." He grips the part of your ass exposed to him before he leans forward.

"Because I've had to hear you and now, you're gonna show me..." He pulls your panties to the side and rubs his cock up and down those lips.

"God, you're so fucking wet, it's almost pathetic." He moans before pushing the bulbous head of his dick closer to your entrance.

"Yesssss." He hisses as you gasp. He's wide, thick, and hot in every sense of the word. The coarse hair usually hidden to the naked eye is now stroking against you as he pulls back far enough to see the slickness you left behind on him.

"That's it....coat my fucking cock." He groans as he continues to thrust brutally and withdraw in almost torturous strides as you are breathless and wordlessly in awe. It is erotic, and almost painful, before he huffs.

"You sound so much better stuffed with me than whatever you were doing. What was it? Hmmm? Your fingers?" You nod, embarrassment rising up your body.

"And it was only me you thought of, yeah? None of those useless boys who can only dream of filling you like I can, right?" When you don't answer, he grips the back of your neck. "RIGHT?!"

You nod as he hoists your flat feet up to the counter so you're completely wide to him. His speed is no longer traceable as he's just pounding into you. Hand stabilizing himself in the cabinet above you, he rams into you with the force awakening something bold within you. You claw at his back and through his hair before kissing him again, instigating it all as he reciprocates with heady excess.

"Trying to get me to notice you in those bikinis and shorts like I could ever ignore you? Fuck, Y/N you're so wet for me aren't you? Gonna come hard? Maybe I should make you wait like you made me." He patronizes behind a humored growl. His head comes back, throwing it in pleasure as his face comforts, mouth wide and almost in disbelief as he grips the flesh of your hips with a punishable clutch.

"You need to come, you come to me. For me."

"Mister Cameron-"

"You call me Rafe when I'm this deep inside of you. Understand?"

"Yes R-Rafe."

"Good. Now scream it while I make you come and then I fill you up." The kitchen shudders around you as he thrusts and retracts, in and out, hard and deep. You were already sore but now you feel expanded and exhausted as he grips the back of your neck and pushes his mouth against yours. Not to kiss, to inform, and maybe even earn through a clenched repetition of "mine".

"Say it!" He calls out as you nod, agreeing in desperation as he showcases his approval on the final snaps of his hips before you feel him flood your womb in all that you were responsible for.

"Ahh fuck, yes I needed that..." He sighs as you keep your eyes on him as he pulls out of you. Without a care to clean up anything more than the space between you, he conceals himself back within his pants and shakes his head.

"So fucking sweet." He walks to the door and you're suddenly left half naked and empty.

"Wh-what about the sugar you needed?" You question, hoping it'll make him stay. With his brilliant smile and tempting lips purposed to a smirk, he grins.

"I got what I came for,. sweetheart." You sit in awe, realizing he took more than he left, including the fact you hadn't come. It was a play for power you gave him willingly and as much as you wanted to be the one in control, you knew you'd falter against him. Having a taste of him, you were eager for the next. Suddenly addicted to the man across the street you've loved and lusted for in equal measure since you could remember...

MASTERLIST

#rafe cameron outer banks #outerbanks #obx #drew Starkey #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron #outerbanks fanfiction

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covenofagatha · 4 months ago

Text

Do I wanna know? (Part 1)

Sequel to But you're my stepmom!

Picks up a few months later after your dad and Agatha get divorced and you've started college

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: fingering, mommy kink, slight angst

Fuck. You do not want to do this.

It’s a Saturday night and you’re here. You should’ve said you had anywhere else to be, but instead, your car almost gets hit as you turn the corner in possibly the narrowest parking garage you’ve ever been in. It makes you swear and you stomp on the brakes so quickly you think you might have a bruise from the seatbelt.

But luckily, you find a spot on the first floor and squeeze between two other cars, muttering a silent prayer that you don’t scrape against them.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans as you get out and walk into the lobby of the apartment complex.

It’s nice, although you hate to admit it. You would surely not mind spending more time here if it didn’t mean having to see—

“Hey, sweet pea!”

Him. You look to your right and plaster on a fake smile when you see your father standing there, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Hey,” you say softly, awkwardly patting his back with a hand as he embraces you.

He had been asking to get dinner with you at least once a week for the past few months since he and Agatha got divorced. You’ve always found an excuse to get out of it — you had homework, you had exams, you had to work over the summer and you were so tired — but now that it’s your first weekend in college and he knows that you don’t have anything going on, he insisted.

Plus your mom had sort of asked for you to go at least once. Your dad has been sending you updates about his apartment search and random internet posts that he found funny, and having lived at home all summer, you’ve kept your mom in the loop. She is still obsessed with him, always finding ways to bring him up in conversation, and you wish you were brave enough to tell her to just move on. She was absolutely ecstatic when you broke the news about him and Agatha and she’s been pressing you for updates ever since.

Part of the reason she wanted you to go see him was to scope out his new place and see if there was any sign of a new woman. There was still no sign about the lady he was having an affair with, so you weren’t sure if things had ended.

And when he moved out the first time, he took your mom’s can opener and she still won’t let it go. Before you left, she texted you that if you saw it, you should steal it back.

After the divorce went through, your dad had decided to sell the house and look for an apartment a little closer to his work, and he’s lived in this place for about a month now.

“How are you? How’s it going?” he asks as he leads you to the elevator. He presses his fob to the button inside and then floor six. You remember him being so consumed with having one of the top floors, like that would make him seem more important.

You shrug and pick at the peeling skin on your fingers. It’s a bad habit — one of your many. “Pretty good. Syllabus week has been a breeze. Made some new friends.”

“Classes seem like they’ll be fun?” he asks.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

And then a tense silence falls over the both of you. You haven’t actually seen him since your graduation, which was a whole other level of awkward with your mom there too, and you both know that the two affairs and two divorces has put a strain on your relationship.

It does hurt a little. You wish there was a way you could reach over the cold gap between you and go back to how things were when you were a kid, when you actually liked being around him.

But too much has happened.

“Well, I’m really glad you were able to come down for dinner,” he says and you smile tightly. “I can’t wait to show you the place and then we can get whatever you want to eat.”

The elevator dings and you follow him to an apartment a few doors down and he unlocks the door and lets you go first.

The floors are a laminate gray, the counters in the kitchen marble white with black pendant lights over the peninsula. The refrigerator is stainless steel and there’s a completely stocked wine cooler fridge built into the cabinets next to the stove. You walk past the kitchen into the living room where the couches from his and Agatha’s house are set up around an entertainment center with a fireplace and a blue rug under the coffee table.

“What do you think?” he asks, stepping next to you and putting an arm around your shoulders to bring you in close to him.

You take his fancy bachelor pad in again. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Maybe just pizza for dinner? We can order and watch a show or something?”

Staying in and having the television as a buffer is a much better plan than going out and having to make small talk that will end up with him on his phone anyway. He agrees and calls to order the pizza while you perch on the couch and scroll on your phone. You already have a text from your mom telling you to call her when you’re done and your chest tightens at the thought of all the shit she’s going to say. It’s fucking exhausting still being in the middle of this — you really thought it would get better, especially now that you’re in college. And yet, here you are.

“So…” your dad starts, plopping down next to you with a groan once he gets off the phone. He grabs the remote and turns the TV on. “You like your roommate?”

Your roommate, Alice Wu, is a sweet girl from out-of-state. You think that you and her will get along just fine and you’ve already agreed on all the rules of cleaning and having friends over. The first week has gone well and you’ve gotten close. “She’s cool. I think she and I will be good friends.”

He nods and turns on a show you watched awhile and the two of you sit in awkward silence until the pizza guy rings from downstairs. You excuse yourself to the bathroom after your dad rings him in.

The bathroom is through the bedroom and you take careful note of the sheets still strewn all over the bed and the two pillows at the top. One nightstand is cluttered with a phone charger, earplugs, a lamp, and a picture of you on your graduation day in a silver frame. It tugs at your heart and you instantly look away, not wanting to feel any more nostalgia.

However, on the other nightstand, there’s just a matching lamp. No hair tie, no other chargers or personal belongings.

But that stuff is easily hidden, so you go into the bathroom. One toothbrush, one retainer case, one razor. You can’t tell if you’re disappointed or glad.

At least you won’t have to listen to your mom talk endlessly about a new woman.

Your dad already has a plate with two slices on it for you sitting in your spot on the couch and you dig into it, suddenly famished. The atmosphere does warm up over time, and it’s no longer uncomfortable silence and you do end up talking a bit about his work and more about your school while the TV plays.

He doesn’t bring up your mom or Agatha at all, and neither do you. In a way, it’s nice to be removed from them for a few hours. Your dad has been villainized by both of them — and obviously he fucked up — but he is still your dad, despite your complicated feelings toward him.

After a few episodes of the show, you shift to get up, grabbing your plate. “You’re leaving already?” he asks and checks his watch.

“Yeah, it’s getting late and I should really be getting back to the dorms,” you say, trying to sound apologetic. Even if the bubble has been nice, you have somewhere you need to be.

It’s hard for your dad to hide his disappointment, but he gets it and grabs his keys to walk you down to your car.

“How’s, uh, how’s your mom doing?” he asks. Still putting me in the middle of all the imaginary drama she’s creating with you is what you want to say. But you know that he’ll call her out for it and you’d have to deal.

“She’s pretty good. Work’s been keeping her busy.” A safe answer. A true answer.

“Good,” he says and shoves his hands into his pockets and you know what’s coming next. “And Agatha? Have you seen her at all?”

Imagines of her hot body on yours flash through your mind. Her rosy nipples, her pale stomach, the heat that swallows up her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen her around. She’s doing all right, too, I think.”

Your dad nods and stops at your car. “Well, I had a great time with you,” he says and holds his arms out for a hug. You mutter something in agreement and give him an embrace with two pats — the way you’ve done it since you were a kid. “Let’s do it again soon.”

