#man’s was made by the sun itself

[saywhat-78]

Bearded Misha and sunlight🫠🫠🫠

[voidcat]

It’s three in the morning why am I having romantic thoughts about Kaiser

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

PROSTHETIC ARM SIMON

sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.

mr. riley is a new regular.

hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.

always.

he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.

big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.

because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.

so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.

"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"

simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.

"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"

the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”

but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.

riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.

you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.

he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.

nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.

you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.

“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.

his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.

you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.

he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.

“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”

“s’fine,” he grunts.

his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.

you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.

you freeze.

metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.

no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”

his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”

you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”

a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“disappointed?”

“a little.”

you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.

“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.

simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”

“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.

“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”

his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.

“… you want to mess with my arm?”

“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”

“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.

“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”

he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—

“… got tools?”

your face lights up. “back in my car!”

“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”

“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”

“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”

…

simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.

because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.

no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.

it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.

so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.

"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."

simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."

you laugh. “you look like a simon.”

…

he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.

really. he doesn’t.

but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.

so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.

he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.

it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.

then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.

not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.

he caves.

simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.

he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.

the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.

your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.

"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.

before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.

"break," you toss over your shoulder.

your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.

simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.

your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.

riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.

simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.

you’re fuming.

he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.

he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.

"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"

his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."

you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"

riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.

"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"

"didn’t wanna bother you."

you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"

"managed."

"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"

simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.

riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.

"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.

"good. let it sink in."

riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.

simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."

the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.

you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."

"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.

riley whines. you don’t even look up.

"good.

his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.

you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.

he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.

it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.

to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.

he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.

his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.

"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.

he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.

you nod, already packing up, already moving on.

he watches you.

then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”

simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.

he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.

he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”

you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.

thought so.

“two days, at least,” he tells you.

your horror is almost funny. “two days?”

“maybe three.”

you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.

he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”

it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”

you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.

you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”

“i’ll drive you.”

you stop. blink. “what?”

“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.

you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”

“on break.”

“friends?”

he shakes his head. “not really.”

“family?”

he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.

something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.

simon doesn’t let you say it.

“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”

you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”

he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”

you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”

“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”

you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”

“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.

so he starts picking you up.

at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.

simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.

but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”

simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.

you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.

“…what’s this?”

he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”

“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.

“does he want some?”

simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”

you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him

simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”

“he’s cute. he deserves it.”

“he’s a liability.”

“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”

you look up, realizing what you just said.

simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.

heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”

riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.

he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”

…

this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.

you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.

and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.

but this time—

you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.

no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.

simon frowns. “…what?”

“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”

his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.

your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.

you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.

you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.

and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

a beat.

“…all right.”

…

simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.

riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.

simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.

the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.

and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.

you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.

his stomach twists a little when you say it—

“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”

simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.

but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.

it’s really fucking good.

and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.

“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.

you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”

he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”

you don’t answer.

he sighs and pulls out his phone.

you blink. “what are you doing?”

“making a call.”

simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.

it’s for you too.

he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”

it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.

“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”

a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.

“go on.”

simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”

another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”

he rolls his eyes. “no.”

“boxing, then?”

“price.”

the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”

he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”

one i want, he doesn't say.

“your arm acting up?”

“yeah.”

“so get it fixed.”

“this is better.”

price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.

then: “she good?”

siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”

he hums, considering. “you trust her?”

that’s what it comes down to. trust.

simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:

1. his mother. until she was gone.

2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.

3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.

and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.

and that’s all price needs to hear.

you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.

but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”

you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”

you freeze.

“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.

price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”

you blink. “wait- so-?”

“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”

you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.

“just make sure it works, yeah?”

you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.

simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.

you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”

“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”

your eyes narrow. “and you do?”

simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”

and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.

if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.

…

you learn more about simon throughout the months.

he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.

he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.

he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.

he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.

he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.

one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.

simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.

“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.

he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”

you glance up. “are you sure?”

he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”

“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”

his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.

you nod, make a note. “good.”

rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.

simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.

you hesitate.

simon notices. lifts a brow.

“what?”

you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.

“…you sure?”

you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”

he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.

“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”

you roll your eyes. “obviously.”

he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.

the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.

simon stays.

…

months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.

it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.

he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.

then— a flicker in the system.

it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.

“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”

your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”

he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”

“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.

simon is skeptical. “be honest.”

your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”

his brow arches. “good for what?”

“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”

before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.

his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.

you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.

he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.

the prosthetic hums again.

before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.

your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.

simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.

“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”

his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.

his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.

not that you would. not that you could.

his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.

"si-"

"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."

simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.

"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"

his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.

"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"

your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.

simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."

his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.

his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"

heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.

you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.

the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.

you don’t get long to stare.

his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.

his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.

then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.

your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.

you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.

simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.

"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."

his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.

his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.

you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.

"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.

his hand stills.

his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"

your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.

"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."

pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.

the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.

your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.

simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.

his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.

"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”

a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.

simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.

he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."

his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.

you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.

he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."

you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—

he pulls away.

your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.

you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.

you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.

the clink of his belt.

your breath hitches.

he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—

his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.

simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.

his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.

he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.

a whimper breaks from your throat.

simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"

you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.

he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.

"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."

you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.

"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."

simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.

your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—

his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.

a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.

his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.

"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."

your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.

"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"

he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.

"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"

he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.

and fuck, you deserve better than that.

he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.

but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.

his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.

"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."

you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.

"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"

"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."

you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.

"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.

"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."

and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.

"there it is, fuck, there it is-"

he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"

"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"

you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.

"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"

and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.

[insertdisc5]

🎮 HEY I WANNA MAKE A GAME! 🎮

Yeah I getcha. I was once like you. Pure and naive. Great news. I AM STILL PURE AND NAIVE, GAME DEV IS FUN! But where to start?

To start, here are a couple of entry level softwares you can use! source: I just made a game called In Stars and Time and people are asking me how to start making vidy gaems. Now, without further ado:

SOFTWARES AND ENGINES FOR PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO CODE!!!

Ren'py (and also a link to it if you click here do it): THE visual novel software. Comic artists, look no further ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It has great documentation! It has a bunch of plugins and UI stuff and assets for you to buy! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! (You'll just need to read the doc a bunch) You can also port your game to a BUNCH of consoles! ✨Cons: None really <3 Some games to look at: Doki Doki Literature Club, Bad End Theater, Butterfly Soup

Twine: Great for text-based games! GREAT FOR WRITERS WHO DONT WANNA DRAW!!!!!!!!! (but you can draw if you want) ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It's versatile! It has great documentation! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! (You'll just need to read the doc a bunch) ✨Cons: You can add pictures, but it's a pain. Some games to look at: The Uncle Who Works For Nintendo, Queers In love At The End of The World, Escape Velocity

Bitsy: Little topdown games! ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It's (somewhat) intuitive! It has great documentation! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! You can make everything in it, from text to sprites to code! Those games sure are small! ✨Cons: Those games sure are small. This is to make THE simplest game. Barely any animation for your sprites, can barely fit a line of text in there. But honestly, the restrictions are refreshing! Some games to look at: honestly I haven't played that many bitsy games because i am a fake gamer. The picture above is from Under A Star Called Sun though and that looks so pretty

RPGMaker: To make RPGs! LIKE ME!!!!! NOTE: I recommend getting the latest version if you can, but all have their pros and cons. You can get a better idea by looking at this post. ✨Pros: Literally everything you need to make an RPG. Has a tutorial inside the software itself that will teach you the basics. Pretty simple to understand, even if you have no coding experience! Also I made a post helping you out with RPGMaker right here! ✨Cons: Some stuff can be hard to figure out. Also, the latest version is expensive. Get it on sale! Some games to look at: Yume Nikki, Hylics, In Stars and Time (hehe. I made it)

engine.lol: collage worlds! it is relatively new so I don't know much about it, but it seems fascinating. picture is from Garden! NOTE: There's a bunch of smaller engines to find out there. Just yesterday I found out there's an Idle Game Maker made by the Cookie Clicker creator. Isn't life wonderful?

✨more advice under the cut. this is Long ok✨

ENGINES I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT AND THEY SEEM HARD BUT ALSO GIVE IT A TRY I GUESS!!!! :

Unity and Unreal: I don't know anything about those! That looks hard to learn! But indie devs use them! It seems expensive! Follow your dreams though! Don't ask me how!

GameMaker: Wuh I just don't know anything about it either! I just know it's now free if your game is non-commercial (aka, you're not selling it), and Undertale was made on it! It seems good! You probably need some coding experience though!!!

Godot: Man I know even less about this one. Heard good things though!

BUNCHA RANDOM ADVICE!!!!

-Make something small first! Try making simple: a character is in a room, and exits the room. The character can look around, decide to take an item with them, can leave, and maybe the door is locked and you have to find the key. Figuring out how to code something like that, whether it is as a fully text-based game or as an RPGMaker map, should be a good start to figure out how your software of choice works!

-After that, if you have an idea, try first to make the simplest version of that idea. For my timeloop RPG, my simplest version was two rooms: first room you can walk in, second room with the King, where a cutscene automatically plays and the battle starts, you immediately die, and loop back to the first room, with the text from this point on reflecting this change. I think I also added a loop counter. This helped me figure out the most important thing: Can This Game Be Made? After that, the rest is just fun stuff. So if you want to make a dating sim, try and figure out how to add choices, and how to have affection points go up and down depending on your choices! If you want to make a platformer, figure out how to make your character move and jump and how to create a simple level! If you just want to make a kinetic visual novel with no choices, figure out how to add text, and how to add portraits! You'll be surprised at how powerful you'll feel after having figured even those simple things out.

-If you have a programming problem or just get confused, never underestimate the power of asking Google! You most likely won't be the only person asking this question, and you will learn some useful tips! If you are powerful enough, you can even… Ask people??? On forums??? Not me though.

-Yeah I know you probably want to make Your Big Idea RIGHT NOW but please. Make a smaller prototype first. You need to get that experience. Trust me.

-If you are not a womanthing of many skills like me, you might realize you need help. Maybe you need an artist, or a programmer. So! Game jams on itch.io are a great way to get to work and meet other game devs that have different strengths! Or ask around! Maybe your artist friend secretly always wanted to draw for a game. Ask! Collaborate! Have fun!!!

I hope that was useful! If it was. Maybe. You'd like to buy me a coffee. Or maybe you could check out my comics and games. Or just my new critically acclaimed game In Stars and Time. If you want. Ok bye

[winxanity-ii]

SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother ���…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ ���‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

[wingedfuncomputer]

The Outskirs of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded like a bird in a cage, a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

WarningsNSFW: slow-burnish, naive!reader, if you squint fluff, racist undertones, racism, reader has a mean father, manipulative! Remmick, blood, dub-con, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), corruption kink?, somnophilia, No actual P in V, violence, vampirism, death!, nightmares, injury!, biting, Angst, spit, !reader is not black due to family dynamic

Word count: 14.6k Fic playlist!

From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacting the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled you had halted confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir". You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man behind the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving". Your heart ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him and get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled your father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady ?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property". 

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him. You yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands goes up to your fathers arm as you can see his anger exalted, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger weighs in on yours before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside once more. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once more offering a look of apology.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. " 'coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage nothing to do with your lack of a response. " of course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks. "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pregnant pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time... that is no way to be treated". He just smiles a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet, tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. staying around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you. The strangers eyes are trained on your every twitch, chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your father. It was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind trying to thinking If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go back out in town for food or what not for he farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

You still hear it even after many days of accepting. The way his finger nail clicked on the fence doors metal handle, his words not menacing or inviting just there looming behind your brain and the stillness that overtook the night. He was your secret, like a little frog you hid beneath your bed covers from your father when you were younger. Except he took cover in the coop with the chickens and he was no frog... just a man with everything he'd lost weighing on top of his shoulders. And like those slimy little animals you gave him food and water usually late at night when your father wouldn't suspect a thing, not that he cared much for your safety.

The arrangement went well the chicken massacre was over in just short of days. You were given permission to go back in town and here you found yourself in the shop owned by colored folk. Your pops would be yelling at you through the top of his lungs but he wasn't here who would scold you then? He couldn't tell the difference between the white peoples and the not so white peoples food. It was all the same. You got a few stares here and there but didn't pay much mind your eyes were encapsulated by a nice pocket watch. Not too big to cost lots of money but still a good size your sure Remmick would benefit from this for his travels. "Well well don't tell me the fine lady got a man now?" You clutch the fine piece of metal in your hands but relax once you realize it's Genevieve a worker of the shop you've grown fond of. You shake your head trying to fight the blush surging on your face, "oh no nothin' of the sort just for a friend!". Her arms cross in front of her chest giving you that look of suspicion. "That's how it starts then next thing ya' know you'll be popping those babies out like a damn industrial machine". She speaks with a reminiscent tone. She was a mother of a new born with a doting husband they didn’t have much they were all she ever needed.You can't help but stifle your giggle, the idea of being that way with the Irish man hiding in your barn seeming much too far. Not that it hadn't cross your mind you were just a woman after all and he was a handsome man. "I barely even know him, just a  few days n' countin". Her eyes widen with a smirk, "so there is someone!". You both walk towards the register that seemed to be isolated from the other part of the establishment. "He must be real handsome to be worth all this money. A real dream," she says sarcastically while she has the watch in her hand. You lay the rest of your groceries on the isle next to the register. It was pretty but out of your tax bracket maybe not your fathers but You're sure he'd notice right away on your big spending when the plentiful groceries were baren when you'd bring them back. "...your right, I'm dreamin' far too big " you let out self deprecatingly

"Aint nothin' wrong with dreamin' big, though I have to admit this gift is more of a husband typa gift. Unless... he be your husband?". "No...". She can see you grow a bit ashamed so she puts the watch back in a secure place before she brings out a straw cowboy hat. "You don't see these round here much, but very good for hard workin' men. Keep the sun out their face n' everythin'. Less than the watch... I'll even give ya a deal". If Remmick was traveling by foot your sure the sun would be unforgiving, could be easier to disguise the buy for yourself. Pops wouldn't bat an eye. "You make a good bargain I can't resist Genevieve".  Well most bargains you fell victim to. As you pay for your  things she puts the food in your home bag and places the hat a bit too big for your size on your head, flicking the edge. "Now go tell your man he'll have to make you a wife after this gift" you both laugh as you start walking away until her voice calls out to you right as your a few inches from the door. Turning around she gives you a tight hug which you try your best to return, "stay safe alright people goin' missing round here don't be one of 'em".

Her voice was soft and dripping with concern you thought about her warning as you walked back home. Still an hour or two till sun down which meant your father would be home soon. So quickly you got to cookin' dinner, a potato soup with corn on the side. Not the most cohesive plate but enough to fill the stomach up. With a rumble of an engine coming to a halt you knew he was home. Not so long after dragged in your father with no words exchanged sitting down to eat, you joined him in silence. Your heart was palpating as the sun finally set, in excitement of being able to see Remmick and giving him the hat you had bought him currently tucked away in your room. "Serve me 'nother plate" gruff cut and dry. "Yes sir" you got up going to the too small to even be considered pot with his bowl serving him more. As you placed it on the table there was no gratitude so you went back to your own bowl which you ate slowly. Once he was finished he left his plate deserted going upstairs to the washroom, the trickling of water alerted you to pass by the same room he was in to grab his clothes. The cold bucket of water outside was a perfect contrast to the slight humidity in the air. You tugged the large pants and shirt against the makeshift slab of wood and metal that helped scrape the clothes new. Even with the hair tie a few pieces of hair got in front of your face which you tried your best to shoulder out of the way. Maybe one day you'd run far from these grounds and start living not just slaving away doing chores. You squish the clothes riding them of the water extending them before laying them up in the clotheslines. With a deep breath you take a chance to intake the sweet oxygen. the small sweat building up proving the job was just a bit harder than it seemed

He was watching from the darkness in the trees, the adrenaline once fresh in his veins now soothing and left nothing but a linger. It became a ritual he could never get enough of. Having kept you alive was fun. Not something that only lasted a few minutes but could be dragged on for as long as he liked. He was the reason you were standing there right now tired from your chores. Your pulse seeming to call him like some sort of siren in the ocean. His feet silent beneath the summer grass.

You pondered of what Genevieve had said earlier about the towns folk going missing. The hollowness in the air along with the hanged clothes obstructing your view of the forest surrounding your house urged you to go back inside. With a quick turn you didn't expect for Remmick to be at your side. Automatically you slapped your hands over your mouth successfully hiding your yelp. "You gotta stop doin that!" You try your best to whisper. His creeping was perfect no evidence of sounds being heard as if he were some sort of ghost, maybe a warlock with witchcraft tricks. He tries his hardest to bury his small laugh inside the depthless of his chest throwing his hands up in surrender noticing your frustration. "Ya must know I can't help myself doll". You notice the sweat buildup on his forehead and the little dirt on his face. Swiftly you take the cloth wrapped around your waist dipping it in the clean water remaining then stepped closer to him, wiping it across his skin. "I know you can't seem to keep yourself clean either" you expected him to sass back but instead he just stares adoringly at you as you finish up focusing on his sweaty bangs.  "Why would I? It'll probably be the only time you put your hands on me willingly, I'm trynna cherish it". his hand lifts up to your face caressing your cheek lightly before tucking that stray hair behind your ear. "That's not true.." your words died with his touch. His fingers on your skin make your heart skip a beat, body freeze and your throat run dry. He was being a flirt purposefully. Right? I mean he was usually this way just never so straight forward and touchy. As if knowing you were having a revelation he can't help but tilt his head and let his eyebrows raise.

"-your soup" you blurt out retracting your hand. Trying to unakwardfy the moment you clear your throat as you slowly walk away, "I'll bring you your soup, you must be real hungry n' I don't wanna make it grow colder". You don't give him enough time to respond shutting the door behind you, back pressed against the firm wood. Your hands come up to your chest, finally letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Uncertainty was growing in your head along with the small tingles that ran through your back from being do close to him .... Being able to see every pore, feel his touch his eyes and lips you'd bet he'd kissed many women in his life and you knew they had enjoyed it...how would it feel- enough! You push yourself off the door and get to pouring Remmick a bowl in a hastily manner. Your father's weight creaks under the wood floors but he pays you no mind instead goin' to sit on the small couch with his radio and newspaper in hand. The small grumbling of the static of voices was oddly comforting allowing you to carefully wrap a piece of corn on the cob around a rag. Before going outside you go upstairs to your room scouring for your knitted cardigan. It was a pretty shade of dirt brown with little specs of beige. As you slipped it on your eyes catch a glimpse of the cowboy hat you picked out for the ol' Irish man but decided against removing it from the edge of your bed. He’s just a stranger the voice in your head reminded you.

By the time you go outside once more you expect him to be waiting for you, in that same stance resting against the fence you've grown fond of but to no surprise it seemed he'd gone into the chicken coop early. You weren't sure why it made your heart weigh down on your chest. Though disappointed you don't let yourself fret, placing the bowl and corn right ontop the fence knowing he'd come out whenever possible. Maybe you should knock never know what if he just forgot. Your knuckles softly tapped on the wood not the one that belonged to the chicken coop but the fence. It wasn't to signal for him it was to merely trying to build courage for yourself to actually do so. Ultimately though you retreated back into your home.

