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pearlessance · 11 months ago

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Three's A Crowd

Tommy Miller x f!reader x Joel Miller

Summary: Tommy's new girlfriend is awfully sweet. When Joel finds out she's got a big appetite that only he can fill, he decides to satisfy the craving. Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, threesome, praise, seduction, age gap(20yrs), size difference, oral sex galore, unprotected sex, photos taken during intercourse, mention of sending nudes, throat bulge, usual smut antics NOTE: i'm not sure if this is actually any good considering it was writen in just a matter of days because i was inspired by the new promo, gabriel luna the man that you are 😵‍💫😵‍💫 !! MASTERLIST [crossposted to AO3]

Joel Miller knows his brother like the back of his hand.

Which is why it’s not surprising when Tommy lets him in on the details about his secret new girlfriend. Secret—because you’re the daughter of their most consistent client.

At first, Joel tells him how stupid it is to risk the company like that. It’s irresponsible to put on the line their biggest cash cow just to fuck around with the only daughter of the man that funds Miller Contracting through the winter. And then there’s the fact that you don't exactly fit Tommy’s type.

A rich girl with an even richer daddy compared to all those wild girls from Tommy’s previous female fixations? It doesn’t line up. It makes no sense in Joel’s head.

Even as his brother tries to explain, “I didn’t go after her. Not at first. She came onto me.”

Joel’s got one hand on the steering wheel and the other propped on the open window of his truck as they drive home from a particularly exhausting day. He furrows his brows and asks, “Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? You sure she actually likes you and isn’t just tryin’ to get her daddy’s attention?”

Tommy snorts. “Even if she was, I wouldn't care. You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?”

“Jesus Christ—”

“An’ I mean love, Joel. Not like. Love.” There are stars in his eyes and he knows it’s a serious matter but Joel can’t help the laugh that escapes him.

He thinks it must be high praise coming from his brother who goes home with a different girl every other weekend. “That good, huh?”

“Better than good.”

And he knows Tommy’s got a one-track mind, so there’s really no use fighting it. So he just says, “Be careful. Don’t go gettin’ caught 'cause the business will pay the price.”

Tommy agrees and Joel lets it go. Doesn’t think about it again, even when Tommy cancels their plans to go out that weekend in favor of your company.

Well, not until he’s standing in your kitchen going over blueprints with your father, that is.

Joel tries not to glance out of the floor-length windows in the kitchen to the backyard. He tries not to look at the movement in the pool that repeatedly catches his eye. And he tries, really fucking hard, not to allow his attention to linger on the way that white bikini rests so snugly against your chest, or the way your wet hair cascades down your back and sticks to your smooth skin, or the way his cock twitches in his jeans when the impressive swell your ass shakes as you pull yourself up and out of the pool.

He understands his brother a little better when he sees you, Joel thinks. Understands why he’s willing to risk such a high-profit opportunity for the chance to see you underneath him.

Your father leaves the kitchen to find an old set of blueprints to compare to the new ones, and Joel begins to panic as he realizes this is the moment you decide you’re done swimming.

When you open the door to the kitchen the hinges creak. Joel takes note of it.

Water drips onto the white tile floor, the same quick rhythm as the thumping of his heart against his sternum. You cross the kitchen and open the fridge door without even looking at him.

But Joel certainly looks at you. Can’t help but to, really. You’re like some decadent display as you break the seal of an icy bottle of water and begin to take long, slow drinks from it. Your lips are plush and swollen and Tommy’s words reverberate in the back of Joel’s head.

You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?

“Thirsty?”

He nearly chokes. Joel knows you’re likely just being hospitable. Kind, even. But he feels like he shouldn’t be speaking to you, not when you’re close to naked and dripping wet. And if not because of your father upstairs, then certainly because of his brother’s affinity for you. So, despite the way his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, he says, “No, thanks.”

Joel turns his eyes back to his blueprints, folding the corner once, twice, trying to focus on anything but the weight of your stare.

If you notice his unease you ignore it as you slide up to the counter beside him and peer down at the layout of your father’s newest home renovation. You’re so close he can feel the heat of your skin, can smell the chlorine in your hair. “Hm,” you say. “This is for the guest room?”

“Bedroom D,” he corrects.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You turn away from the blueprints, spine resting against the marble countertop in favor of studying him instead. “You’re Joel, right? Tommy’s older brother?”

There’s no sense in lying, Joel thinks. Though he does consider it for a moment. “Uh…yeah,” he says. And then he clears his throat and nods, repeating a little more firmly, “Yeah.”

Your stare is so hot against his skin, eyes unabashedly roaming down the column of his neck. He shivers as your attention lingers on the small sliver of his chest that’s revealed thanks to his decision this morning to leave one of the buttons on his flannel unsecured. You’re standing so close to him now that a drop of chlorinated water falls from the ends of your hair and onto his arm.

Joel feels the cool liquid slide down his too warm-skin, melting as if it were ice, heating to the temperature of his blood that sings in his veins beneath your scrutinization.

He watches your tongue slide over your pretty bottom lip and his breath catches in his lungs. “Hm,” you say again, the sound a little fonder this time. “I see where he gets his good looks from.”

It’s been a long time since someone flirted with him so openly. Even longer since someone your age even took a second glance at him. And even though he knows, by the rule of his own morality, that you belong to his little brother��Joel can’t deny the giddy feeling it elicits in his chest. Can’t deny that he likes your attention, either.

“Found them,” your father suddenly says, bounding down the stairs with folded blueprints in his hand.

Joel clears his throat and you take a small step away from him, but otherwise seem unphased by the intrusion. He tries to ignore the lingering buzzing beneath his skin, tries to shake off what remains of the electrified energy you’d created.

You greet your dad with a kiss on the cheek and tell him you’re going out tonight. Your father asks with who, and you glance past him, staring only at Joel as you say simply, “Just a friend.”

And he knows you’ll likely be at his little brother’s apartment within the hour. Thinks about preparing himself for yet another of Tommy’s cancellations of guy’s night but this time there’s no frustration on Joel’s part.

Because he doesn’t blame his brother at all. If anything, he understands a little better now. Understands why getting drunk with Joel at a bar is a far less tempting activity than spreading those pretty thighs of yours. Understands why he’d rather stay home than go out, especially if you’re there in his bedroom on your knees for him.

His assumption is confirmed later that night when he gets a text message.

Tommy: Have to cancel again. Sorry, something came up.

Joel knows exactly what ‘came up’ and decides to put on an old western movie to distract himself instead.

But when he lays in bed that night, the image of you in your bikini surfaces in his brain and makes a home there. He tries for an hour to get himself to relax enough to shut it out, to just go to sleep.

Eventually, though, he realizes there’s no fucking point in trying. And even though you’re in his brother’s bed and your father’s blueprints are sitting on the kitchen table downstairs, Joel Miller takes his cock in his hand and has the best orgasm of his life. He thinks about your smooth skin and supple curves, thinks about the way that single droplet of water felt against his skin, thinks about your pink tongue and the way you looked at him with such insatiable hunger.

It’s a secret Joel decides he’ll take to his grave.

He tries not to think of you after that. Tries to keep his distance from you, from your house in general. Joel’s not a man who enjoys technology but opts for emailing your father instead of meeting with him to avoid another post-pool incident.

Tommy finally makes it to guy’s night two weeks later but he’s glued to his fucking cell phone. Joel tries to make conversation, tells him about upcoming projects and opportunities for contracts, and mentions that this summer has been their most profitable yet. But Tommy only nods every so often. Giving Joel a stupid, uninterested, “Yeah, for sure,” or “That’s great, Joel,” or “I don’t know, maybe.”

There’s no salt to his words, no meaning other than oblivious agreement. And it starts to anger Joel because Tommy’s been distracted by girls before but never like this. Never so much so that he can’t sit and have half a conversation with his brother. Eventually, he lets out an annoyed sigh and says, “If you’ve got somewhere better to be you can just fuckin’ go, Tommy. Jesus Christ.”

The irritation seems to finally get his attention. Tommy locks his cell phone and says, “She’s sending me pictures, distractin’ me, I’m sorry,” but there’s a stupid ass grin on his face and Joel can feel the insincerity radiating off his brother.

Joel rolls his eyes and waves down the bartender for the check.

“No, no, okay,” Tommy insists, setting his phone face down on the bar top. He shoos the bartender away and says, “Okay, seriously, you’re right. I’m sorry.” It’s a little more genuine this time, and so Joel decides to meet his brother halfway.

“You really like her? S’that what this is?”

That smile returns to Tommy’s face, eyes glossing over in a mystifying way. He must, because Joel’s never seen him like this before. “We’re not even together,” he says.

Joel’s brows furrow. “What are you talking about? You spend every weekend with her, you might as well be.”

“Believe me, Joel, I’ve tried, man. She’s…I don’t know how to explain it. She doesn’t want anything serious. Doesn’t wanna be exclusive or nothin’ but isn’t fuckin’ around with anyone but me. I just…” he shakes his head and his eyes widen and Joel can see the awe in them.

“So she’s acting like you,” Joel supplies.

It makes Tommy laugh. But the more he explains, the more Joel starts to believe it. “She’s so sweet but that girl is insatiable. Just wants to fuck and have a good time and that’s it. Doesn’t care about much else.”

“I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have fun, Tommy, but don’t let her consume your whole life. Get some space every once in a while,” Joel says. But he understands the infatuation, understands exactly how enticing your company would be.

He leans in close, one hand wrapped around his whiskey glass and the other tapping the back of his phone. “Those pictures…she’s taking pictures in the shower, Joel. For me. An’ you wanna know what she just told me the other day?”

Joel knows what’s coming next. Knows Tommy’s about to clue him in on something Joel has no business knowing, but he can’t fight off his curiosity. “What?”

“Said her biggest fantasy is a threesome with two guys. Told me, and I quote, that she wants to get fucked while she’s got my dick in her mouth.” He makes a sound of disbelief but there’s this grin on his face that lets Joel know Tommy’s biggest fantasy is to be with a filthy girl like you.

Joel just shakes his head.

But the image his brother paints lingers in his brain for days.

In fact, he’s still thinking about it during his next meeting with your father. Thinking about the fact that you’re up in your room, fantasizing about getting fucked by two guys at once when your dad suddenly says, “I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks, I hope you don’t mind I gave my little girl your phone number. Just in case anything goes wrong. It won’t, but I hate being so far away while she’s here alone. I’m sure you understand, being a father and all.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to respond, unsure how to explain how terrible an idea that is, so he says nothing. Just nods stiffly and begins discussing the renovations for the ensuite of bedroom C.

Less than a week later, Joel gets a phone call from an unknown number, and his gut sinks because he knows it’s you. He debates on ignoring the call but then begins to worry that something’s actually wrong and puts himself in your father’s position. Thinks he’d be furious, had it been Sarah, if she’d called someone for help and they’d ignored her.

So, he presses his cell phone to his ear and says, “Hello?”

“Joel? Hi, sorry, I know it’s kinda late. Do you think you could come over really quick? I need your help.”

“Help? With what?” It doesn’t really matter, he thinks. Because he’s already lacing up his boots, phone held to his ear with his shoulder.

“I locked myself out,” you explain. “My dad’s out of town for work and I didn’t grab my key before he left. You have a spare, don’t you? For the renovations and stuff?”

Joel can’t help but wonder where you’ve been for the last few days. Someplace you wouldn’t have needed to come home, it seems. “Uh, yeah, I do,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute. Hang tight.”

He finds you standing on your front porch with a backpack slung over your shoulder, your phone charger in your hand, and a look of relief on your face. “Thank you so much,” you immediately say. “I swear I never forget my key but I was distracted this time.”

Joel unlocks the front door for you and lets you inside. He lingers on the threshold, saying, “No, it’s fine. No worries at all.”

“Come inside,” you insist, and he can feel the bad decision from a fucking mile away.

“Really, it’s fine. I’ll just—”

“Please,” you interrupt. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Let me make you something to eat before you go. It’s the least I could do.”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he does.

Joel nods, unable to resist you and how pretty the word please sounds in your mouth. He follows you into the kitchen, lingering at the island counter as you drop your bag onto the floor next to the stairs and immediately plug your cell phone into the extra outlet he’d placed into the backsplash per your father’s request during last winter’s renovation. You look over your shoulder at him as you open the refrigerator and ask, “You like grilled cheese?”

“Uh, yeah. I do.” He sits in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the way you move as you prepare the bread and heat up a cast iron pan. Eventually, he finds the courage to ask, “You…uh…were you at Tommy’s?”

He watches as your cheeks redden the smallest bit. But there’s no shame in your voice as you answer simply, “Yes, I was.”

“Figured you’d tire each other out eventually,” he teases.

You laugh softly, and the buttered bread sizzles as you place it into the pan. As you lay the slices of cheese on top of it you explain, “Wasn’t like that. I’m home for the weekend so Tommy can talk to you, actually.”

It surprises him to hear it, in truth. “Me? What for?”

You flush an even deeper crimson. “Uhm…I think it’s better that you hear it from him,” you say.

Joel’s mind wanders to a million places as you dig out a spatula and flip the grilled cheese. But then a terrifying thought strikes him and Joel suddenly asks, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Ew, no,” you say with a laugh. “Believe me, Joel, I like creampies just as much as the next girl but I’m not irresponsible about it.”

This time, it’s his face that warms. Joel swallows hard and sits on the barstool at the island, trying not to think about your inadvertent admission, trying not to imagine it, to imagine how fucking good it would feel to—

“Here,” you say, placing a glass plate in front of him with a perfectly crispy grilled cheese cut diagonally. He’s thankful for the distraction, thankful to convince himself the watering of his mouth is from the food in front of him and not the thought of how you would taste on his tongue.

“Thanks,” he says simply, trying to massage some of the tension from his shoulders. It had been a long day on the job site and he’ll admit to himself only that a grilled cheese and the sight of a pretty girl certainly feels like a treat.

You seem to notice his discomfort and ask, “You okay?”

He nods and takes a bite of his sandwich. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever had and he tries to hold back his moan to no avail. When he looks over at you, you’re wearing a satisfied grin that only widens when he says around another mouthful, “This is incredible.”

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, you step up behind him and place your hands on his shoulders. Joel opens his mouth to stop you, to tell you this is wrong, inappropriate—but then you kneed your fingers into the tender muscle, and his eyes flutter closed.

All argument leaves him as quickly as it appeared, and all he can manage to say is, “Jesus Christ.”

Your quiet giggle is the cutest thing he’s ever heard. And Joel knows he should be thinking of his brother right now, knows he should be thinking of your father, thinking about the fact that you’re just a young woman, twenty years separating the two of you…but all he can focus on is the way your hands feel on him.

They’re warm and soft but clinical in their pursuit, thumbs pressing hard into the muscle that brackets his spine. Your delicate fingers feel like heaven, bringing relief he never realized just how badly he needed.

You slowly massage down his back, pushing against the knots, working them free. When you get to his lower back, he groans when you slip your hands beneath his navy t-shirt. You’re touching him with no barrier and it steals the breath from his lungs.

Never in his life has he wanted to be touched by someone so badly. Never in his life has he enjoyed the feel of another person’s skin against his so much. Your thumbs dig into the sore muscles, working the tension out.

You lean in so close that he can feel the heat of your breath against the shell of his ear as you say, “Will you take your shirt off?”

He’s thankful you’re standing behind him, however. Because it means you can’t see the way his cock stiffens in his jeans.

The words are tempting and seductive and wrong, he knows. He looks back at you and the heat in your eyes takes him off guard. The angle has his mouth so close to yours you’re sharing the same breath.

It’s then he knows just how badly you want him. As much as he wants you.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you say. While you speak, your fingertips trace soft patterns into the skin of his lower back.

Joel knows it’s a bad idea, but he does it anyway.

You step away from him only long enough for Joel to grip his t-shirt at the back of his collar and pull it over his head, laying it on the marble countertop.

And then you go back to your ministrations as if nothing changed; massaging the tension from his muscles, starting low and working your way back up to his shoulders this time. But it is different, Joel knows. Because he can feel the heat of your skin against his and his heart rate picks up, a different kind of tension filling him instead.

But it feels so fucking good that he doesn’t ever want you to stop.

So, he eats what remains of his grilled cheese. Lets you work the tightness from his bones, trying not to hiss in pain when you touch a particularly tender spot in the center of his back. You lighten the pressure there and begin building back up to it slowly, bringing him to heights of euphoria he’d never known existed.

When he wipes the crumbs from his hands and pushes his now empty plate away, Joel knows he should stop you. But he doesn’t, because he can no longer find a reason good enough to say the words. He lets you dote on him in a way he doesn’t deserve and soaks it up while it lasts.

And when you press a sweet, chaste kiss to the top of his spine, Joel feels the energy shift but doesn’t say anything then, either.

Because he likes the way your lips feel against his skin. Even more so than your soft hands.

You do it again, a little higher this time. You kiss the back of his neck and he shivers. He realizes you can see the goosebumps that break out across his skin, because he can feel the smile on your lips as you press another wet, open-mouthed kiss to the junction of his shoulder.

Joel’s cock has never been this hard, he thinks. He’s never wanted someone so badly, has never been so incapable of making the right decision as he is at this very moment.

His breath comes fast and labored as you press yourself to him. You’re not wearing a bra beneath your oversized t-shirt, and he can feel your pebbled nipples against his back. Your hands move forward, circling his abdomen, sliding up and over his chest. He knows he should stop you now, knows this is the beginning of something he can never come back from.

But the two of you are all alone in this big empty house, and how can he deny you? He doesn’t have the strength. Not then you slide pretty, delicate fingers over his soft stomach, through the dark curls that disappear into his jeans.

Your hand is slow in its pursuit but still adamant as you palm the bulge in his jeans. Even through the thick denim, the feel of your hands on him makes him shake. He cock throbs with each gentle stroke, each small movement. “You can tell me to stop,” you tell him. “Is this okay?”

He can’t bring himself to say anything, but the moan that escapes him is answer enough. He places his hands on the edge of the counter and straightens his spine, getting a full view as you undo the button of his jeans and lower the metal zipper at an agonizingly slow pace.

And then you’re slipping a hand inside his jeans, below the elastic band of his boxers, and all thoughts eddy out of his head. He can think of nothing, nothing as you begin to stroke him. Your hands are small, barely fitting around his cock, but you make do with what you have and it’s more than enough.

You pull him out of his jeans completely, and it’s a sight to behold, seeing his cock in your pretty hands. He tries to catch his breath as you pull one of your hands away for a single moment. And when it returns, your fingers are sticky with webs of spit.

This time, when you wrap your hand around his cock, you’re able to stoke him a little easier, the added lubrication allowing for freer movement. You move slowly at first, hands grazing from base to tip.

He watches with reverence as you familiarize yourself with him. When a bead of precum forms at the tip of his cock, you use your thumb to add it to the sticky wetness already in your hands. Joel can feel the smile on your face as you continue to press desperate kisses to his spine, and he knows he won’t last long like this.

Watching you stroke him with both of your small hands, watching you take care of him like this…it’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

So he closes his eyes. Lets himself sink into the moment with you instead, listens to your pretty whimpers as you press your tits against him. He wants to reach around and slide his hand between your thighs but knows better, knows that this is already bad enough.

You tighten your hands around his cock, squeezing a little harder, and he feels his end begin to build at the base of his spine. “Fuck.”

“Does it feel good?”

He tries to breathe slowly, tries to draw it out. But you pick up your pace, stroking him a little faster, and Joel can’t stop the groan that escapes him.

“You make me so wet, Joel,” you whisper against his skin. “I think about you and touch myself sometimes, thinking about how fucking big you are, how good it would feel to have you touch me…how good you’d feel inside of me.”

Your filthy words bring him to the brink. Joel fights it, doesn’t want to finish so fast he embarrasses himself. He wants to see the look on your face, wants to fuck you right here on this kitchen counter that he built.

Joel clenches his fists instead. Stays stone still because he knows if he moves an inch he’ll be giving into these desires. Knows a single shift in position would have him pulling your shorts down your thighs and licking your pussy until he makes you cry out for God.

But it’s not his place.

It’s not his fucking place, and you’re not his fucking girl.

So he doesn’t move.

You do, though.

Joel tries to catch his breath as you pull away from him, the absence of your touch leaving him cold and wanting. But then you’re nudging your way in front of him, in the small space between his knees and the island, and then you’re lowering yourself to the marble floor.

You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?

Slowly, you run your hands over his jean-clad thighs. You look up at him through your lashes and he feels a little like he’s being worshipped.

And when you lean forward, pretty, soft tongue licking the underside of his cock, Joel can’t keep his hands to himself. His resolve withers, and he threads his fingers through your hair but is careful not to rush you.

He lets you take your time, lets you swirl your tongue over the head, lets you taste every inch of him to your heart’s content. And when you finally take him into your mouth, cheeks hallowed out, creating a tight seal around him, Joel’s head falls back in bliss.

You savor it, relish in it, swallowing him down inch by inch. He hits the back of your throat and still you keep going, choking on him, nose pressed against the hair below his navel. With each pass, you begin to bob your head, tongue smoothing over the sensitive tip. You set an insatiable rhythm, drool sliding down your chin.

It doesn’t take him long. His hands tighten in the hair at the nape of your neck and he breaths out, “Fuck, fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-”

Your watery eyes meet his and the adoration in them sends him over the edge. Joel finishes at the back of your mouth, your fingernails digging into the meaty flesh of his thighs almost painfully, but you take everything he gives you and swallow it down.

It’s the sexiest thing he’s seen in all his life.

When he finishes, Joel strokes your hair affectionately and you smile up at him with his cock still in your mouth. It makes him laugh, and he realizes how soft and sweet this moment feels. How easy it is. How he never wants it to end.

Slowly, you sit back and begin to stand to your feet. Your lips are swollen and red and glossy, even when you wipe the spit off your chin with the back of your hand.

You cross the kitchen, grab your phone, and make your way to the staircase. “Thanks again, Joel. Can you lock up on your way out?”

He doesn’t understand how you can feel so casually about this. Doesn’t understand how you’re likely texting his brother as if Joel’s cock wasn’t just in your mouth, as if the taste of his release doesn’t linger on your tongue.

The guilt doesn’t set in until he’s in bed that night. He can’t sleep, because he knows he has to say something to Tommy but knows, too, he’ll likely pay the price of a right hook in reparation.

At three in the morning he sends a text to his brother; Come over in the morning. Need to talk. Important.

Joel doesn’t sleep. He lays in bed and thinks of you, as he so often does these days. Thinks about how uncomfortable it’s going to be to tell his little brother that he indulged himself in the pretty little thing he’s been spending all of his time with. He decides he’s just going to say it outright, tell him the truth without beating around the bush, and immediately apologize for it afterward.

Because he is sorry, Joel thinks. Not sorry that he did it, but sorry that it’s hurt people in the process.

How can he come to regret the most gratifying sexual experience of his life? It’s a comfort, to hear some of Tommy’s words echo in his brain.

We’re not even together.

She doesn’t want anything serious.

It’s like she just wants to fuck and have a good time and that’s it.

Joel hopes his brother feels a similar way. Tommy’s never once indicated he’s ever wanted to settle down with a woman, but…something sits in his gut and twists up his insides. Because as much as he wants to deny it, Joel knows this…knows you are different. What Tommy feels for you is different.

He’s drinking whiskey by ten in the morning for no reason other than to calm his nerves.

And Joel’s thankful for the liquid courage when Tommy finally pulls into the driveway at noon. He comes barrelling through Joel’s front door with a scowl on his face, and for a second Joel wonders if his brother already knows and is here thinking Joel had every intention of keeping this secret of yours.

But when he speaks, Tommy doesn’t seem angry. Just…concerned. “What’s up, man? Pretty ominous text to wake up to. Where’s Sarah? She alright?”

Joel shakes his head and raises a hand between them. “Sarah’s fine, she’s alright,” he says quickly. “Staying with a friend this weekend. Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned it wasn’t a life or death situation.”

For Tommy, anyway.

With a slow nod, Tommy’s shoulders slump and he drops himself onto the couch. “Alright, then. That’s good. I was worried, came haulin’ ass over here.” It’s then he notices the tumbler in Joel’s hand, half filled with amber-colored liquid. “You good, Joel?”

He takes a seat next to his brother and tries to recite the speech in his head. But nothing comes out. Joel opens and closes his mouth once, twice, and then finishes off the whiskey in his glass.

Tommy’s patient, for what it’s worth. He lets Joel adjust in his seat three different times, saying nothing while he tries to find the courage he’s been building for the last twelve hours.

“I…I, uhm…I have to tell you something an’ I…” Joel shakes his head and squeezes his jaw. “Alright, look. I…did something.”

A quiet, curt sort of laugh leaves Tommy. “I know what happened last night, Joel. She already told me.”

It surprises him. Not that you told him, Joel can’t fault you for that considering he’s presently trying to do the same thing. What’s surprising is that Tommy seems relaxed about the whole situation. Relieved, even.

A million different questions surface on the tip of his tongue, but only one comes out. “What?”

“It’s alright, man,” Tommy says, laying a comforting hand on Joel’s shoulder.

“You’re not…mad? I don’t understand. I let her—”

Tommy’s mouth stretches into one of the widest smiles Joel’s ever seen on his brother’s face. “It was good, huh?”