He tells you that he loves you and after you say it back, you get into your car and he watches you as you drive away.

Begrudgingly, you call your mom and put her on speaker and not even a second later, her voice fills your car.

“How was it? Did you see anything? Is there another woman? Did you find my can opener?” she asks all in one breath and you take a silent, deep breath.

You can’t wait to be home. “It was a pretty nice place actually.” Your mom snorts. “There wasn’t any sign of someone else there and I didn’t have time to look around. We just watched a show and ate pizza.”

She makes a sound. “Wow, father of the year. Maybe he cleaned up the place before you came over.” You hum noncommittally. “What are you doing tomorrow? Want to come over? I’ll take you grocery shopping.”

“Yeah, let me just check my schedule. Alice and I might be doing something, but I’d love to go there for a bit. Especially for groceries,” you tease and she laughs.

“I bet your father didn’t even offer to do that,” she says smugly and your face falls. Sometimes you wonder if she does half the things that she does for you just to one-up him.

“Okay, well I’m almost back now, so I’ll let you know when I’m coming over tomorrow,” you tell her, eager to wrap it up, and about to turn in. “Love you.” You hang up before she’s even done saying it back.

Once you park, you text your roommate saying that you won’t be back for the night — staying with family — and walk up to the apartment side door, letting yourself in with the fob on your key ring.

Agatha’s apartment complex is smaller than your dad’s, but just as nice, and you prefer it a lot more.

After the divorce, she stayed in a hotel for about a week before signing a lease on a place about ten minutes away from where the house used to be. You had helped her pick out the furniture and spent more time here than at your mom’s house the last couple months of school and she gave you a key to it the day she moved in.

It got harder over the summer to hang out with her, as you worked at an ice cream shop in the afternoons into the evenings and she was working her normal nine to five, but you made it work.

Things are really good between the two of you. There isn’t exactly a label on it, per se, but you both know that it’s a relationship. And without your dad in the picture and with her not being your stepmom anymore, there isn’t as much of a need to keep sneaking around — so when she puts an arm around you while you’re walking down the street and kisses your cheek when you say something cute and ghosts her pinky against yours, it’s okay.

You know things might change a little with you in college now, but you’re ready for it. And if you spend more nights at her place than at your dorm, so be it. It’s not like anyone’s going to know, and Alice will just think you’re staying with family.

Unlocking the door, you can practically feel the tension seeping away from your body. Agatha makes everything feel better. Even the house you grew up in, the one your mom still lives in, doesn’t feel as home as this does.

You don’t see her when you first walk in and you walk into the living room to see her typing something on her computer, brows furrowed, and you can just make out the glint of a document through the reflection of her glasses.

“Hey, you,” you greet, kicking off your shoes. She startles and looks up before slamming her laptop shut and smiling.

“Hey, honey,” she says and pats the spot next to her while she leans forward to place her computer on the coffee table. “How was it?”

Agatha had emphatically listened to your incessant complaining about having to get dinner with your dad, but in the end she had also pushed you to go. You groan and flop onto the couch, situating yourself so that your head is in her lap and you’re looking up at her. “It wasn’t that bad,” you admit and she smirks. “Don’t even think about saying ‘I told you so’. I will leave.”

She tosses her head back with a laugh and you play with the strands of hair that’s falling over her shoulder and teasing your face. “I would never, darling. But I’m glad it wasn’t bad. How is he?”

Your nose wrinkles. “Can we not talk about my dad? Although, I was just thinking about how much of a reward I deserve for going.”

“Oh, you think you deserve a reward, do you?” she ribs lightly, raising an eyebrow and poking you in the stomach. You giggle and twist away from her finger before sticking out your bottom lip as pitiful as you can and giving her doe eyes, nodding your head. She rolls her eyes fondly. “What were you thinking, honey?”

You shrug like you’re just now beginning to think about it. “Well, mommy,” you say, a thrill running through you at her sharp gasp. “I think since I was such a good girl, you should give me an orgasm.”

“Oh, just one?” she asks playfully, and you surge up out of her lap, turn over onto your knees to face her, and pull her in for a kiss. Your lips move against each other with familiar ease, her tongue licking hotly into your mouth and you moan — her hands slide up under your shirt and rest on your bare skin before you reach down and take it off.

“As many as you’ll give me, mommy,” you pant, and she grins before starting to suck open-mouthed bites onto your chest. You’re wearing green lingerie but she barely even looks at it before unclasping your bra from behind and tearing it off, throwing it somewhere on the floor.

She swirls her tongue around your nipple before suckling hard and you whimper, holding her head right against you. It feels like there’s a wire running straight from your boob to your cunt and you quickly feel yourself becoming soaked. Agatha switches to the other one and soon your entire chest is sticky with her saliva and you’ve moved onto her lap, squirming.

Her teeth nip at the underside of your breasts and you can’t take it anymore. “Mommy, please,” you beg, grabbing her hand and leading it to the waistband of your jeans. Her fingers rest there while you quickly unbutton and unzip and then you shove her into your pants, your hand circled around her wrist to just feel her.

Agatha chuckles throatily and moves her fingers experimentally against you while you try to grind down for some stimulation. You suddenly feel so empty, a molten heat between your legs, and Agatha crashes her lips back onto yours. She sucks on your tongue and tugs on your bottom lip as she finally presses against your clit and your hips jerk. “So wet for mommy, aren’t you?” she huffs and you nod and try to move against her harder.

When she finally pushes your underwear to the side and runs her fingers through your folds, you keen and bury a hand into her hair, face dropping down into her neck. She sharply gasps when you start breathing heavily against her skin, content to just keep your lips planted against her throat.

She slides a finger into you and your walls clench around her, trying to draw her even more in. Each time she fucks you, it feels like the first time — the same energy is there, the same electricity. But at the same time, she knows exactly what you need, maybe even more than you do.

Her thrusts begin to pick up and heat is rising through your body and you can see little indents in Agatha’s skin from where your teeth have slightly sunk in.

“Mommy, mommy — please, I need more,” you whine and she obliges by pushing another finger into you and curling them just right. A high-pitched sound leaves your mouth and you start riding her fingers the best you can, rolling your hips to match her and get her even deeper. You’re clenching furiously around her as sparks begin to fly in your lower stomach and you can feel the beginning tendrils of your orgasm start to build.

Agatha’s thumb circles around your clit without actually touching it. “God, sweetheart, you look so hot right now, taking my fingers like such a good girl. You feel so good, too. Never wanna leave you,” she babbles, making you convulse even tighter. There’s a slight pink tint to her cheeks and her breathing has picked up and you know she’s affected too. Her fingers are moving faster and she pauses for just a moment, making you whimper, before she stretches you out with a third.

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, your walls adjusting, and the slight burn only adds to the immense pleasure you’re feeling. “Fuck, fuck.” Your head is spinning, completely drunk with her and her perfume that’s been invading your nostrils the whole time, and you can’t even form a single thought.

She presses harder on your clit and with the hand that’s not currently inside you, grips your hair and pulls you away from her neck. You can see red blotches staining her skin and the thought of her wearing your marks around gets you even closer. “Look at me,” she grunts, her thrusts becoming more sporadic and you stare right into her dark blue eyes with your pleading wide ones. Your breaths intermix and she looks like she might also cum just from this.

Agatha lets out a strangled gasp when her gaze flickers from your eyes to your swollen lips to your breasts that are bouncing with your movements in her lap.

“Mommy, I need — right there —” You can’t even string together a coherent thought and she scissors her fingers inside you, the pressure making you see stars.

She looks you up and down again, drinking you in like she might never get enough, and her chest heaves with each breath she takes. “Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect,” she groans and your head falls back as you keep riding her. “I need you to cum for me, okay? Cum for mommy.”

“Mommy, fuck, I’m gonna — fuck I love you,” you groan, not even realizing the words slipping out of your mouth, the words neither of you have ever said before, before it’s too late and your orgasm explodes through your body in a way it never has before. You feel it in every crack and crevice inside you and she keeps fucking you just as hard while rubbing your clit and it quickly becomes too much, tears springing into your eyes.

Agatha’s fingers finally slow down and she coos sweet nothings in your ear and you wonder if she even heard you. It’s been a few months since you’ve been together, but neither of you has really acknowledged the depth between you.

And you just did, in the middle of sex.

“You okay?” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek and you nod before she pulls out of you and you wince at the sudden emptiness. You fall back out of her lap onto the couch. She must not have heard it.

There’s a slight gnawing feeling that begins to grow in your stomach — if you said it for real, in a moment that couldn’t just be blamed on a dopamine rush, would she say it back?

Does she feel the same?

Agatha kisses you before sticking her three fingers into your mouth so you can clean them up. “Good girl,” she purrs in a low voice. “Was that a good enough reward?”

You’re still a little out of it, but you nod dazedly. “Yeah,” you say softly and she gets off the couch and walks over to the fridge to get you a glass of water. “My mom wants me to go hang out with her tomorrow. What are you doing at night? Can I come over after?”

She pauses for a fraction of a second and then glances at you over her shoulder. “Um, sorry, baby. I have to work all day tomorrow. Some last minute things I’ve got to get done.”

You hum, a little disappointed, but graciously accept the water. “No worries. Maybe Monday or something.”

“Yeah, of course. Just a second, I need to go grab something,” she murmurs and then walks into her bedroom. You’re exhausted and you get off the couch, stretching your aching muscles, and you’re about to follow her when her phone buzzes on the end table.

Thinking it’s just a work email or something, you glance at it and your stomach drops, heart lurches.

It’s a text message from an unknown number.

Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

@lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #covsfics #do i wanna know

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holybibly · 10 months ago

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My bunnies seem to be drawn to the dark side, don't they? And how lucky for you, my sweet babies, that I'm here to fulfil all your darkest desires.