Had he taken your abrupt leave as rejection? Was he bothered? Worse what if he no longer wanted to speak to you! Were the thoughts plaguing your mind throughout the day after. Juvenile ones you were ashamed to admit. "Tell me I'm a fool. Tell me I'm doomed please Genevieve" you whined to the woman you always came to bother. She was just a few years older but there was a certain maturity to her you loved like a mother. "Who's not when it comes to love, though I'd push back on the doomed.". "I wouldn't even say love, he's a complete stranger not even from here..". She halts the clothes she was folding completely, turning to look at you, "ya said he was your friend what do ya mean complete stranger n' not from 'round here ? ". It was stern as if the little small details you had mentioned about his appearance, sweet gestures and his "nightly visits" held no validity now. "Well he's not exactly my friend I've known for ages that's why I said stranger". But your poor excuse of a lie didn't faze her, immediately you cracked. "Alright I lied! I only know this man for a little less than 2 weeks he was just so sweet n' needed help but my papa don't like him so he's been staying in the coop where I keep all my chickens!". It was as if she was the one trying to catch her breath at your confession. "Before ya judge he's a very honorable man, he ain't do nothin' weird yet he helps keep the predators away from my small feathered friends n' I just provide him food, water ya know the basic necessities-" That's how you start telling her the whole story from start to finish of how that night when you met went down. All the nitty gritty and the pointless details.

"Oh child may the lord bless ya heart". You were unsure on how to react to her words, an akward smile hanging on your lips. "Is that meant in a good way or-?"  She cuts you off before you can finish. "What in the world ya thinking'! You must wanna visit your grave early girl". You try to scratch the nervousness away behind your neck as you dash your eyes around the store. "It's not as bad as it seems Gene I swear".  "Let me get this straight a man who came begging at your door, which your father kicked out, is now living in your barn house because he caught you late at night offered to help you protect your chickens so now your bending over backwards for him?". Even though you're afraid to you just nod. She sighs deeply, "I swear with the crimes appearin' round town I'd wish you'd be more careful". There's real sincerity in her voice which makes your tone turn a bit defensive. "I live on the outskirts news like that don't reach me so easily..". Theres a bit of silence in the air to make the gears in your head turn. "what exactly happened anyway?"

" some lady n' her husband near the outskirts aswell, don't know exactly where she lives.. or lived. No sign left of 'em  just blood n' their baby. Many said it was a Horrible horrible sight wouldn't wish it on anybody" your body can't help but let out a small tinge of sweat afraid of exactly what fate the babe had met . "So are both of 'em alive?". "No one knows.. as I said lots of blood but yet no bodies" there was a linger of thick air between the both of you, unspoken yet very heavy. "Should probably get home then, I'll keep myself safe". You both said your goodbyes and off you were right as the sun met the edge of the horizon. The walk back had been nothing but peaceful, a weird ambiance of sorts seeming to loom, even the quiet of the house had grown intimidating. Though rinse repeat of the previous days as you made dinner and your father came in the door, eating then leaving you be busied you away such thoughts. While your pops went to sleep earlier, you on the other hand find your place outside once more leavin' Remmicks food out on top the fence like you always did. You were collecting the hens eggs when you noticed the grid near the top of their little home was slowly but surely ripping off. While you stood up to inspect the spot you caught glimpse of Remmick far away walking towards you. You lift a hand up and he does as-well It makes you notice something wrapped around his back. Throughout his stay he would busy himself in the day, you never pushed yourself to ask. You didn't think it would be quite appropriate to know his day schedule, he never asked yours... well not that he had to ask, you always told him the night before.

"Busying yourself with the hens now are ya". You smile at his introduction to starting a conversation. He joined you inside the fenced perimeter. After just a day or two you had grown to miss his voice. "You may protect 'em but I still gotta clean 'em n'  their small home aswell. What's that you got?" You can't help but let your curiosity get the best of you especially when it came to something that looks like an instrument. He swiftly tilts whatever he has around so what looked like a guitar is now In front of him. With a small lean towards you he professes as if he were about to tell you something sacred, "this ol' thing is called a banjo, keeps me company late at night". Your eyes light up, repeating the instruments name in your head and the fact he hadn't lost his spark from a few days prior. Pops never allowed these kinda things here he told you a home was meant for quiet not to be filled with loud yapping and music. "Well you must play somethin' for me now". His fingers tap the edge of the banjo eyes locked onto yours before his voice grows husky. " beg real nicely n' I might just do it" your breath hitches at his words, eyes trailing down to where he was slowly rubbing small circles on the surface of the banjo. This minuscule action had you in a trance. What was he doing to you? What was this you were feeling growing deep in your bones at the depthness of your belly?

You did end up asking him, begging so sweetly he just couldn't resist to let you hear him play . A sweet tune you can't even remember the rhythm to, or his humming he offered. The only thing you were able to remember was the way his fingers strummed softly as you lay in bed. It was the last thing on your mind before the night gently coaxed you to sleep.

It was a fever that overtook your senses as you shifted back and forth in bed, sweat accumulating on your neck and forehead. An unexplainable throb growing between your legs while something wet slithered between yourself like the slits of a book. A plunge invading your most intimate part made you cry, head thrown back as your hips and hands tried to wrestle with this new feeling. It felt sinful, violating, a light sting causing pain, yet addicting. You didn't want it to stop, you didn't want the attack on your folds to end. A rumble, like a laugh made vibrations, shocks travel through your cunt inching that tightness in your stomach close to absolute destruction. You didn't want whatever was happening to stop. That's when you looked down, hands digging into a full set of sweaty hair, pulling to at least reveal the object of your greatest pleasure. Those ice cold eyes, toothy grin with a peculiar fang, his nose bridge. "Beg real nicely f’ me " he hushed his fingers still working overtime. But that's all you needed the puff of hot air on the place he had just been feasting right over your pearl. His eyes never leaving yours. Your moans grow, his name dying on your lips as all you can let out is strings of abnormal sounds as you feel your peak finally falling over.

A loud bang immediately has you sitting straight up in your small bed. "Sleepin' in is for the f*cking birds. Are you a bird?" You rub your eyes, still dazed from what your mind had just made you experience. Yet you know better than prioritizing regaining yourself quickly you groggily speak, "no.. no, I'm not sir". "Right your not so get your ass out the bed and start cleanin'!"  He mumbles out strings of insults as he finally leaves the confines of your room. From the way the sun is blaring you were sure it was closer to noon than your regular wake up time.

You do what he orders ignoring the wetness between your thighs. He leaves and you were sure he wouldn't come back till next morning or next days midnight. He always had the habit of leavin' when the weekend came. Who knows where, all you knew is when he'd come back he'd be drunk out his mind n' rage enough to feed a whole herd of cows with his hands... you find yourself with infinite amount of free time finishing with cleaning the whole house in records time. So you sit near a window gazing at the sunlight, the birds, grass and faint butterflies here n there. It was quite odd really you had never gone past the perimeters of your house grounds only sticking to your home, the trail leading to the town and the town itself. The woods surrounding your home were quite dark, the trees even from where you were sitting seemed to have claws for twigs, all sorts of poisonous plants were just a few distance away and the wild animals.. the ones who had killed 1/4 of your chickens. All danger, you didn't have to put yourself in front of. The chickens invaded your view making you realize you hadn't treated the hens to a proper clean. With a small groan you lift yourself off the window ledge grabbing the cowboy hat you had bought a few days ago. You still hadn't found the courage to give it to him, even though a bit loose around your head it had really proved itself useful with blocking out the sun just as Gene had promised. Especially like now that you were grabbing buckets of water back n' forth, cleaning with rags the outside of the house along with the old broom. Even with the shade created on your face it didn't stop the relentless rays from causing unexplainable heat.

"That darn metal wire" you huff out, mouth dry. When you had believed to be done you took notice of the even wired fence on the top of the hens coop looking in worse condition than before. Did I not take care of this? Before your anger can get the best out of you, shame takes over it instead trickling in big waves. Remmick and his banjo... that's what got me distracted.  You bite your lip scouring for pliers your father kept in a tool box near the coop. The sun was going down soon you told yourself you could catch a drink after you finish this last job. You have to really force your eyes to focus when extending yourself to try and reach the metallic fence. I won't replace it completely just wrap it around itself to keep any unwanted creatures out. Then I'll rest..

Your hands start to shake a bit and your calf's hurt due to you being on your tiptoes. Focus it's not that hard. Successfully you close 3 out of 4 wires needing one left. But then you hear a snap then a sharp sting running down your finger. You hiss in response and let the pliers go abruptly, which causes them to land on your foot. The overwhelming situation makes your breath lose evenness not helping the fight of lack of oxygen your lungs had already been dealing with. Your vision stars to be invaded by growing black splotches. "Sit.. I've gotta, do that..." so you do, hand tightly wrapped around your thumb both covered in that red essence. The sight of your not so little cut makes you grow even more light headed. Before you can even protest the darkness envelops you, too weak to even fight it your eyes gently flutter shut.

You feel it before seeing it. There's a huge pounding in your head that forces your lids to be no more than one centimeter open and a throb. Not a painful one, no one that expresses want on the southern side of your body. It's familiar, like the feeling you had freshly in the morning except unlike in your dream you clench on nothing. Only tingles you can grasp onto but it doesn't create satisfaction. what makes you drift your dazed eyes downward is the pressure felt on your thumb. It was hard to focus, everything was a blur you just catch the sound of wetness. Something holding your hand, it was draining you not just emotionally but physically. Subconsciously you moan it's soft and covered in the many layers of your throat yet this makes whatever is beneath you stop. As it looks up your corneas put in the work even if it's for just a split second. You see the silhouette of a man, unrecognizable with bright red eyes, mouth lightly covered in your dark essence and sharp teeth. It was human n' monster combined n' it was staring straight at you. Your system was beyond exhausted shutting you forcefully down again.

Your left in darkness for a while till you start stirring awake, something cold running across your forehead. "C'mon gotta see you wake up" that voice delights your soul a light murmur of his name under your breath. It earns you a warm grumbly laugh from the depths of his chest, "the one n' only darlin" . You identify the object pressing against your cheek as his hand you can't help but lean into it. Though you did not find absolute warmth you still enjoyed it. He brings a small cup up to your lips urging you to drink which you do. Your dry throat rejoices in the new source of water to quench your thirst. The slight flex to your hand which alerts you of a slight sting sends flashes of faux memories through your brain. The animal the thing sucking your hand or your thumb whatever it had been made you involuntarily jolt subsequently some water spilling on you from the cup. "Sorry, sorry" you quickly say between breaths your low energy not equipping fast reflexes. He quickly puts the cup down comforting you by rubbing his hands down the side of your shoulders. "Are you alright what happened?" You try to cough to hide the embarrassing way your voice wobbled. "I'm good 'just- I'm skittish remember?" You try to laugh it off but you can tell he doesn't buy it. He plays along though. This moment of silence allows you to completely regain your senses to see you were still outside, next to the coop in the last position you remember being in.

"I wrapped your thumb real good, shouldn't bleed no more ... what happened to ya? I swear when I walked up I thought ya were just bein' silly with me" ,you pull your injured hand closer to you at its mention. The pliers not so far from you push you to speak, "I was trynna fix some part of the chicken coop, cut myself, must've lost track of time given I've been out all day in the glazing sun..." the cancerous rays, the heat that seemed to be burning you from inside out. Your healthy hand slaps at your head finding it empty the ground at your sides makes contact with your hand aswell. "Lookin' for this sweet old cowboy hat?" His voice is cocky once you look up you realize why. The straw you bought for was on his head. Fits him perfectly not just around his skull but the way it also frames his face makes you believe it was made specifically for him in mind and he knows this. He can't miss an opportunity to tease,  "Might keep it suits me well, your little brain don't fill it" now it's your turn to not laugh at his attempt to bring light heartedness into the air. You were still disturbed by the weird dream like nightmare you had experienced, adding on your injury aswell both weren't a good combo. Yet even with this you try not to dwell on the way the edges of his mouth tilt downward at your lack of enthusiasm. "That's actually for you.. I was meant to give to ya some time ago 'just was a coward". His mouth does a whole 180 his frown no more instead plastered on is a bashful smile. One that didn't have arrogance, teasing or any ulterior motives behind it. "Well aren't you just the sweetest doll face". You can't help but let the blush roam freely at his praise until that warmth in your belly returns along with a headache. "I should get to bed" as you try to stand a light whince leaves your lips the fact your foot was aching due to the heavy metal pliers that fell on them earlier coming to your attention. Remmick aids you in order to walk out the fence. The chickens were locked in the coop already, his plate of food gone. You don't realize any of this since having your body pressing onto his makes your brain mush.

"I can take it from here, I had just forgot those stupid pliers fell on my foot"  you say as you finally reach the houses back door. He lets you go, "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'" you laugh and say goodnight the weakness in your bones catching up to you.

The next day right as the sun rises you sit in the kitchen table in silence. A news article from town you had collected left at your door and Alcohol from your father's stash on the table as you stare at the oddly physically pleasant gash infront of you. Something was odd, you've received your own fair share of cuts, scrapes and injuries none of them compared to this one. It was as if where the skin broke was just an illusion, no blood left to clean or seep out just your pink flesh beneath your skin. You shift in your seat recounting the lapping at your finger that sent tingles down to your feet. It was all so weird, you never had vivid dreams like those and you could still feel its presence around you. It's hunger, need to suck you dry... but was it your blood it wanted or your soul? You sound like a kid overanalyzing your nightmares. It was just a nightmare that was all, you told yourself. Plus if any weird animal had been near you Remmick would've of noticed. He would've done something. Would he?

Your brain seems to be enjoying playing devils advocate forcing you to shake your head and stand from the chair in disagreement. Though you connected that the newspaper you had read. 'Couple missing child dead' was who Genevieve must've been talking about. No longer wanting to let your brain to spiral out of control you decide a shower would probably serve you well. So you do just that letting the comforting hands of the water caress your naked body while the wound on your hand isn't affected by the soap. You hum to yourself a tune one you've never heard of before, didn't even know the words to yet your brain simultaneously did. Something so normal you did everyday made you wonder back to the couple from town. 'Bert and Joan' the article of their tragedy had mentioned their names. Were they vigilant knowing something would happen or were they doing their daily tasks like you were right now? They were probably enjoying day until someone decided to make a mess of their lives let alone a baby. Whoever had done that deserved the worst penalty a judge could offer. It sadness your heart too much that you push the subject to the back of your brain. After you brush your hair out and put a new pair of fresh clothes on you decide to take a look at the small box you kept hidden away in your closet. It was your mother's. The only thing you had left of her.

There's few letters you read over too many times to count while growing up, miscellaneous objects and a photograph. It was in black n' white starting to peel right over her face. This photograph had been the only thing that connected you to your mother. now all that was left was a still picture of her beautifully clothed frame and one quarter of her face. Maybe it was for the best, you didn't know much about her and your pops said she just up n' left one day. You still held onto hope. The way she wrote, expressing her emotions just didn't seem to coincide with the woman your father portrayed her to be. What catches your attention though is this book, very dusty n' old. The secrets of the past, your hands trail over the title indented on the cover. Looking at the table of contents it seems to be an explanation book for medicinal recipes, herbs, then towards the end of the book you see "creatures". While trying to flip the pages over to that section you go downstairs. It's past mid day, the sun still strong so you lay down on the couch. With the book in your hand you start reading about wendigos and skin walkers of the sort. Their stalking abilities, ways to manipulate their prey, sharp teeth, their need for human flesh. That specific part was underlined, someone had read this book with passion, little notes on the side, phrases circled. Maybe your mother or a familiar... while you continue your investigation somewhere along the way you knock out. Cold and surrounded by darkness there’s Voices that start to whisper in your ear. They're indescribable except for the way it sounds like they're reciting a prayer. There's no fear just tranquility their hushness proving comforting. You can't relish in it long until they start getting louder a tone of desperation infecting them. Then your name being repeated. You try to move, stir yourself awake but nothing works. Your heart beat rings in your ears taunting you along with their cries, blood curling screams. A voice overtakes all of them in screaming your name.

You sit straight up gasping for air, chest rising and falling dramatically. It felt too real the vibrations of their voices still living deeply inside your ear drums. There's no time left to help yourself focus on calming your tremors down until a knock echos through the living room. Your blood pressure spikes from the sound but you force yourself up. It was dark out making you realize your nap took more than what you believed. The floor creaks underneath your bare feet with every step you take. Once you reach the door you hesitate. What if I'm going insane with stress and you're just hearing things? It was dark out, you were alone with no way to defend yourself... you decide on the next best course of action. Peaking through the medium sized window the door had your fingers pushed the drapes aside eyes coming in contact with a man facing away but you knew that sweaty hair anywhere and the banjo strapped on his back.

Quickly you open the door relieved to see Remmick as he turns around the cowboy hat you'd given him in hand. "Hey sweetheart" but you don't give him a response. He notices your eyes darting left and right the way you fidget with your fingers as if trying to tie a rope. Due to the lack of communication back he speaks again, "you alright 'seem on edge?". You try to brush it off but he moves forward on the little steps located at the front of the door. "I'm here for ya, 'can tell me anythin' ". He was at your doorstep, close to your house something he never did because he was overly cautious of your father catching a glimpse at him. An unspoken rule. "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"Should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"How'd ya know?" You ask before thinking. He's a bit taken back by the out of the context question. "What da ya mean?". "How'd ya know my pops wasn't here?" You can see the warmth in his eyes falter for only a split second subconsciously you stopped leaning towards him. He laughs in your face making you rethink the sudden hostility on your end. "Cars gone, got hurt yesterday with no one to help, he'd done somethin' similar last week? 'Don't know darlin' don't take a genius to figure this one out". You sigh in disappointment at yourself joining him in a chuckle. He was the only one who cared for you, never hurt you, someone you considered a confidant sort of like Genevieve back in town. "Sorry, don't know what's wrong with me   I've just been havin' these nightmares must be the stress.." you rub your temples dragging your hair away from your face. He quiets down his voice more cut dry and for the first time since you met him you heard him sound unsure "What these nightmares about... if you don't mind me askin' ". You look up at him once more eyebrows scrunching trying to recall. "I'm not sure.. uhh monsters, voices or somethin' it's odd" it's not that you didn't want to tell him, you just weren't so sure of it yourself."Well good things they're just nightmares" he hums as he seems to be analyzing you. His gaze made you surprisingly uneasy but this feeling dwindles as he chirps . "There's this place over by the forest, it's where I find myself more often than not ... throughout the day of course. It's real sweet with a stream, nice little area to sit n' sing where the air hits nicely. Would love to share my place of paradise with ya if ya'd want to f'course".

It seemed enticing, intimate, but the crickets in the air and darkness that seeped from the forest haunting the background made you shake your head softly, "sorry.. not today". You had never been one to deny him you were always so eager to please. He forces a smile, "I understand, im a man here asking a lady to take a stroll along the concealed forest alone in the late of the night" you can see him take a few steps down the small flight of stairs. "It's not that Remmick, I really would love to it's just..." you can't find the words, the excuse, because it didn't exist. "... just can't" The last string of events had scrambled your brain like eggs in the morning. You weren't sure what to put faith in. With this rejections you can feel the disappointment In the way his shoulders drop. "It's alright.. I'll be, heading to sleep then, go catch your own z's ". His poor excuse for a laugh following his words was awkward. You should reach out to him, grab his hand before he goes too far for you bare feet could reach. But you never do watching as he settles inside the fence you can only murmur a small "goodnight" that doesn't even reach his ears. the small click back from the door signifies your end of the night as you lock it. You don't glance at the clock just dragging your feet on the floor all the way up to your room. Unlike before where you would just knock your self out with boredom instead you are subjected to torture by your lack of a dormant brain. The inability to succumb to sleep being the perpetrator. You wasn’t insomnia just the fleeting thought of danger being near never leaving, it was like you knew something was bound to happen something terrible, but couldn't pin point exactly when. Your father hadn't come home, the stressful nightmares, remmicks odd behavior or was it yours? This was all too much to digest. You sit up from your bed abruptly standing no longer being able to force your eyes shut to pretend sleep. Hours have already gone by. A glass of warm milk would ease the nerves.