Joel doesn’t know if saying yes is a good idea. Doesn’t know if a simple three-letter word is sufficient enough for the things you made him feel with that pretty, pink tongue of yours.

But it seems his thoughts are written plainly on his face. “Fuck yeah, it was,” Tommy says with a laugh. “She called me right after you left her house last night. Told me everything. She makes a mean grilled cheese too, doesn’t she?”

Try as he might, Joel can’t seem to wrap his head around what’s happening. Can’t seem to process his brother’s ease, his indifference. He tries to put himself in Tommy’s place but knows that if it was his bed you slept in for the last week, Joel would be furious to learn you’d wound up on your knees for someone else.

But if that someone was Tommy? His own brother?

Maybe that’s why it’s different. Because Joel would never do something to hurt his brother intentionally. And he knows, too, that Tommy would never do it to him, either.

He trusts his brother with everything in him. There’s not another soul on the planet who knows him like Tommy does. So, surely, he knows that what you and Joel did wasn’t born of malicious intent, right?

“She’s a sweet little thing,” Tommy says quietly, as if they’re sharing a secret. “But that mouth on her is somethin’ else. She’s a talker, through and through.” There’s pride on his face as he speaks. “Said she felt real bad, runnin’ out on you like that, but she’d gotten so wet from just goin’ down on you that I could hear it through the fuckin’ phone, Joel.”

Though he tries not to, Joel begins to wonder what would have happened if you’d stayed, if you hadn’t disappeared so fast to take care of the ache that had settled between your thighs.

It would have been only fair, right? You helped him. He would have helped you.

“She wanted me to talk to you about something, anyway,” Tommy says.

He’d nearly forgotten that you’d mentioned the same thing last night in all the chaos. It piques his interest, because what on Earth could you need Tommy to ask him?

But his answer comes quickly when his brother says carefully, “You remember a couple of weeks ago when I told you what her biggest fantasy is?”

A threesome.

Joel’s standing from the couch and shaking his head before his brother gets another word out. “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind, Tommy?”

“Joel, just listen—”

“Listen to what, man? You got any idea what you’re askin’ me right now?”

There’s a smirk on his face as he stares at Joel from the couch, looking just as comfortable as if they were having a normal conversation about what they should eat for dinner. “I’m askin’ you to fuck my girlfriend,” he says.

Somehow, the word girlfriend surprises Joel more than the rest. It’s the very first time he’s ever called anyone his girlfriend. “I thought you weren’t together.”

Tommy shrugs. “Call it what you will. Does it really matter?”

“Yeah, Tommy, it does matter. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have feelings for this girl. Tell me this doesn’t mean anythin’ to you, that doing somethin’ like this wouldn’t fuck it all up in a minute.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t lie to you, brother. ‘Course she means somethin’ to me. That’s why I wanna give her everything she wants. And she wants you too, Joel. Is that so bad?”

Joel sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots.

For a second, a single second, he considers it. Thinks about how any price is worth it for a single night with you, to hear the sound of your moans, to feel your warm breath against his neck again. He’d bet you sound real pretty, all filled up with him.

“Don’t trust anyone else to take care of her the way I do,” Tommy says. “No one but you.”

It’s too much. It’s way too much to ask of him.

“You’re insane, Tommy,” he says, grabbing his whiskey glass from the coffee table and escaping to the kitchen to refill it. He wishes he had something a little stronger.

He’s not surprised when his brother follows him to the kitchen. Tommy leans against the archway and says, “You can say no.”

“Good, 'cause I’m sayin’ no.”

Tommy laughs, but Joel thinks there’s no joke to be found. “Just wanted you to know the offer’s there and she’d jump at the opportunity. Y’know, if you change your mind, that is. Ask her about it, if you wanna.”

“I won’t.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, not tryin’ to push it or anything. You know how to get ahold of me.”

And then his brother retreats, leaving Joel with nothing but his whiskey and his thoughts.

Thoughts that run rampant in his brain. Filthy images of you beneath him, back arched in pleasure, pretty mouth hung open just wide enough for Tommy to slip inside.

How terrible would it be, really? Tommy might have impulsive tendencies, but he seems so sure of this. And if there’s not an ounce of jealousy in his brother, so much so that he offers you to Joel like some sort of prize…maybe there won’t be the repercussions Joel’s afraid of.

Maybe it’ll be as Tommy says. Maybe it would just be a good, safe way to give you what you want, to indulge your wildest desires.

And it would certainly be an indulgence for him. Just feeling your hands on him had brought Joel bliss like he’d never known. He can’t imagine how much higher he’d feel if he could taste you, if he could finish deep inside of you and not at the back of your throat.

It takes twenty minutes of pacing in his kitchen and another ten of shaking the nerves from his hands before he picks up the phone and calls you.

“Hey, Joel. I was just thinking about you.”

“S’that right?”

“Mmhm. Did…did Tommy talk to you yet? He told me he was going to this morning.”

“Yeah, sweetheart. He did.”

A strange sort of silence stretches on. He can hear your hesitance and realizes you’re just as nervous as he is. “And? What did you…what did you say?”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you he declined the offer. Not when it was a no mostly out of fear and unease. “You wanna tell me how this is gonna work?”

You snort and he can almost see the playful smirk on your face. “I think you know how it works, Joel.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says, but can’t fight off the smile that climbs onto his face and makes a home there. “Brat.”

“Hm, I think I prefer the term princess.”

Joel laughs but thinks the name is real fitting. He can see why Tommy likes you so much—can understand why he wants to give you everything it is that you desire. Everything about you is so playful and carefree and innocent. You’re just so sweet. A tooth-rotting confectionary.

“I don’t know how it’ll work,” you finally say. “I’ve never done something like this before, but I know it’s what I want.”

Your conviction is reassuring. Both you and Tommy seem certain that this is the path you want to take, no unease to be found within either of you. But it’s not the physical that worries him. It’s…everything else. “An’ what happens if it becomes something more? Sex is just sex until it isn’t.”

He can hear the smile in your words as you ask, “You worried about catching feelings for me, Joel Miller?”

“I’m bein’ serious,” he insists. “Tommy feels somethin’ for you. I know it and I think you probably do, too. I don’t want to do this and ruin what the two of you have been workin’ on.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” you insist. “And if…if things do get…complicated, then we’ll just take it day by day. No use in worrying about something that might not happen, right?”

It’s such a naive way of thinking. Joel wishes he wouldn’t have said no so quickly. Wishes, too, that you were a little different. Maybe if you weren’t so sweet, so tempting, he wouldn’t be so worried about ‘catching feelings,’ as you’d put it.

Your voice is quieter as you say, “For what it’s worth, Joel…I like you, too.”

By the end of the phone call, you manage to convince him to consider it. To genuinely give the idea a shot, to weigh all the pros and cons. You promise not to be disappointed with either decision and though he knows the whole thing has been your idea, Joel believes you.

Several days later, Joel stops by with the intent to fix the creaky hinges on the door to the pool. But the moment he steps into the kitchen, Joel forgets all about the task at hand because he can hear your moans echoing through the house.

He follows them like a moth to a flame.

The door to your father’s bedroom is wide open. And in the center of the king-sized bed, covered with gray satin sheets, is you and Tommy.

Tommy’s turned away from the door, but you’re looking right at it. Looking right at Joel, as you bounce in his brother’s lap. When your eyes connect with him, your pace only picks up, your moans only grow louder.

Joel watches, frozen in time, as you chase your release. Tommy swirls his tongue around your pebbled nipple, leaving a trail of wetness in its wake. You thread your fingers through his hair and moan his name but you stare right at Joel.

He can’t breathe. Has suddenly forgotten the process of inhalation. He’s seen you in your bikini but never like this, never completely bare. You’re beautiful, Joel thinks. Beautiful in a godly way; a woman the poets write for, a woman the sculptors display in cathedrals.

You reach a hand between your bodies, circling your clit and arching your back.

The thought doesn’t even cross Joel’s mind that he should leave, that he should give the two of you some privacy. It feels right that he’s here.

You grind yourself on Tommy’s cock and give Joel the sweetest, most innocent smile as you say, “It’s so big, you’re so deep. God, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Tommy grabs at the soft swell of your ass, lifting you just to slam you back down onto his lap. “Yeah? Gonna cum all over this dick, princess?”

I prefer the term princess.

No need to wonder why, Joel thinks.

“Mmhm, yes, yes, right there.”

“Can feel her gettin’ all messy,” Tommy says. “If I knew you’d get this wet ridin’ me in your daddy’s bed I would’ve said yes weeks ago, pretty girl.”

Joel knows the reason you’re all worked up has nothing to do with the location and everything to do with his eyes on you, but he stays silent. Stays still.

Even as he watches you fall apart on his brother's cock and soak the satin sheets beneath him. Even as Tommy does the thing that Joel’s been dreaming about every night for days, filling you up with his release.

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t fix the creaky hinges, either.

Joel barely makes it back to his truck before he’s reaching into his jeans to stroke his cock, right there in the driveway in broad fucking daylight.

It only takes a few quick tugs before he covers his hand in sticky ropes of cum. He tries to catch his breath, wiping the mess you’ve made of him onto his jeans and driving home ten over the limit. Before he makes it inside to shower and change, Joel sends a text message to both you and Tommy that reads; Okay. I’m in. My place. Friday night at ten.

He tries not to think about it too much. Tries to go on about his work week like normal, going through the motions of making dinner each night and taking Sarah to school every morning with Tommy in the passenger seat.

They don’t talk about it, though Joel can sometimes feel his brother staring at him a little too long as if there’s something he wants to say. But he doesn’t. They don’t bring it up until after Joel drops Sarah off at her friend’s house for another weekend-long slumber party.

Tommy says, “I’m gonna take her out for dinner. Do you want to come with us? Could help break the ice a little. Loosen you up.”

He agrees, and instead of going home, they pick you up from your house. You’re wearing a pleated blue skirt that’s a little too short, but Joel thinks you look like something divine. Tommy helps you up into the truck, and everything starts to feel real the moment you’re sitting between them. Joel behind the wheel, Tommy on the passenger side.

You look so small in the center of the cab, surrounded by two brothers who possess nothing but longing for you. Like pretty prey caught in the clutches of two predators.

Joel has to readjust himself in his seat when you lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. Sweet. “Missed you,” you say. “You look good. You both do.”

He doesn’t comment on the fact that they’re both still in their work attire; dirty blue jeans, sun-faded t-shirts, and muddy boots. He’s surprised to hear your appreciation, considering how put together you always seem to be.

But maybe that’s the appeal for you. The blue-collar archetype. Your daddy probably expects you to marry the son of one of his friends, just another rich boy.

If he could see you now…

Tommy slides his hand to the inside of your thigh and squeezes. “You hungry, princess? Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”

As much as he hates to admit when his brother’s right, dinner works wonders for Joel’s nerves. The three of you talk the entire time; you tell Joel about your friends and the subjects you’re studying in that fancy college you got into on a full ride. It’s not the one your father wanted you to attend, but it’s the one you wanted.

Even though he knows Tommy has heard it all before, he lets you and Joel have this moment. He sits beside you and smiles at you as you speak, eyes glued to the side of your face and full of adoration. Joel realizes then that he thinks his brother might be in love with you.

He gets it. Thinks it must have been a real easy fall.

Tommy slots himself in the conversation naturally. The two of you clue Joel in on some of your inside jokes and it doesn’t feel weird at all. He doesn’t feel left out like he’d worried he might be, and he doesn’t feel jealous when you steal bites from Tommy’s plate because you steal things from Joel’s, too.

It’s easy. Nothing feels forced, no conversation out of place.

Halfway through the meal, you switch sides of the booth and sit next to Joel instead. You lay your head on his shoulder and he holds your hand beneath the table and it feels right. Tommy smiles at the two of you and carries on with his story as if the dynamic you’ve created has existed for years and not just hours.

When it’s time to go home, Joel finds that his nerves have completely vanished.

Tommy offers to drive. And he’s thankful for it because it allows him to focus on just you.

You take Joel’s hand and lay it in your lap, palm open. He shivers as you trace the lines in his hand. You ask him, “How are you feeling?”

And the answer comes to him easily. “Good,” he says. “Better.”

“Told you,” Tommy says, one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. “She’s a real good girl, Joel. Always does as she’s told.”

Even though the sun is setting below the horizon, he can see the crimson that stains your cheeks and it brings a smile to his face. “S’that right?” He takes your chin gently in his hand and forces you to look up at him. “You a real good listener, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, she is,” Tommy answers wistfully. “Why don’t you g’’head and give Joel some sugar, princess.”

You lean into Joel’s side, pressing a kiss to his jaw. It feels good just being close to you, holding you in his hands, but when you touch him, it’s something else entirely. An uncontrollable desire, an unfamiliar sort of decadence.

Joel cradles your face in his big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone, and gently presses his lips to yours. It’s soft at first, a tender curiosity. He kisses you again, a little more heated this time, and when he flicks his tongue across your bottom lip you grant him access as if it’s second nature.

His tongue explores yours, tangling together, invading your sweet mouth. Joel thinks you taste a little like honey and a whole lot like fortuity. If you had asked him ten years ago if he’d ever imagined he’d be in this spot, tasting the inside of his brother’s girlfriend’s mouth, Joel would have said it was a delusional thought.

Yet here he was, cock stiffening in his jeans from something as simple as a kiss. Like he’s some teenage boy, experiencing a woman for the first time.

But it is his first time experiencing you, and Joel knows that’s what makes all the difference.

The kiss turns sloppy and desperate. And when your panting breaths turn to moans, Joel realizes Tommy’s hand on your thigh has disappeared beneath your skirt.

It surprises him, the magnitude of the moment. Joel would have thought he’d feel jealous somehow, envious that his brother’s touching you and he’s not. But there’s nothing but satisfaction to be found. Joel likes to see the dark look in your eye, likes to see your breath hitch in your throat.

He takes your legs and spreads them wide, draping your thigh over his, giving his brother more room to touch you.

“What do you think, brother? Think we should give her what she needs before we even get home?”

Your face is so close to his that your breath fans across his spit-covered lips as you say so beautifully, “Please, Joel.”

A smirk finds its way to his mouth. “You look so fuckin’ pretty when you beg, sweetheart,” he says. “S’that what you want? Hm?”

You nod frantically, eyes pleading.

“Hold your skirt up, baby,” Tommy instructs. And you do as he says without question, fabric bunching around your hips.

Joel can’t deny the pleasure he finds in discovering you’re completely bare beneath. Even from his spot in the passenger seat, he can see how glossy your pussy is with arousal, desperate to be touched by both of them. “Oh…look at that, Tommy. She wants it bad, doesn’t she?”

“Always does, brother. Needy little thing. S’why she needs the two of us,” Tommy says. His fingers trail lazily over your slit, a teasing caress. He presses his index finger against your clit and makes a satisfied hum, a sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. “Can feel your heartbeat right here, princess. Tell Joel what you want.”

“I want him to touch me,” you say, a little bit breathless. “Want him to make me cum while you kiss me. You taste so good, Joel. You make me so wet.”

The words don’t sound filthy or obscene in your voice, despite how vulgar they are. Joel squeezes your jaw in his hand and delights in the way you grin when he says, “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see the look on your face when he fills you up with his fingers.”

You’re so pretty, Joel thinks. But it’s nothing compared to the way your pupils dilate as his brother stretches you open. Your lips part and Joel takes the opportunity to crush his mouth to yours, to taste the sweetness you possess.

He drinks up your moans as Tommy sets a steady pace between your thighs. Joel grabs the back of your knee with a rough hand and spreads your legs further apart. He can hear how wet you are, can feel the goosebumps as they form down the column of your throat.

Joel pulls away from your spellbinding kiss only to catch his breath. “How’s it feel, baby? That feel good, hm? Tommy takin’ good care of you?”

“Yes, yes—mmm—fuck. His hands are so big, feel so fucking good,” you whimper. One hand is clutching Joel’s shirt, holding on for dear life, and you move the other to rest on his cock. You gently knead it over his jeans, and he wonders if you can feel just how hard he is for you.

It doesn’t take long until his brother has you trembling. Your thighs shake and a crease forms between your brows as you chase after the relief you seek.

He kisses you again, tongue brushing against yours, and when you breathe Joel’s name into his mouth he knows what you need before you even ask.

Slowly, experimentally, Joel’s hand on your knee travels upwards. Over the soft skin of your thigh, taking it all in, savoring you—and then his fingers are circling your clit while Tommy’s are shoved deep inside of you, curved to hit the perfect spot, and you come undone within seconds.

“Oh, God, Tommy, I—”

“I know, baby, it’s okay. Go ahead,” he says, giving you full permission.

The words are the last thing you need to reach the full height of euphoria. You’re reduced to a trembling mess in his hands and Joel thinks this is so much better than his dreams. Better than standing in the doorway, watching you, wishing he could hold you.

“That’s it,” Joel praises. “There you go. Bein’ so good for us, sweetheart.” Wetness coats his fingers as he continues to circle your clit until your breath stutters in your chest. He kisses you hard as Tommy’s rhythm begins to slow, eventually stilling completely.

You wince as they both pull their hands away from you at the same time, a synchronized movement.

Tommy pulls the truck into Joel’s driveway and chuckles as he looks at you, skirt still hiked up around your hips, limbs boneless. He strokes the side of your face and kisses your hair. “You’re alright, princess. We’re just gettin’ started.”

Joel climbs out of the truck and adjusts your skirt, holding you with an arm around your waist to ensure your balance until both feet are on the ground. Tommy comes to your side and slides his hand into yours, handing Joel the keys.

While he works to unlock the front door, Joel can’t help but smile at the sound of your sweet giggles. He looks over his shoulder to see his brother kissing your neck and grabbing your ass, and the two of you look so infatuated with one another that it’s intoxicating. A magnetism he can’t help but be drawn to, a warmth he wants to embrace.

The minute you walk in the door you’ve got your hands on Joel again. You slip them beneath his t-shirt and he’s thrilled to give you what you want. He pulls it off over his head, discarding it on the back of the couch, and lets out a pleased sigh as you begin peppering wet kisses over his chest, down his sternum, fingers grabbing needily at his skin.

Tommy stands behind you as you lower yourself to your knees between them. He runs his hands through your hair lovingly and says, “Show him what you do best, baby.”

You smile up at him and it takes Joel’s breath away. He’s never seen someone so pleased to please him, never felt this wanted in all his life. The metal of his belt buckle clinks against the button of his jeans as you undo them, pulling down his zipper in a way that’s familiar to you now.

When you pull his cock out, you wrap one hand around it and guide the tip to your mouth. He’s so hard already that he aches, but the feel of your soft tongue on him grants him ease. You lick every inch of him, an indulgent sort of torture. And then you’re swallowing him down, creating a tight seal with your plush lips.

Your mouth feels like heaven, Joel thinks.

“Look at the way she’s got her legs pressed together,” Tommy murmurs, thumb caressing your temple gently. “Gets so turned on with a dick in her mouth she just doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“We’re gonna take care of that for you,” Joel says, cupping your jaw in his hand. He shifts it a little lower and can feel the outline of his cock through your throat as you swallow him down, gasping for air you never once ask for. “Gonna take care of everythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Pleasure coils around his spine, a vise-like grip that threatens to end this night well before he’s ready for it.

Tommy grabs a handful of your hair and draws your head back. Strands of spit still connect you to him and drool runs down your chin. It’s the most pornographic thing he’s ever seen. Tommy laughs and says, “I know, brother. S’almost too good.”

Joel knows it should be a strange thing to hear, but it feels innate. He helps you back to your feet and pulls your shirt over your head while Tommy unzips the back of your skirt and slides it down your legs.

You turn and wrap your arms around Tommy’s neck and he lifts you up in his arms like it’s second nature. Joel supposes it is—the two of you have had a whole lot more practice together than he has. Tommy starts towards the stairs, heading towards Joel’s bedroom, but you let out a whine and reach out for him.

He can’t deny how warm it makes him feel, seeing you all wrapped up in his brother but still reaching for his hand. The smile you give him the moment he touches you makes his heart constrict in his chest. It’s such a soft, intimate moment, and Joel can think of nothing but your conversation on the phone last week.

You worried about catching feelings for me, Joel Miller?

He wasn’t a week ago. But now…? Now, he’s not so sure.

Tommy lays you down in the center of Joel’s bed and the sight of it pushes away his anxiety. You’re so beautiful with your hair splayed out behind you, an angelic sort of halo. The thought crosses his mind that you might have always been meant to exist in his bed.

It feels like second nature to crawl over you, to let his hands roam over your chest, your ribs, your hips. Joel follows each caress with a kiss, mouth following the echo of his hands. He sucks a bruise into your hip, ensuring this moment is real with physical, tangible evidence.

When he gets to the crease of your thigh, Joel sits up and spreads your legs wide. “Look at that,” he whispers. Tommy’s pulling off his worn t-shirt and working on his jeans but pauses long enough to appreciate the sight of your pussy, glossy with arousal and what remains of your first release. “She’s so fuckin’ pretty, ain’t she?”

“Yeah, she is,” Tommy agrees. “Taste’s real pretty, too.” He leans over and presses his mouth to yours, a messy, needy sort of kiss. You whimper as Tommy asks, “What d’you think, princess? Think Joel should get a taste? Hm?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I want it so bad, Tommy, please.”

“Want it, huh?” Joel slots himself between your thighs, his mouth an inch from where that ache resides. “Maybe we should make her wait a little longer, Tommy. Make her wait ‘til she needs it.”

“No, no, please,” you cry. You buck your hips, trying to find reprieve, but Joel’s hands on your waist hold firm. “I do, I do, I need it, Joel, please, please.”

He looks to his brother to make the decision. Tommy’s got a wicked grin on his face as he watches you writhe on Joel’s sheets. “Think you’ve been real good today. But don’t go forgettin’ your manners, princess. When Joel licks that pretty pussy of yours, you better say thank you.”

The moment he slides his tongue through your slit, your spine bends, arching off the mattress. Your shoulders slump and your breath comes fast. “Oh my god,” you moan. “Thank you, Joel, fuck.”

He tries to give you the same tentative treatment you’ve given him; tracing every inch of you with the flat of his tongue, memorizing the sweet taste, sucking your clit into his mouth. He can feel it pulse with need, and Joel understands the fever.

Your thighs clamp down around his head but Joel doesn’t mind. He just presses his mouth against you harder and flicks his tongue a little faster.

“Tommy,” you whimper. Joel looks up to see your chest heave with each shaking breath. You reach out for his brother with trembling fingers.

“I’m comin', baby,” Tommy says softly. “Don’t you worry.” The mattress dips beneath his weight as he kneels beside you. He cradles your head in his hand, supporting your neck while he eases his cock into your mouth.

It’s the hottest thing Joel Miller has ever seen in his fucking life.

You grind yourself against his face and he supplies the friction you seek. Arousal coats his facial hair, enveloping his senses in nothing but you. Your moans, your taste, your scent—you, you you. He thinks he’ll never want it any other way but this.

Tommy guides your mouth with a hand wrapped in the tangled strands of your hair. He fucks your face and you whimper around his cock like there’s nothing else in the world that could ever compare. He smiles down at you and says, “You’re gonna make her cum, Joel. Can you feel it? Get’s real sloppy when she’s right there, right on the edge.”

Joel groans against you and focuses his mouth on your clit, giving him just enough room to slip a finger inside you to massage that sweet spot.

You stretch your arms above you and fist your hands in the sheets. When you reach the summit, Joel can feel it on his tongue, can feel your pussy tighten around his finger, can feel your thighs shake around his head.

Tommy pulls your head back, giving you a moment to breathe as another orgasm surges through you. Your moans echo in Joel’s room, the prettiest-sounding symphony he’s ever heard. “Good fuckin’ girl,” Tommy praises, just as breathless as you. “Bein’ such a good girl for us, baby.”

Joel doesn’t relent, doesn’t stop licking your clit until you’re giggling and twisting in his hands at the overstimulation. You sound so satisfied, so happy. It pleases him to see the elation on your face. When he finally pulls away, Joel snakes his arms beneath you and pulls you up to your knees. “So good,” Joel agrees. “But she’s gonna give us another one, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

All you can do is nod and it makes both brothers laugh.

“She’s usually got so much to say,” Tommy teases. “Think we’ve got her fucked dumb, brother.”

“That’s alright,” Joel whispers. “We’ll do all the thinkin’ for her, hm? Take such good care of this sweet little pussy. Turn around, baby. On your hands and knees.”

You do as he says blissfully, ass arched beautifully on display for him. Tommy maneuvers himself in front of you and you take him in your mouth on instinct. Second nature, habitual.

Joel positions himself behind you and slides the head of his cock through your slit. “This what you want, sweet girl? This what you dream of?”

Leaning back, you stroke Tommy with your hand and look up at him as you answer Joel’s question. “Yes,” you say. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I saw you. Knew I needed you, Joel. Knew I needed you both.”

“Three’s a crowd, princess,” Tommy says. “But I think I like this one.”

Joel’s inclined to agree. He pushes into you slowly, sighing in contentment at the gratifying tightness. You’re so wet, so warm. “Goddamn, baby,” he groans, gripping the supple flesh of your ass to keep himself tethered to earth, to keep himself grounded.