And here's the unholy thought of the day: Your sweet, slightly feminine roommate turns out to be a hardcore yandere dominant obsessed with you.

Seonghwa was a dream come true—gentle, adorable, so caring, a real sweet baby. You had been roommates for over three years now, and you thanked God every day for that.

You shared secrets, talked about dating, watched films together, braided each other's hair, and even did skin care routines together. Seonghwa was your best friend, but deep down inside, you couldn't help but regret that you couldn't go out with him, even though you wanted to. He was the kind of person you fucked, not the one who fucked you.

You could never imagine that Hwa could fuck your brains out or make you squirt until you passed out. His lips were made for blowjobs, not for eating pussy. He was a typical pretty boy, with a soft feminine appearance and lots of admirers. So all you could do was sigh sadly and dream that one day God would answer your prayers and send you someone like Hwa, but in a more dominant and harsher way. Someone who can take care of you like a queen and at the same time fuck you like a whore.

There was only one unspoken rule in your house: never enter Hwa's room. You could use his things without permission, eat his food, and even spend money from his card, but it was strictly forbidden to enter his room. You never minded; everyone had their own quirks, but curiosity still gnawed at you from within.

One day, when Seonghwa was out, you noticed that the door to his room was slightly open. A thin crack of black space beckoned to you like a forbidden sweet fruit, and you could not resist the desire to enter his room.

When you entered his room, you expected to see anything but what you found there—all the walls of his room were covered with photographs—your photographs, or rather, your naked photographs. Hundreds of photos of you showering, sleeping, changing clothes, and even, oh my God, photos of you masturbating, stuffing your pussy with a thick pink dildo. But that was only part of what they found. A pile of your used knickers under his pillow and another all sticky with his cum on the bedside table. You took them off in the shower this morning. Oh shit.

You were so shocked that you didn't even notice Seonghwa's presence behind you.

"You shouldn't be here, darling." His silky voice kissed the soft skin near your ear, and you squealed as you turned sharply to face Hwa.

For some reason, he looked completely different now—darker, more predatory. His usual large, shining eyes narrowed, a thick darkness gathering behind the mirrored black iris. A devilish grin spread across his sensual, plump lips. He looked completely mad; not a trace of your charming, sweet friend left.

"I... Seonghwa, I'm sorry..." A mixture of fear and strange excitement filled you, and you began to slowly back away from Seonghwa to create space between you. But Hwa didn't seem to like that at all as he began to move towards you, pushing you into a corner until your back was pressed against the sharp edge of the dresser.

Seonghwa's arms trapped you, squeezing the dresser on both sides of your body, his hips pressed against you so hard you could feel his erection, and damn, his cock was thick and big. God, the boy was huge.

"Look at you; you're shaking all over. Are you afraid of me, little star?" One of his hands came to your face, cupping your cheek, and you whimpered softly at the touch. You wanted to run away and hide in your room, but at the same time you wanted Seonghwa to do so much more than just caress your cheek. "Need I remind you that you're the one who snuck into my room? What am I supposed to do with a naughty little slut like you now?" Hwa playfully pinched your cheek, making you squeal, before his hand grabbed your throat, cutting off your oxygen supply, and he pushed his cock deeper into your body, moaning deeply in pleasure.

"S-seonghwa... we... we can talk about this..." You croaked, your voice barely above a whisper, muffled by his tight grip on your neck.

"Of course we'll talk about it and more, but first I'm going to take care of you. Take care of you like you always wanted me to. I'm going to take care of that sweet little cunt of yours; make sure it's full and saturated with my cum. Isn't that what you dreamed of, my star, when you moaned my name while you stuffed your slutty pussy with that disgusting dildo?" Seonghwa leaned closer to your face, his tongue poking out of his mouth to lick your parted lips. "I know all your wishes, my shining star, and finally I can make them come true. Don't worry, my love; now I will take care of you the way I always dreamed of."

#ateez smut #kpop smut #atz smut #ateez hard hours #ateez unholy hours #smut #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa smut #ateez x reader

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na0koz · 5 months ago

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jinx getting jealous and makin u pay for it :P

nsfw!!! MDNI. cw: blood, knives, kinda dubcon i guess?, strap use

anon request! wouldn’t let me respond to it in a post. this is my first time writing proper smut sorry if it’s bad

toxic!jinx masterlist

today was one of the few days you weren’t planning on hanging out with jinx, but obviously you ended up doing just that. jinx was just checking up on you, watching you work from the very back corner of the cute little coffee shop you were studying in (sometimes she is baffled by the fact that you have never ever noticed her stalking you. she is in plain sight half the time) when someone from your class comes in and approaches you at your table.

you smile up at them, moving your bag so they can sit opposite you and the two of you start chatting. several minutes go by, your studies long forgotten as you get to know your classmate, someone who you hadn’t really spoken to much before. jinx on the other hand, hasn’t moved a muscle and has barely even blinked as she watches the interaction unfold before her, eyes flickering between the two of you before noticing your classmate pulling their phone out.

jinx damn near gets up out of her seat when she sees you take their phone and type what jinx assumes was your phone number. she finally moves, though only to start bouncing her leg up and down, waiting for an opportunity to question you. she’s bitten her lip so hard that it bleeds.

after what feels like an eternity, your classmate leaves. jinx already knows their name and perhaps even their address after somehow finding a list of everyone in your class and researching each of them. they will face their punishment in due course. as soon as the door closes behind them, jinx is up and stomping towards your table.

the sudden movement opposite you as she sits down causes you to look up again from your laptop and you exclaim upon seeing her. “oh! hey jinx.”

jinx doesn’t say anything in return, just licks the remaining half-dried blood from her lip.

“who was that?” she questions, leaning on her forearms over the table. she sounds annoyed, and you really really hope she isn’t as angry as she sounds.

“someone from my class. they just wanted to borrow some notes they had missed,” you explain as you gather your stuff up and put it in your bag. you know she’s gonna make you leave with her so you might as well prepare.

“hm. whatever, let’s go.”

you follow jinx out of the shop and she grabs your arm to pull you along beside her while she thinks of the quickest route back to either of your houses.

you end up at her house, the door locked behind you as you push your shoes off. jinx tugs your bag off your shoulder for you, dropping it to the floor with a thud before leading you to her room.

she starts yanking off your jacket, your clothes and finally your underwear. she sheds a couple of her own layers, but pauses when she’s just in her underwear and a tight cropped tank top. you can’t say you’re not turned on, and you brace yourself for the teasing that will likely follow when jinx forces your legs open.

in the time you imagine how she’s going to chide you for how wet you’re getting over literally nothing, she’s managed to get her strap on and pulls you onto your stomach, bending your knees for you so you’re face down, ass up on her bed. she continues wordlessly as she begins tying a turquoise rope around your wrists behind your back.

jinx lines up her dick with your already dripping hole and pushes in, making you whine into the mattress. still without a word, she starts fucking you, and hard.

you quickly build up to your orgasm, chanting jinx’s name like a prayer begging her to let you cum.

she replies with a simple “go on.” and you cum hard on her dick, a few tears escaping your eyes and soaking the sheets below.

tonight, it’s her goal to make sure you know she’s the only one who can give you what she can, as well as she can.

jinx coaxes a few more orgasms from you with her strap before she decides to opt for a new method to make you feel so good you cry.

she pulls your fucked out body into her lap and drags your arms behind her head so they looped around her neck, still bound together by the blue rope. she kicks her legs under yours to force them open and keep them that way. then, she shoves two of her fingers into your mouth.

instinctively, you start to suck, tongue curling around her slender fingers.

“mhm, that’s it. good girl.” jinx muses as she watches your lips puckering around her digits. it surprises you how much she can change when she’s fucking you, becoming dark and dominant over you.

she pulls her now wet fingers out of your mouth with a pop and traces them down the valley of your chest, along your stomach down to your pussy. she teases your clit and your puffy folds for a second before plunging her fingers into your sensitive hole. you cry out and squeeze your eyes shut, failing to notice jinx reaching behind her as she grasps for her assault knife. the one with the hot pink and turquoise handle she made herself.

as she curls her fingers inside of you, she gently prods your inner thigh with the knife and you twitch at the sudden pain. you open your eyes and look up at her, not being able to restrain the whimpers coming from your throat as jinx continues fingering you with her knife still poking you, threatening to pierce your skin.

“ji-… hurts..” you can barely get a word out from how tight the coil inside of you is.

she’s not letting you reach your orgasm on purpose. you hear her giggle at your whining through the haze of your pleasure.

“you gonna cum?” she sings at you. she’s just teasing your for her own pleasure now. freak.

“please…jinx. wanna cum so bad..” you plead with her.

“y’know no one else can make you cum like this, baby. no one else can do what i do.” she begins to drag the knife up to the space between your tits.

jinx doesn’t feel like drawing any blood from you today, but she doesn’t need to tell you that right now. she just needs to make you know that you’re hers. she owns you and she needs to punish you for making her jealous.

“tell me i’m the only one who can make you cum.” she presses down with the blade, hearing you moan even louder. she’s changed her mind now. she pulls the knife down a little, drops of blood blooming on your chest.

you’re writhing in her grip now. you’re so so close to cumming but she just won’t let you.

“go on. tell me.” jinx says bluntly before dipping her head down to lick the blood off you.

“yo-..! you’re the only one jinx! the only one who can make me cum! please- please let me..” you cry as your sentence dies on your tongue, brows furrowed and eyes shut.

she hums. “see, baby? wasn’t so hard.” she puts the knife down and finally fucking you just that little bit harder.

the band in your belly snaps and you cum so hard you see stars. your hot juices spurt out of your convulsing hole over jinx’s palm and her bedsheets. she licks the tears from your cheeks and strokes your hair with her free hand.

you relax against her, breathing heavily as she wipes the small wound she made with a cloth she had on her nightstand. she lets you calm down a little more before cleaning up your soaked pussy.

you think it’s probably best to ignore any texts from your classmate, and pretend you typed your number wrong. for their sake, not yours.