You didn't want to waste anymore time putting a small metal pot over the kitchen stove and fetched the milk pouring no more than a cup and putting the white gallon back in its designated space. With a repetitive tick the flames came to life putting in the work to heat up the milk. You sigh, the nightgown you had on was very weightless, soft and borderline sheer but breathable. It allowed the air from your bedroom fan to save your overheating skin in the night. The sudden feeling of your hairs sticking up from your arms and neck have you holding yourself in a hug. Face darting left and right to find anything to explain the cause but only the endless darkness is to find. You grumble turning off the stove not caring if the milk was treading the fine line between cold and warm. You chug it, big gulps no complains, it wasn't that usual warm feeling that traveled through your intestines just bland mildness. You slam the cup down having to drag your forearm to remove some of the excess. Sleep. Now go to sleep, your bedroom. You take steps to go back, the lights being right before the stairs working in your favor. Once you you hear the click your vision returns to being useless. Mind set on one goal finally catching sleep but a shuffle very soft that could be easily missed if not paying attention makes you freeze in place. There's an urge to turn but you tell yourself to keep going on your way for your own sake. Eyes forward move forward. You don't though, instead you slowly twist your head behind you out of curiosity. It was the same sentiment as being adamant on seeing a spider hiding below your bed instead of living in blissful ignorance and pretending its presence wasn’t there. Except this wasn’t a 8 legged friend. You were seeing eyes glowing back at you as clear as the stars in the night sky. They weren't a beautiful shinny white, odd green or blue like a wild animal.. no a menacing blood red. This should've sent you flying up the stairs but they're hypnotizing persuading you to stay a little longer. It doesn't move making sure you know that it sees you too. With the obscurity of the lack of light you can't make up much apart from its eyes, too far away near a window to even see if the creature was inside the 4 walls of your home or outside. A light breath leaves your soft lips, you could feel the blood rushing in your veins the way your pulse beats. Hesitantly you turn yourself back towards the stairs. This time you do what you told yourself, what you should’ve done in the beginning. Walking up you forbid yourself from looking back, making your way back to your bedroom you finally crawl back into the cold sheets. Your Dazed, staring at the ceiling while pinching your own arm to make sure you weren't in a dream. You were convinced you had officially gone insane. Nightmares are one thing, hallucinations are another. Must be the lack of sleep. You landed on that excuse and finally after a few long dragged minutes you felt the heaviness of your eyelids stars to weigh themselves down. You let it consume you but peace didn't follow.

There's a thud making shuffle but it doesn't sound loud enough to make your eyes open wide. Just squint until inevitably you groan, choosing slumber over worrying. Sleep.

A whisper tingles the shell of your ear . A breeze makes you shiver subconsciously clutching the sheets to keep you warm. That masculine voice around your ear is back again wrapping around your brain like a blanket of safety and security. Something slithers inside your inner thigh, caressing, teasing the supple skin making your breath hitch. It was soft and felt so right. You craved more, opening your body and soul up to the feeling letting it climb up and take as it pleased. No hesitation just need. An offering is what you were, letting it build a home inside, beneath your skin, allowing it the privilege to consume you. And it did, a sharp sting your mind can't even process correctly develops somewhere in your body. A sound comes from your mouth but was it from pleasure or pain?

Your eyes scrunched, a groggy moan ripping from your throat out of frustration. The bright day light hitting your cornea forcing you to wake. Whilst sitting up you crane your neck back and to the side feeling a temporary relief. You shut your eyes, smiling from feeling so free. Even if you were sleep deprived there was some sort of energy helping you feel content. Opening your eyes you pulled the covers off, standing, it isn't till your changing clothes you feel a cold sweat invade your body. While lifting the weightless satin dress you see two bigger than normal bites on your wrist. You could've brushed it off as a bug bite, some spider but you knew that for it to hold validity the spider would've had to been a huge tarantula and craving human flesh or blood. You feel your eyes water, this wasn't caused by a human or animal. So like some afraid child you quickly make haste putting on the necessities skipping brushing your hair and run out of your room ignoring a light stench in the air because your father was of greater concern . It wasn't long till mid day surely he'd be downstairs. "Papa..?" You hesitantly speak once in the living room but only silence greets you. In desperation you go to grab the back door to check outside and you find it unlocked. It was already a weekday today you had forgotten, he was probably at work probably came home and left, that would explain the unlocked door. But he if made it home he would've woke you up early. He hates when you oversleep. There's many thoughts racing in your head as you pace back and forth. You'd just go to the last place you knew he had probably visited, the town.

The roads hug your shoes as you walk by the side walk. As each person passes by you ask if they have seen your father describing him even trying to show them a a picture from home but they all either ignore you or seem far too uninterested. You had wrapped your arm tightly with a bandage to cover your bite which you couldn't help but tug on. It was creating an uncomfortable friction. There was a familiar sign across the street the likes of the people were much kinder there, Genevieve was a great example. But you knew you father wouldn't be caught dead on the other side of the road let alone in a shop full of "foreign useless people". So You go inside the white owned shop instead knowing he'd surely buy his liquor here. While going in you hold the door open for a woman and her child, the child mutters a cute thank you which you try to reciprocate with a 'your welcome' but the mother gives you a nasty look tugging them away.

You stand there at the entrance a bit weary as you finally have to face the many side eyes people were giving you. A particular man stands out who was walking your way, a smile comes up to your lips, rehearsing your lines in your head but he makes contact with your shoulder roughly instead. There's a slight clench of your heart at this, but he goes on as if nothing, paying the cashier for his booze and leaving. Your left there looking stupid and lost. The past days had been miserable leaving you with little will. Should've gone home-should've just waited and stayed home. As you're beating yourself up you don't notice the cashier coming from his side of the counter to you. His kind eyes looking at you snap you out of your thoughts realizing he greeted you, even with a stutter you greet him back. "Is there someway I can help you?". The first person to ask, you try your best to not let your voice wobble, "I- yes.. I'm trynna find my father he's missin' ". He's listening to you muttering out a small, "that's terrible". " it is haven't seen him for days n' I've gotten concerned. But he's usually along these parts of town especially durin' the weekends so I'm sure someone has spoken to or atleast caught sight of him" while your rambling you don't see how he's luring you outside, using the fact you were following him to his advantage. His expression is one of understanding or so you thought, "look I'd really love to help you just can't be bothering the people in there". "I wasn't- that wasn't my intention I.." you realize what he's doing now, feeling the heat of the sun once more. There's a pause in the conversation both of you staring at each other. He simply tilts his head in 'I don't care what you got to say just leave I'm trying to be nice'. Then someone calls out to you from behind with cheerfulness, it isn't till you turn you see finally who it is. "Haven't seen you round' no more how has your chicken coop been?". Her warm voice provides some instant relief from the stress. You allow Genevieve to envelop you in her arms. You even squeeze a little tighter. "Don't come back near my store again or it won't be pretty" the sudden hostile voice of the once delightful cashier leaves you a bit angry but you don't voice it.

"It be best if we go back to mines," she grabs your hand leading you to the other side of the road but you dig your feet in the ground not letting her. Whatever it was inside you or around you it was always following not so behind form your last step. You didn't even know if whatever had bit you was contagious so even with her oh so soothing hand consoling yours you abruptly let go. "I can't.." she turns confused, "what do ya mean you can't?". The top of your teeth catch your bottom lip in a nice grip. For once in your life you wished she wouldn't be so caring so tender and concerned for your well being. "What's wrong?" Yet another question of hers that meets no answer instead you slowly add space even if it's a just a few centimeters. She sees the picture of your father in your hand and the way your eyes were on the brink of tears something was undoubtedly wrong.  "Girl don't be silly with me now n' answer me" she grew loud frustrated with your silence garnering attention from the townsfolk. Your hand fumbles with the edges of the band around your wrist. If she just knew maybe she could help me I wouldn't have to deal with this alone. It happened so fast her hand tugging the cloth , you pulling away in attempt to prevent it from slipping away revealing the two puncture wounds that were now accompanied with purple and yellow hues. You can't help but gasp slapping the skin, covering it with your hand desperately looking around.

Genevieve's eyes were wide a look of disbelief or was it fear overtaking her face? She had heard the murmurs of creatures far beyond the physical realm from her ancestors. When the two people from town went missing it was all the people around her could talk about . The creature with sharp teeth, serpent split tongue Who's diet consisted of consuming human blood.  It seemed far fetched but it was all true and now one of her dearest friends have come in contact with the being and bitten. Under her breath she whispered, "vampire".

You felt exposed like Eve had felt under the gaze of the lord in the garden of Eden; Shame, guilt and Alienation all in one. When you feel the cold tear run down your hot cheek is the moment you start running ignoring the calls for you to stay. The adrenaline pumping from your heart makes you run miles, with no brakes just your legs pushing till they finally make it to the only place that seemed to cause all these problems. Your home, but you don't go inside. Instead you go to your chicken coop wanting to be enveloped in its darkness, the constant patter of the chickens feet simulating a tune and the smell of pleasant must. It reminded you of Remmick. He'd surely come home soon and rid you of your worries, destroy the chaos. You sniffled into your shoulder, cowering like defenseless animal in the corner of the chicken coop. The small gurgles of the chickens offer you an environment to be able to sleep even if it was just pretend. You lose track of time, sun finally setting and wake up when you can't catch a break from the chickens pecking at your skin. The stiff chips of wood stick to your skin but you don't mind releasing them as you stand. With the small creak you stumble outside praying to find your pops car out front and his harsh voice reprimanding you for not having cleaned the house so you could erase the anxiety running rapid through your body as a terrible dream. There's no sight of any of those things though just the lousy cicadas in the night air.

Psst. The noise made you whip around only the darkness present. "Hello?" You speak daringly into the void of the night, heart thumping. "Still gotta work on the not jumping like a little rabbit every time ya'r scared" you can let out the trapped breath in your chest as you see a very care free remmick walk up to you from the outside of your fence. You would've gone to him in an instant if it weren't for the two people behind him. Noticing your hesitance to get closer he experimentally spoke, "brought some friends with me too if you don't mind". They were smiling warmly at you but it felt so empty, their faces reflecting that of the nullified night surrounding them. "Remmick-" you were about to tell him to make them go away, that you just needed a moment alone with him. The whole day you had been waiting. Though picking up on your distress he caught you off guard asking a rhetorical question, "is it the nightmares again?" . You foolishly try to answer "yes but-". "Well your in luck that's why I brought my good ol' couple from in town to try n' cheer ya up" as if on que the 3 of them readied their instruments ignoring your protest and they started playing. It was harmonic very beautiful but to you in this moment it sounded like sharp metal scratching on another metal surface. Undoubtedly Irking your soul. "I picked poor robin clean" the 3 of them sang at the same time but in 3 different tones that came together skillfully. "Picked poor robin clean". You bit your lip in bubbling anger their voices becoming more irritating than their instruments by the second. Certainly you'd explode into a fit of rage, we'll that was until the next line, "picked his head, I picked his feet, I woulda picked his body but it wasn't fit to eat". Their joy, their genuine smirks especially Remmicks when singing those words unnerved you. A jolly tone with odd words that traveled down your spine "oh I picked poor robin clean...

they continue, their words fade out in your head eyes unfocusing as you get sucked into the back of your mind where your thoughts remained. You didn't want to believe it or even consider the very fact that the young couple in-front of you could be who the towns people had whispered about like some sort of myth. If they were what was Remmick doing with them? Was he the one who terrorized them and their babe? your mind recalled many of the times you had found his behavior odd. He only met you in the darkness of night, disappeared during the day, he was the only one who had access to your home. The bruise on your arm he hadn't even pointed it out. He was innocent you pushed back against your thoughts. And you would prove it.

As their song comes to an end stillness hangs in the air. Remmick stands there waiting for you next move. Realizing how guilty you looked you tried to cough the hesitance stuck in your throat. "I never caught y'all's names". Having all 3 of their eyes on you felt like you were back in the town. Except this time it was much more carnal like predators surrounding their prey.  You shift on your feet, remmicks demeanor changing as he leans into the fence form the outside. The couple doesn’t answer just staring ahead as you hear Remmick chuckle, "well.. this right here is Joan and he, he's Bert". You feel your heart drop to the earths core at this revelation, face full of alarm. you try changing it but God knows it's far too late. He notices and knows that you know.

"Took ya so long" your confused at his words but he doesn't waste a beat to quickly diminish your doubt. "I was startin' to think that little brain of yours wasn't good for much". You're unsure if to be offended and hurl a venomous insult back or cower away . His body defies gravity for a second as he lifts himself over the fence standing between the both of you far too easily. "W-what did you do?" There's still hope inside you that this was just a big understanding. "What I do to them .. or to you?" He nudges his head behind him then to you. His eyes trailing up and down your frame until getting stuck on your wrist. This time you don't cover your wound unlike back in town. When his eyes finally lift themselves to yours you see them shine a deep red. The same deep red that tournamented you yesterday night and dreamed about belonging to that creature who sucked your thumb feverishly while his mouth was covered in your blood. A dream. you can't help the way your chest starts to constrict, eyes stinging. He lets out a cold laugh faux concern, "oh please don't cry doll I'll love it too much n' I'll just be forced to make more pretty tears come out of ya." As he takes a step forward you take a step back. It becomes a twisted game he enjoys while teasing your desperation. The sadistic way he showed worry yet loved your helplessness left you disheartened with the idea of this going back to normal. The way things had been when you met him"Stay away.." your voice is weak and wobbly, hands coming up to signal his halt. He doesn't listen leaving you back to the fence as your hand touches his chest. Remmick wasn't a tall man just average but when he got this close to you it made him feel giant. "Thats not what you wanted last night" his empty breath hits your face, an act you may have yearned for before but not anymore. There's a shudder running through you as he presses his body into yours, his leg between your thighs inching your skirt up. You turn your head in shame, knowing exactly what he meant. Despite the mental acknowledgement of the danger this man posed your body still desired him responding eagerly.

He thrived seeing you like this the woman so poised and respectful he had met in tears from her own disgusting desires. An infection he grew to become, corrupting not just your thoughts but body, mind and soul. Nothing could sadate his carnal lust just like you but he wouldn't get ahead of himself yet.

His hand drags your sight back to him with only a finger on your chin. Your pliant submission was back but out of fright not real trust. This time you notice his appearance change again apart from his peculiar eyes. The clear, thick liquid seeping from the right of his mouth. Spit. And the sharp fangs his k-9's became as he smiles at you. It clicks in your head the last words Genevieve had muttered out to you "vampire". You expect him to take a bite to end your life but instead he takes a step back leaving you to fend your weight against gravity. "Should go see if daddy's all good upstairs, haven't seen him out here all day" his voice drips with sarcasm. You take a step back expecting him to play with you more but he doesn't. While you slowly walk away, opening the fence door you take one final look behind him. The couple he had came with was still behind the fence sitting idly by as if they were hypnotized.

When your a good feet apart you dash inside and up the stairs having to fight the growing stink in the house especially when you reach the second floor. "Papa!" You call out to him , the hall seeming too dark and longer than usual. There was the adrenaline rushing through your veins that urged you to be faster . As your warm hands grab the handle of your father's room opening it wide the stench of death hits you before the sight. You have to cover you mouth from the smell and absolute horror. There was blood all over the walls, bed his body and his head... it didn't seem quite attached to the rest of him. Eyes wide in shock staring directly at you as if he had kept the face from probably seeing the monster Remmick was. You didn't let yourself see the specifics of the plethora of wounds on his body slamming the door shut. You have to fight the gag trying to push its way out from the bottom of your stomach. A light headedness winds you as your walking away hand over your stomach from the unsettling scene you had witness forever engraved in your brain. One wrong step as your going down the stairs has you tumbling down. You grunt and let the tears you have kept at bay finally spill rushing down with no limit. You weakly get up close to the kitchen table where the liquor from the morning still laid. Your heart clenched at the reminder of this bottle always being around your dad's hand along with his pestering. He may had grown rude and absent for most of your life but he would always be your father. The man who once was a child who did wrong but was still half of you. You bite you hand in an attempt to get rid of the overstimulation of your lymphatic system. Not caring if it drew blood. "The sadness will subside, will weaken with time. sacrifices must be made for freedom".

Your mood soured hearing his voice. He sounded like a fucking preacher what was he now your savior? Is that what he tought. That he had been doing you a service murdering your father like some wild animal with no dignity? There was an unexplainable fire starting to build in your chest. "I can offer freedom that never dwindles, never ceases to exist. Ya won't be anyone's caged bird anymore-". With not another thought you let your instincts take over swiftly grabbing the almost empty liquor bottle and swinging it behind you. He doesn't for see your sudden action not moving out of the way fast enough all you hear is a big thud. The bottle still gripped tightly your hand with no crack. His head is turned toward the direction of your swing, eyelids twitching as he seemed to be taking in the hit. You stand fiercely a mere a feet or two away. You expect anger a violent action back in response but instead he chuckles condescendingly. "you’re letting anger cloud your judgement doll" . You wished you would’ve never been nice to him, never let him in your home and watched him rot out in the wilderness. “Let that go” he commands seeing the way your grip on the bottle doesn’t lessen. “No..” your eyebrows furrow “ya just don’t get ta decide things for me, y-ya can’t just do this ‘didn’t ask for any of this! ” even through the sadness is still evident in your body, you still find your voice. His words your genuine protest made him displeased . He had seen you marble at utterly anything normal, his instrument, himself and the way you responded so sweetly to his touches. You were a bird in a cage. Your father had willingly created your life to revolve around him and he had simply given you the choice now to be with him instead. Were you just plain ol’ stupid? “Ya needed this, I saved you from your helpless nights, the endless chores, the boring ol’ cycle of your insignificant’ life became”. This is when you see him start stomping over to you with a glint of fire behind his eyes. “I didn’t need no saving” you spit out while your lower back was pressed on the floor able. He calms down before grabbing a hold of your jaw before uttering out, “oh my sweet little dumb thing, you do”. Those crimson eyes slice through your wrath realizing no matter how much you protested there was no way out of your predicament. No matter the many ways you sliced it he couldn’t be moved, like some heavy boulder restricting your path. “You all do..” his sharp nails dig into the skin of your cheeks making them sting. There’s a small but heavy knock at the front door that doesn’t make him react just letting your calmly go. Retracting himself from you he watches as you wrestle with the choice of opening the door or not. His look was forbidding but would require trust from you which he had run out of. It was ultimatum that hung in the air without being said , ‘open the door and your reject him or leave it be then open your arms to the sweetness of “salvation” ‘

Another heavy knock seeming more desperate had you turning and directly heading to the door not caring for Remmick any longer. You weren’t sure who you were quite expecting maybe a passer by, another stranger. “You had me stressing’ girl why’d ya not answer fast enough?” Her honeyed voice and her careful glance was such a contrast to the way you looked now. “My lords heaven’ what happened to you!” Genevieve tries to come inside and grab your cheeks now decorated with little droplets of blood streaming down. But you semi close the door on her not completely but just enough to stop her from coming in. “Gene you have to leave- you can’t be here” your hands shakes on the door knob. You didn’t want her to be affected by the consequences of your own actions. Seeing how far it got you father you didn’t want her to meet his same fate but she didn’t listen. “Look I know what I did back in town was horrid I truly apologize for that.” Every time you try to open you mouth to interject she elongated her sentence. “ I came here to make things right to make sure you okay and to say I can help you I know-“ she’s caught off being pounced on like animal by something or someone out of your line of sight with a thud. You were about to react until a hard hand comes to the door from your side slamming it loudly closed. All you are left to do is be willfully tormented by her screams of agony as Remmick locks the front door. “Promised my ol’ couple some food, they were just hungry as dogs” he says this sentiment with sort of lightness, even letting out a small ‘woof woof’. Your stomach twists in disgust and terror having to create distance between the both of you.