Tommy holds your face in his hands, smoothing his cock over your lips. “Oh, she likes it, Joel,” he says. “Should see her face. Can I take a picture, baby? So Joel can see how happy you look with his dick all up in your guts? Hm?”

The words are crude but Joel can feel you tighten around him as Tommy speaks. “Mmhm,” is all you can say, sticking your tongue out to lick the underside of Tommy’s cock.

He reaches over to the nightstand where his cell phone sits. Tommy angles his phone just right, and the shutter echoes in the room as he takes his photos.

Joel pushes into you real slow. And when he’s buried to the hilt you let out a gasp and hold onto Tommy’s thigh for support, balance wavering. “It feels so fucking good,” you say.

Tommy takes a couple more photos, tries a couple of different angles. But Joel thinks no image will ever beat the one in front of him.

He watches your pussy stretch to make room for him, watches you soak his cock, desperate for it. Tilting his hips forward, Joel sets a steady pace, easily finding a rhythm that has you moaning out his name.

Satisfied with his work, Tommy sets his phone back on the nightstand in favor of the filthy exhibit before him. He guides his cock back to your mouth, groaning at the feel of your tongue.

Joel thrusts into you and feels that coil begin to form around the base of his spine again.

You’re moaning around Tommy’s cock and he’s smiling like there’s no place else he’d rather be. Joel understands that, too—because he thinks you’re the most perfect girl that could have ever stumbled into their lives. “S’this what you needed, princess? Needed us both, hm? Dirty little girl.”

“Our girl,” Joel muses, captivated by the way you squeeze him as he says it. He fits so perfectly inside you, like you were made for him, made for this. “Stretchin’ her out so easy, brother. Sweet little pussy’s just cryin’ for it.”

Tommy’s head falls back and his hips stutter. “Just like that, princess,” he praises gently. “Yeah, shit—gonna swallow it all like a good little girl, ain’t you?”

You make a sound of approval at the back of your throat. Joel can see you look up at his brother, cock-drunk and starry-eyed, and he feels his chest pull tight with a strange sense of pride.

Joel slows his pace just a little, long enough for Tommy to take what he needs from you, for you to focus on just him. And then he’s breathing hard as he holds your head still, nose pressed against his navel. His shoulders draw tight and then gradually relax as he spills his release at the back of your throat.

When Tommy pulls out of you, his cock is covered in spit and cum but you do as he says, dutifully swallowing it all up like the perfect girl you are. And you even clean any remaining mess with your tongue, licking it up with sweet reverence.

He’s close—so close it aches, but he wants you to give him another before this is other. Wants to make it worth your while, wants to know how it feels to make you cum while he’s buried deep inside you.

You arch your back and press your cheek against the mattress, looking back at Joel from over your shoulder.

Tommy moves to your side, smoothing your hair out of your face with one hand, and then he slips the other beneath you and circles your clit with skilled, deft fingers.

The response is instantaneous. Joel can feel your pussy pulse around him, sees the strain on your face as you fight the pleasure. You say his brother's name like a prayer shrouded in ecstasy.

But Tommy just shakes his head. “Nah, princess. Ain’t up to me this time. You gotta ask Joel permission.”

He doesn’t understand at first, this almost silent communication between the two of you. But then you say, “Joel, please. Please please, I need to cum so bad, it feels too good.”

You sound so fucking pretty, begging for him like that. “Been so good…I think you’ve earned it,” he says gently. “Go ‘head, sweetheart.”

Tommy continues to circle your clit as you clench around Joel’s cock, uttering quiet praises in your ear.

You tighten around him and Joel’s right there, right there—and then you say, “Cum with me, Joel, please. Cum with me, I wanna feel it.”

And it sends him over the edge. His name in your mouth, begging him to fill you up. He buries himself so deep inside you that there’s no telling where he ends and you begin, and it’s the best orgasm he’s ever had in his fucking life.

You shudder beneath him and Joel leans forward, pressing his forehead to your spine. He thrusts into you until the last drop, giving you all of it, giving you everything he has to offer.

As you come down, Tommy pulls his hand from beneath you and combs his fingers through your hair. He’s got that stupid grin on his face, but Joel’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother this happy before.

The three of you just lay there for a moment, saying nothing, unmoving, basking in the afterglow. Joel’s not quite sure how he’s meant to navigate this, not sure what he’s supposed to say or how he’s supposed to feel about the fact that the best sex he’s ever had was with his brother’s little girlfriend.

But he does know how to take care of a woman. So, he does. Joel eases himself out of you and disappears for only long enough to find a washcloth, wet it with cool water from the bathroom sink, and grab an icy bottle of water from the fridge.

When he returns to his bedroom, Tommy holds you in his arms while you speak to him in a hushed tone. It worries him a little, truthfully.

So when Joel sits on the side of his bed to clean the light sheen of sweat off your forehead and the mess between your legs, he asks, “Everythin’ okay?”

“Everything’s good. So, so good,” you answer easily, giving him one of those honeyed smiles.

Tommy takes the bottle of water from Joel’s hand and breaks the seal. “Drink,” he says, passing it to you. And you do, listening so obediently.

But the moment your hands are free again you say, “Joel? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says. And he means it. Whatever it is you need, whatever it is you want, Joel wants to give to you. He’s come to understand his brother in this, too.

“Do you think you’d want to…I don’t know. Maybe we could do it again?”

He laughs. Genuinely, truly laughs, because Tommy’s been right this whole time. You’re insatiable.

But you quickly amend your words. Saying, “I mean, not…not now. But maybe…maybe I could stay? For the weekend?”

Joel finds the thought of you leaving at the end of the night an unbearable one. And he knows he’ll likely feel the same once Sunday evening rolls around, and he’s not quite sure what that means for him or you or Tommy…but maybe it’s not something he has to worry about today.

He kisses your forehead and says, “‘Course you can, sweetheart.”

And then you’re reaching for him again, urging him beneath the sheets. You lay your head on Joel’s chest and drape your leg over Tommy’s hip, and you look so at ease, so peaceful that his heart constricts at the sight. You’re so good, so sweet, and Joel thinks he’d do anything to keep you happy.

Later, as your soft snores and shallow breaths fill the silence, Tommy playfully kicks Joel in the shin and says, “Ain’t no use tryin’ to talk yourself off the ledge, brother. Easier to just enjoy the freefall. Take it day by day.”

Joel thinks his brother might be right. Thinks that this might get complicated and messy and dangerous…but for now, for today…he’ll savor the sugary sweetness while it lasts.

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yuujispinkhair · 11 months ago

Text

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 01

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 3k Warnings: 18+, smut in later chapters. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Sukuna smokes a cigarette in this chapter. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 10 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

The first time you meet Sukuna, you literally run into him.

It's a Thursday morning. You are running down the hallway while rummaging through your bag, searching for the printed copy of the short story that you have to hand in today. The irony isn't lost on you. The story contains a scene quite similar to this. But unfortunately, you aren't a rebel princess running out of a ballroom with her cloak dramatically billowing behind her. You are just a creative writing student in a mismatched pair of sneakers who is late for her class. The second time this week. To a class taught by a professor who sees it as a personal affront if someone shows up late.

You grit your teeth, trying to run even faster, when you finally see the printed copy you were looking for. You cheer inwardly. But your relief is short-lived. Because a second later, you crash into a solid wall.

You screech in shock, the force of the impact making you flat-out keel over without any warning. This will hurt, is the only thought that flashes through your mind. But a millisecond before you hit the hard floor tiles, your fall gets stopped, and you get pulled up again and set back on your feet. Everything happens so fast that you can only blink in confusion.

A pair of well-defined, tattooed arms comes into view. You stare perplexed at them, realizing that they are what stopped your fall. And what you also realize at that moment is that the "solid wall" you slammed into is the tall and muscular owner of those strong arms.

Your face is currently only inches away from his chest. A broad and buff chest in a soft-looking white hoodie with a very familiar crest embroidered on the front. Two crossed hockey sticks and a tiger with glowing red eyes and his mouth opening in a feral-looking growl.

Your head snaps up to look at the face of your savior (and the cause of your fall), and what already began to dawn on you gets confirmed the moment you see the tattoos on his handsome face: You just ran full speed into Itadori Sukuna, the star player of the ice hockey team. The Red Tiger himself, The King of the Ice, and whatever other titles he gets called.

Even though you are hardly a hockey fan, you know Sukuna. Everyone knows him.

Sukuna gets treated like royalty on this campus. He's a living legend. The star player of The Red Tigers, the most successful ice hockey team this college has brought out in over five decades. And Sukuna is the reason for that success.

You gulp hard and take a hurried step back.

Out of anyone you could have crashed into, why did it have to be him? Sukuna is feared on and off the ice. You have never spoken to him personally, only saw him from afar while heading to class or when you were at the same party as him, but his reputation as a bad boy precedes him. And the way he looks with his face tattoos and his strong and tall build only adds to those assumptions. Sukuna is definitely a very intimidating guy.

Your automatic response is to try to make yourself look as harmless and cute as possible, smiling a sheepish, apologetic smile at him.

"I'm so sorry! I was late for class, so I ran, and I didn't see you. Sorry!"

You look up at him with big eyes and a nervous smile, steeling yourself for a scolding.

But Sukuna just eyes you with an amused expression on his tattooed face. His eyes travel lazily over your face and body, making you more nervous with each passing second. You feel your cheeks become hot when Sukuna's gaze finally lands on your mismatched shoes, and the corners of his lips twitch.

You silently curse yourself for snoozing your alarm one too many times and ending up like this in front of the hot boy hockey star of all people!

Sukuna is looking directly into your eyes now, his lips lifted in a lopsided smirk.

"I don't mind getting bodychecked by a pretty girl like you. It would be different if it were an opponent on the ice, but you will get away with it, princess."

You are dumbfounded for a moment, mouth opening and closing several times. Is he mocking you? You eye Sukuna wearily as you mutter,

"Um, well... Thank you for catching me before I landed on the floor."

Sukuna just looks at you a moment longer with that lazy grin, and then he bends down to pick up the bag you dropped. He pushes it into your arms, and you grab it instinctively and hug it tightly to your chest as if it is your lifeline.

"And thank you for the bag."

You add while once again smiling sheepishly at him. Sukuna laughs softly, cocking his head and looking at you with an infuriatingly smug grin,

"Don't thank me so much. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have fallen in the first place."

"Yeah, I guess that's true. But still, thank you."

You cringe at your own words, sure that you sound like a total idiot, but you force yourself to smile broadly at Sukuna and wish him a nice day before you turn around and walk toward the creative writing classroom on rather wobbly legs. At least you don't have to hurry anymore, you think grimly. By now, you are definitely too late.

There's a prickling feeling on your neck as if you are being watched, and you are pretty sure that if you looked over your shoulder, you would see Sukuna still standing there and looking at you with that amused glint in his eyes.

You refuse to give in to the urge to check if you are right and instead keep walking. But your pulse is still racing. From the almost fall or from Sukuna's presence, you aren't sure.

You slip into the classroom, and your professor sends a death glare your way, snapping at you for not taking her course seriously and all thoughts of a certain pink-haired, tattooed hockey player are wiped off your mind as you mutter an apology, and you hurry to the nearest free seat.

You encounter Sukuna again a few days later.

You stand outside the Gojo Hall waiting for your dormmate Nobara when you catch a flash of pastel pink in the corner of your eyes. You lift your head and spot not only one pink head but two. The Itadori twins exit the building side by side, Sukuna, and Yuuji, both wearing their white team hoodies, making you wonder if there is some rule that the players must wear their team apparel 24/7.

You are still contemplating the secret rules of the hockey team when the brothers give each other a high five, and Yuuji leaves with a big smile on his face while Sukuna turns his head, and his gaze instantly lands on you.

Your eyes widen, feeling like the deer in the headlights. You curse yourself inwardly. Why did you let him catch you staring at him?

A smirk appears on Sukuna's tattooed face, and to your horror, he strolls towards you.

You try to act cool, nodding lightly at him, a short greeting in passing. Only to feel your heart jump to your throat when you realize that Sukuna won't just walk by. The resident hockey star stops beside you and casually leans against the brick wall right next to where you stand.

He lets his head fall back and tilts his face to the side, smirking down at you.

"No mismatched shoes today?"

You can't help it, a laugh bubbles out of your chest even as you feel your face get hot. You shake your head,

"Wasn't really my style."

"And here I thought you were some fashion icon or something. Did you make it to class in time after our little accident?"

You scrunch your nose as you remember the angry look and the mean comment your professor sent your way and shake your head,

"No. And now my professor hates me even more."

Sukuna laughs softly. He is so tall that you have to tilt your head back to look at his face. He looks good. Too good. Dangerously so. His pink hair is a pretty contrast to the dark red brick stones behind him. His angular face with the sharp jawline is accentuated attractively by the black lines inked into his skin. A second pair of eyes is tattooed right under his real ones, sitting high on his cheekbones, giving the impression that he is always watching you.

Sukuna is beautiful in a classic way, but at the same time, his tattoos and the way he carries himself make that beauty darker. Beautiful, like a fallen angel, maybe. His looks and his personality give him a dangerous aura. He is undeniably very intimidating. But the way he jokes around with you and looks at you in that playful manner makes you feel surprisingly at ease. Maybe that's why you grin at him and ask,

"What about you? Did your professor get mad, too?"

Sukuna shakes his head.

"Nah. I wasn't on my way to class. I had a team meeting."

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, remembering the empty hallway.

"But I didn't see any of your teammates."

Sukuna's smirk grows bigger, and he raises an eyebrow, too, as if it is a challenge.

"Because I work out all the tactics and do the analytics and shit, so I have to be there before anyone else. Setting up everything, you know?"

You nod slowly, not saying it, but you are surprised and even a bit impressed by his statement. Judging by his looks and reputation, you wouldn't have taken Sukuna for the type of guy who bothers with tactics and stuff. You always assumed he solved everything with pure strength and brutal fouls. Apparently, you were wrong.

Sukuna hums and shoves his large hands casually into the pockets of his grey sweatpants, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He wears black nail polish, you realize, and somehow that fact is so fascinating that you find yourself unable to look away from his long, tattooed fingers as he gracefully lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag that makes his eyelashes flutter.

Sukuna then holds the still-open cigarette pack out to you, wordlessly offering you one. You decline with a shake of your head and a:

"I didn't know hockey players smoke."

You are met with another of Sukuna's boyish smirks that makes him look way too charming. He cocks his head, eyes sparkling with amusement, low voice dropping to an almost seductive purr,

"And why not?"

You shrug, making an indecisive gesture with your hands,

"Isn't it making you slower or something?"

Sukuna huffs softly, looking smug when he says,

"Well, even if I smoked two packs a day, I would still be the fastest one on the ice, so I guess I will risk it."

You laugh. And as you do it, you realize, to your astonishment, that you feel surprisingly relaxed around the star player and resident bad boy.

You watch him nod towards a group of guys passing by, who congratulate him on the latest win. Followed by two girls who giggle and twirl their hair as they look at him and coo his name as if he is some pop star.

But Sukuna doesn't seem to see anything out of the ordinary. He just lazily blows out his cigarette smoke, not blessing them with more attention than a bored smirk.

Yes, he is a bit of an arrogant asshole and the way people treat him like he is a King or something is super irritating. But you can't deny that Sukuna has a certain charm. Lots of charm! All in all, the resident starboy doesn't seem so bad.

He is looking at you again. A deep gaze that makes your pulse accelerate with how inquiring and intense it is. As if he sees right into your very core.

"Why are you standing in the smoking area when you don't smoke?"

That catches you off guard. You blink and look around, searching for a smoking sign or something similar, but you don't see anything like it.

"Um... I didn't know this was the smoking area. I am just waiting for my dormmate."

After a moment, you add,

"I'm a secondhand smoker, though. Does that qualify, too, or are you gonna make me leave?"

You have no idea why you talk that way. Almost like you are flirting with Sukuna! He grins at you like a devil, attractive and playful and a little bit dangerous as he leans closer to you.

"You don't have to leave, princess. I'll make sure to blow my smoke your way if you are so into passive smoking."

You can hear the amusement in his low voice as he teases you. And he said it again, that name. Princess.

You are pretty sure that Sukuna calls a lot of girls that way, and it's pretty cliché, and coming from any other guy, you would probably find it cringe. But the way Sukuna says it, in his low, velvety voice, while he has that teasing smirk on his handsome face, makes you feel a strange fluttering in your stomach.

But you don't give him the satisfaction of letting him see the effect that stupid word has on you and instead roll your eyes playfully, looking challengingly at him, grinning just like he does,

"Go on then. I don't mind the smoke."

And Sukuna's eyes glint in amusement, never looking away as he leans down to you and takes a deep drag from his cigarette. He pulls it away from his lips and slowly blows the smoke into your face while watching you with half-lidded, cat-like eyes, smirking when he sees that you really don't turn away.

You shake your head and chuckle, feeling like you are sixteen again, and try to infiltrate the cool kids' clique by hanging around near their usual smoking spot. It's a bit stupid, maybe, but also fun.

Sukuna looks pleased, the tip of his tongue gliding over his front teeth as he grins at you.

"Good girl."

You bite your lip, looking up at him with big eyes, finding it hard to breathe suddenly, but not because of the cigarette smoke. You are relieved when Sukuna pulls away and announces,

"Well, it was nice sharing my smoke with you, but I have to go to the gym now. See you around, princess."

He winks at you and flicks the half-smoked cigarette gracefully to the floor, crushing it under the soles of his red and black Nikes.

"Have fun at the gym!"

Your voice sounds too chipper in your sorry attempt to act as if nothing happened, and Sukuna's eyes glitter with that seemingly ever-present teasing expression as he lets them trail over your face once again. He lets out a low chuckle and then jerks his tattooed chin at you in a casual goodbye gesture before he walks away with large, confident steps.

You watch him leave, laughing under your breath.

Sukuna definitely has a strong effect on people. He is confident and sexy, and a bit dangerous. But he also has a boyish charm that makes it easy to talk to him somehow. And it also makes it very hard not to stare after him.

Your gaze is still glued to Sukuna's tall figure and his broad shoulders when Nobara suddenly pops up beside you, making you jump when her elbow connects sharply with your side.

"What is going on between you and our hockey star?"

"What?"

"What were you talking about with Sukuna? And why are you staring after him like that?"

"Nothing. And I am not staring! I just... I ran into him a few days ago when I was late to class. Literally ran into him. That guy is like a wall. I bounced off him and fell. But he caught me. And yeah, that's all."

Nobara is staring at you with comically big eyes and a shocked, open-mouthed expression on her face,

"Why didn't you tell me about that? And now you're chit-chatting with him? Are you friends or what? Or are the two of you fucking?"

"Excuse me? No! Why would you even think that? I just exchanged a little small talk with him, Nobara! That is all!"

She huffs dramatically and pushes her ginger hair behind her ears,

"Good. Because he is an asshole. On the other hand, he is hot, but I think the asshole thing outweighs the sexiness. Maybe you could fuck him once just to get a taste. I mean, he is probably good in bed. And then you can avoid him and..."

"Hello? I don't plan on fucking Sukuna!"

You roll your eyes exasperatedly and push yourself off the wall you were leaning against, quickly walking away so Nobara won't see how flustered her words make you.

It's stupid, though! You really don't plan on getting involved with Sukuna! You barely know him, and just because he has a pretty face, a good body, and a bunch of sexy tattoos doesn't mean you want him!

Oh, are you sure about that, my dear Reader? Because I personally already want him ;)

Thank you so much for reading the first chapter!! I am so excited to finally share this story with you! I wrote some HockeyPlayer!Sukuna headcanons last year, and I couldn't get that version of him out of my mind again, so I knew I HAD to give him a new multi-chapter story. I am already deeply in love with this man, and I am so happy that I can indulge in him for several chapters now ;)

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet ❤️❤️

In Chapter 2, Reader will see our sexy hockey star actually play.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna smut #sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk smut #sukuna x y/n #jjk x y/n #{🏒❤️} hockey au

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plutoswritingplanet · 2 months ago

Text

In My Back (Remmick x Female! Reader)

a/n: sooo uuuh... basically yeah... never in my life had i been on such a long writer's kick. idk what they put in this irish freak but im eating it up (this is a long one, like 11k words i think). Cross Posted on AO3

Warnings: Canon Violence, Carpet Munching like crazy, P in V, just... Smut y'know, Some Plot, Manipulation, General Vampire Shenanigans

Summary: Three times he comes in the night, with offers a plenty on his fingertips. The third night, he leaves you with a gift. A Devil's kiss and a taste for freedom.

MASTERLIST

"And then, when you least expect it..." your cousin's voice dips down into a menacing tone, that only serves to push a giggle out of your chest "They sink their teeth, and suck the blood straight outta your bones"

She snaps her mouth at you, teeth clinking together, and you push her away, laughing at the story. She laughs as well, dodging skillfully, as you swipe a wet rag at her.

"Stupid" you huff, trying to act exasperated with her antics, and failing miserably, as always. "I told you not to bother me with those silly stories."

She shrugs at that, twirls around the kitchen, like a fine lady in a coarse dress, her bare feet sliding over the linoleum tiles. You watch, as she dances out of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the table. You almost scold her, but decide to let it go, as you usually do. It's hard to be mad at her, damn near impossible to be honest. She always had a way of melting coldness around her.

With a small sigh, you go back to cleaning, wiping the counter and the windows, your mind wandering to your cousin's stories. It's always ghosts and goblins with her. Some new, terrifying thing, that would surely snuff sleep off your eyelids, if your feet weren't planted firmly on the ground. That's how it's always been, since the moment you both learned to crawl. She was the flying one, the one with her head in the clouds, too preoccupied with counting the stars to look down.

And you were the complete opposite. Grass at your feet, a clear road ahead of you. No wondering, no straying.

Sometimes you envied her lightness, sometimes you remembered, it was a burden. Especially for a woman on this earth. Despite that, she never lost herself. Despite hardship after hardship, she remained strong in her openness, in her will to think beyond, what the world offered her. How she did that, after living the past she's had, was beyond you.

God must be a cruel, cruel man, you think. For condemning the most unequipped for the biggest disappointments.

Still, you made sure, your cousin would never have to face her life alone. Not while you're still standing, unmoving, like an ancient pine tree. You would always give her shade, always protect her from the rain, pull her down if need be.

The sun starts to set over the horizon, the last rays of light flickering behind the woods. Your house was small, and well hidden, despite its proximity to the town. Your parents knew what they were doing, choosing this place to settle down, and you couldn't be more grateful. Before your cousin begged for shelter, you lived here alone, picking up both your parents' professions. And so, along with baking and feeding the entire area, you also became mean with any car troubles. A woman's and a man's job, both of them dancing under the sweat of your brow.

Your cousin begged you to leave that "dirty work". To focus on opening a legitimate business, a bakery at the marketplace. She cussed, cleaning out grease stains from your skirts, and you didn't have the strength, nor patience to explain to her, how you're only able to afford the soap in her hand, because the "dirty work" payed better, than any baking.

And so, when she stops you at the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her nose scrunched. She's looking you over, taking in the rough gloves and the utility belt, contrasting almost comically with the flowy material of your dress.

"Don't start" you point at her with your wrench, and she raises her hands in a mockery of surrender.

Her mouth twists in a way, that betrays her inner thoughts, betrays her need to say more. But, to your general surprise, she swallows, shaking her head. Then, her eyes find yours, and you feel the tangible warmth of comfort, at the slight, teasing pull of her mouth.

"Don't let any monsters in" she chirps behind you, as you open the door, and start walking towards your late Daddy's workshop.

All you can do is laugh. A rough sound, deep and dark like freshly brewed coffee. A mourning dove, and a wise owl, that's what you two were.

Lamps guide your steps through the darkness, as you make your way towards the workshop. It's a spacious raggedy shack, your father built himself, every nook and cranny marked by his strength. You feel as if you're stepping into a church, every time you slide the barn doors open.

It takes you a moment to light the place up, as you skip around a beaten down Buick, your feet padding softly over the recently swiped floors. The silence of the night calms you down, adds a layer of something almost sacred to your work. Night birds call out in the woods, crickets chirp in the grass, and you inhale the crisp air with your whole lungs, until they hurt. Until you feel the wind in the essence of your being. As soon as the workshop is ready, you find the ghost of your father inside every clink of metal, every grease stain.

That's why you do, what you do. That's why you hide the woman in your pocket, tug your skirts up, tie them to your belt, throw your hair out of your face. Your father's hands guide you, years spent looking over his shoulder marr your movements. It's not work anymore. It's a ceremony, a communion.

The Mississippi heat covers you with sweat, salty drops mixing with grease and motor oil, staining your skin. And as you wipe your face with a coarse rag, you entertain the thought, that this, here, is freedom. Your own, personal brand of freedom. Or at least some ghost of it.

That's how he first finds you.

Skin glistening under the warm lights, making you shine in his eyes. Your breasts exposed to a scandalous degree, your skirt hiked up so high, he sees the small stretch lines on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water, literally. Such a wild thing, the sickly sweet scent of gasoline clinging to you, as you stretch on the little stool. A groan pushes past your lips, and he has to grip the doorway with his claws, to stop himself from pouncing. Even if he can't really do it, while you're in the safety of your workshop, he feels as if he'd be able to tear down any rules of ancient times, just to taste the nectar of your blood.