#jinx fanfic #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx league of legends #jinx

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ccwpidsblog · 5 days ago

Text

White Dress, Black Cat 𖣁 | ONYAKOPON

Summary: They said she was a witch.

She said they were all damned. Onyakopon didn’t believe in hauntings until he heard his own voice tremble at the pulpit. Now every hymn echoes wrong, and she’s waiting for him by the well, knitting as if the world ain’t falling apart. He just wanted to serve God. Now they’re standing hand in hand, watching the damned burn.

Themes: Heavy Religious trauma/themes, family dysfunction, mentions of suicide, miscarriage, mental health struggles, tall blk female reader, plus-sized reader, preacherson!ony, implied supernatural violence, psychological horror, shy!ony, dark themes and atmosphere, small town prejudice, abandonment, slow burn, smut: virginity loss (mc and ony), soft sex/lovemaking, praise kinks, soft dom!ony

Part one | Part two | Part three

Word count: 10.2k

Authors Note: Well obviously I've been really into religious themes and southern gothic themes for some reason and with my religious background it's only fair I vent through my writing lol. This was meant to be a one-shot but yk how I get lol. Very different from the usual Ony fics hope you all enjoy and I don't disappoint 🥺💔

also wanted to thank @thecoochiefairy and @2neaky for unknowingly inspiring me!! I love black love and im happy to see it on tumblr again 🩷 please don't be shy send me an ask and support me on AO3

The night pressed in thick as syrup, and Onyakopon couldn't move.

He lay flat on his back on a threadbare cot in the shotgun house behind the old

sugarcane fields, sweat slicking his brow, heart hammering against ribs that had forgotten how to breathe. The air was too still. No crickets. No frogs. Not even the wind dared stir. Just that weight, heavier than a man, darker than sin, pinning him to the mattress with invisible hands.

Something's whispering in his ear.

He couldn’t understand the words, not exactly. But the voice, it was his father’s. And then not.

His body twitched. Eyes wide, still unable to blink. In the corner of the room, where the shadow refused to dissolve, something crouched. Watching. Waiting. Its eyes were coals, slow-burning.

“Get up,” he told himself. But his jaw wouldn’t work. His tongue felt thick. Roots of a tree growing wild inside his throat.

The thing in the corner inched forward. Crawling on elbows. Grinning too wide.

And then—

A scream tore from his chest. The kind that didn’t sound human.

He sat bolt upright, breath ragged, vision swimming. The shadow was gone. But the smell lingered like hot iron and smoke. Like burnt offerings. Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder as the sky began to pour. The world had moved on. But Onyakopon didn’t.

Not yet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared down at the callouses in his palms.

The tremble in them betrayed him. That was the third one this week. And in every single one, there was always a shadow. Eyes like smoldering coals. A voice that wore his father’s face like a mask. No matter how many scriptures he recited before bed. No matter how often he sang himself hoarse in praise. It kept coming back. Stronger and stronger. And every time he woke, he felt like something had been peeled off of him in the night. Something soft. Something sacred.

He refused to speak on it. Refused to write it down. Didn’t dare let it live outside his own chest.

Not yet.

Not running. Not crying. Just sitting there heavy on his heart. Another crack of thunder rumbled the sky as heavy rain pelted on his family homes roof. He rose from his bed pulling his rosary off his night stand bringing it to his lips as he said a silent prayer.

Lord… have mercy on me. I been seein’ things. Eyes in the corner, whispers in the dark, faces that don’t belong to no man. I don’t know if it’s You, or the Devil, or somethin’ in between. But I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m tryin’.

Send me peace. Send me clarity. Send me somethin’ steady, somethin’ real. A light, Lord. Just a light to carry me through. Even if I don’t understand it yet.

As he said his Amens and laid back in his bed, Onyakopon had felt for the first time think that He wasn't listening.

By Sunday morning, the dreams still hadn’t left him. They clung to his shoulders like wet cotton.

But church folk didn’t care about dreams, especially not from a man like him. broad-shouldered and Bible-raised man, with a voice like honey on fire. The kind of voice that made pews sway and Deaconess Grant shout with both hands in the air.

Onyakopon stood at the front of the little white church he'd grown up in fingers wrapped around the wooden pulpit like every Sunday, his deep waves still damp from a basin rinse. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass panes, splashing color over the choir robes and sweating faces. The fans were flapping, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus but the heat was still wrapping necks like a noose.

“There's a leak in this old building... and my soul...” His voice filled the rafters, warm and booming.

Eyes closed. He let the song carry him. He tried to lose himself in it. But then

He saw it.

It wasn’t a flash. Not a trick of the light. It was there, really there, on the third pew from the front, sitting where Sister McGee always sat, legs crossed and grinning wide like it was proud to be seen. A thing with a stretched-out face and black gums, skin that shimmered like chicken grease thrown in water. Its eyes were hollow, but it always found him.

Mocking.

Ony’s throat caught on the next word.

“...This old building—keeps o' sinkin' and my... soul”

His voice had cracked like he was sixteen again singing for the congregation for the first time, he winced. Blinked. Shook his head.

Someone from the amen corner called out, calm and easy: “Take your time, brother.”

The thing was gone.

Just a trick of the heat, he told himself. Just his mind. The back doors of the church creaked open. Slow. Dust in the light. And there she was. Tall for a woman and wide-hipped, dark-skinned kissed by Gods given sun, like the earth after heavy rain, wearing a faded rose dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the hem. Her black cat trotted beside her like it belonged there. She held a woven basket over one arm and wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with dried lavender.

Every voice in the room caught in their throats.

Folks didn’t speak her name. Didn’t meet her eye. The bastard daughter of sin and prophecy. The daughter of a witch. But she just walked, quietly, deliberately, like the whole town wasn't against her and took her seat on the far back pew. Sitting there there like she always had a right to.

And while the choir tried to pick up the next verse, she began to knit. Small, neat stitches. Humming the melody under her breath in a voice soft as velvet.

Onyakopon stared too long.

He wasn't the only one.

Service ended with a shaky benediction and more side-eyes than hallelujahs.

Folks filed out quickly, muttering about the heat, about the hymnbook pages sticking together, about anything but the girl and her cat in the back pew. Onyakopon pretended to help fold chairs in the fellowship hall just long enough for everyone to disappear down the gravel road.

He stepped out the side door into the sunlight, breathing like he’d been underwater. But even outside, the church still felt-strange. Like it held its breath after she walked in.

She was still in the last pew. Alone now. Knitting the same deep thread with slow, sure hands. Her cat sat curled beside her like a guardian made of fur shadows. The rest of the sanctuary had emptied out like they feared catching something just by breathing her air.

Onyakopon stood at the door a moment, one boot scuffing the floor.

She didn’t look up. Just said, soft and almost teasing , delicate voice bouncing off the empty decaying walls.

“You feel it too.”

His spine stiffened as he straightens himself up, removing his cap from his head, deep

frown lines growing between his eyebrows.

"Ma'am?"

She tugged the thread once, looped it, pulled it through. Her fingers never paused.

“What don’t belong in the Lord’s house.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing.

Then she looked up. Wide, round, doll-like eyes — so dark they shimmered. She looked at him like a mirror. Like she saw every dream he tried to forget, every shadow that clung to the edges of his soul.

Onyakopon’s stomach twisted. A chill moved up his spine slow as molasses. He hadn’t told nobody about the thing that visited him in sleep or what he'd seen — not his mother, his father or brother. This was something just between him and God. He felt his fists clench, not in threat but in defense. That kind of knowing… it wasn’t natural.

He took a step in, boots creaking on the old wood. “You been watchin’ me?” he asked, voice low and rough like split wet oak.

“No,” she said, still sweet, still calm. “You came lookin’ for me. Even if you ain’t know it yet.

He frowned deeper, throat dry. “You don't know what you're talkin' about ma'am..”

“Mm.” She glanced down. “And yet, here you are, tryin' to defend yourself to a stranger who don't know what she talkin' bout."

The black cat stretched from its place at her feet and wound around his leg, tail brushing his calf like a whisper. Onyakopon looked down, startled, as it rubbed against his dress shoes, purring deep like a hymn. He tensed, stepping forward, and his shadow stretched over her like a giant. Despite their size difference, he felt a sudden weight in the air. Her presence loomed, even sitting, somehow bigger than him. Ony was always the biggest man in any room — 6’7, broad and built like a pillar. But this woman, in a worn rose dress and knitted calm, made him feel small.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice softer now, but no less honest.

She smiled just slightly. “You already know.”

“I don’t.” She hummed again, “Your dreams are becoming louder brother,” she murmured, threading her yarn again. “Woke the sky last night, Woke the dirt.”

He blinked, unsettled. He didn’t want know how to fight it. Didn’t know how to turn off the uncomfortable truth in her voice. Her fingers moved again. The yarn wound tighter. She added, without looking

It’s this town. Folks plant their evil here, water it, pray over it like it’s corn and wheat. And it grows.”

Ony’s jaw tensed. The cat flicked its tail once like punctuation. She tied off the thread, tucked the yarn into her basket like she was sealing something sacred or dangerous.

“When you start to see the truth,” she said, standing now, her basket in hand, “you’ll know where to find me.”

She lingered in the doorway, eyes on him like she already knew what he’d choose.

“May the Lord keep you, Onyakopon. Even when the ones close to you can’t.”

Then she vanished into the rain.

The church doors creaked as he stepped out, the rain had stopped sunlight dull and sour under a heavy sky. No birds singing. Just the wind dragging itself down the road like a dying hymn.