He tsk'ed in disappointment at your choice. Noticing your desire to push him aside he doesn't shy away from twitching his upper lip to show you his gnarly fangs. "What a shame I really did like Genevieve" he mocks you slowly moving forward. Another blow to the muscle pumping in your chest called your heart wetting your dry cheeks once more in tears. What would you say to her husband and her kid if you walked away alive. You wouldn't have the courage to look them in the eye and tell them about your cowardliness. How you watched their mother die whilst you were inside in the comforts of your home.

With a scream you rely on instincts jumping on Remmick . This time he expects your fit of violence being able to take your arms in his grasps. You try pushing and pulling to break free but nothing budges. He wasn't a big man so why in the hell could you not be strong enough to fight his hands? It looked like a dance you both were having with your twisting and turning making you really live out the ambiance of a juke joint wild but free. It isn't until your able to kick him that your able to make him loosen his grip to break away. His rough voice calls out as you dart to the kitchen trying to find something to arm yourself with,"All this fightin' wont end up pretty for ya" you ignore him now scowering the plethora of eating utensils in the cabinet. "givin' ya a warnin' you should really heed darlin' " his cockiness, the pet names is what you wanted to wipe clear from his face forcing his mouth to never speak again. You turn to face him standing in the middle of the room with a knife. Shiny and anything but dull. His eyes seem to light up at the thought of you wielding such a dangerous object. Not a spec of fear in his nonexistent soul as you walk up to him eyebrows furrowed, a scowl on your face and all. "Don't be silly and give me that thing" He had played this game before long ago. Your genuine hatred was being conveyed in one single long look, fingers clenching in dire need to cause damage. He extends his hand up for you to lay the knife in his hand to submit.

Instead once you're close enough with no hesitation you pierce his hand not just slashing but digging it in until you could see it from the other side. With haste you twist it back at him so the sharp metal is now threatening his chest. With a burn in your thighs and all your might you push forward successfully overtaking any attempt of a protest to your attack. There's a loud grunt from him as the fact the knife dug deeply into his upper chest. It's quickly overtaken by the fact he loses his balance, back against the small sofa sending him backward into it and taking you along with him. Somewhere while taking the fall you let go of the knife to protect yourself instead.  Winded you try to catch your breath looking over to the side you realized you had missed the edge of the coffee table by an inch. What terrifies you is seeing Remmick stand up, his unwounded hand grabbing the knife handle twisting out of his chest and hand simultaneously with a squelch. You think this is when he’ll get his comeback digging the knife into your heart as he stands above you. Bracing yourself your eyes close but instead you hear the cling from the knife being thrown aside. His Hands coming to the collar of your blouse lifting you up with no difficulty and harshly sending you crashing into the coffee table. The glass breaks instantly some of the wood creating a hard surface to simulate a hard punch to your gut. “Thought you’d be different but you’ve got a fire that never dies just like your mother”. He’s out of breath as he speaks and when he mentions the woman you have never met you wish nothing more than to commit cold blooded murder. Your hands extend in-front of you carefully to attempt to lift yourself up but his foot comes to press down on the skin on the other side of your palm. “she wanted nothin’ more than to desperately live that’s what made it so much more excitin’ to snuff her out”. You cry out in agony as the pressure of his foot causes specs of glass to carve a home into your palm. He decides it’s enough when you pathetically paw at his shoe. You’re able to take a glance at the disgusting wound before you’re being dragged from your collar again. No care for the way the destroyed table poked and burns your knees or body. He brings you all the way up to the wall facing the front door and forcing you on your feet. Your knees are giving out but he makes sure to hold you in place steadily by your neck

“What do ya desperately want hmm?” He teases with a tap to your cheek as he watches you became the defenseless rabbit he knew once again. Red teary eyes defeated just accepting what would be made of you just like your father and Genevieve. This sight arouses him inching his face closer he breathes onto you obnoxiously, “could’ve had so many delicious nights with ya stuck on my mouth oh do I miss your heavenly taste” you spit at him for talking about you as some sort of object. Realizing all those “dreams” you believed to have had were nothing of the sort. Just your mind trying to make sense of events happening to your sleeping body to warn you of the violating creature you’re ashamed to call a man infront of you at your wake. His wet muscle slides out from his mouth, tongue split in two like some sort of serpent to lick it up from the side of his cheek. A big grumble of satisfaction form his chest. “Now I need me some more”. His lips come to yours not in the doting way you expected your first kiss to be but hungry and lustful. You fight against him the sloppy kiss making spit smear all over your lips. Your teeth chomp down in order to make him stop biting his lip , hard.

he curses letting your neck go sending your sliding down. You thought of fighting again or fleeing but your body was far too tired. So instead You're stuck in place fighting the heaviness of your eyelids and tasting the irony substance in your mouth. He squats down infront of you with a lip decorated in red.

Forced you are to look at the man before you that you once considered a friend, dare you say lover, finding him to be completely unrecognizable. He fixes your sweaty blood specs covered hair whilst grazing your cheek tenderly like he had done a few happy summer days ago. "Every time you wake up in the mornin n' take a breath of fresh air, maybe even while looking at the sun setting with a child on your hip" he starts. The once gentle hands griping the back of your head, hair and all, harshly craning your neck back. You can't even let out a whine properly without your lungs hurting . " 'want ya to remember ya don't get to do that because ya were brave or strong enough" he can't help but grumble at the sentiment of you believing these things about yourself. His tone grows dark as he hushes the final dialogue onto you like something sacred only for you and his ears only.

"no ....it's because I allowed you to"

he licks a long stripe up your cheek relishing your sweet blood before he abruptly lets go of your head and leaves you helplessly on the ground. His light steps barely even leaving a track of sound in your ear drums as he opens the once closed door. He walks over your dead friends body only her legs visible from your spot. His body isn't tense, instead he strolls away with a pep in his step, the hat you had given him on his head and you can faintly hear him hum that song. Pick poor robin clean. As if it were a regular Monday night. As if he hadn't turned your life upside down just for fun. The couple from earlier appear from the sides of the door covered in blood Bert taking a hold of one of Genevieve’s weightless legs. Joan give you a smile and a wave with her sharp canines before they start walking away your friend dragged in the dirt along with them. You reap the consequences while Remmick was walking away Scot free. Your heart burns, skin boils, face scorns, mustering up all of your strength you let out a scream of pain, anger and agony all at once. Not caring if it scratched your throat painfully. He keeps moving unfazed until his body is a mere spec in your vision. Your Pathetically Left behind feeling the ache in your bones deep inside, the blood oozing out of your body the stinging tears trailing down your sliced skin. Choosing the mortal cage called your human flesh.

You knew he'd always be hiding in the shadows of the night, waiting, and in some twisted way that brought you comfort.

Authors note: this was so long in the making! I I tried my best to interpret the character of Remmick to the best of my abilities without having seen the movie. I apologize for any spelling mistakes and if you asked to be tagged but weren’t it’s probably because your acc didn’t show up when I tried tagging you. Apart from that I enjoyed writing this and I hope y’all enjoyed it too! :)

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Tags: @duckyhowls @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore @thecutestaaakawaii @akumazwrld

[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

��Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[ryusjwks]

yapping abt nonmc

Non-MC reader fanfics are always written by authors who know exactly how to hurt a person. The pain is so intense and so well-crafted that, dear God, sometimes I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. And after a while, I start to see myself as that woman—waiting to be loved but never receiving it in return.

Imagine loving someone. Looking at them with the most fragile, the most human part of your heart. When you hear their voice, everything inside you comes to a halt, and your entire existence shifts toward them. But they… they don’t even notice you. Or if they do, their recognition is not with the powerful grasp of love, but with the light touch of mere acknowledgment.

To you, they are a star, the very center of the universe. But to them, you are just another speck of light in the sky. If you were to disappear, they wouldn’t feel your absence. You turn back, realizing your hands are empty, crushed under the weight of your love. And they? They continue revolving around another world, another sun.

You are a meteor, trying to rise and shine, but unable to enter their orbit—shattered by the gravity of a planet that was never meant to hold you. You dissolve into dust, fading into silence. And they move on, as if nothing ever happened.

This plays out differently for each character, but the ending remains the same.

In Zayne’s case, you are either his fiancée or his wife. He is always cold and distant. His words are measured, his presence heavy yet quiet. Even if storms rage behind his eyes, his face remains unreadable. He has always been this way, and you have accepted it.

But then, he smiles—at her.

That smile is like spring breaking through the ice, subtle, warm, and gentle. As if, for just a moment, the layers of frost within him have melted. And in that moment, you realize he was never truly like this—not for everyone. He is not just a distant man; he is only distant toward you.

And that’s when it sinks in. A weight settles inside you, stealing your breath for just a second. Because you have seen it now—he can be affectionate, he can be warm, he can smile. But that smile was never meant for you.

You are likely Sylus’s assistant, though in rare cases, you might be his wife. Sylus has always been indifferent—to everyone. To you. You walked in his shadow on the battlefield, threw yourself in front of bullets for him, but to him, it was merely necessity. A duty. Your presence was nothing more than part of the mission. Until she came along.

With her arrival, Sylus changed. His face softened when he looked at her, the sharpness in his voice faded. He made sacrifices for her, and when he spoke to her, the rigidness in his posture eased. Sylus was no longer the man you knew. Everyone questioned if he was still the same person, but you already knew the truth.

He hadn’t changed. He had simply never been yours.

With Xavier and Rafael, the pattern is almost identical. You are nothing more than a companion who has traveled through centuries with them, defying time itself.

As time weaves its path, they always take the lead—making decisions, guiding, fighting. And you? You are merely a shadow beside them. A witness. While they sacrificed their homelands for love, you were the one who heard the cries of the people they left behind. On one side was their passionate devotion, and on the other, your quiet grief.

For them, time had stopped. But for you, the world kept turning, though it no longer resembled the place you once knew.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb was always by MC’s side. He was her protector, her shield, her most trusted person. And you were there too. You grew up in the same house, sat at the same dinner table, shared the same stories. But his eyes always sought only MC.

Through the years, you watched how he looked at her. How he stepped forward at the slightest sign of danger, how every word he spoke to her carried an unshakable certainty. You bore witness to his protection, his sacrifices, his unwavering love—but never once was any of it directed at you.

You were there too. You lived those same moments. But you were never the center of his world.

Some see her as a mistress, a backup, an extra wedged between the main character and the LI. As if she were a mere footnote in someone else’s story, placed there by mistake. But she’s not.

She is not just someone trying to insert herself where she doesn’t belong. She was there from the very beginning. She walked the same path, fought the same battles, gazed at the same sky. She was never a stranger lingering on the edges of the story—she was a part of it.

The difference is that her name was never written into the main plot. Her words never echoed, her presence was never at the center. And yet, she was never just a replacement. Because love isn’t a competition, it isn’t a role to be filled, it isn’t about winners and losers.

She simply loved. With everything she had, without expecting anything in return. Her eyes were always on him, but his eyes were never on her.

[yakshxiao]

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift. 

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago. 

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different. 

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m. 

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him. 

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck. 

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level. 

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away. 

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months. 

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories. 

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle. 

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet. 

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about. 

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances. 

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

[trashytracktales]

hey gurlll first thing first id like to say that im IN LOVE with ur fics. not to be dramatic but im seriously on my knees whenever u post bcs how do u write them so GOODD😭😭😭😭 so i have a request hehe🤭 u can totally ignore this. no pressure!

if u would consider this, hear me out. lando and reader are childhood best friends. they are like two peas in a pot but something made them fought (nothing specific, u can write anything!) that had them not talking for almost 6 months which never happens. since they have the same circle of friends, they got invited to a vacation in portugal. the tension between them is like WOW. then one night, when everyone was already asleep, they had another argument maybe make it like an angry confession that leads them to ANGSTY HOT LONGING YEARNING MINDBLOWING SEX but turns out it was one sided where reader kinda disappeared the next morning lol idk u can imagine the rest. OK THANKS LOVE YA💋

Not quite us | LN⁴

🛥 summary ──── A cold winter fight shatters their friendship, but it’s the heat of the Portuguese sun that brings them back together, months later.

🛥 pairing ──── Lando Norris x fem best friend!reader

🛥 rating ──── explicit

🛥 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, mentions of drinking, angst and emotional tension, arguments, swearing, jealousy, smut, unprotected sex, manhandling, passive-aggressive behavior, pining, emotional miscommunication, past relationship dynamics.

🛥 word count ──── 8.6k

🛥 date ──── Apr. 23, 2025

🛥 a/n ──── Wrote this one straight off the vibes, just went with the flow and let the request guide me here and there. Sometimes the chaos cooks itself, so I hope you guys enjoy it either way ♥︎

IT’S NEW YEAR’S, and Lando would have a lot more fun if he stopped looking across the room every twenty seconds. But he can’t help himself. If someone looked at him right now, it would be so easy to read it in his body language: he is exasperated, beyond frustrated, and maybe a little drunk. His fingers encircle his glass so tightly that his knuckles have turned white, and his jaw clenches every time he sees the way she flinches when her boyfriend talks back to her.

Suddenly, the music gets too loud, the champagne is too warm, and even if he’s trying his damn hardest to pretend otherwise, his night is completely ruined.

She’s sitting on the edge of a sectional couch with her phone clutched in one hand, refusing to look up at her man, her face carefully blank in a way that screams something is wrong. All it takes is a blink of an eye and he walks towards the exit, visibly annoyed, leaving her behind.

Lando frowns while taking another sip of his drink, forcing a smile as one of his friends says something he doesn’t quite register. Still, he nods along anyway. But all he can think about is her. The girl he’s known since he was seven years old. The one who always matched his chaotic energy. The only one who managed to beat him at Mario Kart and made fun of his haircuts and once almost peed herself laughing during a round of mini golf when they were thirteen.

His best friend.

Or at least, she used to be.

It has been different for a while. They only see each other at events now, like birthday parties and New Year’s gatherings. It sucks, but it’s better than not seeing her at all.

It started shifting the day she met her boyfriend — some guy from uni, older than her, quieter, a bit too polished for Lando’s liking. She said he made her feel seen. Lando didn’t say anything then, just nodded, smiled and pretended he wasn’t dying a little inside.

He told himself he was just being protective, but truth is, he never liked the guy. Something about him felt off, and Lando noticed it in the way he was too controlling and dismissive at times. But Lando had no proof, therefore, no real reason to speak up. So, he stayed quiet. Let the distance grow. Let the invites slow. Let her disappear into another life that didn’t include him the way it used to.

There are a few minutes left until midnight, and he’s still watching her. She smoothes her dress with the palm of her hand, breathes slowly a few times, then gets up from the couch, apologizing with a small smile every time she bumps into other people in her path. Then, she disappears down the hallway, shoulders hunched, phone still in her hand. Her head is down, like she’s trying to avoid any potential encounter. At that sight, something in Lando twists and, for a moment, he thinks she’s going after her boyfriend, his body instinctively tensing. But he relaxes when he realizes she’s just turned right instead, stepping out onto the balcony.

Without thinking, he sets his empty glass down and slips away from the crowd, past the streamers and glitter and flickering lights, heading in the same direction she went. It doesn’t surprise him when he finds her deep in thought, typing on her phone then shoving it angrily into her purse.

Her back is facing him, arms folded over the railing now, the cold air nipping at her exposed shoulders. She must be freezing, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s also not turning when she hears more steps, then the door closing.

She lets out a breath, but it’s not relief. More like she’s trying not to cry. “Hey, Lan.”

She doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s him. They’ve spent so much time in each other’s company that she’s memorized his footsteps, the sound of his sigh and the hesitation in his voice before he speaks whenever he’s unsure of his words.

Lando pauses a few feet behind her, careful, like he’s afraid she’ll shatter if he’s too loud. “You alright?”

Without waiting for her to answer, Lando just shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders from behind. The girl stiffens for a second, then lets his scent settle around her like a familiar comfort.

She knows things that no one knows about him, like the way his laugh changes depending on who he’s with, but the real one, the high-pitched one that sounds like a hyena giving birth, only comes out when he’s with his friends. She can tell when he’s nervous just by the way he starts tapping his fingers against his thigh. She knows he prefers sleeping with the fan on, even during the winter, that he can’t eat spicy food without tearing up, and that he pretends to like certain people just to keep the peace.

Her best friend.

Or at least, he used to be.

“He left,” she finally says, her voice just a whisper.

Lando moves to stand beside her, copying her posture. “What happened?”

“He said he was going home, but I don’t know.”

He blinks, confused. “Midnight’s in, like… five minutes?”

She shrugs, wiping under her eye with a knuckle, trying to be discreet. “Yeah, well. Apparently I was laughing too loud and drinking too much and fooling around. I was embarrassing him. So he left.”

Lando stares at her, stunned. “It’s a party. What the fuck is he expecting you to do? Sit quietly in the corner and sip water?”

Her laugh is short and sad around the edges, “No, but I know he doesn’t like it when I’m loud or hyper or… whatever.”

There’s a long pause in which she reconsiders her behavior, thinking that maybe her boyfriend is right. Meanwhile, Lando tries to find the right words to counter every single lie that asshole has fed her, the annoyance flooding back in. He turns his head to look at her, and her profile knocks the wind out of him. Her eyes are wet and tired, like she’s trying to hold herself together for longer than just tonight.

“Don’t listen to him,” says Lando quietly, playfully bumping his shoulder against hers, “I love your loud laugh.”

She looks over at him then, a warm wave of safety covering her from head to toe, despite the cold that feels like it cuts across the skin of her face. The words settle heavy between them: I love your laugh. Not ‘it’s nice’. Not ‘it suits you’. I love it. It means more than he probably meant it to. Or maybe it means exactly what he’s never had the guts to say out loud. Until now.

Lando swallows before continuing, “I don’t get it,” he says, “You should be with someone who wants to hear you, no matter how loud or hyper you are. Who knows how lucky they are to be in your presence.” She laughs, as if dismissing his words, but Lando insists, “I’m serious. I still don’t understand why you’re with him.”

The girl lets out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “He wasn’t always like this.”

“I know.”

Lando’s answer sounds a little too sarcastic and, in response, the silence stretches between them once again. But it’s not empty this time. It’s charged. Heavy with everything they’ve never talked about, and all the months they spent apart.

She turns her eyes back to the view, but her fingers tug his jacket tighter around her body. And then, without looking at him, she speaks again, “No, you don’t. We didn’t talk much lately, so you wouldn’t know.”

Lando wastes no time, “And whose fault is it?”

She shifts her body towards him abruptly, “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. It was just a question.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about it. I guess I just… needed my friend for a minute.”

Lando nods too, and steps close enough that their arms brush. Before she can say anything else, he leans in, uncertain but determined, and wraps his arms around her. Her cheek presses against his shoulder, seeking his comfort. The only problem is that there’s nothing casual about how Lando’s heart starts to race. His arms come around her tightly, holding her like his life depends on it, even though she’s the one that’s been ditched by her boyfriend on New Year’s.