Then you start humming. Some unknown tune from far away, long ago. Your voice dripping like molasses, filling his ears with something, he was sure damnation took away. You move around the workshop, tidying up after yourself, legs strong like an ancient tree. A tantalizing image of skin, muscle and a jiggly layer of fat, that makes him want to sink his teeth in, over and over again.

Such temptation could not be ignored. Shouldn't be. It begged him to indulge, and who is he to deny the sweet embrace of sin?

"A woman with a wrench is such an uncommon sight these days" he starts, and skillfully dodges the aforementioned wrench, as it flies towards his head. "Now hold on there, darlin'..."

You spin around like a storm cloud, heart jumping into your throat, at the unfamiliar, male voice. He stands in the shadows, just out of reach for the outside lamp, leaning on the workshop's door frame. His face is barely visible, but you notice the paleness of his wrists, peaking at you from his front pockets. A sillhouette of a banjo on his back, tied with a frayed string, that's digging into his chest.

The world becomes quiet around you. Not a night bird, not a cricket. Just you, and him, and the increasingly fast beating of your heart.

"Who are you?" you demand, and the suspicion in your voice lets him know, he'll have to work for it "What are you doing here?"

Raising his hands in a mockery of a friendly gesture, he takes a slow step backwards, offering space. Your shoulders don't relax, hand creeping towards the folds of your skirt, where you hide a kitchen knife. One, you've never had to use, but God help you, you will.

"Apologies, darlin'. I didn't mean to startle you" he says, keeping his tone light, as if he's just an old friend, paying you a visit "I was walkin' down to the town, but I must've lost my way."

"Yeah, you must've." you eye him cautiously, the tartness of your voice making the corners of his mouth curl.

"Best get back on the road then."

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, as he swipes a look around the workplace.

"I saw the lights, figured there might be some good folks up in 'ere" he comes even closer to the door, lingering just outside, his well worn out boots kicking at the pebbles.

He makes a pitiful expression, as he looks up at you through his eyebrows, and for the first time, you can take a good look at his eyes. Blue, you think. But at the same time, strangely dark. It makes your eyebrows furrow, because despite your weariness, you can most certainly say, this stranger is a handsome one. With nicely toned arms, broad shoulders, and features that look warm in their softness, as well as dangerously sharp.

You don't like it. This strange impasse, that's seized your muscles. Like a deer stuck in the crosshair of a predator, it makes your skin crawl, and your insides tighten.

"No good folks here, just me." your voice is like a bell in his ears, slightly out of breath from all the work, and so, so dark.

The stranger laughs, and the sound sends an onslaught of shivers up your spine. Your fingers twitch nervously.

"See now, I find that hard to believe" the lightness in his tone starts to get to you, slithering under your skin like a snake "Surely such a sweet darlin' has some good in 'er"

God dammit, the way his head tilts to the side, as if trying to coax this mystical goodness out of you, chips away at your defenses. Your brain wrestles with your natural, tart disposition, and the facts presented before you. Here he stands, a respectful distance away, his hands in view. You don't see any weapon on him, but you see the sweat clinging to his dark hair. You see the dirt on his clothes, under his fingernails, the labored breathing he tries to conceal. He seems harmless enough, but looks can be decieving, and you'll be damned if a soft smile and a twinkling eye will be your downfall.

"You a travelin' musician or somethin'?"

He laughs, in pure delight. As if the notion is something he'd never consider, but he loves it either way. His laugh makes your cheeks tingle with warmth, and you curse yourself for such a strong reaction.

"Something like that..." he nods, eyes shining with mischief "I follow music 'ere I go."

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump, as you throw the dirty rag at the car.

"I'll get you some food and drink" you concede "Then, you can go on your merry way, yeah?"

"Yes Ma'am" he agrees immediately, his eyes following you, as you exit the workshop, sliding the door closed "D'you live here alone, darlin'?"

The question makes you remember the knife in your skirts, but you don't falter in your steps, as you make your way towards the front entrance to your house. It's not wise, running from a predator, if he indeed turns out to be one.

"That's none of your business, is it?"

"Fair enough" he nods, walking behind you, teetering the line of being much too close for comfort "Though it's a curious thing, don't you agree? A woman of your young age, alone in the woods. No ring on your finger either..."

He knows you're not alone. He smelled the other woman, felt the lazy drag of blood through her veins a mile away. But you don't need to know that, nuh huh.

Your right hand tightens into a fist on instinct, at his observation. Skipping the steps to the porch without an answer, you leave the door open for him.

But he doesn't enter, stopping right at the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the painted door frame, mirroring his stance from before. You shoot him a questioning glance over your shoulder, and once again, he scratches the back of his neck with a sigh. Such a boyish, shy gesture. Or a camouflage. You're undecided yet.

"Would be improper, to walk in without an invitation..." he explains, voice quiet, and almost timid.

Something tugs at the back of your mind. The story your cousin told you just hours ago, rings out like a sermon between your ears, and gooseflesh erupts all across your arms. Stupid. Utterly stupid and impossible, and yet... Your shoulders jump up, and down, in a nonchalant shrug, before you disappear into the kitchen. No use pondering over demons. The night is scary enough without them, and strange men can be worse than all the ghouls combined.

As soon, as you're out of sight, Remmick growls under his breath, finger scratching at the peeling paint on the entrance. He can smell you in the house, sweetness and musk, gasoline and cherry pie. Your heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but he knows, the cards he's been dealt are tricky to play. Good thing, he's a skilled gambler, and you've already extended a hand of hospitality. Already let him see a glimmer, of what's hidden under that hard shell. The sweetness of the fruit within, warmth like the sunlight he's been denied for so long. Your blood will be exquisite, he's sure of it. But before that...

There's a thrill like no other, when playing with one's food.

"There you go" you announce, slipping out of the kitchen, your clothes in proper place this time, obscuring the sight of your bare skin from him "Water and food, for your journey"

His eyes trail over your body, before landing on the glass in your hand, along with a package, wrapped in cloth. Another smile graces his features, this time however, he looks less like a shy farm boy, and more like a pleased man. All skin, and bone, and muscle. The transformation is quite jarring, and you have to blink a couple of times, not allowing yourself to be distracted, by the gentle shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks.

"Thank you, lass" he answers, taking the water first, and downing it all in one go, causing a small laugh to rip through your lips, almost despite yourself.

"Forgive me, seems I'm more parched than I thought" he inclines his head, and you hand him the package.

This time, his fingers run the length of your palm, sweaty and rough, as they retrieve the offering, and your mind goes to some very unsightly places. His eyes trail up slowly to your face, and you swear, you can see his pupils shining, just for a split second.

Danger. The word climbs up your spine, takes root in your mind, as his tongue slips out to wet his chapped lips. Pink, and soft.

Don't let the monsters in, your cousin's voice follows you. But she didn't mention anything about letting the monster stay a while, right at the threshold. She didn't mention the shivers you feel, prickling at your skin under his inquisitive gaze. And she sure as shit didn't mention, how your breathing gets slower, deeper, when you recognize that traitorous need in the depths of his eyes.

It's been a while, since you've had a man, but you still remember, what it looks like, when you're wanted. When there's hunger crackling like fireworks between two people. And the hunger this stranger exudes, is nearly overwhelming, suffocating in the best way possible.

Time to end this, cut the weeds out, before they overpower all rational thought.

"You should get on your way" you say, and shiver at the way his eyes snap to your lips, drinking in their shape as you speak.

"Just one more thing..." he murmurs, low in his throat, so quiet, yet so unbelievably loud in the oppressive silence of the night.

This time you're the one wetting your lips, preparing yourself for something, although you're not sure for what. The air feels sticky, smooth like honey, passing between you and him. An intimate sort of exchange, that slowly, but surely, melts your insides. Makes you feel a bit lighter, as if your cousin's spirit has invaded your usual hardness.

Is this how it feels to be her? And if so, when will the first crash of thunder bring you down? Just like it brought her to the ground, again and again.

The man's eyes move back to yours, capturing your gaze and holding it hostage.

"A cigarette for the road?" his words are a whisper now, and you feel ashamed, at how long it takes you to register his words.

When you finally do, a single arch of your eyebrow makes his lips pull into a lazy smile. One that has no right working on you as much as it does. Alas...

"I saw you smoking in the workshop" he explains.

"...Ah..."

Your hand slips into your skirts, fingers brushing over the knife handle, and you take out a half empty pack. You offer it to him, and he reaches for the cigarette, his fingers sinfully elegant, as he presses it against his mouth, licking lightly at the tobacco. Something tightens low inside you at the movement of his pink tongue.

He's good. You'll give him that.

"I shall be off, then" he takes a slow step backwards, keeping his eyes on you, like he tries to pin you in place. "G'night, darlin'"

As soon as his boots hit the soft ground in front of your porch, your senses come back to you like a flood, as if some ancient spell has been lifted off your shoulders, and you straighten out with a sharp breath.

You don't know what compels you. What wild, unfamiliar force beckons you, but before you can stop yourself, you're calling out to him.

"Stranger!"

He twirls on his heel, like a dancer on a stage.

"What's your name?"

"Remmick" he answers, voice carrying through the night.

Then, he jumps up, dances a little jig that pushes clouds of dust into the air, and you can't help yourself. You laugh. A clear, honest sound, that surprises you in it's lightness.

Remmick bows, turns around, and walks into the shadows of the woods, leaving an indent in the shape of his curved smile in your brain.

"Remmick..." you repeat under your breath, before shaking your head at your own antics, and closing the door of your home.

The moon laughs at you as well, her light slipping into your room through a half open window. It's not a merry laugh however. It's a mournful, hopeless one, to which you are none the wiser, falling into dream-filled sleep. And as soon, as your eyelids close, as soon as your consciousness slips, a shadow rises from the earth, hanging over you like an executor's axe.

***

You awake in the early morning, sweat clinging to your feverish skin, your hand squeezed tightly between your thighs. You don't remember what dream has put you in this state of mess, but your limbs shake as you stand up, your heart beating right out of your chest. It's a little disappointing, really, you think to yourself, as you wash off the slick from your thighs, that you've become reduced to this so easily. Surely not because of last night's visit. You're stronger than this. Stronger than some wanton virgin, who's never felt a man before.

And yet, as you skip into the kitchen, and prepare for the day, you can't seem to shake the image of him from your brain. Like a sickness immune to all ointments, Remmick lingers under your skin, slithering and burning.

Your cousin joins you downstairs some time later, lured out of bed by the smell of freshly baked goods.

"Whooo! Baby!" she sighs, taking in the kitchen, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes "You gonna sell these?"

The sluggishness with which you turn to her, makes you realize just how distracted you've truly been. Ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, and for what?

"Yeah" you nod, wiping flour off your hands into your apron "Gonna head to town in a bit. Sure you gonna be alright on your own?"

Your cousin rolls her eyes, and steals an apple from the fruit basket.

"I'm not a lil' kid no more" she tells you, like she's reminding you of homework, and it's your turn to roll your eyes at her.

Ain't you?, you wanna say, but you bite your tongue in time. She doesn't deserve your crudeness. So you cross the kitchen and peck her cheek affectionately. As if to make up for the thoughts, that are left unsaid.

"I know, I know. And you know where the shotgun is, in case trouble comes a knockin', yeah?" she nods once, with a resolute expression.

You recognize the irony in your words. Last night you practically invited a strange man into your home, just 'cause he smiled nice. In your stubborn refusal to admit your own transgression, you tell yourself, you'd shoot his ass to high heaven's, if he tried anything. Even if the notion rings hollow in your own brain.

"What's on your mind, cuz?"

Her voice drags you back to reality with harshness, and you take a sharp breath through your teeth. One, she immediately notices, her eyebrows scrunching into a frown.

"Nothin'." a weak lie, a pathetic one, really "Just... Ghost and Goblins"

Concern melts into a teasing smile, as your cousin starts packing up the still steaming bread.

"Ah..." she laughs, bright and airy "Some stranger in the night sunk his teeth into you?"

For a moment you watch her expression carefully, trying to decipher if she knows, if she heard. Even if she sleeps long and hard, like the dead. All you can see on her face, is a smile of someone proud of her stories taking root. Relief and guilt mix in your gut, and you have to look away, before you crack.

It doesn't matter. Nothing happened, and you'll never meet the smiling stranger again, so why do you feel so... What is it exactly that you're feeling? Disappointed? No, disappointment is for people like your cousin. For people who hope, who fly. Then what is it, biting at the back of your spine like a bloodsucking flea?

"I'll be back from town before you know it" your voice is quiet, dismissive, but she doesn't seem to hold it against you.

"Have fun" she calls after you. Then, silently, she adds "God knows you need it."

The road to town goes by smoothly, your truck jumping and bumping over stray stones. The bustle of the market welcomes you like an old friend, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to miss it. The people, filtering through the streets, laughing, talking, keeping friendly despite the underlying tensions in the air.

Your father would take you here often, while he was alive. He'd stand under the very same sign, you're lifting over your truck now, letting people come to him with business. You'd listen, like a diligent little student, soaking in the wisdom of the trade, helping him run books, count the money, catch conversations.

They all knew you here. From the very moment you've been old enough to stand on your own, you were part of something bigger, than just your family. Always your parents daughter, but so much more at the same time. And now... Now you're a ghost of your own choosing. Respected, liked even, but always on the outside, no longer part of something, but a welcomed guest nonetheless.

Bread goes out first, then sweet rolls and pies. You've been slaving away in the kitchen since the break of dawn, but as the sunset comes closer, you'd be damned it it wasn't worth it. Soon enough, your purse is filled, and you're packing your stand back into the truck, arms burning from work.

Wiping the sweat off your face, your neck, you make your way across the street, to the supplies store, where, as soon as the bell above rings, you're greeted by the owner. A woman, who could've been your peer, could've been a friend, if you were someone different. If you were your cousin, or at least, not a ghost.

"Look what the wind blew in." she leans on the counter, hair slipping out from under the scarf on her head "Haven't seen you in a while."

"You know me, always busy..." your eyes already scan the products, landing heavily on the prices.

She doesn't know you, though. You've never given her an opportunity to know you, and perhaps, that's why you always choose this shop. Perhaps, that's the only time you allow yourself to hope. That maybe this time, you'll be different, this time you'll let yourself be open. That's the reason you know, disappointment is for the hopeful.

"You got some flour for me?"

The shopkeeper nods, crosses the floor and jabs her foot into a couple of bags by the window.

"Got some milk too" she says "Hell, even some sugar, if you wanna"

To that you shake your head.

"I've got some sugar left still. And I'll pick up some eggs on the way back, from Ol' Johnson's farm"

A beat of silence.

"Oh? You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?" you don't sound too interested, already pulling out a bunch of dollars and sliding them on the counter.

The shopkeeper walks over to you slowly, a solemn expression on her face, and that finally gives you a pause. The sun paints the inside of the shop a deep orange color, your neck tingling with heat and sweat, hair sticking to your skin.

"Ol' Johnson's dead. God rest his soul" the shopkeeper says, swiping a sign of the Cross over her heart, and you repeat the action, like it's second nature.

Coldness seeps through you, a strange sort of feeling, like there's something more hidden in the revelation. Some terrible truth just waiting to bury you. You swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself.

"What happened?"

Another moment of tension filled silence passes, as the shopkeeper takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching in sorrow.

"His wife came back from her family down South. People said she found him, dead and burning in the morning sun."

Cold turns to freezing in your bones, brain working overtime under your skull.

"They burned him?" you ask, mindful not to sound too curious, too insensitive.

"Sheriff said they killed him first, mangled the poor man beyond recognition."

"Jesus...." you sigh, trying, and failing to push away an image of the old man's face, scorched and bloody. "What about his widow?"

"She's staying at the Motel until they burry him. I think she'll head back South after, there ain't nothin' keeping her here anymore."

You nod solemnly at her words. A quick thought passes through you, a worry, where you'll get your eggs now. But you scold yourself hard in your mind for such heartlessness. This is not the time, nor the place for wondering about trivial matters. Not when a man's life has been snuffed out, and so brutally at that.

"The funeral's tomorrow, if you care" the shopkeeper's words snap you back from your cold thoughts, and you realize, that yes, you do care "We'll have a small thing for him at the Joint"

"Yeah..." you speak before you have the time to think on it "I'll be there."

She helps you load your groceries into your truck, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you, and once again, you wish things would've been different. Instead, you thank her with a dollar bill, and start the car on the road back to your home, where you're not alone, but solitude still awaits.

By the time you arrive, it's dark outside, the porch light guiding your steps. The house is quiet, your cousin asleep in her room, buried under heavy covers. You linger in her doorway for a moment, mind lost deep in thought, as you watch her peaceful form. Something tugs on your heart. Some undeniable feeling of sorrow, dragging your heart down to the wooden floors.

What you're mourning, you're not sure. But it brings a tear to your eye nonetheless, and your feet carry you outside, into the peaceful darkness, the crisp evening air. There, you can finally breathe, you can let the tears flow easily, without worrying about your sorrow staining the warmth inside.

Hands clutching your head, your shoulders shake in silent sobs, the heaviness, and the cold of today reaping it's spoils on your body. And you stay there, soil soaking up your tears greedily, until the steps of the porch creak loudly, tearing your heart straight from your chest.

You shoot up, turning your whole body so fast, you nearly collide with one of the pillars supporting the roof over the porch. Hand wraps around the handle of the knife, perpetually hidden in your skirts. And then you see him.

"Heaven's you startle easy, darlin'" Remmick raises his hands, giving you a sympathetic smile.

Here he sits, right at the porch step. The man you were sure you'd never see again, same clothes, same twinkle in his eye. He gazes at your tear stained face, with a calmness of someone who's seen more sadness, than you can comprehend.

"The hell you doin' here?" you try to demand, but your voice is still too shaky, and your hand too weak, to hold the knife any longer.

"Heard a bird sing in mourning" he answers, something warm slithering into his voice "Followed it's song all the way here."

You should be better than this. Stronger than this. Hell, you are stronger than this. But there's something so gentle in his presence, so different from the hunger you've felt the first time you've met. And your bones are tired, and your head is pounding, and God...

Slowly, like a wild animal learning to trust, you sit back down on the porch, a safe distance from him. But nothing can shield you from the warmth of his body next to you. From the unexplainable sense of calm, that floods your veins with every breath you take. And the night is so quiet, not a noise around you...

"I could sing you a song" he starts, and you scoff at the notion, a wet, broken sound "Something that would lull your pain to rest..."

"I don't need cheerin' up" you cut him off, and he smiles in a way, that makes you feel exposed like a bleeding wound.

You look down at your hands, woman's hands marred with signs of hard work. No longer soft and gentle, but trembling and covered with callouses. You're proud of them, of every scar and blemish, and you wish they were clean at the same time. You wish they were made for holding silk instead. At least just for tonight, in the dead silence.

"No" he murmurs "No you don't"

His eyes meet yours, when you risk a look in his direction, and what you find, makes your heart feel light as a feather, and heavy as a stone at the same time.

"Cheerin' doesn't bring anythin' for you, does it." he says it like it's a fact, like he knows you from within "You know the value of sufferin'."

God damn him, you think, new tears already stinging your eyes. He leans in, cold breath tickling your cheeks, and to your surprise, you don't run. You don't want to run. Not even a flinch passes you, when his fingers brush the stray hairs out your face, pushing the rest over your shoulder.

A small hiccup rips through your throat, because you never want to be touched. Never, until now, until him. Any other boy from town would already have his neck scuffed, for even daring to get this close. But this stranger, this man, this...

"Remmick..." you whisper, something wet and broken in your tone, something you haven't heard since your mother's funeral.

He hums, deep in his chest, as if he's pleased you remember his name. As if somehow, in this state of brokenness, he's the most proud of you. Your head ducks on instinct, when he moves closer, taking a long whiff of your hair.

"You know" he continues, low and intimate, his lips moving like the wings of a butterfly over your forehead "That tears can be sweeter, than any smile, any laughter.

Fingers pinch your chin, pulling your head up, until your glassy eyes meet his once again. For a moment, he searches your face, gaze drifting over your wet eyelashes, your trembling cheeks, your mouth opening and closing.

"Because tears are honest" he finishes, and a ragged sound of a gasp escapes through your teeth.

Your hand finds purchase on his chest, feeling the rough material of his shirt, the buttons hanging on a couple of flimsy threads. You could mend them for him, you could offer him food, drink, your bed, anything. If he'd only ask.

But he doesn't. Instead, his large hand presses gently over the flushed skin of your cheekbone, thumb running gently under your eye, gathering saltiness as it goes.

"Let me taste it, Sweetness" he whispers, pleading, his face leaning impossibly close "Let me taste your honesty."

His breath mingles with yours, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, so close, yet not close enough. Your fingers tighten on his chest, dragging the fabric beneath your nails, and finally he dips down.

But before you can feel him fully, before he drinks you like communion wine, your cousin's voice rings out throughout the house.

Heart jumping into your throat, you nearly rip yourself away from him, the spell of his honeyed words gone as quick, as it appeared. You stumble back on your feet, flushed and confused, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Something flashes through his expression, quick like a band of wild horses, but you catch it, you always do.

Perhaps, just a trick of the lights, something insignificant and unreal. But just like your cousin's stories, it lingers.

If tears are honest, then what do you call the sudden meanness in his eyes? The ghost of irritated anger, that pulls his mouth down, sets heavily over his brow?

Danger, you brain supplies again, and as your cousin calls out your name again, dread climbs up your back.

He repeats your name, so silent you can barely hear him, but even so, he looks victorious. Defeated, but victorious nonetheless, and your instincts kick in tenfold. The handle of the knife is cold in your grasp, a grounding weight against your hand. He doesn't move, just stares at you, expression of utter calm gracing his confusing features.

Now that's how a proper predator looks like. Half hidden under the shadows, his mouth open and panting, as if tasting the lingering scent of you from air alone. There's no tension in his figure, only steady confidence. He's gotten your name, he's almost gotten your trust, your honesty.

You wish you were stronger. You were taught to be stronger.

The front door creaks open, and you turn to push your cousin back inside, scream at her to stay back, stay where it's warm, and safe. Where the darkness won't catch her.

But just as she steps outside, her thin sleeping gown flowing around her form, your eyes flicker to the porch steps. And he's gone.

Not a trace of the strange man, of Remmick. Only the moon and utter silence.

"You're back" your cousin wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you inside "I fell asleep waitin', I'm sorry"

"No, I..." you try to respond, barely hearing your voice over the thundering sound of your own heart, eyes scanning the tree line, every shadow looking like him.

"You good? You look like you've seen a ghost"

Finally, she drags you over the threshold, closing the doors behind.

"You've been cryin'?"

"No it's just..." you swallow thickly, throat tight "Needed some fresh air, don't you worry your head about me"

Your cousin looks beyond skeptical, a strange reversal of your usual roles, but she doesn't push, God bless her soul. Instead, she kisses your forehead, wiping away the ghost of Remmicks lips, and at last, your shoulders relax.

"You work too hard, y'know" she murmurs, sleep still clinging to her "It's not good for the nerves"

You know exactly what's not good for your nerves, and it sure as shit isn't your work, but you can't say that. You can't reveal the true source of your frazzled state, if only to shield her from all the confusion. All the dread and longing, that's mixing dangerously in your gut. She's been through enough, and suddenly awave of fresh guilt crashes over you.

Carelessness is a sin, you never thought you'd commit. Yet here you are. God forgive you, because you cannot do it yourself.

***

Leaving the window open is your continuous mistake. One, which Remmick uses generously.

His body levitates in the cold air, unmoving like a hanged man's corpse, scraping his nails over the window frame. Stuck in perpetual stillness, the warmth of his breath fogs the glass. Two dots of red cut through the darkness, overpower the moon's cold light behind him. Like a shadow of death to come, his presence looms over your room, over your sleeping form.

You never sleep under covers. He noticed it a while back, when you didn't know him, when he still thought you were just a bag filled with blood. His for the taking, to sate his never ending thirst.

Now, he sees the bag has arms, that curve elegantly over the pillow. He notices the smoothness of skin, the delicate slope of your neck, where your blood sings a hymn just for him. Such a sweet thing, the ripest of fruits, just waiting to be devoured.

Later.

He has to remind himself to be patient, no matter how hard the pull of your saccharine scent calls to him. He needs you pliant, he wants you at your fullest. He wants love dripping from your fingertips like a fountain. Just so he can lap it up like a hungry dog.

For now, he satisfies himself with this image of you, splayed out on the covers. A ghost of a Babylonian queen, come to life in this abandoned neck of the woods.

Remmick takes a deep breath, humming to himself, as your scent fills every pore of his damned body. Dark and heavy, sweet on his tongue. He closes his eyes, nose pressing into the glass, teeth biting into his lower lip. What sweet torture this is. Being so close, yet so far away.

Makes the spoils all the more worth it, in the end.

***

Ol' Johnson was a good man.

He never took more, than he needed. Greeted everyone with a smile and a story, told in a voice roughened by years of smoking cheap tobbaco. He helped you, when you couldn't bring yourself to call on anyone, and kept helping you, until you've learned to accept it.