The woods swallowed her up quick, the church just a shadow behind her. Leaves brushed her shoulders, pine needles crunching beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back once. Mama trotted at her side, tail high, silent as breath.

“He don’t even know what he is yet,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but also to the cat.

Mama meowed low, like a scoff.

“I know, I know. You don’t like him. Sayin’ I oughta let him stay lost.”

She paused by a fallen log, placing her basket on it carefully. Sat down, drawing her shawl tighter across her shoulders.

“But he’s dreamin’ the way I used to. That means somethin’. Ain’t many left who can see past the veil.”

Mama leapt up beside her, staring off into the trees like she was waiting for somethin, or someone.

The girl smiled faintly. “You always was overprotective.”

Mama blinked slow.

“I ain’t lettin’ him close, not yet. Just watchin’.”

She turned her eyes to the sky, where clouds pressed low and the wind smelled like storm.

“When he’s ready to see the truth,” she murmured, “he’ll know where to find me.”

Mama curled against her side, purring soft and wary.

And the forest, for now, held its breath.

Monday morning came like it always did — quiet, slow, and too bright.

The sky was washed pale like a bedsheet left too long in the sun, and the town lay still beneath it. No rain left, just the memory of it in puddles and soft mud tracks. Ony didn't dream at all last night, just darkness and cold.

Onyakopon stood by the porch steps, box of his mama’s peach pies tucked under one arm, the other gripping a thermos of chicory coffee. Caleb his older brother was already loading up the truck, hands moving fast and efficient, like always.

“Quit draggin’ your feet,” Caleb muttered. “These folks ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Ony grunted, climbing in beside him.

They rode through the back roads in silence for a while, gravel popping under the tires, air sticky with heat. Every house they passed had a porch, and every porch had eyes. Folks rocking slowly in creaking chairs, faces turned their way but not smiling. At the first stop, Miss Irene met them on her porch with a crooked grin and two dollars folded tight in her hand.

“Your mama’s a blessin’, she know that?” she said, voice thin as brittle paper. “Tell her I’m prayin’ for her.”

She didn’t look at Ony when she said it.

By the third house, he noticed it, the way people didn’t laugh the same. Didn’t talk the same. Brother Johnny Al who always joked with him just nodded and shut the screen door with a quick and nasty slam. He saw the elderly man peeking from the blinds as they drove away, he should have worn his glasses today because he swore his eyes flash completely dark.

Another one of their regulars wouldn't meet his eyes during prayer, just muttered “Amen” too fast and wiped sweat off his brow that wasn’t there.

The last stop was by the church, where Sister Myra handed Caleb her tithe and asked them to “keep an extra prayer for the sinful.” She smiled at his brother when she said it, but Ony felt it cut anyway when it dropped as she looked at him duly

By noon, Ony’s chest felt tight. Not like fear like being studied. Like his skin was a page someone was reading line by line. He wondered if this is his Jesus felt when they read his commandments though Caleb didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was good at that.

Caleb was humming to himself on the drive back, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm, until Ony finally spoke.

“Something’s off,” Ony said, quiet.

Caleb didn’t look at him when he responded, just snorted dismissively. “It’s Monday. That’s what’s off.”

“I’m serious.” Ony’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Like somethin’ shifted. Like the world ain’t sittin’ right on its bones no more.”

“Somethin’ off,” he said again, quieter now, letting the words hang in the cab.

His long legs stretched out in the passenger seat, feet braced like he was expecting a turn that never came.

Caleb finally glanced at him, just a flick of the eye, jaw tight. Then laughed, short and sharp.

“Boy, you feel off ‘cause you always by yourself, hidin’ in your own head like some daydreamin’ woman. You need to study more. With me and With Pa. Need to find you a wife. Get you right.”

“...A wife?”

The word stuck in Ony’s throat, and just like that she was there. Not in body but in that sudden, dangerous way dreams slide into daylight. She wasn’t doing anything grand just sitting on a porch, elbows on her knees, eyes half-lidded like she knew every secret he ever kept. Humming low. Thread slipping through her fingers like it had a mind of its own. Like he did.

Ony blinked slow, like the words took a second to land again he repeated "A wife.."

Caleb went on, voice firmer now. “You feel off ‘cause you always stuck in your damn head, day dreamin’. Walkin’ around like you waitin’ on signs and visions instead of doin’ what men do.”

Ony turned to him, slow. “And what’s that?”

“Work. Worship. Wife. Provide. That’s the order. That’s how Pa did it. That’s how I do it. You think I didn’t feel strange too before I married Leah? Thought the whole world was wrong. Now look, she carryin’ my child, and I sleep just fine.”

Ony shook his head, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m crazy ‘cause I ain’t found nobody to lay up under yet?”

“I think you lonely,” Caleb snapped. “And lonely men start believin’ in all kinds of foolishness.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down like the summer heat.

Caleb finally broke it, voice low and hard. “I think somethin’ needs to fix you. You been strange for weeks. Folks see it. You don’t even try no more—don’t talk, don’t help with the sermons, barely speak to Ma. And now you sittin’ here talkin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

Ony turned his head to the window, jaw tight. “You don’t see what I see.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the damn problem. You always talkin’ in riddles. Bein’ quiet ain’t the same as bein’ deep.” Caleb’s voice was sharp. “You need to come back to earth, Ony. You ain’t no damn prophet. You just lost.”

Ony’s voice was cold, clipped. “Maybe you’re the lost one if you think a woman and a baby in this rotting town gonna fix anything.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “So you disrespectin’ the Bible teachings, boy?”

Ony didn’t look at him. Just said quietly,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.”

Caleb turned to face him, brow furrowed. Ony finally met his brother’s eyes. “That don’t sound like disrespect,” Ony said, voice flat. “That sound like a man knows this world don’t owe him nothin’. Not comfort. Not clarity. Not no wife or baby to fix what’s broke inside.”

Ony opened the door and stepped out, boots hitting the dirt like punctuation. The screen door creaked faintly in the distance, wind brushing against the trees. Caleb stayed in the truck for a second longer, jaw flexing, breath shallow. Then he shoved the door open.

“You always pullin’ them verses like a blade,” Caleb snapped, rounding the truck

“Think that makes you more holy? Makes you a better God-fearing man than me?”

Ony didn’t answer, just walked slow toward the porch, hands in his pockets like nothing touched him. Caleb caught up fast, grabbing his arm. " I’m talkin’ to you.”

Ony yanked back. “And I heard you. You mad ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about, and it don’t line up with your little box of how a man supposed to be.”

Caleb shoved him then, not hard, but hard enough.

“You think knowin’ scripture make you better than me? You think starin’ off into space and spittin’ riddles make you more of a man?”

Ony pushed him back, this time with force.

“I think pretendin’ like a wife and a baby make the rot go away is a lie. I think that makes you the fool.”

They were close now, breath hot, shoulders squared. From the porch came a soft creak the screen door opening slow.

Their mother stepped down from the porch, robe tied tight at the waist, her expression unreadable — but her eyes sharp as ever. Leah hovered behind her, one hand on her stomach, eyes wide.

“That’s enough out here,” she said again, sterner now. “I don’t care who’s feelin’ what you don’t raise your voices like that on this land.”

Caleb’s chest was still heaving, fists balled at his sides, but he dropped his eyes. Ony, jaw locked, He looked at her, really looked at her and something in him softened.

“I’ll be back ‘fore supper,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, Mama.”

She nodded, the way only a mother could like she saw through him but loved him anyway.

As Ony stepped off the porch, he brushed past Caleb, shoulder knocking into his brother’s like punctuation. Deliberate. Firm.

Caleb turned after him, lips parted like he had more to say, but whatever it was, he swallowed it.

Leah reached for his hand from the porch.

“Let him go,” she said gently.

“He don’t need to wander,” Caleb muttered. Their mother didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Maybe he do.”

Onyakopon walked with no aim, boots kicking up dust as the cicadas screamed louder than the thoughts in his head. The town stretched out around him, crooked and quiet all heatwaves and peeling paint and eyes he couldn’t see but felt. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw still clenched.

He didn’t know where he was going, Nowhere, really but it felt like somewhere

Like something was pulling.

The sun hung thick and low, dripping gold between the trees, and for a second everything felt too still like the world had paused to hear his steps. Then he saw it.

A black cat, perched on a crumbling stone fence just ahead. Its fur looked wet, almost shining. It didn’t move when he approached.

Just stared, eyes like glass marbles catching the light. He slowed and the cat didn’t blink, didn't flinch. Just waited.

Ony felt a chill crawl up his neck despite the heat.

“You lost?” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. The cat tilted its head, eyes squinting like his question offended it, then turned. Leaping down, slipping into the brush like it had somewhere to be and maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to follow. So, he'd stand there for a while listening, waiting - for what exactly? He wasn't so sure himself.

Staring at the place where the cat had vanished. His breath slowed, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. He didn’t move, just listened to the buzz of the heat, the rustle of leaves.

Thinking about turning around. About going home. Sitting down with his family at dinner telling them he was ready to look for a wife, asking his father to mentor him. Mold him to be just like him and Caleb. About pretending he hadn’t felt something shift deep in his gut the second he saw that cat.

Maybe Caleb was right.

Maybe he was strange.

Maybe he was just lonely.

A sharp, irritated meow snapped him from the thought. There it was again — the black cat, now sitting neatly a few paces behind him, tail curled tight, ears pointing upward, eyes narrowed like it was waiting on a child dragging their feet. It meowed again, louder this time, then stood and turned. Walked ahead slowly, stopping every few feet like it was checking to see if he’d catch on. Ony swallowed. Then, without a word, he followed.