They stay like that for a while, their breaths fogging between them in the cold night air. The space they share gets warmer, which makes her snuggle into his chest. She smells like citrus and champagne and every memory he’s ever tried not to think about too hard when he was missing her.

The girl pulls back slightly, enough that her face is tilted up toward his. And when he reaches to cup her cheek, her skin is smooth beneath his palm, her lips slightly parted like she might say something, but doesn’t. They just stare at each other, the same way you only look at someone when you’ve missed them for too long, and you’re finally close enough to touch but terrified to move any further, thinking that maybe they’re not even real.

The countdown begins in the background, a little muffled through the glass door, people shouting numbers like a slow drumbeat from the inside.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

“Break up with him,” Lando’s voice cuts through the haze, rougher than he intended.

One.

The cheers erupt from every direction. The sky bursts into a sea of light above them, fireworks flaring gold, silver, and pink. The noise is distant, like it’s happening on another planet. They wouldn’t know, because they don’t even look. Instead, her eyes are still searching his, confused and a little broken.

He could lean in and take it all, just this once, and blame it on the alcohol.

But she blinks, breaking the ephemeral magic of the moment. She takes a step back, then another, slow and cautious, until she’s out of his arms. “What?”

Lando doesn’t move. “You deserve better.”

“Lando…”

“No,” he shakes his head. “He treats you like shit,” his voice rises gradually, dipped in more emotion than he probably wants to show, “And I don’t know what’s worse: that you know it or that you allow it.”

She looks at him as if Lando is shapeshifting right before her eyes, and he does it far too quickly for her to have time to process.

“Stop assuming things about me,” she warns, all the warmth between them dissolving in an instant. “You don’t know.”

“I know he should’ve been here, kissing you right now. I know he made you cry instead,” he says, stepping forward, closing the distance that she put between them earlier. “I know he left you at a party alone because you were laughing too loud,” he continues, mockingly. “Do you hear how fucking ridiculous that sounds?”

Her voice is sharper next time she speaks, “You don’t know the full story, Lando. He asked me to go home with him, but—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts her. “Looks like he ditches you whenever you’re too much for him. And I can bet this isn’t the first time he’s made you cry, is it?”

She scoffs, “Oh, so now you’re paying attention?” she asks, adopting a defensive attitude. “It’s been months since you’ve shown any interest in me.”

Lando flinches like she just slapped him. “You’re the one who stopped showing up. It’s cause you’ve gotten busier. With him, eh?”

“Smooth, Lando,” she fires back in a disappointed voice. “You pulled away first,” she reminds him, pointing a finger at his chest; tears threaten her eyes again, but she blinks rapidly to clear them away.

“Yeah, because I didn’t know where I fit anymore,” he says, his voice cracking around the edge of frustration. “You were always with him. Always defending him. I didn’t want to be that friend who hovered too close or some asshole that oversteps your boundaries. Because, believe me, I was so close to cross a lot of those before deciding to back the fuck up.”

She stares at him, incredulous, as if all the months they have been apart have completely changed her childhood best friend. “So, instead of talking to me, you just ghosted me? Very mature.”

Lando’s jaw tightens before replying, “I needed space.”

“You disappeared,” she corrects him. “You didn’t just take space. You shut me out.”

“That was me respecting your sorry ass relationship.”

“No,” she laughs dryly. “You were trying to make a point.”

Maybe, Lando thinks, looking away. But that’s not the whole truth. It’s painful, not to mention frustrating, to watch someone you care about being treated badly. It may have been selfish on his part, but Lando couldn’t stand by and watch the girl who deserved it all get only a piece of it.

“You don’t like him,” she continues, voice quieter now. “I get that. But instead of saying it, you just judged me from a distance.”

“No, I don’t like him,” he admits. “Matter of fact, I despise the guy. But not just because of who he is. It’s because he changes you.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not true.”

Lando laughs, but he’s not amused in the slighlest. “You went from having fun to crying in a matter of minutes. Because of him. How many times has this happened before?”

“He never—” she tries to warn him, before Lando cuts her off again.

“Keep defending him,” he says, irritated. “Because God forbid someone call you out when you’re being steamrolled by someone who doesn’t see your worth.”

“And God forbid you admit that maybe you’re not always right!” she snaps. “You don’t get to parachute in and act like some moral compass. If that’s the case, where the hell have you been all this time?”

The question silences them both. He can’t say too much without saying it all, and she’s waiting for something that won’t get to her. Not yet.

Disappointed, hurt, and extremely tired, she shrugs his jacket off and throws it at his chest. “Happy fucking New Year.”

𝟳 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗦 𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥

📍 Somewhere off the Algarve coast, Portugal

AFTER THE HECTIC life she’s lived in the past few months, a weeklong yacht trip along the Portuguese coast is all she needs. Blue water, rosé on deck, and most importantly, no drama.

She says yes before she even checks the guest list, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Everybody in their group knows about the social distancing between her and Lando. Plus, she always checks his calendar, keeping an eye out for the weekends he’s away, racing, meaning she can tag along without stressing that they’re going to bump into each other.

Of course, she still watches his races. Just because they stop talking that doesn’t mean she stopped caring about the dream that Lando has been striving for since childhood. That’s also why she knows that Lando will be in the UK for at least another week, as he mentioned in the post-race interview, which won’t interfere with their little getaway.

By Friday, however, things change drastically. It’s only when she’s already halfway to the marina — after spending the entire afternoon shopping with the girls — that Max texts her.

BTW, just so you’re not surprised… Lando is flying in tonight. I know things aren’t great between you two right now, but he’s still my friend as much as you are, and I didn’t wanna lie or make it weird :D

You okay?

For a moment, everything seems to slow down, including her heartbeat. All the sounds that surrounds her fade into the background, while she tries to steady herself against the sudden rush of emotions.

Is she okay? Well, for the most part yes. But that’s because she haven’t seen Lando in months. There are many ways she can react when they’ll finally be face to face again, and she can’t decide which is worse. But in the end, it doesn’t even matter, because she simply doesn’t have the time to analyze every scenario.

I’ll survive, she texts back.

She will.

She has to.

It gets dark pretty late, but the night is warm, balmy with salt and wine in the air. They decorated the boat’s upper deck with a string of lanterns, their golden glow flickering against the white hull, gently illuminating the space. The music thumps lazily from a speaker somewhere, low enough not to overwhelm the sea’s waves but steady enough to pulse through bare feet on smooth wood.

Someone’s uncorking another bottle of vinho verde, and a few of the girls are still in their swimsuits, legs tucked beneath oversized linen shirts as they lounge across sun-warmed cushions.

She’s also barefoot, her skin kissed pink from the day, a loose skirt swaying at her thighs as she spins around one of the support poles, smiling wide; she decided, hours ago, that she won’t let anything ruin her vacation. It’s the first time in months she’s felt this light, and has no intention to let the feeling be washed away by the waves of a past so distant.

Only when she realizes that she is, in fact, invincible and that nothing can shake her confidence, she hears a familiar laugh, the same one she’ll recognize anywhere. But she doesn’t turn to it immediately. Instead, her body stiffens as fast as if it’s controlled by a remote.

He’s here and, suddenly, the breeze curling in from the sea feels somehow cooler. It’s just a voice, but it’s his, and it sounds so melodic in her ears, even after all this time.

When she finally turns around, all the noise dials down.

Lando’s standing on the deck like he’s never been gone, a duffel thrown over one shoulder, his curls slightly damp from the flight or the heat or the mist. He’s in a loose, black tank top and shorts, his sneakers untied like he didn’t even bother to fix them. He’s already smiling when he sees Max coming to greet him with a drink in hand, sliding easily into hugs and handshakes. Everything is so normal that she almost rushes to the stairs to jump into his arms.

As if he hears her thinking about him, Lando looks up and their eyes catch mid-movement.

The music doesn’t stop. No one freezes. The conversation continues. And yet something just between them shifts, making Lando still for a moment. His smile falters slightly. The duffel slides off his shoulder and drops at his feet. His gaze lingers longer than it should, because he seems genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t expected her to look the way she does — lighter, freer, happier than the last time he saw her.

Like a low-budget movie, they just look at each other for a while and then, barely perceptible, Lando nods once. It is a subtle, tired gesture. Not warm, but not hostile either. More like: I see you. I’ll behave.

And she nods back: I see you too. I’ll try.

That’s all that it is. A small breath of peace in the warzone. Because they both know that this vacation isn’t about them. There are too many people they both love here, too many memories tied up in this group to be so selfish as to ruin everyone’s fun.

With that, Lando disappears below deck with a few of the guys, and the party continues as if nothing happened.

SOMEHOW, THEY’VE MANAGED.

It’s the last night on the boat together, and not once have they really spoken. Just kept on with the civil nods and carefully timed appearances. She took the mornings on the upper deck with a book and her sunglasses pulled low, while he suck to afternoons with Max and Keegan, sunbathing and pretending not to look over when she passed by.

Every time they went out for dinner, they sat at opposite ends of the table, pretending to be invested in conversations that barely held their attention.

When they went to explore the nearby cliffs and hidden beaches, they naturally split into smaller groups, Lando ending up with the boys, as usual, taking the off-road buggy trails that wind through dusty hills, while she tagged along with a few of the girls. They didn’t walk near each other. Didn’t even end up in the same group photo.

But the glances were a constant, and all of them have carried them both here, almost at the end.

There’s a bizzare quiet in the air tonight, the kind that only the sea can create — so deep, violent, and alive at the same time.

After soaking in her own heat for hours, she decides to step out of her cabin for a breath of fresh air.

They’ve ordered seafood for dinner, and her relationship with it is not exactly good. A small breeze brushes across her face, lifting her hair slightly, carrying with it the clean scent of salt. The boat rocks gently beneath her, and the stars above are strewn carelessly across the sky like spilled sugar.

The second she steps into the dark of the corridor and turns toward the small galley, her heart skips a beat. For good reason. Lando’s already there, barefoot and shirtless and deep in thought in the low light, leaning against the railing like he belongs in the night. One of his hands is resting on the cool metal, while the other is wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead.

His head turns when he hears her cat-like steps, eyes catching hers in the dark.

The only sounds are the gentle hush of the waves against the hull, and the occasional creak of the boat. Neither of them says anything, as if they don’t even know how to speak to each other after throwing cutting words at each other, all those months ago. The silence between them doesn’t make them feel awkward. Maybe just a little guarded. However, it’s very depressing, really, not having anything to say to the person who once knew absolutely everything about you.

It would be very easy for her to turn on her heels and walk back into her cabin, avoiding Lando, just like she has done all these days. But then she hears his whispered voice, and his mellow intonation is enough to make the entire planet stop from spinning.

“Everything okay?”

She swallows, caught in the stillness of the night as if she’s a thief. “Yeah,” she whispers back, even though it sounds more like a question than an answer. “Felt a bit sick.”

He nods slowly. “The shrimp?”

“The fucking shrimp,” she agrees.

Lando shrugs. “Ew.”

His reaction triggers a wave of warmth that washes over her, forcing a smile while thinking about the past. The memory flashes rudely uninvited. Still, she weclomes it with nothing but nostalgia in her heart. They were eight, crammed into a bed on a family vacation, and she’d eaten her weight in shrimp and clams at dinner, proudly declaring herself a seafood queen. Hours later, she threw it all up, right there, in bed, all over him. Lando woke up screaming, drenched in the smell of stomach acid, fish and betrayal and, ever since, he couldn’t even stand near a fish without gagging.

Cautious, she edges forward, bracing her arms on the railing only a couple feet apart from him, eyes fixed on the black stretch of sea. The moon paints a silver path across the water, waves shifting like oil under its light. For a few minutes, they just stand there like two ghosts, side by side, watching the view, but probably stuck in different memories.

“So, I’ll go back inside,” she says a little unsure.

His voice cuts through the quiet, “Stay,” says Lando without hesitation.

It’s not just the gentle plea that catches her off guard, but the way he says it. Like he means it more than he means anything else right now. Possibly more than he meant anything else ever.

Awkwardly, she moves forward, letting herself lean closer to him. That’s how she finds out that physical distance means absolutely nothing when it’s the emotional distance that kept them apart. More than that, there are many things left unsaid that fill that void.

Out of sheer curiosity — or plain stupidity, she’s not sure yet — the girl begins to walk uncertainly towards the edge of the space that separates them.

“You remember New Year’s?” she asks, the words coming out softer than she expects.

There is no trace of hatred or resentment behind her voice, which surprises her. She understands that she has, without realizing it, moved beyond their most tensed moment so far. And all that’s left now, besides her curiosity, is the fact that no matter how much time has passed, the two of them still know each other on a level they haven’t reached with anyone else.

Lando doesn’t look at her, but his jaw flexes. “Hard to forget.”

“I threw your jacket at you,” she continues with a small laugh.

“And stormed off like you were in a romcom.”

“To be fair, you were being a dick.”

He chuckles then, and the sound is gentle yet painfully nostalgic. “I probably was.”

“You talked like you knew everything. It was…” she hesitates, fingers tightening slightly on the rail, “A bit cruel. Even if it came from a good place.”

Lado nods. “I know,” he says, “I guess I didn’t know how to talk without sounding like some immature tantrum just because I was missing my friend.”

She glances at him then, studying the curve of his profile in the moonlight. The familiar slope of his perfect sculpted nose. The way his curls fall just a little longer then she remembered. The way he speaks but seems so deeply forgotten in the memory of that winter night.

“I broke up with him the next day,” she admits.

He turns, his eyes searching for hers. “Yeah,” says Lando, “I figured.”

Even though she tries her best, she can’t read his demeanor. He seems tense, even though their conversation isn’t hostile in any way. Not yet, at least. Still, Lando looks as if he’s bracing for some sort of impact that she’s not aware of. There something softer in his expression, though. Something hesitant that encourages her to keep him in that memory.

“I think about it sometimes,” she continues. “That night. All of it.”

He nods again. “Me too. ”

She looks over, eyes wide and cautious, but Lando doesn’t look away.

“But,” he continues, “I won’t apologize for what I said. Because I wasn’t wrong. You do deserve better. And maybe I had no right to say it the way I did, but I’d rather have fought with you than keep watchig you shrink yourself for someone who didn’t even appreciate you.”

His words hit like the waves, tightening her throat. “I get that. But in the moment, it made me feel…” she begins, eyes filling up with tears, “Like you stopped respecting me because of him. And I felt stupid for being so blinded that I lost sight of all the things that were the most important to me.”

The way Lando looks at her now makes her heart sink. Not with pity. Not even with regret. Just a dull ache, like he’s been carrying it with him for months, and he’s too tired to hold it tightly anymore.

“Come on, you know that’s not true,” he says. “I was just irritated and drunk. Watching you disappear like that wasn’t easy, and I didn’t know how to ask you to stay without sounding like a selfish prick. I should’ve just said something,” adds Lando. “Instead of sulking and keeping score and acting like you betrayed me for living your life,” he looks away then, back to the endless sea, eyes half-lidded like the movement of the waves might offer him something easier to face. Anything but this.

He had time to think and weigh his actions. But it all came down to those last few minutes, when it suddenly became too much for both of them.

“I missed you, Lando,” she confesses after a while, letting the words out in a small voice.

The silence that follows is no longer heavy with avoidance, but an intimate warmth that somehow infiltrates under her skin. It merges with all the sadness caused by the time they spent apart and, together, they create a new kind of feeling that she doesn’t yet know how to name. And, for some reason, she’s in no hurry to do so.

Uncertain yet courageous after hearing her admission, Lando’s hand finds hers along the railing and, to his surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she threads her fingers through his, like she was already waiting for it. For him.

It’s weird, she thinks, how their hands fit together like the end of a sentence that finally makes sense. So she keeps it there, feeling his pulse in her palm like it’s the most normal thing in the world. They can’t look at each other, though. And suddenly, the waves are so much more interesting than the mess they’ve created, their soft undulation bewitching them both, mirroring their feelings in a sick, twisted way; tamed at the surface, yet storming somewhere deeper.

In the chaos of her mind, she can feel the gentle way his thumb brushes the side of her hand. The way he squeezes her afterwards. Like a promise. And she knows, without either of them saying it, that this was always going to happen. That they are inevitable, like gravity pulling them toward the center of each other.

“Are we gonna go back to being cold in the morning?” he finds the strength to ask, voice barely above the hush of the tide.

Truth is, she doesn’t even know what the next few minutes will bring, let alone the next morning.

The girl turns her head slightly, her cheek pressing to his shoulder. “Well, I don’t know how to be your friend nowadays,” she admits, not to make him feel bad, but because that’s the only thing she’s sure of. Her truth.

Lando sighs, “Yeah, that’s not quite us anymore, hm?”

It takes another crushing silence before Lando turns to her completely. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter they can’t be friends anymore, because they’re way past that. Lando is way past that. All he wants is one chance to show her how much it means to him; every word, every touch and every single thought that’s been haunting him for days on end.

He looks like he’s on autopilot when he brings his other hand up to brush her jaw. After his movement, she takes the next step and leans into his touch. She opens her mouth, maybe to say his name, but the words don’t get the chance to get out, because Lando grabs her firmly and pulls her toward him. Hard. Like he can’t take the distance anymore.

His mouth crashes into hers without any warning. It isn’t careful. It isn’t sweet. It’s the result of months of silence, of aching, of watching and wanting and never having. It’s teeth clashing, breath catching, fingers curling so hard into skin that it’ll leave marks.

She gasps into his mouth, as if the ground is crumbling beneath her feet, but at the same time, it’s the most exciting feeling she’s ever felt. Her arms are instinctively wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer like she’s been just as consumed by what they didn’t say. Lando fists a hand in her hair, the other gripping her waist tight enough to bruise. He’s all fire, hot and desperate, and there’s not enough water that surrounds them to cool what’s raging in his chest.

He gives her the kind of kiss that says I missed you too and I’m sorry and I never stopped thinking of you all at once. Her hand constricts around his bicep, grounding herself in the feel of him: his salty lips and the way he exhales with a relieved sigh like she’s air after being underwater for far too long. It’s impossible not to feel how much he needed this, because there’s nothing left unsaid in the way he holds her. The truth — his truth — was always there, waiting for the moment they’d both be brave enough to let in.

The kiss deepens before either of them realizes what’s happening. And it’s her who leans in a bit further. That brings him back to the present moment, not because she is just as desperate, but because of how much she means it. How much she wants this. It’s right there, in the way her mouth moves over his, open and urgent, like a need that’s been burning for too long. It makes Lando groan silently when her teeth graze his bottom lip, her tongue flicking against his like a dare. A dare that he answers to, meeting her halfway, teasing, then licking into her mouth with a skilled confidence that makes her head spin.

Oh, he’s a good kisser.

Dizzy from the sudden intensity, she clings to his neck, tilting her head as he takes control, his hands finding their way back to her waist after roaming up and down her body, guiding her back a few steps until her spine presses lightly to the railing. The breeze kisses across her bare legs, her thin nightdress doing nothing to hide the way her body shivers. Or how hard he gets against her. She feels it instantly, like a sharp contrast between his swim trunks and her body, and it sends a jolt of heat right between her thighs.

Her breath hitches once they stop, glancing up at him, caught between amusement and want. “What are you so excited for?”

Lando meets her gaze with an innocent grin twitching at his lips as he shrugs, “Sorry.”

She can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation she finds herself in. Loud. The kind of laugh that throws her head back a little and makes her cover her mouth when she realizes its heat.

Lando just watches her, enchanted by her mere existence. And, without thinking twice, he asks, “How can anyone be embarrassed by that laugh?”