And now he's dead. And all you have to remember him by, are dwindling memories, and a glass of lukewarm whiskey in your hand.

The funeral service was a miserable affair. His crying widow nearly drowned out the sounds of the sermon with her sobs, and your heart broke for the poor woman, who lost everything in one night. She didn't look at you, when you offered her condolences, and you couldn't blame her. Tear stained eyes stayed fixed firmly on the wooden coffin, as they lowered her husband into the ground. And they didn't move an inch, when ground covered him forever.

She's a good woman too. Kind in a natural way, that seems to spread warmth wherever she goes. Always willing to give more, than what's expected of her. Now, the burden of being warm falls on the shoulders of the town. And they all take the mantle in stride, holding her through her grief, offering her comfort, that can only be found in community.

You don't fit in here anymore. Besides, who would want comfort from a ghost.

So you linger at the back of the Joint, sipping whiskey through your teeth, trying to remind yourself, that solitude is what you chose. You chose safety, you chose your cousin, your family. You can't regret that, you're simply not allowed to.

Soon enough, mourning of death becomes a celebration of life, as musicians take stage, and bodies filter onto the dance floor. Sweaty, greased with alcohol, and yearning for a moment of recklessness, they dance. And with every step, every twirl, every pull of the guitar strings, you feel Ol' Johnson's spirit. You feel every story, every helpful hand, every puff of cigarette smoke.

You can't stay still. Despite your promises, your responsibilities, you can't let his memory fade into a sad song. So you abandon your glass, your lonesome seat at the table, and you join in dance. You dance like you've never danced before, heels stomping on the wooden floor, sweat dripping down your face like tears would've. The music swells, and swells without stopping, and you're not stopping either. Not until your legs are burning, and your breath gets stuck in your throat.

Then, you're stumbling out the Joint, passing by the bouncer into the cold night's air. Where there's stars, and the endlessness of the skies. You want to keep dancing, even if your legs beg you to stop, even when you collide with the cool metal of your truck's door.

This is freedom. This is love. This is the only regret you have.

Digging out the keys from your purse, you eyes catch something in the dark. Two shining points, deep ahead of you. Your blood boils under your skin, a familiar feeling, which you keep forgetting ever day. Because you know this sight, deep within your bones, it settled a long time ago, a memory of something so terrible, your mind had to protect you from it. Had to keep forgetting. It can't protect you now however, and as the familiar spell of curiosity roots you into place, Remmick steps out of the shadows.

Moon paints his skin in glowing paleness, something otherworldly clinging to his every step.

No knife will help you now, you realize, as your back presses further into the cold side of your truck. And no one on the Joint will hear you, should you call for help. That's the price you pay for being a ghost. Music still plays inside, a quick tune that borrows it's rhythm from your feverish heart.

"You followin' me or somethin'?" voice cutting through the night, you feign confidence, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Such a flimsy shield, one he'd tear without even trying. But he stops, a safe distance from you, his palms raised high in a placating gesture you know too well. There's not a trace of that alarming meanness from the night before, a lazy smile gracing his features instead.

"I told you" he starts, tone light and friendly, like before "I follow music, that's all"

God, you wish you could believe him.

"This here a Juke Joint?" he asks, and once again, suspicion rears it's ugly head in your gut.

"Ain't you a traveling musician? You should know where to play"

He laughs, sheepishly. Although you're more and more convinced, it's a wolf laughing underneath sheep's hide. You can't shake the image of his face, twisted in anger, the two red dots hanging in air, just where his eyes could've been.

"Folks wouldn't let me in" he shrugs, and you notice the considerable lack of the guitar on his back "A private celebration I think."

"A wake." you cut swiftly.

"Ah..."

He doesn't ask who died. You would've found it strange, if you didn't know. You don't want to know, fighting that awful feeling of your guts churning in premonition. But you do, and despite that, you can't run. Still, after all the dots connecting in your mind, you can't run from him, his shining eyes and his curling smile.

Remmick comes closer, measured step after another, as if he's approaching some feral little animal, thrashing in the hunter's binds. Or a killer, that's found an easy victim. Your blood runs cold in your veins, gooseflesh covering your skin. Still, he doesn't snap his jaws, not yet.

"You dance mighty fine, darlin'." the comment doesn't even sound like a flirtation, just a pure, bare bones fact "Saw you through the window, twirlin' and stompin'."

He doesn't wait for your reply, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, and pulling out a cigarette case. You recognize the design despite the darkness, and your throat tightens, until you can't breathe properly. God forgive you, you've almost let a killer into your home. Would've let him into your heart, if he'd ask.

"Where'd you get that?" there's a tremble in your voice, one, that puts an edge to his easygoing smile.

"My Daddy gave it to me, for the long road ahead."

Lies come like second nature to him, leaving his lips dripping with honey. Once again, he licks at the end of the cigarette, eyes flickering up to meet yours.

"My friend had one exactly like that" you note, still trying to cling onto some semblance of hope.

Alas, hope only breeds disappointment, you know that too well.

A slender flame from the lighter flickers in his pupils, as he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke.

"Maybe we've got the same Daddy" he muses, clouds of white slipping past his teeth.

You'd laugh, if you were light as a feather.

Another drag of the cigarette, and Remmick closes the distance between the two of you, standing foot to foot. Your body fails you, at this crucial moment, because all you can do is watch him, eyes wide, stuck between pleading and anger.

"What are you?" the question leaves you, before you can catch it, and the man before you sighs, shaking his head.

"Told ya'. Travellin' musician"

Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, flicking the cigarette to the side, and grabbing ahold of the back of your neck. You grab at his wrist, but don't go any further. His hold is gentle, despite everything you'd anticipate, and he leans his head towards your ear, like a lover whispering a secret.

"Shhh..." he shushes you quietly, cold breath tickling your feverish skin "I've already decided I'll help you."

Confusion overrides any rational feeling, and your hands slip to the coarse fabric of his well worn shirt. The buttons are still barely hanging, but now you'd rather be caught dead, than mend them. Hell, you probably will be. Something mean and dark rises in your throat, pushing past your teeth with a hiss of a venomous snake.

"I don't need savin- ah!"

A small, surprised moan tears it's way through your throat, as Remmick runs his tongue over the delicate spot behind your ear. His fingers bury themselves into your hair, gently massaging it in a way, that is almost grotesquely delicate. You can feel his mouth, running the length of your jaw, up your cheek, where he presses delicate kisses. The tip of your nose is next, then the softness under your eyes, the wrinkle of conflicting emotions between your eyebrows.

"C'mon darlin'." he whispers into your hairline "Won't you let this sinner in?"

Once again, he doesn't leave time for you to reply, diving down towards your lips, taking them into a slow kiss, that makes your insides flutter. You should hate yourself for the way you're not pushing him away, for the way you chase his mouth with your own, when he pulls back for just a second.

You should hate him for everything, but most importantly for the moan he gives out, when his tongue slips into your mouth. Such a beautiful sound, it shakes every bone in your body, makes your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

He tastes of iron, an unmistakable bloody residue, but it's so sweet on your tongue, you can't seem to care. Like poison attacking your senses, you let yourself be carried away, mind going deliciously blank. His hand still continues to coax you with the gentle movements of his fingers in your hair. While the other takes it's fill of your body, warm palm pressing against your waist, your hip, pushing the silken dress up your thigh.

Then it moves higher, until he's grasping at your heart through the plush flesh of your breast, and this time you're the one moaning. His thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, pulling another sound from you, like he's playing a fiddle.

Heat rises within you like the tide, every touch, every caress building up a storm of want. Soon, it doesn't matter anymore, that he's surely the monster from your cousin's stories, because he kisses like an angel.

His mouth leaves yours, a sticky mess of saliva that should disgust you, but God, you've never tasted anything sweeter. Once more, he attaches himself to your neck, kissing it with fervor, broken sounds escaping him, like a starved dog feasting for the first time in months. His hand palms at your breast one last time, before reaching back, and soon enough you hear the click of your truck's door.

There's no time for questions, for concern. Not when the need runs so deep, and begs to be satiated. He pushes your body inside, splays you out on the back seat, amongst old blankets and empty bags of flour. Your thighs fall apart, to accommodate him, when he climbs over your body, like he can't bear being away from it even for a second.

"The door..." you pant out, against the hunger of his lips.

"No one will see us" he huffs into your shoulder, and the utmost certainty in his voice makes you believe him.

This time it's your hands doing the massaging, as you grip the black strands of his hair, trying to bring him closer. Trying to morph the Devil himself into your body. He hikes your leg up, over his waist in response, and you can feel with damning clarity, his burning hardness pressing against the flimsy cotton of your underwear.

You want him inside so bad, it's nearly breaking you apart.

"Too damned sweet..." he murmurs into the running pulse of your neck, and your entire body freezes, when he teases the place with surprisingly sharp teeth.

"...no..."

It's a quiet, barely audible whisper, but he straightens himself on his arms, hovering above you with a questioning look on his flushed face.

"No biting..." you repeat, louder this time, your heaving chest brushing over his "No pain. I don't wanna hurt tonight."

A blink, a gasp, and Remmick morphs between your very eyes. His expression turns into something so gentle, so caring, you're sure a man like him shouldn't be able to look like that. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, a broken sound emanating from deep within his chest. And then, he kisses you again. Slow, intimate, until your head is spinning.

"The things you do to me, woman" he whispers into your mouth, and starts to crawl lower.

His tongue laps at your collarbone, lips sucking into the skin of your sternum. Your body arches off the seat, as he dips into your cleavage, letting your breasts spill out the top of your dress. He kisses them, like they're more than just a body part. It feels sacred, feels like a prayer in a language you don't fully understand.

Another series of kisses over the fabric covering your stomach, and soon enough, he's making a home for himself between your thighs. Your body starts to shake in anticipation, half lidded eyes following the movements of his dark haired head, as he leaves wet kisses on the inside of your thighs.

"Christ Almighty..." he groans, as his thumb runs over the wet patch steadily forming on your underwear "Like Heaven's Gates opening for me"

Your hips buck in a stuttering motion, as he puts his mouth over the cotton, tongue lapping at the fabric in a promise of things to come.

"Knew you'd be sweet" he comments, voice dipping down so low, you can feel it in your insides.

Then, your legs get thrown over his shoulders, and before you have time to adjust, he pushes your undergarments to the side, and nearly drowns his face in your cunt.

The sound you make is nothing short of scandalous, as he begins to lap at you, greedily soaking in the very essence of your being. His tongue finds your clit faster, than any man before, and as his mouth close over the pulsing bundle of nerves, you throw your head back.

He's good, so good in fact, that your stomach begins to tighten in seconds. Your hands flail at your sides, nails scraping over the backseat, over your dress, his scalp. You don't know what to do with your body, completely surrendering to the ancient magic, he pulls from you with every drag of his tongue.

And God, the sounds he makes. You've never met someone so vocal, so utterly devoted to drinking every last drop you have to offer. Soon enough, your thighs start to shake, the pressure building inside you reaching levels you never thought possible. And he doesn't stop, not even for a moment, licking, sucking, flicking his tongue until your voice becomes hoarse.

"Remmick..." you mewl.

The sound of his name feels right, leaving your lips, feels like truth. Like that mythical honesty, he wanted to taste in your tears.

His grip on your body tightens, and it's as if he's been possessed by some demon of desire. You can feel his face pressing closer, deeper into you, and that's the final straw. Stars erupt in your vision, as you come, hard and fast, earth shattering around you. Body nearly flying off the car seat, your breath gets punched out of your lungs with the force of the most delicious of sensations.

Remmick seems almost reluctant to part with your cunt, licking at the swollen flesh, until your hand slaps him away, too sensitive for any more attention. His face is glistening in the pale moonlight, and his sinful tongue cleans everything with an almost inhuman groan.

"You're heaven, mo ghrà" his voice breaks "You're sunlight incarnate"

There's devotion like nothing you've heard before in his tone, and if you weren't so completely wrecked, you would've blushed. Instead, you reach for him, and he obeys, coming back up, until you can kiss him again.

His arms sneak around your waist, pulling you up into an embrace, and your boneless body let's him do what he likes. Let's him settle you into his lap, legs nestling on both sides of his thighs. Forever greedy, he ruts into your twitching core, and you're cruelly reminded about just how empty you feel.

"You'll never be alone" he whispers, voice muffled by the skin of your chest "You'll never be forsaken, not while I walk this earth."

Something in the way he says that, makes your spine tingle with a dreadful sort of shiver. But there's comfort in his words, enough of it, for you to throw caution to the wind, and reach for the button of his trousers with shaky hands.

You'll worry later. For now, you want him to make you forget what worrying even looks like.

And as if reading your thoughts, he obliges, pushing your hands away, to do the work himself. His trousers fall open, and he frees himself with a choked groan. His cock rests on your lower stomach, hot and ready, smearing drops of precum over your skin. Your muscles tighten in anticipation, hands squeezing his shoulders.

"My girl" he murmurs "My sweet girl, let me in"

All you can do, is nod.

Remmick lifts you up, as if you weight nothing, positioning you just right, before he slowly lowers you onto him. Your combined groans fill the silence of the truck, as you stretch around him. He's gentle, letting you adjust before pushing into you a bit further, until he's buried to the hilt in your heat. His head falls back against the headboard, hands roaming your body. You can see the treacherous light in his eyes, now, finally a tangible truth, rather than a figment of your dreams.

It doesn't scare you though, nothing scares you now. Not when he fills you up so completely, you feel like you belong for the first time in years. This moment of stillness, of silence interrupted only by laboured breathing, doesn't last long.

Nails digging into the bottom of your thighs, he rocks you in a steady, almost languid rhythm. You flutter around him, small gasps of pleasure leaving your lips, and that familiar pressure introduces itself once again. He speeds up, guiding your hips in an up and down motion, that soon makes your teeth clink together.

"That's right... God in Heaven... So warm... Mmmmm..." his voice flows between murmurs, groans and whispers, every word making your insides twitch, making your eyes flutter.

"Take me in... Good... Deeper..."

You can feel him, pressing into your bones, nestling into the deepest parts of your soul, and with every ragged moan he breathes, something close to sweet affection blossoms inside you. Honey and milk, they drip from your fingertips, as you caress his face, contorted in a beautiful image of pleasure. You could love that face. You won't, but Heaven's above, you could.

"Christ" he chokes out, hips bucking off the seat "My sweet girl, mo ghr- ah..."

The sound of his voice alone makes you come again, lighter, but no less pleasurable. And as you tighten around him, a choked sound leaves his throat. His arms encircle you whole, pushing himself so close, he might as well find home in your chest cavity. Soon, his movements stutter, face hidden in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair, and with a last, decisive thrust, he spills himself inside you.

Bodies covered in sweat, you both shake in each other's arms, for a small, blissful moment being completely alone, shielded from the world. Remmick holds you, like you're his only hope, mouthing gently at the skin of your throat, whispering things you barely comprehend. Prayers, that are marked by something ancient, older than the trees and the rivers. Worship, that flows like blood from a wound.

"Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí dui..."

You want to whisper back, but there are no words, that could compare to his. So you do the next best thing, running your fingers through his hair, tracing circles into his back, mapping his features with delicate kisses. He basks in the affection, eyes fluttering closed, a familiar twitch of renewed desire stirring your insides. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, still wet with whatever mixture of fluids, and he parts his mouth under your touch.

And that's when it all comes shattering down.

Because hidden beneath the chapped softness, are teeth that don't belong to a human. Sharp, pointed angrily, perfect for tearing at flesh.

Remmick hums in his throat, feeling the way your body seizes with dread, and as his eyes slowly open, you're met with another damning sight.

Those aren't human eyes either. They shine at you, reflecting moonlight in a haze of red that makes your skin crawl.

People who dare to hope, are the one's crushed by disappointment. How dare you forget that?

"It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" he asks in a low voice, all traces of gentleness gone in an instance "The nightly visits, the quiet in the woods..."

His finger traces a line from between your breasts, up to your bobbing throat.

"The pull you feel, even now." a slow roll of his hips makes you choke on air.

Remmick's smile turns cruel. There's no denying, what you're seeing, and it's no longer the man you almost could've loved. It's not a man at all, but a monster your cousin's stories warned you about. Things you believed to be impossible, come to life before your very eyes.

"What are you?" your voice breaks, and he smiles, as if the question has become some sort of a joke shared between the two of you.

"How about I make you a deal?"

You've never noticed, how sharp his nails are, not until they drag back down your throat. Gentle enough not to break skin, but brutal enough to leave imprints in their wake.

"I'll race you back to your house, and if you get there first, I'll leave you two be."

Dread turns your blood into ice, and all you can do, is stare in shock, as Remmick lifts you off his lap. His cock slides out of you languidly, and for the first time, since you've met him, you feel disgust. At him, at yourself, at the whole waking world.

He brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead, claws dragging over your face as he does so. Then, a quick press of his lips to your temple, and you shiver in your spot.

"Be quick" he instructs in a tone that is entirely too cheerful, before he shoots you a wink, and climbs out of the truck.

Three seconds, that's all you need, before you realize the severity, the absolute hopelessness of your situation. And as you scramble to the passenger side of the truck, thighs sticky with evidence of your misplaced affection, all you can see is your cousin's smiling face.

***

The door to your home slams against the wall, when you stumble inside, feet barely catching up with your panicked movements.

You scream her name through the halls, pathetic and desperate. Silence greets you, not a sound to be heard, and as tears spring from your eyes, you sprint towards the stairs. You climb the steps, hunched over like a wild animal, adrenaline pushing your every movement. And then, with the entirety of your body weight, you slam into the door of your cousin's bedroom.

You can smell the blood, before you see it. A stench so profound, you'll never be able to get rid of it.

And then, a scene so terrifying, so profoundly heartbreaking unfolds before your very eyes.

Remmick stands in the middle of the room, hands folded casually behind him. His jaw clenched tightly over your cousin's throat, her lifeless body half hanging from the bed. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, on the sheer dress she wore to bed. And then, red eyes find you.

Your cousin's form falls onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound, as Remmick let's her go, licking her blood from his gums, his chin.

"Now I understand..." he claps his hands lightly, and once again, you can't move, frozen to your spot, eyes glued to the heap of fabric and flesh, that was once your family "Why you've kept her hidden, like a princess locked in a tower."

His boots leave bloody prints on the wooden floor, as he steps closer to you, crossing the bedroom in long strides.

"There's no worse thing, than a cruel man. Not for a woman like her."

You can't look away from her. Not even, when Remmick's hand covers the side of your face, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gentle caress.

"I can see it all now, y'know" he murmurs "All her memories are mine. I know what a bastard her husband was. It's no wonder she ran away."

Another step closer, and his other hand finds the softness of your stomach, sharp nails scratching gently over the delicate fabric of your rumpled dress. You can still feel him, a dull ache between your legs, a stickiness of your bodies joined together.

What a damned fool you are.

"And you took care of her so loyally" he continues, a hint of admiration entering his words "Sacrificed so much... But not anymore."

Finally, you dare to look up, and he sighs in delight, as tears fall on your cheeks.

"I promised you" a whisper, a cold breath against your skin "No more alone, no more forsaken"

His lips kiss away the saltiness, with gentleness so unbefitting his monstrous nature, it makes your breath lock itself in the column of your throat.

"There's only love in your future, mo ghrà. Only love."

The bundle of fabric moves. A jerky sort of motion, and your eyes snap behind his back, as your cousin's hand jumps against the bloodied floorboards. Remmick let's you go without a fight, and you stumble on your feet, falling to your knees, next to the slowly awakening corpse of your cousin.

Her name is a prayer on your lips. You're begging for the impossible, you're aware of that, but she moves nonetheless, lifting her face.

"Hey cuz." she croaks, the wound in her throat moving as she speaks "It's all gonna be alright now."

It's a fate worse than death, seeing the unnatural, golden shine in her eyes. The monstrous, sharpened teeth peaking from behind her smiling lips. You reel back from her, vision blurry from all the tears. She follows you, on her fours, as if she's forgotten what it means to walk.

"I know it's scary" she stands up, blood dripping from her dress, her mangled body "I was scared too. But now... Now it's all bliss. It's all love."

Your heart breaks into a million scattered pieces, dread and pain nearly knocking you off your feet. But you keep backing away, until you stop at the very top of the stairs, swaying in your sorrow.

"You did so much for me" you cousin closes the distance, drool slipping out her mouth, mixing with crimson on her chin "Let me repay you, let me give you a better life."

It's only as she reaches for you, fingers digging into your shoulders, teeth bared and ready to bite, do you react. A sharp yell rips through your throat, and you don't think anymore, that primal instinct of survival taking root. The world becomes a mess of limbs and screams, and soon it all spins around you. Wood of the railing breaks under your weight, when your cousin slams you into it, blood of your blood sends you flying. Your fingers grip her nightgown in a death grip however, and the both of you crash to the floor below, with a thunderous crack, that carries through the entire house.

For a moment you can't breathe, your vision going black as night. Then, everything spins, but you don't feel any teeth, any claws. Just waves of pain crashing over your back.

You will never forget the next sound. It will haunt you through your life, turn every dream into a nightmare. The broken, ragged intake of breath on your left.

"Cuz..."

Your head turns, and there she is. The dreamer, the flying dove, her chest split open by a stray piece of wood, blood spilling out her mouth like a fountain.

"...no..."

Despite the blinding pain in your back, you rise to your knees, falling over her, hands trembling and for the first time, you're at a loss. What can one do in this situation? How can you fix this?

"No, no, no, no" your cousin's body twitches, her eyes growing more and more glassy with every ticking second "Please, God... Help..."

But there's no God in this house, not anymore. He's been casted out, with your cousin's last breath, and so, as desperation shakes your being, you call out to the only other option. The only way that's in the cards for you, until you too leave this earth.

"Remmick, help me!" it's hypnotizing in it's irony, you calling out to him, begging him.

He stands behind you, watching your shaking shoulders. Watching those fascinating, calloused fingers rip out hairs from your scalp. He knows, somewhere deep inside his rotten, ancient heart, that he would help you. He'd come acrawling for just one word.

He also knows, you've been crying over a corpse, as soon as wood pierced your cousin's heart.

And so, he lingers, a silent statue in a house, that was once a home. Like a pillar of marble, devoid of guilt, of heartbreak, stirred to life only by the misplaced fondness for a woman, who dared to hope in his presence.

Time ticks by, your sobs turning into heaving breaths, which soon fade, leaving silence in their wake. That's when he finally makes a move, bloodied soles of his boots dragging closer, until your abused back leans against his side. It's a small touch, but for him, it means more, than any before.

There's no more strength in you, no more fight. Like a block of clay, begging to be shaped into a masterpiece, you surrender.

And it's all he's ever wanted. So then why...?

"Leave this place" his voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears "Go far, far away. And live."

You don't even lift your head, don't look at him, but he knows you listen, he knows you understand. A brush of cold lips against the gentle curvature at the back of your neck. There's no shivers, but your heart stutters, that's all he needs.

"A gift for you, mo cuishle"

***

A month later you're standing on the platform, nails drumming anxiously on the leather surface of your baggage.

You're going far away, like he's told you, leaving behind the town, Ol' Johnsons abandoned home, the shopkeeper's smile, and the ghosts haunting the small house in the middle of the woods.

And life goes on. You find your place in a shop of your own, in the middle of a town, that's buzzing with life. You put your talents to good use, and soon, people remember your name. They wave at you as you pass, they visit your shop, and talk to you, as if you've lived here from childhood.

You make friends, good ones, that last through thick and thin. And despite waking up every night, covered in sweat, with the haunting images of that fateful midnight flashing behind your eyes, you're happy. You find lightness in your step, in your mind. You cradle the community within your calloused palms, and let them cradle you in turn.

So, when the new Juke Joint opens, you don't think twice, about letting your dearest friend, Pearline, drag you with her. For a night full of drinkin', dancin', and cheerin'.

#my writing #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners movie #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #remmick fanfic #it's not often someone makes a perfect movie but let me tell yall this is it #our man of the hour is almost pathetically tender in this one but we're still talking about a horror movie so yknow

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soaps-mohawk · 11 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 33: Ghosts of the Past

Summary: It can't be a coincidence anymore.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 5,411 words

Warnings: ANGST, emotional turmoil, panic and panic attacks, anxiety, drugs used for drugging, very brief mention of predatory behavior, author can't write call of duty missions for shit, withholding the truth, hints at betrayal, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, very much leaning into that AU now, brief mention of guns and bullets

A/N: Ummm...yeah. You'll see. Bit shorter than normal but my obsessive need for cliffhangers prevents me from shoving it all into one chapter.

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Her head is spinning. There’s a steady throbbing behind her eyes, her blood pumping in her ears. Her shoulder aches from the cold tile floor under her. She can’t quite bring herself to move yet, the deep ache in her bones still lingering. She pushes through the haze in her mind, trying to bring up the memories of what happened.

Someone had entered her office. She hadn’t even had time to turn around when she was hit from behind. That explains the throbbing in the back of her head. Likely concussed, though it hadn’t been a hard hit. Not hard enough to do serious damage, not even hard enough to make her see stars. Just enough to incapacitate her so she couldn’t fight back. There had been a sting of a needle in her neck. Whatever it was, it was fast acting, maybe a minute before she lost consciousness.