The cat cut through a thicket like it had somewhere to be, glancing back only once before Ony followed. Trees arched above him like ribs, the woods swallowing sound until all he heard was his breath and the soft thud of his boots on earth. It didn’t feel like he was walking anymore. More like being led. They came to a clearing a patch of light cracked open like an eye between the trees, and there she was. She sat on an old quilt, colors faded like memory, her back to him. Her clothes clung loose and thin in the heat nothing like what women wore outside the house. Nothing a preacher’s son had any business looking at. But he did.

She was knitting again. Hands moving fast, like she was trying to exorcise something with every twist of thread. Her dark coils slipped loose, brushing her cheeks as she muttered to herself, angry and fast. The cat trotted over to her and curled up like it had been expected.

Without looking up, she said, “Thought you didn’t like him, Mama.”

Ony took a careful step forward, brow furrowed. “Your mutt don’t like me?”

The girl turned sharp, like she’d been waiting on that line. Her hands froze mid-stitch, and her head snapped over one shoulder. That chubby, soft face from church? It scrunched up like a storm cloud now, eyes suddenly sharp cutting.

“Only mutt here is you.”

Even the cat hissed, low and warning, tail flicking once like a whip before settling back down beside her with a satisfied grunt.

Ony stiffened.

She wasn’t sweet like she was in the Lord’s house. Not quiet and warm like the girl humming behind the pews. Her energy was strange now. Bristled. Her lips were dry, chapped pink from too much sun, and her voice carried something jagged underneath it.

“You always follow stray things?” she asked, threading again quick and harsh like the yarn had done her wrong.

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why his feet brought him here at all. “You was knittin’ in church,” he said finally, more to himself than her.

“I was.”

“You knittin’ now.”

“Got hands, don’t I?”

He squinted at her, frustrated and fascinated all at once. “You always talk like this?” She shrugged, didn’t look up. “Only when men ask me stupid things.”

Ony winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His boot scuffed at the dirt, slow and awkward. He didn’t have much practice with women, his world was made up of his mother, elder ladies at church, and Leah when she needed something fetched from the pantry.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, voice low and careful.

The girl paused. Her fingers stilled against the needles, eyes flicking up to study him for the first time without all that steel in them.

“No need to apologize,” she said, gentler now. “The day hasn’t been the kindest to me.”

She yanked at her project something half-made and angry with color, thread coiled tight like it was holding its breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. If anything, I should be used to it by now.” She huffed, more to the yarn than to him, jaw clenching like there was more she wanted to say but didn’t trust the space between them enough yet.

Ony shifted his weight, thumb hooking in his belt loop. His voice came quiet, almost a whisper. “Day ain’t been kind to me neither.”

That made her pause again. Just long enough for the cat to flick its tail against her hip, like it was waiting too.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, just patted the empty space beside her blanket, fingers brushing away twigs and grass. “Well… you can sit if you want. You look like you been walking without knowin’ where to land.”

Ony hesitated. His eyes flicked down, he hadn’t really looked before, not properly. But now the way the fabric clung to her arms, the soft rise of her chest as she breathed, the bare skin of her calves peeking beneath the hem, it struck him all at once.

It wasn’t scandalous in the way church folks used the word. But it was… intimate. Delicate. Dressed like that, back home, she’d be in her own bedroom or padding barefoot through the kitchen fetching tea for her mother. Not out here in the woods with a stranger.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You sure?”

She gave a half-smile without looking at him. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks burning as he eased himself down beside her careful to leave a respectful distance, hands resting flat against his thighs like he was trying not to touch anything at all. The cat stretched between them like it was measuring the space.

They sat in silence.

Not the kind that crawled under your skin like Sunday tension or lingered like unsaid prayers, but something softer. Still. Ony sat with his hands folded, shoulders loose for once. The weight he always carried in his spine, the pressure to square his chest, to be something righteous and loud — eased without permission.

The girl kept knitting. Her fingers moved fast, urgent almost, like she was working through a thought with each loop and pull. The cat yawned, curling into a perfect comma between them.

Then, without looking at him, she said it low:

“Your head’s loud again. Makin’ the wind brush by a lil too fast. Gettin chilly. ”

Ony blinked, brows pulling together.

“Just breathe,” she added.

He did. And it wasn’t a deep breath or a proud one, but something real. It slid out of him slow, quiet. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The wind slowed. The trees settled.

So did he.

The silence between them didn’t ache like it did at home. It stretched warm, quiet—not something to fix, just something to feel. Ony let his eyes drift to her hands, how fast they moved, like they had somewhere to be.

“You always knit this fast?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a soft shrug, not looking up. “Only when I’m tryin’ not to cuss or cry. It helps. Pullin’ somethin’ ugly outta me and making it useful.”

Ony nodded slowly, watching the rhythm of her fingers. The thread danced between her knuckles like it knew a secret language.

��You… think you could show me how?”

That made her pause. She looked at him for a beat, then down at her lap, like she was weighing it. Finally, she held up a half-finished square of fabric — dark, tight with frustration.

“You sure?” she asked. “Most men too proud to sit still with something this soft.”

“I’m not most men,” Ony murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She smiled, not wide but real, and shifted a little to the side. " I’ll show you.”

He shifted closer, slow like the earth might split if he moved too fast. She handed him the needles, warm from her fingers, and the yarn, coarse but strangely comforting.

“Keep your hands steady,” she said, voice softer now. “Let it pass through like water. Don’t grab it so tight.”

Ony tried, fumbling at first. She reached over, guiding his fingers without making a big deal out of it. Her hands were smaller than his, but surer—she shaped him like she did the thread, gentle but firm. “You’re teachin’ me to do women’s work,” he muttered, half teasing.

She snorted. “I’m teachin’ you to keep your mind from rot. Don’t matter what shape the work come in.”

That made him smile without thinking.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. he asked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes. “Like you halfway know what God whisperin’ before He even say it?” She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to give away.

“You asked me that before,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You talk like my granny, but you don’t look eighty-six.”

That made her laugh—real and full, spilling out of her like light. She leaned back a little, grinning at him. “Your granny must’ve been sharp.”

“She was,” Ony said, quiet now, surprised at the warmth threading through his chest. He let the silence sit between them again, but it didn’t feel empty — it felt close. And when their eyes met for just a second too long, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… true.

Then nip.

“Agh—damn!” Ony yelped, jerking slightly as Mama, the cat, sunk her teeth gently into his thigh like she’d had enough of the moment.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Mama don’t like when people get too comfortable.”

“She got good timing,” Ony muttered, rubbing his leg and glaring at the cat, who looked smug and settled right back down beside her. “Guess she figured you needed some grounding.”

They both laughed, the weightlifting again, but not gone. Just resting for now. Ony glanced down at the cat, still lounging like she owned the blanket and the girl both. He reached out a slow hand—Mama narrowed her eyes but didn’t move.

“How long you had her?” he asked, voice lower now, thoughtful.

The girl’s fingers slowed around the yarn. “Seven years,” she said, quiet.

He looked up. “That long?”

“She showed up a few hours after my mama passed.” Her voice was steady, but there was something buried in it—like a scar covered by a silk scarf. “Just… appeared on the porch. Sat right at the door like she was waitin’. Like she knew.”

Ony said nothing, only watched her face.

“I like to think she is my mama. In some way,” she went on, threading the needle through the yarn faster now. “Mama always said she’d come back as a black cat. Said it’d suit her. Misunderstood. Proud. Particular. Protective.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And she was all three.” Mama let out a slow purr, as if in agreement.

“I believe that,” Ony murmured.

She looked over at him, brows lifted slightly.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just feels true. Like the way certain songs make you cry even if you don’t understand the words.”

She smiled at that, soft, almost grateful.

“You always talk like that?” she teased.

He grinned. “Guess we even now.”

Their laughter faded into the breeze, the knitting needles tapping steady again. Somewhere in all of it, Ony realized — he hadn’t thought about the tightness in his chest for minutes now. Minutes that felt like something more than time.

The wind shifted, sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick afternoon air like a knife dipped in river water. It brushed against Ony’s arms and made the fine hairs on his skin rise. But it wasn’t the cold that made him stiffen.

It was the girl.

She froze. Fingers gone still, the thread limp in her lap. Her body locked up like a porch swing caught mid-sway. Even Mama, curled smug and sleepy just moments ago, lifted her head, ears flicking forward, eyes narrowed at something just beyond the trees.

“You alright?” Ony asked, leaning a little closer, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb whatever had just walked through them. She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked like she was trying to remember how. Then nodded slowly, though it didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Sometimes the wind don’t come to cool,” she murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s just passin’ through, carryin’ somethin’ behind it.” Ony glanced around, suddenly more aware of how quiet it had gotten. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Just wind and the low hum of something beneath it.

“What’s it carryin’?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Mama felt it too.”

The cat was on her feet now, tail low, pressed against the girl's side like she might need to bolt — or block. “You should get home soon,” the girl said gently, but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were somewhere else. “Sun’s not as strong as it looks.”

Ony didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his voice surer than he felt.

But she just gave a tiny smile, one that didn’t match the new edge in the air. “I’ve walked through worse.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing now, where the trees swallowed the sun in long shadows. Ony hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered — or maybe how far she’d led him. The cat weaved between their ankles, brushing its side against Ony’s boot one last time before settling back by her feet.

He took a step back, not wanting to go, but knowing the air had changed again. “You gon’ tell me your name?”

She paused, gathering up her needles and thread. The question hung in the air like smoke before she finally spoke, voice light but low, like a secret.

“You already know it.”

“I don’t.”

She looked up, lips curving into something half-playful, half-knowing. “Well, that’s what makes it fun.”

He gave her a look, amused and a little flustered. “Alright then… I’m Onyakopon.”

“I know,” she said softly, the smile not leaving her face. He blinked, surprised, then chuckled. “’Course you do.”

Their hands met then — a shake at first, but it lingered. Her hand was soft but firm, warmer than the wind that had just passed.