The sudden comment silences both of them. Lando, because he just heard himself saying it out loud. And her, because of how sincere he sounds. How tender.

Still grinning, he lets his forehead fall against hers. They may never encounter such a moment of peace again, so neither of them hesitates to take it where it’s supposed to go to: her tiny cabin. The narrow door clicks shut behind them, and the space is barely big enough for one person, let alone the two of them tangled in something so close it’s hard to tell where tension ends and need begins.

She backs into the bed, and Lando follows, eyes fixed to her like she’s the only girl ever. When they finally collapse onto the mattress, it creaks under their weight. Their knees bump. Shoulders brush. Lando’s arm wraps around her waist in an instant, and she fits there like it’s hers. That grip. Him.

Somehow, he’s bigger than she remembers. Or maybe she’s just never noticed how broad his chest is, how his legs stretch past the foot of her bed, how small her frame feels when she pulls him into her. And now, in the closeness of their embrace, it’s impossible not to feel it.

It intimidates her, but she keeps her hands all over him, warm skin meeting her palms. Her eyes roam without shame, wandering from his abdomen up to his pecs and then stop on his freshly kissed lips. Her fingers trail along his arms, feeling the strength carved into muscle by years of racing and tension. She watches the way goosebumps rise under her touch, and when her hand flattens over his chest, just above his heart, Lando exhales heavily, with a slight shudder.

He doesn’t look away, though. He doesn’t have the heart or enough willpower. He simply looks back at her, eyes burning, as if seeing her underneath him like this is the only normal thing in their messed up lifes.

“I need to know where’s your head at,” he says, his long fingers brushing the outside of her thigh.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Mostly because she finds it hard to pay attention when her childhood friend — the skinny little boy who used to be blown away by the slightest breeze — is now on top of her in the flesh, displaying groups of muscles she’s never seen on his body before, let alone touched.

Her hand stays on his chest, “Am I ever going to get my best friend back?”

His hearts breaks a little, because he realizes that both of them know the implications of her question. The answer, too, but she still wants to hear him saying it, because that’s the only thing that’ll make it true.

Lando’s eyes search hers for a moment too long, and something in him rearrange, the muscle in his jaw tightening before he leans in. “No,” he simply replies.

She figured. Still, it is not necessarily the answer itself that makes her emotional, but the way Lando said it, as if it is torture for him to even admit it.

“I can’t ruin myself over and over again, pretending that what I feel for you is small. It never was.”

She nods, lifting her hand to the back of his neck, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling him down until their lips are barely brushing. Lando’s hands are pulling at her, slowly sliding the straps of her dress down. He takes his time, undressing her like he’s unwrapping a present he’s waited far too long to touch. And when she’s standing there, bare and warm and only for him to see, he sits back to stare and take as many mental pictures as he can.

“You’re…” he starts, voice nearly breaking, “So fucking beautiful.”

She presses closer, hands moving to his shorts with urgency. Lando lets her, barely breathing and, when the last layer falls away, she looks down at him. All of him. His golden skin that glows in the dim light filtering through the porthole, muscles tightening under her hungry touch.

Impatient, his hand slides between her legs while maintaining eye contact, his fingertips brushing over the soft skin at her inner thigh before he presses just lightly against her entrance. The reaction is immediate, a sharp breath followed by a soft whimper that catches in her throat. Her hips instinctively lift toward him, and his own breath wavers at the sound.

“So wet,” he breaks off, almost spiraling from the realization, from finding out just how much she wants him. Just like he wants her.

For a moment, there’s something feral in his gaze, something that won’t let her move her eyes. Like he’s balancing on a tightrope of restraint, and she’s the drop waiting to pull him under.

“It kills me,” he admits. Then he leans in, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, “But you need to be quiet, darling.”

She nods, her breath still uneven, knowing it’s going to be anything but easy.

Lando presses a kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone before he continues, “Even though I love it when you’re loud, you’ll have to save that for later.”

Just the thought of her, waiting for his next move all warm and wanting, has his cock already pulsing in his palm. He strokes himself slowly, gaze locked on her as she shifts beneath him, spreading wider with a shaky inhale.

As curious as ever, she glances down between them, eyes filled with want, and he watches her bite her lower lip at the sight of him, so hard and ready. The gap between them closes quickly, suspended in that final moment before everything changes. Her fingers curl into the sheets, watching Lando lining himself up, just barely brushing against her clit. Then, he pushes in with a whimper that sounds like it’s been clawing at his throat for months. Like this moment has been sitting just under his skin, waiting to become real.

“Fuck,” he pants, silently. “You feel better than I ever imagined.”

Right now, all her senses are inhibited by him. The weight, the stretch, the warmth, the way his hands frame her hips like she’s the only thing keeping him in check, and she’s the only reason why Lando isn’t unleashing hell yet. Her legs wrap around his waist, holding him close, as if her body already knows what her heart won’t let her say.

Lando. Lando. Lando!

But he shakes his head, his voice going lower than normal, “No, baby, Let me.”

The bed is laughably small, making Lando huff out a frustrated breath, one arm sliding under her thigh as he shifts them both, gripping her firmly to guide her where he needs her. It’s not graceful in any way, but there’s something about the way he manhandles her, lifting, adjusting, controlling the angle until it’s perfect, that makes her head fall back with a gasp.

He exhales through his nose, lips pressing in a thin line to avoid making sounds that could get them both into trouble. “There. That’s it.”

She lets him move her, pliant and trusting, her breath getting heavier when their skin brushes in all the right places. Every thrust is slow at first, drawing soft moans from her mouth that only make him harder. The way her body reacts only fuels him, encouraged by the way her lashes flutter, and the way her hands slide into his hair when she can’t find the words. She couldn’t say it anyway. Can’t give voice to what’s blooming and breaking inside her.

But Lando feels it in the way she moves with him, and how her body opens like it was always meant to. That pushes him to thrust harder, feeling like the entire boat shakes at the force.

“Easy. You’re gonna break the bed,” she says against his jaw, her voice a breathy laugh.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve broken over you,” he mutters back, but there’s no malice in his tone, except a dangerous affection that’s always lived under his skin when it came to her.

It makes her curious to know what he means, but just as she’s about to ask, Lando finds that angle where their bodies align like puzzle pieces that should’ve never fit but somehow do. He rocks into her so sweetly, and that’s enough to silence her. The answer is in the way her breath stutters. The way her fingers grip his arms. The way her body pulls him in and clenches around his length like it’s never known anything else.

“Shit. Again, please,” Lando breathes wetly against her skin. “Do that again,” he repeats, already buried to the hilt, grinding against that perfect spot inside her, that once he found it, it’s impossible to stop. “Mhm. Let me make it right.”

“You said you can’t,” she challanges him, barely able to speak. “So stop taking your sweet time, Norris,” she pants, breathless but defiant, smirking even as her thighs tremble around his hips.

Lando lifts his head, curls damp against his forehead, eyes dark with a sudden annoyance. “Yeah? That’s how he’s had you all this time? Quick, in and out, job done?”

Her smirk drops into a scoff, her hands pressing against his chest like she might shove him off. But she arches into him instead, loving the way her back rubs against the mattress with each push.

“If anything, he had the balls to be honest with me.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he thrusts deeper, making her gasp mid-retort. “Stop defending him, will ya?”

The sheets are already half off the bed, twisted and forgotten, heat pulsing like a heartbeat between them. Lando starts moving inside her with a relentless rhythm, as if trying to erase anyone who came before him with every shove. But she won’t give him the silence he craves.

Not anymore.

Her head tilts back, sweat glistening at her collarbone, but her eyes are sharp, ready to catch his reaction. “No wonder you drive like that. Always trying to prove you’re better than the last guy, aren’t you?”

His hips slam forward, hard enough to make her gasp again, fingers bruising against her waist. “That’s rich coming from the girl who settled for someone who didn’t even know how to fuck her, let alone treat her right.”

She bites her lip, not in surrender but to hide the moan that slips out anyway. Her nails dig into his back, dragging down like a punishment until he grunts. “You’re such a coward,” she snaps. “At least he didn’t treat every conversation like a race he had to win.”

All of a sudden, Lando slows his movements, grinding deep, making her eyes roll before he fucks back into her harder than before. Only to make a point. Only to see all the places he takes her to.

“‘Cause he had the habit of abandoning before it even started, isn’t it? How many times did you have to fake it?”

Her eyes snap to his, speechless, but Lando doesn’t blink. He grins at her, knowing he is waiting for an answer he’ll never get.

She kisses him then, hard and angry, pouring all the emotions she never thought Lando, of all people, would ever awaken in her. Then she pushes him, her legs squeezing around his waist, her action emphasizing the duality of the thoughts going through her mind.

“Just so we’re clear. You’re not the first to try and fuck me into forgetting,” she finally replies.

At that, Lando stops for a breath, not from exhaustion but from the way her words claw straight through his big ego. He slams into her again, smiling at her, hand catching her thigh to spread her wider. “But I’m the one who’s going to succeed.”

She’s so close, he can feel it in the way her body aches to keep his cock inside and how her insults start to blend with moans. What amazes him, though, is the strength she has to continue their little argument, as if they’re not in the middle of something else right now.

“Never thought you could be such an asshole, it’s unbelievable.”

Lando doesn’t even blink when he speaks again, “He made you cry on New Year’s,” he growls, voice sharp, like a blade slipping between her ribs. “And I’m the asshole?”

Before she can throw a retort back, he tilts his hips, changing the angle, and drives into her so sudden that it knocks the breath from her lungs. Her back arches, while her hips are lifting to meet every punishing thrust.

“Lando,” she moans his name, arms winding around his shoulders like she’s holding on for dear life.

She can feel him in places she didn’t even know could feel. He’s fucking her with such intensity it turns into a blur of slick skin and strangled whimpers, the bed creaking beneath them.

The banter dies somewhere along the way, and all that’s left behind is the heat, the pounding rhythm, the kind of pleasure that makes thoughts disappear and stars dance behind their eyes. Her brows are scrunched, eyes glazed, and she realizes she’s about to scream. Actually scream.

Luckily, Lando places a hand over her mouth just in time, muffling the broken sounds pouring out of her throat. It takes her by surprise, realizing how well he knows all her signals without ever telling him. But it’s easy for him. Especially when he sees the way her body’s trembling under his weight, and the way her eyes plead and challenge all at once.

He nods, hips pistoning into her, watching her come apart beneath him, a quiet, shaking mess.

“Yeah,” he grunts as quiet as possible through gritted teeth, “That’s it. Just me now.”

The words hang in the sweat-soaked air as she comes around his length, clenching so tight it nearly takes him with her. Lando doesn’t stop moving. Instead, he talks her through it, his voice breathless against her ear.

“That’s my girl, let it all out. So fucking perfect.”

Her nails sink further into his back, riding the aftershocks with his cock still buried deep, stretching her in all the ways she was craving. It brings him right on the edge, and with a frustrated cry, Lando pulls out, the head of his cock flushed and swollen as it rests hot and heavy against her thigh. He lets himself go at the sight, thick ropes spilling messily onto her skin. Sticky. Warm. Heavenly.

“Lan,” she breathes, half a protest, half a moan, reaching up to drag him back on top of her.

Lando can’t resist the pull. Not when her touch unravels him with every glide of her fingers over his skin. He used to dream of it, but the reality is always better. He kisses her again, softer this time, letting the moment stretch before his hand finds the curve of her breast, fingers teasing with just enough pressure to make her arch against him. Patiently, his thumb sweeps over her nipple, circling, pressing, feeling it harden under his touch.

It makes her whimper, her hands fisting in his hair. Lando’s lips find the column of her throat then, biting gently just beneath her jaw. Her sounds light him up like the fireworks they didn’t witness that night. He trails his kisses down to her collarbone, one palm flattening over her stomach before traveling back up.

Somehow, the chaos has slowed, but the heat is still there.

Their bodies are tangled in ways that no one could tell where she starts and where he ends, the mess between them so satisfying. When their eyes meet again, he sees her flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on her brow, and her chest heaving. Her eyes are so vulnerable as she looks back at him — her Lando, stripped down and completely wrecked.

And without a single word, he slides back in.

No sharp words, no angry breathing. Just the sound of their pants, the wet glide of his cock moving inside her, the weight of emotion that neither of them dares to name. Every thrust is unhurried this time around, his sweaty forehead resting against hers, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of her walls fluttering around him, the way her thighs lock around his waist with each roll of his hips.

It’s not just sex anymore. Is so much more than that, something that will linger for a quite some time after they part tonight. And they both know it.

When the pressure builds again, it’s different. There’s less fire. More ache. She blinks up at him, and her lips tremble. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes, not from physical pain, but from the overwhelming closeness of it all.

Lando sees it, and kisses them away.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

And when he comes again, it’s with a quiet groan right against her lips, buried deep as her body pulls him in, taking every drop of his pleasure and keeping him as if he belongs to her from now on. All of it. All of him.

The silence that surrounds them afterwards feels too full. She lets him stay there, wrapped around her, her fingers idly tracing his back. But her gaze is distant, fixed on the ceiling, already somewhere else.

For now, at least, they can coexist in the same world, breathing each other in until the reality will catch them from behind.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow morning.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader (18+) summary it wasn’t uncommon for you to seek each other’s presence after the sun was tucked away—for company, for comfort. but there’s something more consuming about tonight [post-outbreak, fluff, soft smut, 3.3k] a/n they're in love.

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There always had been something about the night. Something singular about its ability to take the most tightly wound days and coax them undone. Like the silken ribbon of a worn bow that had grown weary of holding its shape.

For quite some time now, your nights have belonged to each other. After years of going to bed alone, even Joel realized how good it felt to end the day next to someone who reminded him just how sweet life could be. 

Everyone's deserving of good company—you’d spoken those words to him in the face of his independence. Thankfully, with time, they’d worked their way into his spirit. Like vines, like air itself. He no longer feels wrong for craving care as tender as yours, even though his hands have made ghosts out of many men. 

Earlier tonight, it was you who came to him. 

Three muffled knocks had roused him from the beginning of a light sleep. Given he didn’t have to entertain Ellie tonight, he figured he’d turn in a little earlier than usual. He’d answered the door with fluffy hair and squinted eyes. There was an undeniable softness about his rumpled pajamas and the sight of his bare feet against the hardwood. Few words were needed between you as he helped you out of your coat and led you upstairs to his bedroom. 

It’s quiet where you lay now, tucked beneath sheets that smell faintly of earthen pine. You’ve draped one arm over Joel’s waist while your nose remains tucked between his shoulder blades like it belongs there. 

During the day, while out in the commune, you remained cordial and unassuming around each other. You weren’t exactly hiding from the attention of others but were protecting the bond forming between you. 

In due time, you’d allow the familiarity and intimacy of the night to bleed over into the day, but for now, this nighttime ritual is sacred in its newness. It had been a couple of months since your patrol partner didn’t show, and Joel stepped up to take his place. 

As it turns out, spending six hours with the right person in the cold can change your life. 

Joel holds his breath on an inhale when he feels your fingers begin to toy with the hem of his shirt. They slip beneath it a moment later, almost shy as they trail along his waistline and brush through the thin hair beneath his navel. Joel’s hips tilt just so. 

He swallows around a low sound as your hand ventures up his chest with featherlight curiosity. Exploring, cataloging. Past his ribs and to his chest to graze the pads of your fingers over his nipples, making something stir low in his gut. 

Your hand then drifts back down to splay over the small pudge of his stomach as if to center him again. 

“You’re so warm,” you murmur. 

If he were braver, he’d say it was by virtue of your touch alone. Your hands had wandered over each other's bodies, but never quite like this. This time, your touch doesn’t seek to soothe or ground but to evoke. 

Joel rests his hand over yours with a hum. It covers yours whole. 

“Your hands are so big.” Your voice dips into a purr. “And strong. Capable.”

Joel chuckles a low, flustered sound. He’s not sure what to do with these compliments or if that’s what they’re meant to be. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you then say. “Fix my mailbox.”

Of everything you could’ve mentioned, he wasn’t expecting that. It was an easy task he’d knocked out earlier this afternoon. It took him no more than fifteen minutes. 

“Nothing to it,” he assures in a low drawl. 

Except, there was something to it. The fix meant Joel had been listening when you mentioned it broke. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something for you without asking for permission. Joel Miller is a man of action. If he sees a problem or a need, he doesn't hesitate. That strong sense of initiative had yet to steer him wrong. 

It’s lovely to be seen and heard by someone like him, especially in a commune where it wasn’t hard to slip through the cracks at times.  

A half-restrained shiver rolls down Joel’s spine when you press a kiss to the nape of his neck. The hair curled there tickles the tip of your nose. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Welcome—” His voice catches when you pepper more kisses to his nape. His hand stills yours when he feels your attempt to trail your touch downward from his stomach. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel breathes, a little wary. 

“Yes?” you lilt. 

The sheets rustle as Joel turns over to face you. He can only make out a few of your features in the glow of the moonlight slipping into the room. The rest, his mind fills in. You cup his stubbled cheek with a gentle hand. 

“Makin’ me hot.” His voice is soft and honest, a little frayed around the edges. A pleasant buzz has settled beneath his skin. 

Maybe you wanted him to burn. 

You scoot that much closer to press your lips to his. When the initial surprise dissipates, they move, slow and easy, against your own. Almost tired if you didn’t know any better. But even in the shroud of the night, he’s wide awake. For this. For you. 

A low sound rises in his throat when you take his lower lip between your teeth and gently tug until you’ve fully pulled away. 

Joel hadn’t realized his hand had drifted to settle on your waist, but suddenly, it’s not enough. He needs to feel you entirely. A need rooted so deep he aches with it. There’s no more denying the swell in his pants, where the brunt of his desire has made itself known. 

Restraint looks good on Joel, but there always has been an air of allure around the notion of him surrendering. Of what it looked like for him to partake and be partaken of. It’d been some years since he’d allowed himself to open up in this way, and anyone he shared himself with in the past was long gone. You wanted to demystify it all and come to know that side of him for yourself. 

This time, when your hand begins to drift lower, he doesn’t stop you. Not when your fingers slip beneath both his waistbands. Or as you wrap them around the base of his warm, rigid length. A pleasured shudder courses through him as you pull upwards in a reverent tug. At the top, your thumb encircles the velveteen head to spread the small, wet bead of eagerness.  

Joel starts to move upright but trembles back into place when your loose grasp descends, mapping back down each snaking vein before gently massaging the rounded fullness that hangs beneath. 

“Love the feel of you already,” you murmur. Joel’s face warms as his arousal kicks up under your ministrations. 

In an unexpected display of agility, he repositions to hover above you, pushes down his pants and boxers, and braces himself as he kicks them away. His movements are so seamless that your touch isn’t disrupted for long. 

You spit into your hand as best you can and reach out for him in the dark, knowing exactly where to find him as he bobs towards his stomach. 

Joel’s more interested in gripping your pants, and you place your feet flat on the mattress to lift your hips for him to shuck them off. The cool air of the room registers against the slickness between your legs as you clench. Joel lowers a finger to trace along your entrance, spreading the moisture upwards as he circles your budded nerves. 

He continues paying careful attention to the spot, even as your hand distractedly falls from him to curl into the sheets. Your exhale is shaky when he stops. 

“Just a second,” Joel rasps. 

He braces himself further up your body, one large palm splayed near your head. As the mattress shifts, you realize he’s reaching toward the nightstand. You move your hand to play between your legs to ease the throbbing ache lazily. 

A faint click sounds, and a flame sparks to life, balanced on the crooked wick of a candle. The light casts a dim, golden radius in the room. 