Ketamine...maybe fentanyl.

She pushes herself up to sit, blinking back the dizziness and the nausea. Whoever attacked her wanted her out of the way, incapacitated for long enough to do something.

A horrifying thought flashes through her mind as she comes back to reality. She’s one of the few on base that knows you’re completely alone. She’s likely the only one who would care if you went missing. She tries to keep herself calm, tries to slow her breathing as she feels her pockets, pulling herself up onto her knees, gripping the side of her desk as she fights the nausea and pounding in her head that nearly blinds her.

Her phone is gone.

Her legs shake as she forces them under her, pulling herself up. She needs to get to the barracks, needs to check on you. She stumbles to the door, pushing it open as she tries to keep her breathing under control. You’re smart. You’re going to hide, or run, from any threat. You’ve learned your lesson from the last time. You won’t go easily again.

The walk to the barracks feels like it takes forever as she half stumbles her way across the base, fighting the wind still whipping through the open areas between the buildings. Her head is throbbing, the haze of the drug still lingering. It’s the terror in her mind, the horrible thoughts of what might have happened keeping her moving forward. She only gets glances as she crosses to the 141’s barracks. None of them even think to ask her if she’s alright.

There’s no help from the others.

She pushes open the door to the barracks, blinking through the burning of the bright fluorescents. She feels for you, having to exist in such a bright, clinical space.

Dread begins to fill her as she reaches your door, finding it open. The door jam is broken, the wood around the lock splintered. Your dresser had been pushed behind the door, but it hadn’t stopped whoever wanted to get in. The window is open, and she can only hope you crawled your way through to safety. She steps up to your desk, books and snacks in disarray, some having fallen to the floor. She swallows thickly as she stares down at the wood, her fingers shaking.

Her phone is sitting on the desk.

She picks it up, the screen flashing on. There’s a missed call from you. Whoever had broken in must have made it look like she was the one responsible. She goes through her contacts, finding your number before calling. She doesn’t have hope that you’ll answer, but she has to try for her own sanity.

The phone doesn’t even ring before it goes to voicemail.

She steps out of your door, going through every room she can in the barracks, shouting your name. She doesn't have hope, except maybe that you doubled back and barricaded yourself somewhere. It’s not likely you would answer to her anyway, if you thought she was the one behind all of this.

She heads outside, trying to catch any lingering hint of your scent, but the wind has dispersed it completely. There’s soldiers milling around, likely on their afternoon breaks. She doesn't hesitate as she approaches them, asking every soldier she sees in the area if they’ve seen you.

“I saw her.” One finally says. Allen, his patch reads. “Running towards the trees.”

“Was anyone following her?” She asks.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Didn’t stay long enough to see.”

She feels the urge to punch him, to yell at him for not helping, but she knows they have strict orders to keep away from you. They might have not known any better, or wanted to risk a reprimanding if they disobeyed orders.

She continues to take deep breaths as she glances towards the trees. It won’t do her much good to try to go looking by herself. You wouldn’t have followed the trail. You’re too smart for that. She’d need a whole army to search the base for you.

Her hands shake as she searches through her contacts. She’s not expecting an answer. She’s probably busy with the 141 away on a mission. No one will know. No one will know until it’s too late. She’s not sure what to do. Would the commanders on base believe her? Would they organize a search based on her word alone? By then it might be too late. It might be too late now.

“Laswell.”

“Kate, Kate I can’t find her.” She gasps out, spinning around in the middle of the road, as if you might come popping out of thin air, or creeping out from behind a building. She’s panicking, speaking the words aloud feeling like an absolute truth, as if she’s speaking it into existence.

“Who?” Kate asks, sounding confused.

She chokes out your name, her hand pressed to her chest to try and calm the panic quickly rising in her. “She’s gone.”

Kate takes a deep breath to keep her head clear and calm. It’s far too much of a coincidence to deny it now. The cameras, the sudden deployment, the call from Shepherd for the whole team, the discovery of the files.

Now this.

“Kate?”

She’s never heard Christine so emotional, so uncomposed before. “I’m here.” She says, composing herself. One of them needs to be clear-headed and logical. “I’m going to contact command, alert base security. You look everywhere you think she might possibly be.”

“Yeah, okay.” Christine lets out a breath. “I can do that.”

“I’ll call back as soon as I can.” She says. “If you find anything, I need to know immediately.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Kate knows she’s trying to calm herself, get her head on straight again. “Christine? We’ll find her. No matter what it takes.”

“You don’t....you don’t think she’s...” She can’t manage to finish the sentence.

“No.” Kate says, not even having to ask what she means. It’s not a lie, though. If the conspiracy that’s been brewing in her head is true, you’re more valuable to them alive. “If what I think is happening is actually happening, she has to be alive. She’s no use to anyone dead.” She says, speaking the thoughts aloud for the first time since the delivery of the cameras into her hands.

“I hope you’re right.”

Kate holds her phone in her hand, taking a breath. She’s not sure how it happened, how you managed to disappear out from under Christine’s watchful eye. Something must have happened that separated the two of you long enough for you to disappear. Christine wouldn’t just leave you like that unless it was something important, or if she sensed something wrong, something that might put you at risk. You wouldn’t have left the barracks on your own, not unless something forced the two of you apart.

She should call them, make them aware.

She can’t bring herself to. Not yet. She can’t distract them. The job comes first. She’s always hated those words in the context of the initiative. Why would they put an omega through this? What was the real reason? The idea of the initiative always left a bad taste in her mouth when she thought about it too much. She’ll know soon. She’ll get her answers as soon as her team finishes combing through those files.

She won’t call them until they know for sure. Not until they’re positive, not until there’s proof. They’re not in a place they could easily leave, either.

Sometimes the greater good has to come first.

Her hands are shaking as she dials the number for the base commander. They have an omega to find.

Christine’s heart is pounding as she races around the base, checking everywhere she can think of. She’d gotten looks as she combed through the mess, wide eyed and nearly shaking with fear. Her scent must have been projecting, all the control she’d mastered slipping away. She’s never felt panic like this before, not even in the toughest situations with omegas. This is different though. You’re her only patient. She had been tasked with keeping watch over you, they had trusted her enough to take care of you in their absence again, even after everything had happened.

Your mental state scared her. Seeing you like that wasn’t a surprise after everything you’ve gone through these last few weeks, but that doesn’t stop the worry, the concern as your doctor. Sure, whoever took you, if they took you, might want you alive...but can your mind keep itself alive for that long?

She asks everyone she can in the mess, the kitchen staff and everyone sitting near the doors if they’ve seen you.

No one. Not a single soul saw you. It was unlikely you’d run to the mess, but that would have been the logical move. Run where there’s a crowd, though if you thought they wouldn’t help you, you might have avoided it.

She checks the med center next, combing every inch of it she can. She’s not sure you would have risked running there if you thought she was behind it. Did you see your assailant’s face? You must have, if they drugged you too. You wouldn’t go quietly, so they would have had to reveal themselves to you.

You know it’s not her behind it.

She tells herself that to make herself feel better.

Would you think she was, even if evidence pointed to it? Would you think she would betray you like that? They would have taught you not to trust anyone, but why now? Why would she strike now when she’s been with you in your weakest moments over the last two weeks? There were plenty of times she could have done something, yet she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have. There was no amount of money in this world that would have convinced her to turn against you, betray you and your pack.

She had been willing to fight tooth and nail to avoid sending those files to Shepherd if John hadn’t told her to do it. He trusted her.

That trust will be broken now.

She left you alone, and now you’re gone.

Or dead.

There would be no escaping their retribution. They’d hunt her down to the ends of the earth. Alex would never forgive her. Hell, he’d probably join them.

She checks the gym, even though she doubts you’d run there of all places. She combs every corner she can, getting one of the soldiers to unlock the training rooms just in case, even though it was illogical to think you’d be able to get in with them locked. She can’t be too careful, though. Maybe they taught you how to pick locks.

She even checks the pool, looking at every inch just to be sure.

She’s not sure if it’s a relief she can’t find you compared to the alternative, or if it’s almost worse. At least if she found a body there would be closure. The panic could ease for a moment and she’d know. She’d be sure.

She runs through the barracks once more, combing through every closet and toilet stall, but as expected there’s nothing there. Just your forced open door and the open window. Whatever happened, you did what you were supposed to. You called her and you ran. You learned your lesson, the lessons they’ve all taught you. You did your best, and that is enough, even if her darkest thoughts are true.

You must have run for the trees. It’s the most logical place to run. There’s plenty of places to hide, lots of space to run and double back on your trail, to confuse whoever was following you until they gave up.

Would they give up? Or was their motivations strong enough to keep them prowling, hunting every inch of the forest to look for you.

What if they’re still out there looking for you? What if you’re still out there, afraid and alone.

She hadn’t seen your phone in your room. She prays you grabbed it before you left. Maybe you’re out there trying to call Kate, trying to call anyone who might be able to help. She wishes you’d call her, but why would you if you think she’s still behind it?

Whoever did this planned this out perfectly.

It’s all premeditated. All of it.

What if you’re out there distressing?

She feels like vomiting, her stomach churning uncomfortably. You were already so worked up about your pack being gone, something like this might have sent you right over the edge. She curls her hands into fists, trying to stop them from shaking. She doesn’t know what to do.

For the first time in a long time she doesn’t have a solution to a problem.

She leans against the wall outside the barracks, taking deep breaths. She’s no good to anyone if she’s panicking. You need help. You’ll need her if they find you. She’ll be the only one that will be able to help you. She’s not even sure your pack knows yet. Could Kate tell them? It’s been weeks and there’s been no word. Kate hadn’t been able to give her anything as expected, only that she’d pass the word along once they had a moment.

Had she been lying, or had they truly been off the grid completely? Has this deployment really been that serious? They had called in the whole pack. Or had that been premeditated too. Get you alone and wait for the perfect moment. It can’t be coincidence that they waited until you were distressed enough being separated from your pack for so long.

None of it is a coincidence.

Would Kate tell them this happened? Would she risk it now that your life is in danger?

Or is Kate in on this too?

She shakes the thought from her head. She knows Kate. Kate had picked her specifically for this job. She spent weeks with Kate interviewing and being debriefed for this position. Kate wouldn’t do something like this, not with how close she is to John and the pack. They trust her and she knows them enough to pick an omega that fits in seamlessly with them. She wouldn’t betray them and you like this.

Something is going on behind the scenes. Something has happened to cause all of this. It’s all related. It has to be. It’s all too convenient, all too orchestrated. It has to revolve around the cameras. There’s no other thing she can think of that might cause this series of events.

Unless it goes even deeper than that.

“Dr. Keller?” She looks up when she hears her name.

“Yes?” She says, pushing herself to stand up straight as an officer approaches.

“Lieutenant Colonel Woods, Base Commander.” The officer holds out his hand.

She shakes it, her palms sweaty but he doesn’t seem to care.

“We’re rounding up everyone who is still on base.” He says. It’s the weekend. A lot of them will have left. All the more easy to sneak you away. “We’ll search through every building and send out parties to comb through the forest.”

She nods, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel. I’ve checked everywhere I can think of. There’s no sign of her.”

“If she’s still on base, we’ll find her.” He says, far more confident than she feels.

If you’re still on base. The words make her want to vomit.

“The front gate guards are compiling a list of everyone who has come on base and left base within the last two hours.” He continues. “If someone took her, we’ll know.”

“I’m worried about her.” She says, the only thing that’s coming to her mind. It’s true. She’s never been quite so invested in the wellbeing of a patient as she has you, but then again, she’s never been this involved in the life of a patient before. “A lot of things could go wrong quickly.”

“We’ve got a lot of boots on the ground out there looking.” He says. He’s trying to be comforting. She knows this, but that stiff military mindset keeps it from sounding more than cordial and practiced. What if they’re all in on it? “We’ll find her, or we’ll get answers to what happened.”

The wait is the worst part. She’s going crazy, waiting for any word. Anything that might hint at what’s happening. There’s been nothing yet, no sign of you, but it’s hardly been twenty minutes. She can’t stop the spiraling thoughts. She can’t take her own advice, apply her own knowledge and teachings. Not right now. Not while she’s bordering on a crisis. She needs to find you. She needs to know you’re alright.

Don’t let them find a body.

She’ll never live with herself. She left you alone. She let this happen. She was supposed to be watching you, taking care of you, and now you’re gone under her watch.

They’ll never trust her again.

Her phone ringing nearly has her jumping out of her skin. She fumbles for it in her pocket, her fingers trembling. Please let it be you. She lets out a breath of disappointment before answering.

“Kate?” Her voice shakes.

“Any news?” Kate asks. She sounds disheveled herself.

“Nothing.” She swallows thickly. “They’re still looking.”

Kate sighs. “I don’t think she’s on base.”

Hearing it nearly makes her legs give out. She’s known that’s likely the case since she called Kate the first time, but hearing it out loud solidifies that as a fact. She’s been keeping a fool’s hope that you managed to hide somewhere, that you got somewhere safe, even if she knows better.

“This goes a lot deeper than we all thought. It was never about the cameras or the initiative.” Kate continues.

“The reports, the prying.” She says. “It wasn’t about tracking progress for the sake of progress.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Sir.” A soldier approaches, saluting the Lieutenant Colonel.

“We might have some news.” She says, putting her phone on speaker. She hopes it’s true. If they can get a name, then they’ll have an easier time finding you.

“At ease.” Woods says.

“We have the list of everyone who left base in the last two hours.” He says, handing over a tablet. “There’s only one.”

“Colonel McKinney.” Woods says.

“He left in his personal vehicle 50 minutes ago.” The guard says.

“Give me every detail you can on that car.” Kate says.

“It’s a blue Ford Fiesta, registration plate Papa Juliet 64, Hotel Tango November.” Woods says.

“I’ll get eyes on that car.” Kate says.

“I’ll alert local police.” Woods says.

“We will find her.” Kate says, and Christine knows she’s trying to reassure her.

“Do they know?” She asks.

“Not yet.” Kate says. “They’re not in a place where they can do anything about it, and the last thing they need is to get distracted.”

“They're not going to like being kept in the dark on this for so long.” She says.

“I know. But it’s for their own safety above all else.”

And the greater good of the world, Christine knows, even if Kate doesn’t say it out loud. It’s always for the greater good. That’s why the job comes first, even if it’s at your detriment. She feels like screaming, like throwing her phone.

It’s not fair.

Her hands are still shaking as she ends the call with Kate, not feeling any more comforted than she had before. It’s possible Corporal McKinney was involved. It’s too coincidental that he left base within the time you went missing. Why would he take you, though? Was he involved in all of this too? She’s never heard you mention his name before, nor have you brought up any strange feelings about any of the soldiers on base. Omegas are good at reading others' energies. It’s a natural defense mechanism and with your pureblood status, it makes you all the more aware of things in your environment.

Then again, you kept the cameras from all of them. What else have you been hiding?

She pushes the thoughts away. Now is not the time for conspiracies she can’t get an answer to. They need to find you first and ensure you’re alright. That’s the most important thing.

“Lieutenant Colonel!” A soldier says, approaching their makeshift headquarters. “We found something, sir.”

“What did you find?” He says, standing up straight.

“A bullet on the trail, sir.” He places the bullet in Woods’ hand. “About a quarter of a mile from the trailhead.”

Christine feels like passing out. Her legs are wobbling, knees shaking as she stands there, staring at the bullet. She needs to sit down, she needs to breathe.

Don’t let them find a body. Please don’t let them find a body.

The tear that trails down her cheek is hot against her clammy skin.

Kate sighs as she puts down the phone. She wants to put her head in her hands, scream, punch something, anything. She can’t, though, she’s doing double duty. She’s the only one she trusts to do both of these things. This pack is hers to watch over, hers to help, and that includes the entire pack.

Not much can be done until Corporal McKinney and his car are found. There won’t be any leads until then, unless they come across something on base. She hates it, that she can’t do more. She knows if she tells John, they’ll abandon this mission and be on a flight home in a heartbeat. It won’t do anyone any good until they know more, until the 141 are in a safer position.

She hates keeping it from them, but it’s for everyone’s safety.

Especially if what she uncovered is true.

She can hardly believe it herself. Her eyes keep flickering to the files her team had uncovered, the truth finally spilling out about everything. There is no initiative. There was never going to be an initiative. They were all pawns being placed for a move like this, for a situation that calls for such drastic measures.

The last few hours have hardly felt real.

“Bravo 0-6 to Watcher 0-1 how copy?” John’s voice comes through the comms, almost startling her.

She still has a job to do.

“Loud and clear, Bravo 0-6.” She says, clearing her throat.

“Kate, there’s nothing here.”

Kate blinks at the screen, at the map that had been carefully laid out with exact points, confirmed visuals. “Come again?” She says, praying it was her overactive mind that misheard.

“The warehouse is empty. There’s no sign of any missile having been here in the first place.” John says.

What? Kate flips through files, scanning every bit of intel that had been given to her.

They’re all pawns.

There was no missile. There was no real intel. A red herring.

Separating the pack leaves members vulnerable. Take away the four and leave the omega alone and unprotected. Separate her from the one person left to keep watch over her, leave her vulnerable.

It’s what they wanted all along. That was always the plan.

“John, there’s...” She trails off as dots begin appearing on the map. She zooms in, her stomach dropping. “Four vehicles approaching your position.”

“Friendly?” He asks, but she can hear the doubt in his voice. He knows they’re not. He’s done this enough times.

“I don’t think they're meeting you for a picnic.” She says, trying to identify the vehicles.

“We’ll dig in here. Keep them from getting in.” John says.

“John...” Kate says. She should tell him. She needs to tell them before something goes wrong. If this was all a trap, then things will go wrong, yet she can’t bring herself to say it. Not yet. “Don’t come out of there in a body bag.”

“Don’t give up hope on us yet.” He says before the line goes dead.

Kate lets out a long breath, rubbing her eyes. It’s going to be a long next few hours.

Your head is pounding. There’s a throbbing behind your eyes beating in time with your heart. It hurts, a quiet groan leaving your lips. The world is spinning and you haven’t even opened your eyes. Your entire body feels like it’s twisting and turning, your organs wringing themselves like a washcloth. You’re going to be sick, but you can’t even manage to lift your head.

Everything feels heavy. Nothing is moving despite your brain telling it to. There’s a deep ache in your muscles and joints like you’ve been immobile for far too long and need to stretch. Your limbs try to move, yet nothing happens except a sharp pain in your left calf. You let out another groan, fingers curling at the sharp pain that radiates up through your leg to your hip. The throbbing behind your eyes intensifies as your head is moved, tilting up before falling backwards weakly.

“Easy.” A voice coos at you, easing your head back straight. It flops to the side, none of your muscles coordinating like they should. “...know...dose...twice.”

The words float in and out, muffled like you’re underwater and just barely bobbing above the surface. You do feel a bit like you’re underwater, trying to kick up to the surface of consciousness. Something is holding you under, keeping you from reaching that surface.

There’s a hand on your face holding your head up as your muscles fight to activate enough to hold it up themselves. The hand is warm against your skin, rough and calloused. There’s two textures, skin and rough fabric against your face. Awareness begins to come back to you slowly, your mind clearing the fog the longer you’re awake. Your body hurts, muscles aching. You try to move your arms but you can't, something biting into the skin of your wrists as you turn them.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” The voice says, calloused fingers brushing your arm.

You flinch at the touch, muscles contracting painfully before they relax. You let out another groan, your brows pinching as you try to get your eyes to open. The haze hasn’t entirely lifted from your brain yet as you slowly become more aware of your surroundings. It’s cold where you are, goosebumps forming on your skin. It’s uncomfortable, your body too exposed. You want a sweatshirt, a blanket, something to keep the cold away. Something tickles in the back of your brain as you begin to pick up scents, several all at once, meshed together. It’s overwhelming, too much information flooding your brain all at once.

The motion is automatic and instinctual as you turn your face to press into the hand on your cheek. You inhale deeply, trying to block out the overwhelming wave of senses, trying to get a sense of who it is in front of you, who is with you in the room.

Woody. Soft wood. Cedar? It smells like a candle your mother used to burn.

Sweet? Something sweet. Chocolate? Richer. Dark chocolate.

Memories begin to float back as you inhale the scent. You know that scent. You’ve smelled it before. Your frown deepens as you hold your face there, nose pressed against the palm as your mind sluggishly digs through your hazy memory banks. You can’t even remember where you are or how you got there.

“Good girl.”

You know that voice. You’ve heard it before. Somewhere in the back of your mind it triggers something, some faded memory shoved deep into the depths of your memory bank. You dig for it, mining your sluggish brain as you try to figure out who it is, why it’s all so familiar.

The other part of your brain focuses on your body, waking your muscles back up. With it comes the pain, the achiness: the throbbing in your calf, the pulsing behind your eyes, the ache in your muscles and joints. There’s a light somewhere in front of you, bright and shining through your eyelids. You don’t want to open them. It feels wrong, the bright light right in your face. You don’t like it.

You pull your face away from the hand, your head drooping forward slightly as the muscles in your neck finally begin to engage. The scent is wrong. It’s not the right kind of wood. There’s no damp earth after a spring rain, no scent of petrichor. The touch isn’t right. It’s not soft enough, not warm enough.

It’s not your alpha.

The tingling in the back of your brain intensifies as you shoot into hyper-awareness from your sluggish state. Your instincts are awake, suddenly overwhelmed by the explosion of scents and sounds. There’s voices all around, quiet and hushed, but they might as well be yelling in your ears. There’s so many scents blending together until you can’t tell one from the other.

Except the one in front of you.

Cedar. Dark Chocolate.

Memories crawl forward from the recesses of your mind. Childhood. Texas. Summer heat. The charcoal in the barbeque. Cedar and chocolate always too close. You hated it. You’ve always hated that smell.

Your eyes force themselves open, eyelids peeling up like a damp window that’s been closed for a decade. The window had been hard to open, yet you managed it with the adrenaline pumping through your body.

Your heart rate picks up at the thought, some fear you can’t quite conceptualize yet in your half-aware state burning in the back of your mind. You breathe heavily as you fight to get your eyes open, blinking against the obtrusive light. Fluorescent, too bright to be comfortable.

White walls, bright lights. Boots on the floor.

Your pack.

Where is your pack? Where is your alpha?

Where are you?

Finally your eyes open, squinting against the bright light. You can’t see anything, the light directly in your eyes. It burns, tears gathering on your lids as you fight against the oppressive, blinding sun being directed at you.

Voices float in the background and suddenly the light is turned away. You blink away the bright spots left in your vision, a couple tears falling uncontrollably. Rough fingers wipe them off your cheeks almost tenderly, but not tender enough.

Rough fingers across your skin, gripping you tightly, anchoring you. A soft voice floats through the air, rough yet comforting with the soft words calming the panic in you.

It’s not right.

Nothing is right.

You’re breathing heavily as you finally get your eyes fully open, the muscles in your neck contracting as you slowly lift your head. There’s someone kneeling in front of you, arm draped across their knee. They’re like a shadow, hidden mostly from view as you blink clarity into your eyes. Your brows pinch into a frown again as you blink, your gaze focusing on the face in front of you.

You know that face.

“There she is.”

You know that voice.

It’s been years since you heard it last. Memories slam into you in an onslaught, memories from your childhood, back when things were fine, things were normal, things were as they should be.

Family. Texas. Alphas.

Cedar and chocolate.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, blinking in shock. Your brows furrow in confusion, your still foggy brain trying to piece everything together.

You know him.

It’s been years but you’ll never forget.

The light brown hair, bright blue eyes, dimples indenting with that too-friendly grin.

Your mouth is dry, your tongue heavy as it opens, forming the name on your lips. The name. It comes out in a croak, barely audible and understandable, but laced with confusion and disbelief.

“Phil?”

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verricherri · 1 month ago

Text

Reasons Rhett Falls in Love With You (Over and Over)

A/N: HEHEHEHHEHEHE 😈 you already know what kind of mess this is about to be Warnings: if you thought you were about to recover from the endless trap that is Lewis Pullman — don’t. i’m dragging you straight to the bottom with me and we’re gonna rot together 💅 Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The Way You Talk to Amy

Rhett doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Not really. He’s halfway through brushing dirt off his boots, crouched just inside the barn, when he hears your voice drifting from the porch — light, warm, touched with that soft cadence that makes his ribs ache in a way he can’t explain.

He doesn’t move. Just listens.

You’re sitting beside Amy, and she’s going on about a colt she saw out near the creek — skinny thing, barely a few months old. Most people brush her off when she gets like this, too full of excitement and facts and possibilities. But not you. Never you.

You ask questions. Real ones. Not the kind meant to placate a ten-year-old, but the kind that say, I care what you think. I want to know more.

“Think he’ll let me ride him when he’s older?” Amy asks, hopeful. “You?” You laugh, a smile shaping every word. “He’ll be lucky if you don’t train him better than half the men on this ranch.”

Amy laughs so loud it echoes, pride curling in her chest. Rhett feels it too — like warmth blooming from the inside out.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, watching you.

The way your braid slips over your shoulder. The way your thumb gently rubs circles into Amy’s knee. The way Amy looks at you like you hung the moon and rearranged the stars just for her.

You glance up and spot him.