They didn’t speak as they held it. Just let it stretch, like maybe neither of them was quite ready to leave. Then her fingers curled, just slightly. “Be mindful,” she said, voice almost too quiet for the air. “Of what you carry. Of whom you follow. Everything that feels wrong right now. It's not all in your head.”

Ony’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already turning away, Mama trotting ahead like she knew the way. He stood there watching, rooted in place, as the girl moved between the trees, slipping into them like smoke. Her nightgown caught the last bit of light, white and fluttering like wings.

Then she was gone.

Like something holy. Or something beautifully haunting.

By the time Ony reached the porch, the sun was kissing the edge of the horizon, everything soaked in that strange amber glow that made shadows long and soft. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, and the familiar creak under the third board welcomed him home like it always did. Inside, the house was warm and humming with domestic rhythm. Dishes clinked softly, the smell of stewed okra and baked bread thick in the air. His mother stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, humming a hymn under her breath as she laid out silverware. Leah was beside her, placing the cornbread down with careful hands over a dishcloth.

They both looked up when he stepped in.

His mother’s eyes lingered. “Told you I’d be back before supper,” Ony said, brushing a hand over his neck, suddenly conscious of how the wind still clung to his shirt, like he’d brought the outside in with him.

"Mm make sure you wash them hands before sittin' at my table." She didn’t say more and went back to setting forks.

Leah’s eyes flickered between the two brothers as Caleb appeared from the back hall, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Ony tensed instinctively, but Caleb didn’t say anything just stared at him for a second too long. The air in the room wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t settled either. Ony felt it swirl around him, curious and careful, like everyone was waiting for something to crack.

He moved toward the sink to wash his hands, nodding toward his mother as he passed. “Smells good in here, Ma.”

She nodded again, this time more gently, then glanced toward Caleb like she was measuring something unsaid between them.

No one asked where he’d gone.

And he didn’t offer it.

But as he dried his hands and found his usual seat, he thought of her—bare feet in the grass, humming low, thread dancing between her fingers like it had a mind of its own.

The clink of forks against ceramic was the loudest sound at the table. Ma had made stew, rich and spiced, but it tasted like sawdust in Onyakopon’s mouth.

“Had a little heat between you two earlier,” Pa said without looking up, spoon cutting through his bowl. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Ony didn’t look at Caleb, though he felt the verse land like a stone between them. Psalm 1:33, yeah — but it had the weight of Cain and Abel behind it, and they all knew it.

Caleb just scoffed under his breath.

“Yesterday’s service ended early,” Caleb said casually, like a man mentioning the weather. “Soon as that girl came 'long Whole congregation cleared out like they caught the plague.

Ma sneered without missing a beat. “Never met such an unlady-like woman. Wandering about with a devil’s pet, whisperin’ to trees like they whisper back. But Lord knows she can stitch. Shame every thread feel like a curse.”

Ony’s grip tightened around his spoon. He stared down into his stew, letting the broth steam up his face like fog. He didn’t say anything — not about her hands, not about her voice, not about the way she said his name like she’d always known it.

Ony felt a strange ache twist inside him at her words, a pull toward the woman Ma so openly despised. He kept his jaw tight, the silence settling even heavier around the table.

Leah shifted uneasily, but no one else spoke. The candle flickered low, and the weight of unspoken things hung thick between them.

“Boy,” Pa said suddenly, voice firm. “You best get out your head. A man’s got no business sittin’ at his father’s table starin’ off into the dark.”

Ony blinked slowly, but didn’t answer.

“You think you grown? Then act like it. Ain’t no room in this house for cloudy minds and foolish obsessions. You wanna be a man, be one. Handle your kin. Get your head on straight. Get your spirit right.”

Still, Ony didn’t speak — not to him. His eyes stayed low, locked on the chipped edge of his plate. Then, like something creeping up from his chest without permission, his voice slid out low, almost like it didn’t belong to him

“What makes her a bad person for lovin’ trees a lil bit?”

The room froze.

Ma’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. Leah’s fork clinked quietly against her plate. Caleb leaned back slow in his chair, face unreadable. Pa narrowed his eyes. “What you just say?”

“I just mean…” Ony muttered, spearing a piece of fried okra with his fork, “she’s a woman with a pet cat? That knits.” He shrugged like it was nothing, then stuffed the food in his mouth, chewing slow, like he hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “That thing ain’t no pet. Strays like that don’t belong in the house of the Lord — or round decent folk like the ones in our community.”

Caleb scoffed under his breath, reaching for his cup. “Ain’t about the cat. It’s the way she carries herself. Like she knowin’ things she ain’t supposed to.”

“That woman ain’t right, Ony,” Pa said, voice low and warning. “Mark my words. Ain’t no good ever come from women who walk like they float and talk like they pray to the moon.”

Ony didn’t respond. Just kept chewing, like maybe the weight of the room couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. But his ears were hot, and his throat ached in a way that food couldn’t soothe.

Leah, quiet all this time, finally spoke, voice soft as usual. “She knitted my apron. The one with the sunflowers. It’s… pretty.”

Ma turned sharply. “And you best not wear it again. We don’t know what spirits she stitched into that thread.”

Ony’s silverware scraped the plate a little too loud when he's told up.

“I’ll go wash up,” he mumbled, though his plate wasn’t empty. “Y’all keep on eatin’. Thank you for the dinner mama"

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned and walked toward the back, the screen door creaking open as he stepped onto the porch, letting the night air slap him clean.

Behind him, the candle flickered.

The back porch creaked under his weight, old wood sighing like it remembered too much. No one came out here anymore — not since Granny passed. Her wicker chair still sat in the corner, covered in a thin film of dust and memories. Ony didn’t sit there. He chose the steps instead, letting the night press in close, heavy and still.

Crickets sang. The wind tugged gently at the trees, and for the first time all day, nobody asked him to be anything. He let his shoulders drop. Let his jaw unclench.

Then came the sound — soft, slow, deliberate.

The screen door moaned open behind him.

He didn’t turn, not at first, until he heard the light step on the porch — and then a bottle clink. He glanced over his shoulder.

Leah stood there, caught like a deer in her round belly stretching the front of her dress. In one hand, a dusty wine bottle; in the other, just shame.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she said quickly, blinking like she might cry or laugh or both.

Ony raised his eyebrows and looked back out at the dark yard. “I get why you need it,” he said flatly. “Dealin’ with this family’ll make you wanna drink holy water straight from the font.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — small and bitter.

Leah walked over and sat beside him with a sigh, the bottle tucked between her knees. “I ain’t drinkin’ for real. Just wanted to hold it. Make it feel like I had a choice, even if I don’t.”

Ony hummed, a low sound in his throat.

“You and me both.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the air between them not tense, just… lived in.

“You ever think ‘bout just leavin’?” she asked, voice soft, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of trees.

“All the time.”

She nodded like she expected that. “Caleb says I should be grateful. That I’m safe here. That the Lord provided. But safe don’t feel like freedom, does it?”

Ony didn’t answer.

Not out loud and the silence stretched on the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Just two people watching the dark, pretending the quiet didn’t know all their secrets.

Leah leaned back on her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of the step. “That girl from service yesterday…” she started, voice light but lined with something sharper, “she the reason you were gone all afternoon?”

Ony didn’t look at her. Just let the question hang there in the air between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Leah smiled to herself, not unkind. “She’s... different. Not like folks around here.”

“She’s just a girl,” Ony said finally, though it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

“A girl with a black cat and a stare like she’s already seen how the world ends,” Leah murmured, like she was thinking more than speaking. “She got the whole town feelin’ itchy and lookin’ for salt.”

Ony gave a faint snort. “You 'fraid of her too?”

“No,” Leah said simply. “But I think you are.”

That made him look at her. Really look.

She met his eyes, steady, too old for her years. “Not ‘cause she’s strange. But ‘cause she see somethin’ in you been tryin’ to bury.”

Ony didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His throat felt tight.

“She’s not evil. You’re right bout that part. Just a girl with a heavy hurt, a cat, and a different sense of faith. This town… it’s so close-minded, full of fear. The moment someone different comes along, folks scream ‘Satan’ or worse.”

“We used to be friends,” she said after a pause, like weighing whether to share too much. “Before her pa got caught up in some things. Before he disappeared. She was always so strange. Picking up bugs, talking to the ground, like she’d been here a thousand years instead of thirteen.”

She laughed, a soft, distant sound. “I used to joke she was a grandma reincarnated.”

Ony huffed out a soft laugh but then her smile faded, shadowed by memories. “When her daddy vanished, she was… calm. Like the universe does things for a reason. Said everything done in the dark will come to light.”

Her eyes darkened further. “Her mother got real sick after that. Took her own life.” She flicked squeeze the dusty wine bottle, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your daddy… I think he’s got

something to do with it all.”

Ony’s heart tightened. "How so?"

“She told me once, before her dad disappeared, he was there. And minutes after he left, her mother… she was found splattered all over her bed.” She made a finger-gun motion, sharp and cutting through the heavy air.

Silence fell again, heavy and still.

Then Leah sniffled — barely — and blinked fast. Her voice wavered, thinner now. “You know… she’s the one who told me I was pregnant before I even knew? I really hope this conversation stays between us.”

She paused, swallowing thickly. “Couple months back, when I was real sick and you and Caleb were out runnin’ errands… she came by. Her and that damn cat. I hadn’t seen her since we were fifteen. Daddy forbid me from ever seein’ her again. Said she was a witch. Imagine my shock when she showed up at my doorstep eleven years later — all grown, and God help me, even more beautiful than when we were kids.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed weakly, rubbing her stomach.

“She put her hands on my belly like she already knew me. Told me I’d be the most wonderful mother. Like she saw it, clear as day.” Her voice cracked. “Knitted me a little hat… and an apron to fit my belly. Softest thing I ever touched. But then she said somethin’ strange. Told me this wasn’t the place to raise a child. Said I should leave.”