“Can’t miss this,” he explains as he returns to his original position. 

“Need to see you.” In a testament to his words, his arousal kicks up on its own accord yet again. 

You selfishly take him in. His intense gaze. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The straining, desirous region of him that your hands had come to know before your eyes ever did. A thatch of unruly dark curls rests at the base of him. 

Joel pulls his shirt over his head to reveal his last covered portion. His arms are toned and firm. A thin dusting of hair spans over his impressive chest. New and old scars pepper the expanse of his torso. The faint indents of a v-line remain even with the pudge of his stomach from age and finally eating good meals again. 

Now it’s your turn. Joel helps you out of your shirt and tosses it aside with renewed urgency. As you finally lay bare, his dark eyes admire your chest as if this first chance is the last chance he’ll get. He extends a careful hand to cup one of your breasts, gaze flicking to your face to watch the way your brows furrow in approval. 

“Christ,” he grouses in an air of disbelief. 

You suck in a quick breath when he leans down to kiss along the side of your neck. Goosebumps arise in the wake of his lips as he continues downward like it’s a path he’s traveled before. Over your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, straying to gently peck a pebbled nipple before returning to the centerline of your torso. 

In the process, he shifts himself further down the mattress, your legs propped like two mountains along either side of him. 

His kisses turn into toothless nips when he reaches the lower portion of your stomach. That sensation, paired with the scratch of his beard, makes your abdomen twitch and flex. It isn’t until he makes it beneath your belly button and strays toward your hip bones that your chest finally shakes with a laugh as you squirm. 

Joel stills you with a steady hand and peeks up at you with a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. He’s cataloging every shift and sweet sound. 

As his shoulders force your thighs to splay a little wider, you bite your lip both out of anticipation and to keep your lingering smile at bay. In seconds, he’s made a live wire out of you. 

Every other breath you take catches. You find yourself swallowing more than you had all night. But suddenly, there’s no urgency about him at all. You’ve slipped into an unspoken purgatory where your release looms on hold. 

He’s drawing things out, taking his time, ignoring the throb of his own need as he tries to pick you apart. 

Joel bypasses where you’re spread open and pulsing and delivers a kiss to the inside of your thigh, mere inches from where you crave him. You shift, hoping he’ll reroute, but he pretends not to notice. 

You try again, attempting to twist and present your core as an alternative to the fluff of your thighs. 

An exasperated huff escapes you. “Just…”

You let your sentence trail off as you attempt to give him your best pleading look. It almost works. They’re the eyes he’d steal the moon for, but he wants to relish this moment a little longer. Wants to hold out on you while you’re both safe to be these needy versions of yourselves. 

“Just what, sweetheart?” he coaxes. 

Your mouth opens a couple of times. “Do something. Touch me,” you murmur, cheeks warm. 

“I am touchin’ you.” He smooths a calloused palm along your leg to prove it. 

“Like you were before,” you specify, voice smaller now. 

Your stomach flips when he starts to move back towards your hips, and flustered, premature giggles bubble up your throat because he’s got you so on edge, and you just know he’s about to do those maddening little kisses again. 

“Not that,” you whine. “C’mon Joel, I need you.” The earnestness of those words sends a jolt toward the apex of his thighs. 

You’ve got him now, so you press further. “Please? Wanna feel you.” You make your voice softer. “Been wanting to feel you all night.”

Joel caves and runs a heavy finger through your folds, then gently spreads you open to press a kiss to that small, swollen part of you. His lips are so delicate you’d think he was kissing a rose bud. A helpless mewl escapes as he replaces his lips with the firm press of his middle finger and begins drawing tight circles. 

The touch stirs faint, premature flutters that make you tilt your hips into his hand. “I gotcha,” he assures. 

He did have you, not just in this way, but in every sense of the word. He’d proven that from the day he met you, ready to be the supply to your demand when it came to all manners of your needs. Even the ones you didn’t realize you had. The thought alone makes pleasure knot in your stomach all the more. You clench around nothing but the idea of taking him. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

His eyes lift from your core to your gaze. Your eyes sparkle with candlelit desperation. Still taking his time, he runs his finger back down and just barely breaches your entrance with a curious probe. He’s wet with your slick and knows he’d slip right in. 

“Need you,” you murmur again. It’s different this time. 

Joel withdraws his touch and crawls back up your body, muscles shadowing as they shift. You open your legs wider so he can slot himself between you, bracing a forearm near your head. He’s close enough that your chests brush. That your breaths mingle.  

He takes himself in his hand and guides the tip to the warmth of your center. The gentle touch soon turns into a glide that bumps your clit with every upward pass. You place your hands on his shoulders because your fingers are shaking, and you don’t know what else to do. 

Like a locksmith with a key, he notches at your entrance with delicate intentionality. Both of you shudder, and he briefly touches his forehead to yours. The world stills as he slowly begins to push inside of you. You welcome each new inch with the same steady, heated snugness. Not once does your body flinch or hesitate. You welcome him in even through the dullest ache until he’s burrowed.   

Your joint groans just barely register on the outskirts of your consciousness as the blinding haze of pleasure becomes one with reality. 

Joel grants you a quiet moment of acclimation before he pulls out a little and eases himself back in. A hum vibrates through your chest. This time, he pulls back a little further, then finds his way back inside the encompassing warmth of you. 

“You’re the warm one,” he counters your earlier statement. “Taking me so well,” he praises. 

He withdraws a little more each time until his thrusts become fuller, and he finds an easy rhythm. You encourage his movements with the dig of your heels at the back of his thighs. 

He tucks his head down to place open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and graze down his back. 

“You feel so good,” you admit in a frantic sigh. “So so good.” 

Joel nearly comes from hearing that alone. 

There is no reprieve from the pleasure, no moment that allows you two to fully gather your bearings or muster up a semblance of composure. Every sound that slips past your lips is helpless, a little gone. They join the tiny squeaks of the mattress and the sticky, rhythmic contact of skin meeting dewy skin. 

“Faster,” you breathe. Joel listens in a heartbeat, continuing to meet that dense, tender place within you that has your toes curling. “Oh god—” you choke out, a mix between a moan and a whimper. 

Before you can find your breath again, Joel cups your breasts, switching from one to the other and running his thumb along your nipples. The sound that escapes you almost sounds pained, but your face scrunches in the prettiest, rawest way. Joel’s hips drive forward in an involuntary thrust of force.

One of his hands slips between your bodies to rub over that still-pulsing part of you. A dreamy sound falls past your lips as you writhe and arch. The tightness builds. The sea swells. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep it all at bay and prolong the moment. 

“Open your eyes, angel,” Joel encourages in a rasp. 

You don’t listen and silently pray that he gives up. 

“Lemme see those pretty eyes,” he tries again. 

You whimper as his finger rubs faster circles, his thrusts remaining intense. 

Joel’s voice takes on a waver, cracking around the edges with something fragile and desperate. “C’mon, baby, please?” 

You realize then that he needs it. 

When your eyes flutter open, a few rogue tears run down the apples of your cheeks towards your ears. Joel catches them. It’s too much. The newness of it all, the warm weight of his body moving above yours, making you his. There’s a glisten on his forehead, in the divot of his sternum. The way his muscles flex with his thrusts is living art. You’ve never met a more gorgeous man or had the pleasure of knowing and becoming one with someone who made you feel this whole.

“There she is,” Joel hums. 

In an instant, your body jolts against the mattress as you come undone beneath his frame. Your walls flutter around him in strong pulses of pleasure that radiate outward and leave you floating. If it were light instead, you’d be a shining star illuminating the room. 

Joel’s seen fewer sights that have struck him at his core. 

It takes every ounce of decency and strength within him to override the recklessness of pleasure, and pull out of you in a swift drag. Away from your swollen, pulsing warmth. Away from one of the few places he could confidently say he belonged in this fallen world.  

Through dazed eyes, you watch as Joel wraps a hand around himself and begins stroking. He’s slick with you, and the veins in his forearms pop. 

He spills onto your stomach in seconds with an earnest, shuddered groan. Each pulse of his release grows duller, resulting in shorter spurts until there’s nothing more than a pearly dribble running down the sides of him. 

You reach out with a weak hand to take over and coax him through the last few waves. Joel twitches in your grasp but lets you continue. Another shudder courses through him as he grows sensitive and begins to soften. 

“That’s all of me, baby,” he says, voice low and soft just for you.

You hum in a daze as you withdraw your touch. The last thing you remember is the kiss Joel presses to your forehead, the dip of the mattress as he gets out of bed, the gentleness of his hands, and the warm towel as he cleanses you.

There’s something special about the following morning. Something soft, aglow, and singular as pale sun rays slip into Joel’s room. They coat the cozy space like a seal. It’s as if the events of last night had carried over and been made manifest into something warm, and lovely, and beautiful. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[bows4tyun]

OBSESSION NEXT DOOR - ! ⸝⸝ 최수빈

۶ৎ: "you were just so oblivious, weren't you? didn't even realize something was in your cookies... " he huffs out in a pant, pressing a kiss to your lips "I'm so glad I got you as my neighbour, baby..."

⌗ pairing! - pervy neighbour!soobin x fem!reader

⌗ warnings! - smut, dom!soobin, sub!reader, soobin's a perv lol, masturbating, use of aphrodisiacs, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, breeding kink, bulge kink, dirty/sweet talk, breast worship, nipple play, soobin calls reader baby and good girl

⌗ lexi adds! - this was such a delicious request! I absolutely love pervy soobin so this was so fun to write. thank you to anon for requesting! (not proofread!)

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

you were looking for a fresh start in a new town, a new area where you would meet new people and new friends. that also meant you would have new neighbors, and oh boy, little did you know the surprise that it would give you. you had absolutely no clue what this new beginning would have in store for you.

the place you were moving into was a slightly spacious yet affordable apartment just for you. the efficient space enough for the small amount of belongings you carried from your car to what seemed to be the living room of your new home.

it had a modern design to it, quiet from the loneliness it had been in from having no owner. you guessed the past owners took good care of it from the substantial condition it was currently in.

when you placed your boxes on the polished wooden floors, a knock is heard on your door, startling you.

quickly, you regain composure and amble to the door. as you open the door, your eyes slowly begin to see the figure that reveals himself once the door is fully open

the tall figure of a man with soft bunny-like features stands lumberingly at your door step, a small container of some sort in his unusually large hands. both of you are silent before he starts speaking with a hint of nervousness evident in his voice. "uh hello... I'm your next-door neighbor and I just made these cookies..." he said, avoiding full eye contact with you, his eyes lingering on anything else in sight. "take them if you'd like." he extends his hands, the cookies inviting as they're each individually wrapped in a cute pink resealable plastic bag to ensure freshness.

hesitantly, you reach for the container, your fingers brushing against his the slightest bit. "thank you... I'll let you know what I think of them."

with a meek and mild nod he made his way back to his apartment. he was right; he was your next-door neighbor, the next door down the hall. before he entered his home he looked back at you, finally able to make eye contact with you, even for a small moment. out of the kindness of his heart, his lips form into a small grin, his dimples now visible to the human eye.

it's an innocent sight, really, so you smile back, heading back into your own home to get yourself situated in the new environment.

you try the cookies once you're done unpacking and surprisingly, they're really good. the sweetness of the still warm chocolate chips compliments the cookie itself that's not too hard and not too soft, the perfect cookie. you make yourself a mental note to thank and compliment him when you see him again.

a few weeks pass by until your next interaction with him. it's the same thing all over again, but this time with more conversation between the two of you.

it was when you were on your way back from work on a gloomy afternoon, the sun not wanting to reveal itself and instead hid somewhere behind the clouds, making the sky dreary and cheerless. your mood was the same as the sky's, exhausted and stressed out from the long day at your workplace. you would be lying if you said the sight of your handsome neighbour didn't brighten your mood.

he was heading out of his apartment and on the way to yours. once again, he had a container of cookies in his hands, the same cute packaging that was the opposite of his appearance. Today he seemed to look even more attractive from the last time you saw him, his hair slicked back probably from running his hands in it so much. the shirt he wore was a navy polo shirt paired with blue jeans. the outfit so simple yet so appealing. you watched his eyes widen when he realizes you're walking up to him.

his demeanour seemed to have switched, a timid look plastered onto his face as you approached him.

"hi, I wanted to thank you for the cookies you gave me the last time we spoke, they were really good..." you speak with a smile, being as friendly as needed to have him soften up from his timorous persona.

"oh right, thank you. I'm glad you liked them," his voice softened at the realization of the compliment, a smile crawling up onto his face. "would you like more?"

you look at the container, the same delicious cookies sat in it waiting for you to take them, how could you say no to him? if anything you're more than happy to have them.

you nod at his question, remembering something. "oh that reminds me, I have the container you gave me last time. I washed it so you don't have to worry about it." you unlock your front door as you speak. "you can come in while I go grab it." you offer and he nods in agreement.

the both of you walk in, him behind you as his eyes dart around your house, examining the small details of your cozy dwelling. the fake plants and flowers that were almost everywhere, small lamps that sat peacefully on their designated spots, or the small cat figures that sat next to the pot with the only real plant in the whole apartment. you seemed like a relaxed human being in his eyes.

while getting the container out of the cabinet you stored it in, he asks you a question. "d-do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you could tell that he hesitated before asking, just the way he spoke displayed the obvious apprehensive character he had.

a small 'mhm' leaves your lips along with the directions of the bathroom, "of course, it's the second door down to the left."

"thank you... " he mumbled softly but not softly to the point where you couldn't hear it. he sauntered his way to the given directions as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

after a while, he comes back, seeing you too busy on your phone to notice. you don't look up until he starts speaking, scaring you from the sudden voice. "I'll get going now, thanks again for letting me use your bathroom." his words are followed by a tender smile

you swiftly grab the container, handing it to him. "oh okay have a good day..."

"I forgot to ask your name..." he said, looking at you and expecting an answer.

"it's y/n, my name's y/n"

"I'm soobin. It was nice talking to you again, y/n" he heads to the front door, you follow behind him, not able to fully keep up with his steps and speed because of his long legs. you open the door for him and he steps out, waving politely with the same cute grin.

you wave back and close the door once he's out of sight, turning back to see the new container left on your counter. you'd save those cookies for later.

⸝⸝

after a while, it's dark outside. but not the complete starry sky you'd see at night. it actually wasn't even late, only past 7pm.

this time seemed like a perfect opportunity to finally enjoy the cookies before heading to bed. with that in mind, you made your way back to the kitchen and to the counter. your hands reached out to grab two out of the many cookies.

you began to eat one as you walked back to your room where you would eat and binge watch a show you had been dying to watch all day, excited for the new episode that had just aired.

you situated yourself on your bed and continued to eat, focusing on the show as you chewed happily on the delicious cookies.

after finishing both cookies, you felt as your body became hot, the sensation reaching your core. it was confusing that you were suddenly becoming needy but your hand crept down into your panties. this made you begin to think that maybe it was crazy of you to touch yourself because of nothing, there was no reason you should be doing such vulgar acts.

that was until in the middle of the episode, you hear a groan from the other side of the wall, in soobin's apartment. the groan was followed by more groans and lewd panting. your mind suddenly made the dirty conclusion that he was either having sex or masturbating at the same time as you.

your face heats up at the thought as the sounds continue and you end up listening and touching yourself to his sounds, the show becoming background noise as you continued to rub your clit in fast and rough circles to pleasure yourself.

a loud moan rolls off your tongue accidentally and soobin's noises come to a halt. he probably heard you. you mentally scolded yourself for being so careless of the noises you make, especially the volume of them. you couldn't see it, but you knew that your ears and face were now painted a bright strawberry pink hue from embarrassment.

you removed your hand from your pants but the needy feeling still lingered and you just couldn't get rid of it. it was nearly impossible after you were in the middle of trying to satisfy yourself.

but you tried and tried. tried to keep your hands away from your body. tried to not pay attention to the sounds of soobin that continued, this time they were quieter, but just because he lowered his volume didn't mean the wall was soundproof. you were becoming frustrated by the fact that you couldn't please yourself. you knew that you wouldn't be able to stop once you started. stopping early was probably the best choice, all you had to do was have your brain focus on something else, like your show.

that's what you decided to do. you were almost done with the episode, about ten minutes to the end. you didn't even notice the sweat drops that stuck to your forehead from resisting so much. the lower half of your body squirmed on your bed, you couldn't take it anymore. the feeling of frustration was finally able to overtake your mind and soon all you could think of was soobin and small parts of him that you found attractive; his hands and forearm muscles, how the veins embellished his arms with such beauty, the way his smirk was both cute and hot at the same time, his duality was insane.

with no other choice, you get up from your bed and start making your way to soobin's apartment, only wearing slippers and a short, thin, and threadbare night gown, the one you always seemed to wear to sleep. the breeze of the nightly weather hits your skin, barely covered from the sheer amount of fabric that made the night gown.

you gave his door a light knock, trying not to wake anyone who was potentially sleeping. it took about two minutes for him to open the door. your eyes look at the state of his face. his hair stuck to his forehead just as yours had been and his cheeks were a rosy tint. he wore a plain black tee with gray sweatpants. when you scanned his outfit with your eyes, a small wet spot could be seen from his crotch area.

your face has a surprised look on it from the new discoverment and the shade of soobin's cheeks seems to darken as his hands discreetly move to cover the cause of his embarrassment. "d-do you need something...?" the stutter of his voice backs up the embarrassed look on his face as he avoids eye contact.

it feels like a cat's got your tongue. the heat of your body overtakes you as the only thing you think of is soobin, displayed right in front of you, looking better than ever. lust clouds your brain and eyes, desire badly hidden as you look at soobin, getting closer as your body heat radiates on him.

you speak without thinking, completely oblivious of your words as you blabber out, "I-I need you..."