“You done eavesdroppin’, Abbott?” He lifts a brow, easy. “Didn’t know I was invited.” You pat the porch beside you. “Now you are.”

And he sits. Not because he needs to — he’s got chores, horses to tend, fences to mend. But because this? This is what home feels like. Amy’s legs swinging against the wood, your laughter cutting clean through the dusk, the scent of sun and hay and your shampoo in the air.

He doesn’t say it. Not out loud.

But this is what love looks like.

—

The Way You Fit Into the Kitchen Like You’ve Always Been There

It starts the same way every morning now — the clang of a skillet, the smell of bacon, the quiet hum of your voice carrying over the clatter of breakfast.

And it always begins with you elbowing Rhett out of the way.

“Move, cowboy. You’re blocking the stove.”

He doesn’t argue. Not really. Just grumbles something about the wrong skillet.

“It’s a pancake, Rhett. Not a classified mission.”

You wear his old flannel like it’s your armour, hair twisted up, mismatched socks sliding across tile. Amy sets the table with quiet focus. Royal mutters about the paper and his missing glasses. Perry tries — and fails — to sneak bacon off the plate.

You swat his hand without even turning. “Not unless you’re feeding the dog.”

The kitchen is full — not just with people, but with something unspoken. Something steady. Something like you.

Cecilia breezes in, lips parted in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s cooking for you boys now?” “Not for them,” you say. “They just keep showing up.”

Rhett stands in the doorway, pretending to sip coffee, but mostly just watching you flip the last pancake, hips swaying to music that isn’t even playing.

You don’t just fit. You belong.

Later, when the plates are scraped clean and the house is quiet again, he finds you rinsing dishes, sleeves rolled, suds on your wrist.

He slides behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, presses a kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder.

“You like bossin’ my whole family around?” You lean into him, smile tucked into your voice. “Someone’s gotta do it.” He exhales against your skin. “Don’t stop.”

You won’t. He knows that now.

—

The Way You Carry Quiet Joy

Some days are heavier than others. But this one? This one’s light.

He finds you out by the line, hanging laundry. There’s grass stuck to your calf, your skirt twisting in the breeze like it’s dancing for no one but the wind. You’re humming again — that tune he still can’t name — soft and steady, like your own personal heartbeat.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just leans against the fencepost, one arm slung over the top rail, watching you.

You move with ease. Peg, shake, lift. Shirt after shirt, sheet after sheet. Your fingers work without thought. But your smile — that’s what gets him.

Amy runs by, chasing the dog. You laugh, loud and unfiltered. The kind of laugh that says, I’m safe. I’m happy. I’m here.

Rhett doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He just lets himself feel it — that ache that comes from wanting something so badly, it hurts a little just to watch it exist.

You spot him eventually. “What’re you starin’ at, Abbott?” “Just admirin’ the view.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile softens.

He stays longer than he needs to. Just to be near it. Just to watch you be.

—

The Way You See What He Can’t Say — And Say It For Him

Dinner’s tense.

Royal’s worked up — about the barn, about the storm, about the goddamn roof that still isn’t fixed.

“You always leave things half done,” he grumbles. “Same story since you were seventeen.”

Rhett’s jaw locks. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the plate. He’s learned not to. Learned to take the hit, swallow it, bury it deep.

But then your fork clinks softly against your plate.

“He shows up,” you say, voice calm. “Every day. Whether anyone thanks him or not.” Royal snorts. “That supposed to mean something?”

You stare him down. No raise in volume. No shake in your hands. Just steady, clean honesty.

“It means he gets the roof done. Just not your way.”

The silence that follows is almost violent.

Cecilia shifts. Amy looks between faces. Perry blinks like maybe he just saw lightning strike indoors.

But you? You just keep eating. As if it’s no big deal to defend a man’s soul like that.

Rhett can’t look at you. Not right away. Not without choking.

But eventually, he glances sideways. And you’re not looking back. You don’t need to.

You already said the thing he never could.

And it wrecks him. Every time.

—

The Way You Say His Name When You’re Laughing

The barn smells like hay and motor oil and chaos.

Amy’s got duct tape stuck to her jeans, and you’re elbow-deep in a wheelbarrow that’s seen better centuries. There’s a pile of wood, a wrench, and a prayer — that’s the whole repair strategy.

Rhett walks in and freezes. “What the hell are you two building? A bomb?” You don’t even look up. “Don’t need your judgment, Abbott.” Amy grins. “Uncle Rhett, this thing’s an engineering marvel.” “It’s a death trap.”

And then you laugh.

Oh, God, that laugh.

It bursts out of you, bright and crackling, like lightning through a summer field. And between every giggle, you manage to say his name — not like a warning, not like a call.

Just like it’s yours to say.

“Rhett,” you gasp, breathless, eyes lit up like fireflies. “You’re such a buzzkill.”

He should be mad. Should be scolding. But he can’t stop smiling.

Because there’s something in the way you say his name when you’re happy. Like it’s music. Like it’s always belonged to your mouth.

And Rhett thinks — yeah. I’d let her call me that a thousand times and still feel it hit like the first.

—

The Way You Hum When You’re Focused

It’s late.

The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes when every door is locked, every dish is done, every light has been dimmed to a glow.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, slicing peaches.

Rhett watches from the table. He should be helping. Or sleeping. But instead, he’s got one elbow propped, coffee going cold, just… watching.

You’ve got that faraway look again. Like you’re thinking about something too soft to speak aloud.

And you’re humming.

That same damn tune. Off-key. No words. Just you, and the peaches, and the rhythm only you seem to hear.

And for a moment, he swears the house is breathing. Like you brought life into it — filled it with something sacred.

He doesn’t speak.

He just listens.

Because there are pieces of you that only come out in the stillness. And he wants to know every single one.

—

EXTRA

The Way You Don’t Know He’s Already Chosen You

You didn’t mean to stop.

But the sound of his voice freezes you halfway down the stairs.

You were just getting water. You weren’t even wearing shoes.

But now you’re pressed to the wall, eyes wide, heart thudding.

Because Rhett’s voice — low and tired and real — is carrying from the kitchen.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he says.

Cecilia doesn’t answer right away.

He laughs. But it’s not happy.

“She ain’t even tryin’, Ma. That’s what kills me.”

You don’t breathe.

“She hums when she slices peaches. Same tune. Every time. Don’t think she knows. But the house... it feels alive when she does it.”

He pauses.

“She says my name like she’s always known how. Not like she needs me. Just... like she wants me around.”

You press your fingers to your lips.

“I don’t think I knew what home felt like until she came in and started acting like it was already hers.”

The air shifts.

“She loves Amy. Stands up to Dad. Runs the kitchen better than I ever could. I keep waitin’ for it to feel like a phase. But it don’t.” Cecilia speaks then, quiet and clear. “So what’re you gonna do?”

And Rhett says it — soft, but steady.

“I’m gonna marry her.”

You don’t cry.

But your breath hitches, your chest twists, and your whole world shifts a little on its axis.

Because you didn’t know.

Not until now.

And tomorrow, when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense —

You’ll finally understand why.

TAGLIST:

MY CHERRIES: veri🍒: @tokkiz @lizzie8878 @mrsparker3696 @pixie2k5 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421 @astromilku drop your cherries: veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott x y/n #lewis pullman

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jackiepackiee · 6 months ago

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Telemachus x Apollo Blessed! Reader

Chapter Two

Masterlist

Prince Telemachus who is favored by Athena with a reader who's favored by Apollo. Both under the guidance of the god and goddess of wisdom and knowledge respectively. One a fierce warrior and the other a lovely musician. Yet complete opposites of their role when it comes to a peaceful artist and intimidating opponent.

An- before you go please consider following my insta @/jackiepackiearts, enjoy!

“Again!” Athena’s voice roared over the training hall, arms crossed over her chest as her head gestured to the striking post.

It was adorned with scars of young and old. First built by Odysseus, Telemachus had found this training room when he was younger and first desperate to follow his father and be a hero.

Now aged, the wood was splintered in some sections that were easily torn by the sword.

But today? Not a single scar on the rough wood was being made. Not while Telemachus was swinging his weapon with less drive than a lamb trying to walk.

Nevertheless, he listened to his patron goddess and swung at the tall target.

Yet again… not even a chip of wood.

“Athena, I ca-” He began to protest, letting the metal tip of the blade rest on the floor.

Before he could continue, he was cut off by a sigh and strong words.

“No, you can. First part of fighting is knowing you can, or you’re sure to lose if you decide to lose.” She lectured, taking the sword from him and striking the target herself. Splinters of wood coming clean off, flying to the wall away from their abuse.

“Do you think a winner is okay with losing? No.” Continuing, she walked around the hall while putting the sword back on its stand. When she turned around from her fit, all she saw was Telemachus staring at a painted tile wall of his family.

Athena knows that image. One of Odysseus looking at his wife and son with so much love in his eyes one would think Penelope and Telemachus had hung the stars in the sky and saved Odysseus’ life time and time again.

Her reprimanding died down, unable to be harsh to the boy that stood before her. Instead she joined him, by his side while he stared at the colors on the wall that somehow formed his family. A family he didn’t know, with a love he never knew existed.

“Athena?” He asked, voice hesitant in his question.

“No, I don’t know if he’s coming back.” She spoke, sighing at the image.

“That’s not what I was asking.” He murmured. “I mean well… you’re a goddess and all. So, does love like that truly exist?”

His starry eyes stared at the beauty painting, glimmering tiles from the sun shine.

Before he could speak more of love, she formed a fist and lightly knocked his head.

“Don’t lose your sense, this is battle. You can focus on those types of issues when you can defend yourself.” She stood in front of him. Blocking his view of the painting.

He rubbed his head, squinting at her in slight annoyance.

“I’m getting there… jeez.” His hand traveled to rest on the back of his neck as he looked up at her. Almost pouting from her words.

“Back to training.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Even after his conversation with Athena, he didn’t feel at ease. She wasn’t aware of the restless nights he spent thinking of “love,” and whatever it may entail.

Times like this having a patron god who felt romantic love would be helpful…

He stood in his bedroom, looking out the window as the cool air blew in. Arms resting on the windowsill as he let his head stick out into the darkness. Moon shining onto his gold brackets he had yet to take off.

Looking to the ocean that danced in high tide, he sighed out all the air in his body. A breath he didn’t quite remember holding.

But before he could get too deep into his moping, he heard a knock.

“Come in.” He called, turning to face the guest.

Queen Penelope entered, smiling at her son as she quietly placed a piece of parchment on his desk.

“I brought you some new writing materials.” She smiled again, directly at him, before her eyes fully opened to get a look at him.

When she saw her son with slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and a far away gaze she pulled closer.

“Is something the matter?” Questioning him, she joined her hands together in front of her as she looked over him for any visible injuries.

“No mom… I’m okay.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes correctly and his lips fell flat.

“Was it the suitors?” Her brows pushed downward, grabbing his chin and rotating his face as she inspected for any cuts.

“No, no.” Taking a deep breath, he gently grasped her hand in his and let it down softly at her side.

“Mom… how did you know you loved dad?” Soft eyes met hers, and they looked just like his fathers. Yet more vulnerable, all the same wanting an answer. He must’ve taken his curiosity after his dad, neither ever satisfied without an answer.

“I just knew. And you’ll know too when you find the right person.” She smiled tiredly, a melancholy expression in her son's distress.

“How can you be sure? What if she doesn’t show up?” He questioned, eyes almost puppyish in their desire for help.

“You’ll find her, dear. She’ll be perfect for you, and that’s all that matters.” Her finger extends and pressed against his chest over to where his heart lived. “Do not try to find a future queen or the most beautiful girl, find the one you love.”

She smiled at him with tired eyes. Voided as she spoke of love. All she could hope was her son would find the love she once knew years ago.

“But you and dad are perfect together from what I’ve heard! How can I live up to that… to him?” His gentle eyes traveled upward to meet his mothers, squinting with nothing but desire for an answer.

Who would ever have an answer for something as abstract as love?

“You mustn’t try to live up to anything.” She took his head into her hands, curly hair brushed by her nails. “You’ll know. In here,” she pointed at his head, “and here.” And again pointed at his chest.

She pulled him into her chest as she sat on the edge of his bed. He rested into his mother, visibly relaxing at her comfort.

“It’s late, go to bed now.” She hummed, and he left the night behind as his eyes closed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The queen walked down the corridor, in an area that was separated from the suitors.

It was a sort of sanctuary for servants and family, always peacefully quiet with none of that buzz from the drunk crowd.

So to hear a soft hum was surprising. Not that she would complain. Even the simple, untrained voice of a young woman kept the song utterly beautiful.

It was soft, and sounded like love of past passions.

“Gods, what is that?” Penelope muttered to herself, not able to recognize the song that sounded of love.

Before the maid could pass her fully, she turned and faced the young woman to get her answer. Inhaling, she spoke gently.

“Excuse me, what was that you were just humming?” She inquired, racking her brain for all the music she knew. Still, nothing came to mind.

The maid looked at Penelope before bowing and keeping her head low. “Just a song from the market, miss.” Biting her inner cheek, she looked back up after she gave her answer.

When she saw the queen's brows furrowed she continued.

“I'm not sure what the name of the song is. But this girl was playing it for all the children in the market, it was just lovely.” She was smiling to herself at the memory, even the thought of the song made the maids face light up.

She continued, “My queen, you would have adored it. The maiden even defended the children from a bitter man.” After realizing her rant, she piped down and went back to her state of polite shyness.

“So it’s a new song?” She questioned further, confused. How could one song sound so familiar… unless the notes aligned so well it felt nostalgic of emotions in the past.

“That’s correct, I believe.” Nodding, she looked back up to give as much information as possible.

“And maiden, you say?” Taking a step closer, her hand reached to rest of the shoulder of the maid.

“Yes, miss.”

“Walk with me, and tell me about this maiden.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It had been a few days since his talk with his mother, but Telemachus couldn’t help the thoughts that pooled in his mind.

It seemed no conversation was helping to ease his thoughts, plagued with anxiety about this concept he didn’t fully understand.

Was he too young to be married? Did he have to get married right away?

Whoever in the Gods would give him this “perfect girl” that his mother mentioned.

It was morning, and he had the habit of eating before everyone else. Meeting the servants in the kitchen as they prepared a gluttonous feast for the bastards in the main hall.

The sun had yet to rise as he bit into an apple, peeling at its red skin while he stared into space.

He couldn’t get his last two talks off his mind. I mean, they were from two totally different people?

One, never in love and the other absolutely enamored. It wasn’t likely either related to him…

“My prince? The sun is rising, I suggest you head back to your study before the day's work begins.” The head maid spoke, folding table clothes as she calmly instructed him.

“I didn’t realize the time.” He stood up, leaving the rest of his apple to his pet dog before he left the room. “Thank you!” He called before fully exiting.

The suitors weren’t awake yet, at least not the majority. So he traveled back to the part of the palace in which only he, his mother, and invited guests would stay.

As he turned one of the pillars is when he saw something.

No, he saw someone.

Pausing, he quickly went back behind the pillar to watch.

It was a girl, around his age. Speaking politely with one of the queen’s handmaids, holding a beautiful golden lyre under her right arm.

The sun was shining onto her from the window, making her skin look soft and hair glow in the spots the sun hit hardest. It was gently kissing her face, making each expression all the more beautiful.

It was as if the sun itself had risen just to meet your body and illuminate you for lucky eyes to see.

He was undone.

And you, you stood there with the lyre talking to the handmaiden. Unaware of the cute boy blushing in the next hall.

Taglist - @dog-and-cat-person230 @m-carriaga2021 @blessedbyahuntress @cleawritesstuff @b4ts1e @permanently-nothere @kaguraaaa @rockyeatrock @keikeiluvyou @hijinkxy @doodle-with-rhy @barrythestrawberry041 @dazedemery

#telemachus epic the musical #telemachus epic #telemachus x reader #telemachus #epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #epic #epic the vengeance saga #epic the wisdom saga #epic odysseus #epic the thunder saga #epic the musical #epic the ithaca saga #epic penelope

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losermuse · 17 days ago

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A Hunger Named You

Love isn’t about giving—it’s about consuming.

CW: dead dove (18+ mdni), fem!reader, pseudocest/incestuous themes, cannibalism themes, religious trauma, sexual themes, psychological horror, graphic imagery, ritualistic violence/abuse, mob violence, death by suicide (implied), childhood trauma, grief and loss, fire/arson, moral condemnation.

WC: 15.3k AN: this was supposed to be posted on caleb’s bday but i got busy sooo im late to the party </3 huge shoutout to my star @harlotistic for proofreading this. This is my longest fic ever and i couldnt have done this without you my love <3 as always comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

The kitchen smelled of iron and overripe persimmons, soft and bruised in the basket by the window.

No lights were on, just the faint blue glow of the electric altar lamp flickering beneath the family shrine. You stood barefoot on the cool, tiled floor, your cotton slip damp against the small of your back. Caleb was already seated at the table, his sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked with something dark—soot, oil, maybe blood. He didn’t turn to look when you entered.

Between them sat a lacquered plate with a peeled apple, sliced thin and fanned out like petals. The knife lay beside it, blade still wet.

“You hungry?” Caleb asked, voice quiet, like he was offering something more than fruit.

You nodded once.

He picked up a slice, its edges already rusting with air, and held it toward your lips with steady fingers.

You didn’t bite. Not yet.

“You remember what Mama said?” he asked, eyes fixed on your mouth like it was dangerous.

“About how love’s just hunger we learn to bow before.”

You leaned in, lips grazing his fingers as you took the slice. Juice ran down your chin—warm, sticky, red like temple ink.

“I don’t wanna eat,” you said softly, chewing slowly. “I want to be eaten.”

His jaw clenched. You saw it.

“I want you to hollow me out,” you whispered. “Leave nothin’ but skin and bone.”

He reached up and wiped your chin with his thumb, slow and reverent. Then, without a word, he brought it to his lips.

Sucked it clean.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded.

“I’ll eat you up,” he said. “If you let me. I won’t stop.”

—

The sun poured down like steamed honey, thick and golden, heavy on your backs. Cicadas shrieked from the trees, their cries sharp like metal on glass. From the kitchen window came the faint sound of Mama humming an old folk song, voice thin and shaky, her apron stained with flour and something darker beneath it.

The two of you sat cross-legged in the dry earth behind the house, under the crooked limbs of the old apple tree. Caleb held a pocket knife too large for his hand, and you watched as he peeled the skin off a red apple—one taken from the altar bowl without asking—slow and precise like it was something sacred.

“Mama said Eve bit the apple and that’s how love got born,” he muttered, not looking at you.

“I thought it was sin,” you said, brushing dirt from your bare ankle.

He shrugged. “Aren’t they the same?”

He cut the apple in half unevenly and offered you the larger piece in silence. Juice ran down his fingers, sticky and red like temple ink.

You took it. Bit in. The crunch echoed between you.

Then you held it out to him—your bitten half, the heat of your mouth still clinging to it.

“Here,” you said. “We can share.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then took it, his lips meeting where yours had been and bit it.

“Tastes sweeter that way,” he said.

You smiled—a toothy, crooked thing—juice glistening at the corner of your mouth.

“Mama says when you love someone, you leave part of yourself behind.”

He nodded. “I’ll leave all my parts with you.”

—

The table groaned beneath the weight of dinner. Soy-braised chicken with shiitake mushrooms, stir-fried choy sum glistening with sesame oil, glass noodles cooling in a bowl gone quiet, and a pot of jasmine rice, each grain plump and pearly. In the centre, nestled in a cloth-lined bamboo steamer, were six red bean buns—glossy, warm, soft to the touch.

The kitchen smelled of steamed rice and something faintly metallic underneath.

Mama sat at the head of the table, hands still damp from washing, her apron streaked with broth and red bean paste that didn’t quite wash out. Her hair was pinned too tightly, a few wiry strands curling loose at her neck.

She talked like she always did—like scripture and rumour woven into one breath, looping back on itself, half-truths dressed up like wisdom.

“You know,” Mama said, lifting the lid from the steamer, “hunger’s a funny thing. Starts in your belly, but if you ain’t careful, it spreads. Gets into your heart. Your head. Makes you do things.”

The steam curled around her words. The buns sat there, pale and perfect, except for one split just slightly, the filling bleeding through like something trying to get out.

“I’ve been hungry too,” she went on. “But I never let it eat me whole.”

You kept your eyes on your rice. Caleb chewed slowly, like he wasn’t really tasting. You sat shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing beneath the table.

When Mama turned to fuss with the teapot, her voice muttering softer now, his fingers found yours under the tablecloth.

Not by accident.

You let him take them.

Your hands folded together like a prayer that only you could hear. Caleb rubbed his thumb along your knuckle, slow and reverent.

Mama’s voice carried over the clatter of ceramic and boiling water.

“I took you both in. Fed you with my hands. My roof. My name. So don’t you go thinkin’ I can’t smell rot when it starts inside my own house.”

You took a bun.

It was warm and yielding in your palm. Slowly, you tore it open, and the red bean paste peeked out, sweet and earthy, like something ancient and bruised.

You took a bite. Chewed slowly, then handed the rest to him.

He took it and bit where you had bitten, watched you while he chewed.

Mama watched the two of you now, her hands stilled on the teapot, eyes dark as the paste in the buns.

“You still hungry?” she asked, quietly now.

No one answered.

The red bean was sweet but not kind.

—

Before you had names for things like love or sin, there was Josephine—the woman the whole town called Mama.

She wasn’t blood. Said blood thins with time, but rice fills the belly. Said family isn’t born—it’s boiled, shaped, fed into being.

She found Caleb first, barefoot behind the old shrine steps, clutching a stale mantou like a prayer. Then you, curled behind a fish stall, hands sticky with syrup and soy, licking your own fingers like it was the last sweet thing in the world.

Mama brought you home like stray charms, dusted you clean, wrapped you in secondhand warmth. Washed your wounds with vinegar water, rubbed tiger balm on your chests, spooned soup into your silent mouths.

She never said I love you. Only, Eat, baby.

She never hugged. Just wiped sesame seeds off your cheeks, plucked leaves from your hair with fingers that smelled of ginger and garlic.

You learned early: hunger was the only language Mama trusted.

But before she found either of you, before she was Mama, Josephine was just a wife.

Her husband was a preacher. Or a butcher. Or a banker. It depended on which neighbour you asked. He had a voice like thunder and a belt that never hung quite right. The townsfolk said he was firm, a little cruel, but devout. That counted for something.

And then, one summer, he vanished.

Mama told the town he’d run off with a younger woman. Left a note. Took his clothes and the good watch. Walked out like smoke. She wept on the porch—thin, trembling, wiping tears with her sleeve while the neighbours brought red bean buns and chrysanthemum tea.

“Men always do,” she said. “They leave when the garden needs tending most.”

The town believed her. Because that’s what small towns do, they believe the woman humming sutras while kneading dough, not the silence that hums beneath her floorboards.

But the two of you knew better.

The house creaked at night in places that didn’t make sense. Sometimes Mama would pause, mid-dish, eyes flicking toward the pantry like she heard someone else breathing.

And the basement—always locked.

“Don’t go down there,” she’d say, voice too smooth, smile too sharp. “That part of the house is dead.”

Yet you heard things.

Soft, wet sounds. A thud. A dragging shuffle. Mama’s voice, speaking low and slow like she was still trying to soothe something that no longer had ears to hear.

Because the truth lived in the freezer under the pantry shelf. Hidden behind sacks of rice and old wedding fine china.

The freezer was big. Industrial. Cold enough to hold a body in parts. And Mama’s husband—her first sin—was still there.

Still with her.

Maybe a warning. Maybe a comfort.

Or perhaps a reminder of what love costs when you feed it too long.

—

The two of you weren’t supposed to be awake. It was past your bedtime.

The storm came in thick, thunder rolling across the sky like a drum of war. The rain drummed against the roof in steady rhythm, like the tapping of chopsticks on a bowl, while the wind howled through the cracks. The lights had flickered out hours ago, and the house seemed to hold its breath, but it never truly slept.

You sat in the narrow hallway, your knees drawn close to your chest, trembling with each lightning strike. Your thin cotton nightgown stuck to you from the heat, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing. Besides you, Caleb sat just as still, his face pale, lit only by the flash of lightning that streaked across the window. When the next clap of thunder split the air, you jumped, and he instinctively reached for your hand without a word.

Your fingers intertwined as if they had always belonged there.

At the far end of the hallway, Mama’s oil lamp flickered with a soft, amber glow. She moved slowly, almost ethereal, her footsteps light as she glided toward the basement door. She paused in front of it, leaving the door slightly ajar before disappearing into the shadows below.

You tightened your grip on Caleb’s hand.

“It’s just the storm,” he whispered softly.

You shook your head. “She’s talkin’ again.”

You moved closer, still holding hands, your bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floor. From the crack in the door, you could hear Mama’s voice, low and smooth, curling up the stairs like incense smoke.

“You still cold down here, baby?” she asked, her voice sweet as sugar in hot tea.

Your breath hitched. Caleb held your hand even tighter.

“I wrapped you up good this time. Double layers. Ain’t no flies gonna crawl on you.”

The silence that followed was worse than any storm.