Leah’s eyes lifted to his, wet but steady now.

Leah stayed quiet for a moment, her shoulders hunched and small despite the swell of her belly. The bottle hung loosely in her grip, the wine sloshing quietly like it too was listening.

Then, almost like an afterthought—but heavier than anything she’d said before—she murmured, “Something’s eatin’ your Ma, your Pa… even Caleb. They ain’t the same no more, Ony. I can feel it in my bones.”

She stood carefully, steadying herself with the porch railing. Her eyes met his one last time.

“You take care of yourself, Onyakopon. Don’t let ‘em make you blind to what’s right in front of you.”

She handed him the wine bottle, fingers lingering for a moment on his, then let go. Her silhouette disappeared into the dark hallway behind her, door creaking shut behind her like a breath held too long.

The next morning, Ony woke to a scream that didn’t belong to him for once.

It came from the guest room.

Leah had miscarried.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, heavy and suffocating. Caleb paced the worn floorboards, muttering under his breath, his footsteps sharp and uneven. Leah sat still in the corner, her eyes hollow, the light that had shone there just the night before completely gone.

Onyakopon watched them both, the weight of silence pressing down on him. His Ma and Pa were nowhere to be found — the house was emptier than usual, shadows gathering in every corner like unwelcome guests.

Caleb’s voice cracked as he whispered to no one in particular, “This ain’t right… none of it.”

Leah’s fingers trembled in her lap, her breath shallow, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

Onyakopon stepped closer to Leah, voice low but steady.

“I’m sorry, Leah. For everything.”

She gave a weak nod, eyes shimmering with tears but empty of hope. "You got time Ony. Leave before it touches you too"

Caleb’s pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening like a coil about to snap. He glared at Ony, voice rough and sudden.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, thick with tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Caleb paced the floor in crooked lines, muttering beneath his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leah sat on the edge of the couch like her soul had drained out in her sleep, her eyes puffy and distant. She hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since the scream.

Onyakopon stood in the doorway, watching. His parents were nowhere in sight. The house was too still. Wrong.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to start a fire,” Ony said gently, “but you need to sit, Caleb. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Caleb’s steps stopped abruptly. He turned slow, like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.

“Oh, now you care?” he said, voice dry and full of heat. “Now you got concern?”

Ony blinked. “I’ve always cared.”

“No, you don’t. You stand around lookin’ like you see through everybody, like none of this is real to you. Like we’re fools for tryin’ to build a damn life here.”

Ony’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t fair.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Caleb spat. “You think I forgot what you said a while back? ‘A wife and baby won’t fix nothin’? You said that. You looked me dead in the eye and said that. Like all this… like Leah—”

His voice cracked. “—like the baby didn’t matter.”

Ony’s voice was low. “I never said they didn’t matter. I said it won’t fix what’s wrong with this place. This town. You know that better than anyone, Caleb.”

“No. What I know is, you mocked me. You sat at that table with your silence and your damn half-smiles and judged me. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t—”

Caleb stepped forward, eyes wide, glassy, something off inside them now. “You don’t? Say it with your tongue then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m not a fool for wantin’ more.”

Leah stirred, voice soft. ��Caleb—”

“Don’t,” Caleb snapped without looking at her.

Ony held his ground. “You ain’t a fool, Caleb. But you’re acting like one now. You’re hurt, and I get it. But don’t come at me like I put that pain in you.”

“You put the doubt in me!” Caleb roared.

“You were the voice in the back of my head every damn day since she told me she was pregnant. And now look! Gone. Just like everything else in this cursed house.”

There was a beat — the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Then Caleb lunged.

The scuffle was quick but violent — desperation making up for lack of form. Ony tried to hold him off, but Caleb fought like he wanted to draw blood, like if he hurt someone else maybe the ache inside him would let up.

Leah shouted, trying to reach them, tears running down her face. “Stop it! Stop!”

Ony finally shoved Caleb back, hard enough to knock him into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Caleb’s chest heaved. His eyes were wrong not just angry, but dark, as if something else had stepped into him. Something watching through his face.

“You mocked me,” he said again, quieter now. “You cursed me with your mouth. You always did.”

Ony stepped back, heart pounding. “I ain’t cursed you. This place did.”

Leah stood between them, shaking, one hand stretched out like she was trying to keep them both from falling off a cliff.

“Please, Ony,” she whispered. “Just go."

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fix it — to fix him. But he saw the look in her eyes. That pleading. That fear.

So he turned and walked out the front door.

And behind him, the house groaned.

The air outside slapped his skin like cold judgment. Onyakopon didn’t know when his feet hit the porch or when the front gate swung open — he only remembered the crunch of gravel under his boots and the warm sting of blood trailing down from his eyebrow. His lip was split, throbbing with each breath. The fight with Caleb replayed in flashes behind his eyes, quick and jagged like broken glass.

He kept running.

Not because he was afraid of Caleb, but because he was afraid of what he saw in Caleb.

The sky above had gone dull and gray, not quite evening but no longer day. Birds had gone quiet. The cicadas, too. All that remained was the pounding in his ears and the sharp inhale-exhale of lungs trying to keep up.

He didn’t even realize where he was until his knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the soft grass with a grunt. Hands splayed wide, he pressed his back to the earth, letting the air wrap around him. He was in the clearing.

The tall reeds swayed around him like ghosts with no mouths, whispering only through movement. And the sky above looked... too wide. Too still.

He lay there, panting. Sweat mixed with blood. His chest rose and fell like he’d outrun death itself.

And maybe he had.

Or maybe he’d run straight into it.

His chest rose and fell like a storm settling into silence. The sky above blurred, hazy from tears he didn’t know he’d let fall. Grass pressed cool and damp against the back of his neck. His lip stung, and his brow pulsed where Caleb’s fist had landed. Blood still crusted warm at the corner of his mouth.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opened them—

She was there.

Standing over him like a painting left out in the rain. Skirt brushing the wild grass, curls coiled like shadows catching sunlight, eyes so ancient and wide they swallowed the sky behind her. Her face was soft, full of moonlight and mourning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg to be noticed — it just was, like wind or thunder. There was dirt on her hem, leaves tangled in her sleeves like she’d risen straight from the woods, or maybe the earth itself. Her cat, that little ghost pressed against her ankles, then padded forward, tail flicking, and nipped at Ony’s fingers with a quiet warning.

He flinched and blinked like he might still be dreaming.

“You,” he whispered.

“I always come when the house sends you away,” she said simply.

She knelt beside him, hand grazing the grass just beside his temple, never touching just near enough to feel the air between them hum.

“You’re hurt again, physically this time”

“Didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But your blood always finds its way back to me.”

The cat settled between them, purring low, eyes unblinking like it knew all the secrets neither of them could say. Onyakopon studied her — the way her presence dulled the pain just by existing, the way her eyes never flickered with fear. He wanted to say something. Apologize for the world. Ask how she knew so much. Ask how she still smiled like hope hadn’t died with the rest of this town’s soul.

Instead, he asked, “You always show up like this?”

She shrugged, curls bouncing lightly.

“Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” she said, and for a second, he thought she might mean it.

Then, her voice dropped to something softer, sadder.

“Or maybe I just know what it’s like to get pushed out by people who pretend they love you.”

She stood again without a word, brushing dirt from her skirt like it was nothing new, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The cat circled his shoulder once, then darted ahead into the trees.

“You comin’?” she asked over her shoulder, already turning.

Onyakopon hesitated. He should’ve gone back home. Should’ve checked on Leah. Should’ve tried, one more time, to reach the brother that looked at him like a stranger now.

But instead, he pushed himself off the ground, every bruise and scrape a sharp reminder of what waiting there would cost.

He followed her.

They moved through the woods like ghosts her steps barely stirring the leaves, him limping just behind. The path wasn’t marked, but she never second-guessed her turns. Like the forest knew her. Or she knew it.

A weather-worn cottage appeared just beyond a thick grove of oaks, roof sagging under moss and time. Wind chimes made of bones and rusted spoons tinkled faintly from the porch. A line of herbs dried beneath the windows, and a narrow chimney puffed with gentle smoke.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she murmured, holding the door open.

Inside, it smelled of lavender, ash, and something green not rot, not decay, but age. Lived-in. Safe.

He stepped in, and the warmth hit him like a balm. The fire crackled. The cat disappeared somewhere deeper in the house. She gestured toward an old kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She moved through the space like she belonged in every shadow of it. Wet a cloth, brought over an old metal tin, crouched before him like he was something precious.

She wiped his lip first, gentle, patient. Then his brow.

“You bruise easy,” she said, voice nearly teasing.

“You always nurse people back to life in the woods?”

“Just you.”

He didn’t ask why. He just watched her, close now the fine lines in her expression, the way she focused like this mattered, like he mattered. Her touch was warm, but her eyes. . . her eyes were still carrying something ancient.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond right away. Just dabbed at the last of the blood, then looked up at him, expression unreadable.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t wait ‘til the world breaks your face to come find me again. Too handsome for all these and bruises."

Her fingers lingered on his chin, gentle, almost tender. He caught the faint scent of lavender and honey on her skin and felt heat rise in his cheeks. His eyes flickered down to his lap, suddenly shy under her steady gaze.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The cat nipped playfully at his fingers, breaking the spell, but even then, her smile held a softness that made his heart tighten.

"You hungry?"

He smiled softly meeting her eyes again, " I could eat."

She chuckled, the sound light and unexpected in the heavy silence. “Good. I don’t do fancy, but I can fix you something real.”

She stood and moved toward the small kitchen, the cat padding behind her like a loyal shadow. Ony followed slowly, still feeling the strange comfort of her presence like the world had shifted just enough to let a little light in.

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