If soobin's cheeks couldn't blush more they certainly could now. he gazed at the way your thighs rubbed together, your pleading eyes justifying your words. you looked so needy, so submerged in the sensation of desire and it was all shown in your body language. soobin didn't know what to do, you could tell from the way he just stared, the timid expression from when you first met him back on his face and for a good reason. How else was he supposed to react when his pretty neighbor was suggesting something sexual with him?

he loses his train of thought. his pink lips parted as if he were to say something but stopped himself. the longer he took, the needier you grew, you felt your panties dampen more than they already were. before he could even agree, you pushed him and yourself into his apartment, and soobin allowed it. he made sure to close the door behind the both of you and waited for what you'd do next.

he thought you'd say something else or wait for him to get you riled up but instead you kiss him. the kiss is hungry and full of need, soobin could now fully understand the crisis you were really in, how painful it must be not getting the dirty attention you needed.

he pulled away, leaving you to catch your breath as he huffed out lecherously, "my bedroom's the second door to the left, get on the bed. I'll be right there."

hearing his words you didn't hesitate to start making your way to his room, soobin chucked to himself as he watched you speed walk.

when you made it to his room, you hopped on the bed and couldn't help but rub yourself through your panties as you await for soobin, not knowing how much you'd be able to last without getting frustrated or impatient again.

just as you're about to let out a loud whimper, soobin enters, watching the scene in front of him unfold as he sees your eyebrows furrowed and your face contort with pleasure. "you couldn't wait a few seconds, could you? nasty girl..." he walks up to you, getting down to business as he gets on top of you, getting a closer look at your horny expression. "tell me how bad you need me." he demands, placing a fist next to your head while his other hand comes to rest on your hip.

you stopped rubbing yourself to answer the question, knowing not to ignore it. this soobin was different than the soobin you met on your first day in the apartment complex. he was so fierce and demanding now; and you loved it. "p-please... need your cock badly, it hurts being empty..." you confessed, only the truth rolling off your tongue.

he raises an eyebrow in amusement to your response, clearly satisfied by it as you see him holding back a smirk that poked at the corner of his lips. "is that so? I'll have to get you ready for it then, not sure if you'll be able to take me without any prep, hm?" his hand crawls from your hip and to the hem of your night gown, pulling it up above your chest, your pretty lace bra in his view. he swears he could cum just from looking at your breasts. "so pretty..." he mumbles under his breath, his hands working hard to remove your bra and take your nipples between his finger, tweaking and rolling them in a way that had you grind against air. he places a hand on your clothed cunt to stop you, but this only drove you even more insane as you began to grind against his hand. "you're acting like a fucking bitch in heat..."

his remark makes you whine, the needy noise loud enough to echo throughout the room. "I can't take it anymore! please do something...!" your remark only adds more gasoline to the fire as soobin feels himself grow harder by the second.

you gasp as you feel your panties being pulled off, his strong hands removing them with ease. he watches the way your pussy was glistening, and all because of him and what he put in the "innocent" cookies. before anymore could be said, two of his long fingers shoved themselves inside your impatient hole, causing you to shut your eyes and hold in the inappropriate noises that threatened to leave past your lips as he pumped his digits in and out of your hole at a rapid pace, almost too much for you to handle.

you felt a knot reach your stomach as your climax neared. it felt way too fast. this was the fastest you've ever cummed. "a-ah! soobin! g-gonna cum...!" and just before your could release, his fingers removed themselves causing tears to swell in your eyes from the amount of frustration you felt at that moment and you whine in protest.

this adds to soobin's fun, making him laugh and giggle as he watched your face basically plead to him, you didn't have to say it, your face showed it all. "fine... I'll give you what you need. but I don't want you whining when it hurts, got it?" you nod fairly quickly at his words, spreading your legs for him to have better access. he loves how quick you listen to him in your needy state, he feels like he's on top the world having his pretty neighbor in his bed all to himself and no one else.

your eyes lighten up when his finge crawled their way down to the waistband of his sweatpants, finding the loosely tied drawstrings and untying it with ease. you wait with eager as he grabs the base of his dick through his pants before pulling it out of it's confinments. your lips part in shock and you have to stop your jaw from dropping at the sight. his dick is so pretty; the tip is the same strawberry red his cheeks had been when he blushed, the length so long you couldn't believe your eyes, and the girth left you in shock. you regretted not letting soobin prep you because now you knew that the stretch would hurt.

he pulled his shirt off too, his sculpted yet soft abs not matching his cute and innocent face. his forearm muscles flexed as he threw his shirt somewhere on the floor and gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and closer to his dick. you couldn't deny the fearful look on your face as you stared at the monster that hid in soobin's pants the whole while, scared to see if it'll even manage to fit in your hole that hadn't been stretched in a good while.

aligning his dick with your hole, he could already feel the tightness of your pussy as you clenched around nothing, desperate for him. with much effort, he pushed inside, your walls already gushing as they encompass his dick and he enters inch by inch. a soft moans escapes his lips when he feel the way you fit around him. "fuck baby... so. fucking. tight." he punctuates his words with each thrust, filling you to the brim that it made you dizzy.

only a few thrusts in and you're fucked dumb, gripping the duvet sheets under you as you hold it in your fist and holding yourself back from waking up anyone in the building. your sounds are high pitched, full of the lust that holds inside of you as your climax neared once more, this time not holding back. incoherent blabbles leave your mouth and you see a small menacing smirk tug at soobin's lips.

he chuckles, watching your expressions as his cock pushes deeper inside, hitting all the right spots. "already fucked so dumb, aren't you?" he said, putting you in a mating press as his hips sped up, showing no mercy to your spent cunt. "you were just so oblivious, weren't you? didn't even realize something was in your cookies... " he huffs out in a pant, pressing a kiss to your lips "I'm so glad I got you as my neighbour, baby..."

your confused and pleading eyes meet his in a haze as you question him, "w-what did you... do?" you felt as if you could barely breath from how good you felt, this was the best sex you've ever had in your life. soobin only smirks even more at your question, knowing the exact answer to your curiosity.

"you know what I put... why else would you be feeling so needy, hm?"

and then it clicked in your head, the sudden uneasiness you felt in your core wasn't for no reason at all, why would that ever happen? the cookies were filled with aphrodisiacs, and on purpose.soobin knew what he was doing since he laid eyes on you. from that moment, he knew he wanted you, he just didn't know how he'd do it when he was a timid guy who rarely talked to girl, especially pretty girls like you.

it seemed as if soobin sensed your realization, finding it amusing as he watched your eyes shift in emotions. "there you go, finally figured it out... such a good girl..." this is where soobin felt his balls tighten, knowing what was doomed to hapoen.

grunts left his lips like wildfire as he interlocked your hands even tighter, listening as your noises were easier to get out from how sensitive and overstimulated you had come to be. wet lewd sounds are heard loudly from inbetween your legs and soobin watched as his big dick disappeared inside your small tight cunt with each inhumane thrust, looking at the bulge that formed. one of his hands creeps down to press on it, making you feel as if you were on cloud nine.

"I c-can't- soobin! I need to cum...! pleasepleaseplease let me... " your pleading words seemed to have touched his soul in all the right places as he began to slow down a bit, enjoying the last few seconds before his full release. he kissed you again, tongue invading your mouth in a frenzy as you came on his cock, your moan muffled from the kiss as you grip his hands as if to never want to let go.

he followed suit, burying himself inside of you enough to cum inside of your what felt to be your womb. his seed shot out and painted your walls a thick and sticky coat of white. both of you are left panting for air when he pulls away from the kiss. his now sweaty hair is sticking to his forehead from the intense session while he stays like this with you for a small while, admiring the beauty of your face when and after you orgasm. he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to have you like this, he felt completely moonstruck, completely crazy.

turning you over and holding you tightly in his arms, his voice is sweet like honey as he spoke softly in your ear.

"I hope you don't mind being mine from now on."

⌗ taglist! - @hyunj00 @lovingbeomgyudayone @saejinniestar @g0r3wh0rre (pls let me know if you want to be added!)

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ preface ] | sylus

— summary: whatever they have is cosmic. which is why you quietly bow out, thinking you never stood a chance. — cw: reader is not mc, assassin!reader, unrequited feelings, mentions of burned bodies, mentions of blood & injuries, jealousy, stream of conciousness, mdni — notes: shout out to @alfredosaws, @cheshireworld, and @midiplier for inspiring this! thank you for reading! here's a playlist to keep you entertained! edit: part 2 can be found here. — now playing: abracadabra - brown eyed girls

“Did you see that?!”

A smirk crooks your lips. 

You watch the source of excitement in your peripheral, her mirth infectious. You pat the space between her shoulder blades, the other hand stuffed in your pocket, pride swelling in your chest. The SUV eases into focus, a sleek outline of black, haloed by the sun’s deceptively innocent glow.

“I did.”

Her eyes brighten like stars shining through the inky night. She punches at the air—a reenactment of the moves she displayed during your scuffle inside the warehouse. It burns a pretty blend of orange and yellow behind, flames licking a cyan sky, smoke billowing from squealing metal. Carnage you left behind after a deal gone sour, structure and bodies turned to cinder, courtesy of one nefarious mafioso with a bomb fetish. 

She flexes her bicep, fixing you with a grin that’s all canines. “I was pretty badass, huh?”

You quirk a brow, quietly giving her props. 

A chuckle erupts from behind you both. You don’t look back—don’t have to. His presence is ever-looming. Imposing, towering over your shoulder, oozing smugness. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kitten.” 

He says it to humble her. To keep her head from overinflating, but you don’t miss the affection surfing in the undercurrents of his voice. It always lives there when he chides her. 

You can’t blame him. She’s come a long way: Ms. Hunter. 

Initially, she feared being roped in with the lot of you. Rejected the lifestyle of doing very bad things to equally bad people. She eventually found her niche, and you unconsciously took her under your wing, treating her like something of a sibling—a friend.

You knew she wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Sylus made that clear. Cryptic as ever, forcing her onto you, refusing to tell you everything. Only that she owed him a debt, and he brought her around to collect.

At first, you despised the arrangement. She was a thorn in your side, the bane of your existence. Her very presence threatened the hodgepodge life you constructed with your makeshift family—Luke, Kieran, Mephisto, Sylus.

She was too nice. Reckless. Too self-righteous, where you were calculative. A manipulator, a killer. Your hands dripped red while hers were delicate as orchid petals. But she had Sylus wrapped around her finger—a feat you struggled to conquer for years. The man was playing Kitty Cards and sneaking plushies into the manor, for crying out loud. Besides, you couldn’t deny how she squirmed her way through the fissures of your own heart, nestling between atriums and ventricles like she’d always belonged there. 

You found yourself quietly rooting for them—your big, bad wolf of a boss and his precious little lamb. The affection blooming between them was palpable, like datura petals drifting in an errant breeze. Though an official title never revealed itself to you, you sensed whatever bond they shared was cosmic. Something you couldn’t touch or disrupt no matter how much you willed yourself to. So you wordlessly conceded, bowing out of a competition you constructed in your mind. 

You were content with protecting her. Showing her the ropes, knowing in the back of your mind she would one day replace you. You were slowly becoming old news, no longer the center of Sylus’ orbit. It was fitful, but it was nice to see him smile like that for a change. To see this side of him, smitten with his defenses buried beneath the rubble, and you supposed that was enough for you. 

At least this way, you could remain by his side. Fulfill your own obligations, continuing to serve him, even if it means watching the world you’ve grown so accustomed to slowly fall away from your feet. 

“You did a good job,” you say, disrupting the slurry of your thoughts, a fond hand ruffling her hair, eyes creased at the corners. 

You usher the hunter into the passenger seat of the SUV. She’s still buzzing in the aftermath of your fight as you shut the door, a chuckle roiling in your chest. You turn to ease into the backseat, but Sylus is there, wearing that customary smirk, holding the rear door open for you instead. 

“You both did well.”

The look you toss at him is suspicious. Raised brows and a sardonic curve to your lips. There’s more to his praise than he lets on, handing it out like a rare bouquet, usually reserved for her. Sylus merely shrugs, feigning innocence, his intentions shielded behind dark lenses. You ease into the chilled leather seat, the swell of noise from the fire traded for Ms. Hunter animatedly recounting the day’s events when the door shuts beside you.

You lapse into monotony, watching plumes of smoke fade in the rearview mirror as the three of you ease onto the highway. Sylus’ hand is tight on the steering wheel. Long, spindly fingers wrapped around coarse leather. His voice is bold like black coffee, warming your innards on a wintry day, as he and Ms. Hunter exchange words you can’t be bothered to follow up front. Occasionally, scarlet eyes catch yours in the mirror. It’s as if he’s keeping tabs on you, ensuring you’re still here. Like you’re poised to tuck and roll out the backseat, driven by how comfortably they speak with each other.

Physically, you’re present. Mentally, you’re drifting off. Watching power lines skate by, blurring with the skyline and mountains as the vehicle slides downhill. Maybe you’re more exhausted than you initially thought. You’d taken a hit or two in the fray earlier. Have blood speckling the ivory collar of your shirt, a scrape lining your jaw, and you’re sure you’ll have pretty splotches of blue and purple staining the corner of your mouth come tomorrow. 

Pain is usually an afterthought. You’re so used to shielding, so accustomed to recklessly throwing your body around, and the adrenaline’s ebbing, making way for the dull throb of a migraine and sleepiness dangling like sandbags from your upper lids. You lean against the door, propped on your elbow, temple roosted on swollen knuckles. You blink slowly, your heart beating steady until the scenery beyond the window makes way for darkness. You won’t be at the hotel for another hour. A little catnap won’t hurt. 

Before you fully relinquish yourself to the pretty girls of sleep, an enthusiastic voice peels through the inkiness. Static against a violet backdrop, tugging a quiet smile onto your lips. Ms. Hunter.   

“We should celebrate!”

We should, you muse, sinking below the shadowy depths of sleep, lured there by the bumping of the SUV against the road and Sylus fondly teasing the source of your envy.

masterlist | conflict

[ijustbewriting]

A man who yearns is a man who earns

Wolfstar X fem!reader

Summary - In which Remus and Sirius quietly ( not really) yearn for the reader

Warnings : none, (delusional Sirius), shy reader I guess

A//N My first Wolfstar fic !

Word count: 1.2k

“ I want her so bad” Sirius groans softly watching as you laugh along with Lily and Marlene. Remus who had been reading had promptly stopped as he had watched his boyfriend look at the girl who they had both been crushing on as of late. You were in the same year as them, a beautiful and smart Ravenclaw who just so happened to waltz in the boys life and change them forever.

“If you keep starting at her she’ll think you’re a creep” Remus tells his boyfriend

“She’ll think about me !” Sirius gasps, Remus shakes his head at his gasp

“ You really need to stop”

“Why won’t she look at us “ Whines Sirius sitting next down next to Remus who was quick to wrap his arm around his waist and pull him closer.

“Don’t know love” He plants a kiss on his neck making Sirius shiver.

“Do you think she even knows our names” The young Gryffindor pouts.

In all honesty Y/N did know Remus and Sirius, how could she not? The famous group, the marauders. Known for pulling pranks and bringing fun to Hogwarts, it was hard to miss such a group.

Remus and Sirius especially, god were they gorgeous. Remus with his beautiful brown eyes that seemed to be lit by the sun itself, his curly hair that was always curled to perfection, his old soul which was so kind and oh Merlin’s beard was he so smart. The few classes she had with him where she would hear him answer the professors question’s correctly and even sometimes add even more information made her Ravenclaw heart swoon.

Sirius Black, oh Sirius Black. He captivated everyone’s heart. His unique grey eyes and long hair, and that smile. That Sirius Black smile. Charming is what he is, suave with his words having anyone flustered and blushing when Sirius would flirt with them. Everyone wanted him or wanted to be him. But only Remus Lupin was lucky enough to have a slice of whatever Sirius was offering but god did he want top give a piece to you.

You the beautiful creature who captured their hearts when Lily walked into the common room that fateful day. You both were working on a project for Potions. Both of them were awestruck by you. Swearing they had never seen someone as beautiful as you. They knew then and there that they wanted you, the question was how?

It seemed like any time that they wanted to see you, you were scurrying away, off to the library, your dorm or somewhere else where they could not reach you.

One time when Sirius was walking with James after heading back from quidditch practice. Then a sudden figure zoomed right past them, it was you. Sirius blinked and he turned to look at you as you left, he wanted to say something but by gods were you quick. As you turned the corner and disappearing from his sight he promptly fell to his knees.

“Come back my love PLE-“

As you had turned the corner, you stopped swearing that you had heard something

“Must of been the wind” you muttered to yourself.

It was not in fact the wind but none other than Sirius Black dramatically on his knees clutching his chest, the other hand reaching out for you.

“Mate get up this is embarrassing” James muttered

Truth is- you’re painfully shy. Having a crush on Remus Lupin and Sirius Black the it couple right next to Lily and James was painful, for so many reasons. One being the most obvious, they’re both together and you were no home wrecker. Two you could not imagine even being friends with them. They were so different from you, in a good way.

While you were more quiet and reserved, staying in your dorm to read and study. You enjoyed your me time more than anything. Parties at Hogwarts were something you rarely attended, given the fact that you didn’t drink or dance. The few times you did go was because a friend’s or Lily had dragged you. You would see both boys at these parties and they were the life of the party there was no way they would look over at you and want you, at least that’s what you’ve told yourself thus far.

It was far from the truth. Remus and Sirius both yearned for you silently or at least remus did, Sirisu was alwasy loud about those he cared about.

But enough was enough, both of them decided that they were going to get your attention one way or another.

As you exited you class, you sighed as you slinged your bag on your shoulder, the bag was heavy a reminder of all the homework you had to do.

"Ok I finish reading chapters one through twenty and then I can start my essay and give my self enough time-" you muttered to yourself but promptly stopped as your eyes landed on two figures. Remus and Sirius. Quickly and without blinking you turned your heel and began to walk the other way.

"No wait- hold on love" you heard Sirius voice as he catched up to you, now this is the one time you cursed Sirius and Remus's great hieght becasue with a couple of strides they had already caught up to you.

"Dove please" Remus said almost pleadingly. The nickname made you stop walking. The boys both next to you.

"Merlin's beard, your worse than a snitch, I don't even think James would be able to catch you" Sirius huffed in light laughter, Remus smiled soflty.

"We've been looking for you " said Remus

"You have?" you responed in a quiet voice

"yes love, for what feels like an eternity-"

"two months" Remus corrected

"felt like forver to me" huffed Sirius his lips almost pouting

"what for?" you ask

"well we wanted to ask you something actually" Remus started

"We want you so bad" blurted Sirius, now that made you completely freeze up.

"Sirius we said we were going slow" hissed Remus, swatting his partner gently on the shoulder.

"I can't- this will not be a slow burn love, I will not allow it" He shakes his head before grabbing your hand.

"Love, please we've been going crazy without you, you drive us insane and we want you in all ways possible, please let us treat you right, we won't ever hurt you and your days will be filled with love and passion-"Sirius's love declaration was cut of by his boyfriend.

"Pads you're scaring her" He says as he had been wacthing your reaction and it was all wide eyed and he wore you had stopped breathing for a moment. Sirius quickly shut up, the quickest Remus had ever seen him. After a moment of silence you finally spoke.

"You want me- you both want me ?" you sputtered finally breathing again

"Most ardently" Remus answered. You look between both boys, whom you've had been crushing onf for so long, who you had never ever in your life believed that they would ever look at you in that way but here they were. Sirius basically on his knees begging you to talk and Remus with his beautiful eyes asking, no pleading for a positive response. You drew in a deep breathe before answering.

"I want you guys too" You confess

"Praise Merlin and David Bowie she said yes Remus!" exclaimed Sirius.

"Yes I heard her love thank you" chuckled Remus who was now looking you fondly. Sirius who was still holding your hand gave it a small squeeze.

"Did you hear how Remus pulled a Mr. Darcy on you "

[wingedfuncomputer]

The outskirts of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded like a bird in a cage, a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

Warnings: naive!reader, apart from that none really just your father lowkey being rude to Remmick cause he’s Irish 💔.

Authors note: This is just a slice of what I’ve been writing for Remmick. My actual word count for the story is 8.5k as of now, close to finishing but I wanted to see if it’s something you Remmick lovers would want to see (I know it’s pretty lengthy). My story is aimed at not just the romance but scare factor? If that’s what you can call it. no full fledged smut or healthy romance here just trying to ground myself in realistic outcomes. I don’t think that man could love normally lmao. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.4K Fic playlist Full Fic!

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From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set she was tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacted the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled your active swipe back and forth stopped confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be  thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble from a very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir".  You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man who stood at the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving".  Your heart  ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him n’ get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then proceeded orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled my father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady much?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request to come inside, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. He had good amount of muscle on his arms and lines on his face. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you no lack of confidence, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property".

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him you yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands go up to your father’s arms as you can see his anger exalt, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger is concentrated on you before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside from your arm instead. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once behind you once more offering a look of "I'm sorry" before the front door is slammed shut by your father.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being  ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. "coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick you repeat in your head liking the ring it had to it. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself  which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage had nothing to do with your lack of a response. " f’course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks in embarrassment . "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time, my father...-that is no way to be treated". He just smiles, a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often, let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. stayin’ around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you so how would tolerate this stranger . His eyes are trained on your every twitch, your chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your  father it was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind in contemplation. If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go in town for food trips or what not for the farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

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