“They think you ran off,” Mama said. “That woman from the temple. But I know you didn’t leave. You ain’t gone nowhere.”

Then came the sound—a wet, dragging shift, like something heavy scraping against the floor tiles. You whimpered, and Caleb leaned his forehead against yours, pressing his lips to your temple.

“It’s just a dream,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm. “Just pretend it’s a dream.”

“I’m not angry no more,” Mama’s voice continued, smooth but hollow. “I know you didn’t love me. But I loved you. I loved you enough to keep you. Enough to make you part of the garden.”

You couldn’t breathe, and Caleb squeezed your hand tighter, his knuckles turning white.

“I made you sweet again,” Mama said, her voice faltering, like she was either about to laugh or cry. “Turned you into something useful.”

Then there was a sharp snap—something metallic—followed by the sound of Mama’s footsteps turning toward the stairs, the floorboard creaking under her weight.

The two of you scrambled away, hand in hand, slipping down the hall like shadows, hearts pounding louder than the storm. You didn’t stop until you reached your shared room at the end of the corridor. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows as if the house itself wanted to shake them loose.

Caleb pulled up the blanket with one hand and lifted the edge of the bed with the other, urging you to crawl under first. You didn’t argue—you just slid in, pressing yourself tight against the wooden frame. He followed right after, the two of you folding into the narrow space beneath the bed like paper cranes, limbs tucked, breath held.

The air down there was hot and still. Dust clung to your lashes. Your heart beat so hard it echoed in your ears.

Caleb’s hand found yours again in the dark. His thumb rubbed soft circles against your knuckles.

“She was talking to him,” you whispered, voice shaking. “She was really talking to him…”

“She always talks to things that don’t talk back,” Caleb replied, voice low and flat. “It doesn’t mean he’s still…”

He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. “She was feeding something.”

You didn’t answer. Just pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

“What if he’s not dead?” you asked, your voice a breath. “What if he’s still down there—waitin’? Watchin’?”

Caleb didn’t move for a long time. Then, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he whispered, “Then we don’t ever go near that door. We don’t ever open it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

He turned his head, just enough to brush his lips against your temple again.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he said. “Even if she don’t.”

Outside, the storm kept screaming. But under the bed, the two of you lay still, pressed close, fingers locked together like roots buried deep in the dirt.

From that night on, the basement stayed a place you never named. And when the thunder rolled, Caleb never let go of your hand.

—

The two of you were still young enough to believe in things that glowed in the dark—stars, spirits, saints.

It started with a baby tooth.

Caleb had knocked it loose chasing cicadas through the garden, his laughter loud and reckless until it wasn’t. He’d tripped over a stone near the apple tree, landing face-first in the dirt. You remembered the blood—a faint pink smear on his lip—and how he staggered up with the tiny white tooth cradled in his palm like it was a relic. He held it out to you, wide-eyed, as if expecting you to fix it.

You didn’t flinch. You’d seen blood before.

“Should I bury it?” he asked, uncertain. “Or throw it in the river?”

“No,” you said, too quickly. Then, quieter, “You should put it under your pillow.”

He blinked at you. “Why?”

“In one of my books… there’s a fairy,” you whispered, like sharing a secret. “She comes in the night and takes it. Leaves something behind—a coin or a charm. A trade.”

Caleb stared down at the tooth again, the pink root gleaming. “Mama says that’s Western nonsense. She says we don’t believe in fairies.”

You hesitated, then offered a soft shrug. “Doesn’t mean it’s real.”

That night, he didn’t say another word about it—but when you crept into his room long after the storm had passed, he was already asleep, curled like a shrimp beneath his quilt, and the tooth was gone from his fist.

You found it tucked beneath his pillow, just like you’d hoped.

You reached out with trembling fingers, careful not to wake him, careful not to breathe too loudly. His face was slack in sleep, mouth parted, a thread of drool at the corner of his lips. There was something sacred about that stillness. Something that made your chest ache.

You took the tooth and slid a tiny offering in its place: a single plum blossom, dried and pressed between the pages of your notebook for weeks. It was delicate and slightly curled at the edges, its colour fading to the soft brown of old paper. It wasn’t a coin. It wasn’t magic. But it was something beautiful.

In the morning, he didn’t say anything. Just sat in bed, staring down at the blossom in his palm with quiet reverence.

He never asked where it came from—never mentioned the tooth again. But he kept the flower. Pressed it between his fingers until it nearly broke. Tucked it into the pocket of his shirt and wore it for three days straight.

After that, it became a ritual.

Every time he lost another tooth—biting into sugarcane, roughhousing in the dirt, tugging it loose with his tongue—he hesitated, then slid it under his pillow without a word.

And every time, you came in the dark.

Each visit felt like a pilgrimage. You moved softly, careful not to disturb him, like a spirit passing through walls. You left behind things you thought he’d like—smooth stones from the river, a candy wrapped in gold foil, a feather that looked like it came from a phoenix. And when you couldn’t find anything special, you left a folded note with a pressed fingerprint, or a drawing of the two of you sitting under the apple tree, smiling widely.

He never caught you. Not once, surprisingly, but he started to treat the gifts differently.

He never threw them away and never asked questions. He lined them up in a tin box under his bed. Kept the feather between the pages of an old almanack, tucked the candy in his drawer, unopened, until it melted in the heat.

It became your secret religion.

You were the collector. The keeper. The one who watched over his offerings. You didn’t know why you did it—only that something about the way he slept, the way he trusted the dark, made you want to guard him. Worship him. Even when he didn’t know you were there.

You weren’t old enough to name it then. Not love. Not devotion.

But it felt holy, in a way nothing else ever did.

For Caleb, it started with a stain.

You came to his door before the world had woken. The rain from the night before still clung to the air, heavy and metallic, and the old house creaked with the weight of its own secrets. He was half-asleep, dreams still fogging up the edges of his vision, when your knock came—barely there.

“Caleb,” you said, soft as breath.

He sat up immediately. You didn’t call for him often. Not like that. And when you did, it always meant something had cracked.

He followed you through the dark corridor, neither of you speaking. The hallway smelled faintly of damp wood and boiled ginger, the kind Mama left on the stove too long. You didn’t turn on the light. Just kept walking until you reached your room and stood beside your bed, motionless.

Your nightgown, pale cotton faded thin with years of wear, had bloomed dark between your thighs. Not bright red, not clean like a nosebleed or a scraped knee. This was something deeper—something primal and sticky and shameful. A blood that didn’t come from an injury.

He didn’t understand, not at first. Just stared at the stain as it soaked through the fabric, like someone had taken a brush loaded with rust-colored paint and dragged it across your lower back in a single, unbroken stroke.

“It’s not pee,” you said quickly, swallowing hard. “I didn’t… I think it’s my period.”

You wouldn’t meet his eyes. You kept wringing your fingers, as if trying to twist the shame out through your skin. “I didn’t know it was coming,” you whispered. “I—I didn’t know it’d be like that.”

He blinked. You were thirteen. A late bloomer, everyone said. Still flat-chested, still trailing behind the village girls who had started stuffing tissue into their bras and talking in giggles about husbands and children. But you’d always been ahead of them in other ways—too sharp, too quiet, too strange. Just like him.

And now here you were, shivering beside a stained bed, waiting for him to be disgusted.

But he wasn’t.

He felt something different. Something nameless and tight, coiling in his chest.

“I’ll change the sheets,” he said. “You should wash up. Before Mama sees.”

You opened your mouth to argue, maybe to protest, but stopped. Nodded once, quickly and embarrassed. Then you turned and left, bare feet slapping the wood, leaving little crescent shapes of red where the blood had run down the inside of your thigh.

He waited until he heard the bathroom door close before moving.

The bed looked like a crime scene. The stain had spread across the centre of the sheets, soaking through into the mattress. He stared at it, transfixed. Not with disgust. But with… awe.

For Caleb, it wasn’t just blood.

It was the proof of something sacred. Something raw and woman-made. Something that had happened to you before it happened to anyone else. And you had brought it to him first.

He reached out and touched it. The fabric was still warm. Still wet. He pressed his fingers into it like a priest laying hands on a relic, and then, without thinking, brought them to his nose.

It smelled like iron. Like soil after rain. Like the taste he sometimes got when he bit the inside of his cheek too hard. But it also smelled like you—like fevered skin and honey soap and something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t understand why it made his hands shake.

By the time you came back, your nightgown had changed, but your cheeks were still red. There was a damp cloth clutched in your hand, and your hair was slicked to your forehead.

Caleb was already tucking clean sheets into your mattress corners, smoothing the fabric down like he was making a shrine, not a bed.

You stood in the doorway, watching him in silence.

“I didn’t want Mama to know,” you said again, smaller this time. “She’ll just make it a lesson. Say it’s my fault for sleeping late or something.”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Caleb said without looking up.

You nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

When Mama came in later that morning, she didn’t yell. She didn’t ask why your sheets were different, or why the basin in the corner was filled with cloth stained like rust. She just looked at you long and hard, and then said, “You’re a woman now. Don’t let it distract you.”

No affection. No rite of passage. Just a warning.

She turned and left. The door clicked behind her like a final word.

Caleb didn’t say anything.

But later that day, when he passed your laundry hanging outside to dry, he stopped and stared. Your stained nightgown was pinned between two shirts, billowing gently in the wind. The mark still showed, faint but certain. Like a signature. Like proof.

He stared for a long time, then went back to his room and tucked the memory somewhere deep, somewhere sacred.

And he never forgot it.

—

After the storm, things changed.

Not all at once. Not like a door slamming shut—but slow, like fog creeping in through a crack in the window. One moment, you were just two children in a house that creaked too much. Next, the world outside felt quieter, like it had stepped a little further away from them.

You still played in the rice fields after the rain, your bare feet squelching in the mud, laughing when frogs leapt past. Still made dumpling ghosts out of dough scraps, folded paper cranes until your fingers ached and dared each other to sneak into the neighbour’s koi pond.

And for a while, Gideon was always there.

Gideon with his crooked teeth and grass-stained shirts. Gideon, who brought firecrackers and sour plums, who never minded the strange smell that sometimes drifted from Mama’s kitchen, or the way she watched people too closely when they came by the house.

The three of you built forts out of bamboo mats and took turns being the emperor, the outlaw, the ghost bride.

Gideon was the only one who could make Caleb laugh out loud. The only one who knew how to distract you when your hands shook too much after a storm.

But even then, the other villagers didn’t come close.

They whispered when Mama passed the market stall. Bowed stiffly but never too low. Said her dumplings were too dark, her soup too sweet. Said strange things happened in that house—things that made their cats hiss and their children cry in the night.

They still couldn’t believe her husband left her or that he left at all. Mama never looked like she aged—her skin stayed smooth, her hair black and gleaming, her spine straight as ever. It unsettled them, the way time didn’t seem to touch her. Like she’d made a deal with something they didn’t have a name for.

“You ought not play with them too long,” Gideon’s father warned. “People like that… they feed on things they shouldn’t.”

Gideon didn’t listen.

Until one summer, he stopped coming around.

—

At first, Caleb waited by the gate with a makeshift kite in his hands, the tail tied from old red ribbons. You sat cross-legged on the porch, watching the sun melt into the hills, listening for Gideon’s laugh, but he never showed.

When Mama asked where the boy was, she didn’t sound surprised.

“Boys grow up,” she said. “They get taught to fear what don’t make sense. What don’t bleed the way they do.”

From then on, the other children crossed the street when they saw you coming. Their mothers pulled them close like you carried sickness in your skin. Even the old noodle vendor stopped giving you broth bones.

It didn’t matter that you and Caleb said please, or bowed deeply, or smiled just enough.

You were already Other. Not quite theirs. Not quite right.

Some said Mama spoke to ghosts. Others said her garden grew too fast, too fat. That the chillies were too red, the radishes too sweet. That her hands never aged.

By the time you were old enough to climb the roof and count the stars, the world had shrunk down to three people and one house. And none of you asked why.

Because deep down, you knew.

The basement still breathed at night.

—

By the time you were teenagers, the town had stopped pretending.

It wasn’t that people were cruel, exactly. Just careful. Watchful.

At school, no one ever sat too close. No one borrowed your pens or asked to copy your homework, even though the two of you were always at the top of the class. Straight A’s, every term. Sharp minds, sharper tongues when needed. You never failed, never fumbled, never forgot to turn in an assignment.

Teachers called the two of you "brilliant," but in the same breath, "strange." Like you were too precise. Too composed. Caleb had a memory like a blade and never missed a question. You wrote essays that made grown adults pause. Still, neither of you ever raised your hand unless called on.

Lunches were always brought from home—neatly packed in tin containers, fragrant with sesame, soy, and the occasional tang of pickles. No one ever asked to trade. No one asked what was inside.

Back when the world was smaller, and afternoons stretched long beneath the apple tree, you, Caleb, and Gideon used to catch cicadas, whisper ghost stories, and dare each other to run barefoot through the overgrown garden path behind the house. Gideon laughed with his whole chest with dirt under his nails, sun on his cheeks.

But things change.

Gideon got taller. Learned the words his parents muttered when they thought he wasn��t listening. Started looking at you like you weren’t real—like Caleb’s silence was contagious, like Mama’s house might swallow him too if he lingered too long.

The last time he visited, he brought his own snack and wouldn’t touch the red bean bun you offered.

“My mom says I shouldn’t eat anything from your place,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “She says it’s not... clean.”

After that, he kept his distance. Still polite. Still nodded in the halls, but his laugh was quieter now, less familiar; he never came back.

At home, you told Mama it didn’t matter. “Friends come and go,” she’d said, peeling lotus root in the sink. “Family stays. Eat up, baby.”

But that night, Caleb sat curled in the hallway, arms around his knees, staring at the pantry like he expected it to whisper back.

From then on, it was just the two of you.

You spoke mostly to each other. Took comfort in small routines: splitting crackers after class, walking home the long way, playing “guess the cloud shape” under the same scorched sky. You didn’t talk about the basement or the way the air turned heavy when Mama prayed.

But the loneliness wore at the edges of things. You understood each other in ways no one else did.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was the shape of something quiet and coiled, waiting to bloom in the shadows.

Something careful. Something sacred.

Something hungry.

—

The sun was too bright for a Sunday. It made the dust on the windows shimmer like something holy, but the air was still stiff with heat and expectation.

Mama stood in front of the hall mirror, pinning a brooch to her collar. It was shaped like a lily, chipped at the edges, a relic from someone else’s drawer. “You two dressed yet?” she called, voice sharp but distant.

You were. Had been for a while.

Caleb had ironed your dress earlier, the same blue one with the frayed hem you always wore for these things. He helped smooth down your hair now with his fingers, not because he had to, but because he always did. He didn’t speak—he never did when his hands were in your hair. But you could feel the way he watched you in the mirror, his gaze steady and reverent. Like you were something important. Something fragile.

There was a kind of silence that wrapped around you both in moments like this. Not empty—full. Full of things unsaid.

Mama didn’t look back as you filed out the door. She just led, like she always did, down the crooked hill path to the chapel at the edge of town. The one with the steeple that leaned a little to the left and always smelled like old rain and polished wood.

The bell tolled once, deep and guttural, like a throat clearing before judgment.

They stepped inside, and the congregation turned.

Not all the way. Just enough to see.

Enough to know.

People didn’t speak. They nodded in tight, rehearsed movements. They shifted their bodies like the pews might swallow them if they sat too close.

You and Caleb sat in the back row, where the shadows were thickest and the hymns sounded like lullabies spoken through teeth.

She’s not your sister.

Caleb had stopped fighting the thought years ago. It came like smoke, always during the quietest parts of the day—when the kettle whistled, or when the wind slid past the windows just right. She’s not your sister.

Not by blood. Not by name. Just by proximity. Just by the soft horror of being raised in the same house by the same crimson hands.

That didn’t make it better.

But it didn’t make the hunger any less honest.

He glanced at you now, head bowed, your hands folded in your lap like you were praying—but he knew better. You didn’t believe in anything you couldn’t touch.

The preacher’s voice boomed at the altar, words too polished to be real. Mama mouthed along, her brooch catching the stained light in broken halos.

Caleb felt the weight of stares. Felt the way people looked at you like you were a wound that wouldn’t close.

His pinky found yours on the bench between them, hooked soft and certain.

You didn’t pull away.

The chapel held its breath.

Maybe this was what worship looked like.

Maybe it was you. Maybe it was always you.

The line between brother and sister had blurred a long time ago, soft, like chalk in rain. It hadn’t been crossed so much as dissolved. Something sacred warped into something else.

He closed his eyes, not for prayer, but because it made it easier to pretend.

Forgive me, he thought, but she’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to kneel for.

—

The town never changed, and maybe that’s why you never left.

You could’ve.

Caleb had the grades, and you had the nerve. Scholarships came like whispers in the mail, stamped with places that sounded like dreams—big cities, tall buildings, somewhere else. But Mama said the world beyond the hills was all teeth and no tongue. Said it smiled too wide and bit too fast.

Ironic.

So you stayed.

You found work. Caleb took shifts at the mechanic’s off main—good with his hands, quiet with customers. You handled receipts at a clinic that never looked you in the eye unless someone was bleeding too hard to care for. People didn’t forget where you came from, not here. They still crossed the street sometimes. Still spoke too softly when you walked past, like names might summon something dark.

But today, like every year, you met at the little corner mart that turned into a dingy bar by night. The owner didn’t ask questions anymore. Just nodded and handed Caleb a red bean bun wrapped in wax paper—still warm, soft with just the right hint of sweet.

It was Found Day again. A day that had never been marked in a calendar but had always been marked by Mama. The day she found you both, pulled from the dark places, washed, fed, and made hers. You’d never known your real birthdays, but this was the one you always celebrated, even in silence, even in the shadows of what was unsaid.

You sat across from each other in the far booth, under the dying buzz of a neon sign that hadn’t spelt a real word in years.

“She said she’s not feeling well,” you said, unwrapping the bun. “Didn’t come down all day.”

Caleb nodded slowly, eyes on the scratched tabletop. “She’s been... different lately.”

Neither of you needed to say more. The pantry stayed locked now. The garden grew strange things. And Mama talked less to you, more to herself.

You broke the bun in half. Gave him the sweeter side without hesitation.

Some habits never left.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance—just far enough to stir memory. The scent of rain clung to the windows, and for a second, you were both children again, hiding under the bed, fingers locked, waiting for Mama to come back up from the dark.

Caleb tapped his glass, sweating from cheap beer, lightly against yours.

“To us,” he said, offering a tired but honest smile.

You returned it. Soft, crooked.

“To us.”

—

The walk home was quiet.

The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and distant jasmine, the storm having passed through just enough to leave the streets slick and shining. The two of you didn’t speak much, just walked side by side, shoulder brushing shoulder now and then like you were drawn by the same quiet gravity. Caleb’s hand dangled close to yours, not quite touching, but never straying far.

The house was dark when you got back. One light in the kitchen glowed warm under the doorway, but Mama’s slippers were still untouched by the stairs. She hadn’t come down. The silence felt heavier than usual. A hush that settled between the floorboards and curled into the corners.

You kicked off your shoes at the door while Caleb locked the latch behind you. For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the old fridge and the soft creak of the floor beneath your feet.

He turned to you then. The light from the hallway cut across his face, catching on the faint scar near his brow, the one you remember from when you were twelve and he tried to climb the garden fence on a dare.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely a ripple.

You nodded. Then, softer, “You?”

He hesitated. “I think I miss who we were. Before we got old enough to understand what people meant when they stared.”

You looked at him for a long moment. He was taller now. Still had that same guarded way of standing, like the world might lurch if he let himself lean too close. But his eyes—those purple orbs hadn’t changed. Still quiet. Still kind.

You reached for his hand.

He let you.

And when you stepped closer, you weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe you both did.

The kiss was slow. Uncertain, at first. A brushing of mouths that tasted faintly of red bean and beer, of years swallowed down and never spoken aloud. His hand cupped your cheek gently, like he wasn’t sure you’d still be there if he touched you too fast. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, holding on like the storm might return at any second.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

When you pulled away, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full.

He rested his forehead against yours, breath warm against your lips.

“Happy Found Day,” he whispered.

“Yeah, Happy Found Day,” you breathed, the word barely there as you leaned in again, drawn to the warmth of him, the way he felt like home and history all at once.

Caleb met you halfway, his mouth finding yours again—hungrier this time, less hesitant. His hands moved with quiet curiosity, tracing the edges of your waist like he was relearning something he’d always known. You didn’t stop him. You welcomed it, welcomed him.

Because after everything—after the silence, the stares, the basement door you never opened—this was the one thing that finally made sense.

Caleb guided you down onto the couch with a hesitance that made your heart ache. He kissed you again, your lips first, then your neck—each touch a little clumsy, a little unsure, like he was learning a language he’d only ever heard in dreams.

You looked up at him, breath shallow.

“Caleb…” you whispered, voice trembling—not from fear, but want. “I want you to take me.”

His breath hitched.

“I’ve been starving for so long,” you murmured, tilting your head to bare your throat. “If love is hunger... then eat me. Make me yours.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something feral, but tender, like a beast that had learned to kneel.

Caleb kissed you like your skin was a garden he wasn’t meant to touch—lush, overgrown, sweet with rot. Not scripture, but something older. Something buried. His mouth moved over you like he was parting vines, seeking the fruit hidden beneath.

You felt like an orchard in full bloom. Bruised in places, yes—but still blooming. Still soft enough to offer.

His hands trembled on your thighs, like he was afraid the petals might fall apart beneath him. You didn’t stop him. You opened for him like a secret.

And when he kissed between your legs, it wasn’t filthy.

It was holy.

Like he’d found the fruit of knowledge and didn’t care what it cost. Like he wanted to taste the reason Eve said yes. His tongue was reverent, unsure, slow at first—then aching with hunger. You were sweet and strange, like honey left too long in the jar. Like fallen apples pressed into the earth.

And somewhere in the haze of breath and skin, your mind wandered to the little box in your drawer. The one where you kept his teeth. Tiny offerings he never knew he gave you—white, innocent things turned relic with time. Bone wrapped in thread. Devotion wrapped in dust.

You gasped—not just from his touch, but from the way it quieted everything else. The buzzing in your blood, the ache in your ribs, the loneliness that clung to you like mildew. All gone. For a moment, all you could taste was the garden.

When he looked up, mouth glistening, eyes wide and dazed, you didn’t see a boy.

You saw a man—someone who’d bitten the apple and swallowed every part of it.

You pulled him up, his weight settling between your thighs. He pressed into you like a question he’d been aching to ask, and you answered without words. Just a sigh, soft and shaking. It hurt, of course it did—but even that felt sacred.

Each thrust was slow, unsure, but meaningful. A rhythm like roots threading through soil. The creak of the old couch, the wet sounds between your bodies, the shared breath—all of it folded into something more than just bodies.

It was a covenant.

A shared hunger.

A holy decay.

And when it was over, when your limbs were tangled and sweat slicked your backs, he rested his head on your chest, listening to the beat of something older than time.

“You taste like apples,” he murmured, the words barely forming.

You smiled, drowsy. “You always say that.”

And neither of you said it aloud, but you both felt it:

You were the fruit.

You were the altar.

You were the offering.

And he had devoured you with worship in his mouth.

–

Mama found out on a Tuesday.

The sky was dull and bleached, like God had turned His face away. You and Caleb had fallen asleep under the old apple tree, your dress rumpled, his hand resting warm on your thigh, head tucked against your stomach. The grass was high and soft, the air thick with the perfume of overripe fruit.

You didn’t hear her arrive.

Didn’t feel the world shift until her shadow darkened your skin.

Caleb stirred first.

He sat up like he’d been yanked from a dream, still holding your hand. You followed slowly, blinking into the light, only to find it wasn’t sunlight at all. It was her.

Mama stood over you with a basket on her arm, herbs spilling over its edge—lemongrass, mugwort, bitter melon. Nestled among the greenery was something red and glistening. A chicken heart, maybe. Or not a chicken’s.

She didn’t speak at first.

Just looked.

Her eyes were black pits, dull, endless, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply hollow.

Then, almost gently, she said, “So that’s how it is now.”

You flinched. The tone of it—tender and terrible—cut deeper than any scream.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” she asked softly. “That I wouldn’t smell it on you?”

You tried to rise, brushing grass from your dress, mouth parting to speak—to explain, to lie—but nothing came out.

Her smile soured.

“Is this what you give away now?” she asked. “The softest part of you—like it’s a damn offering?”

You couldn’t answer. Shame crawled down your spine like a fever.

“Whoring yourself out beneath my trees. Under my sky. Letting him pick the fruit I raised.”

Her voice cracked then—half fury, half heartbreak. She looked at Caleb like he was rot in the soil.

“You stupid boy. You don’t even know what you’ve done.”

Caleb stepped forward. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Mama reeled back, face twisting with something feral. “Don’t touch me, boy. You reek of her.”

He stopped, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving. You reached for him, but Mama’s voice cut through you like a blade.

“I gave the two of you everything,” she spat. “Kept you safe. Kept you clean. And you repay me like this? Spreading your legs under the tree, I bled to grow. Letting him crawl between your thighs like a serpent in the roots.”

You tried again to speak—to beg, even—but she was beyond reach now.

She dropped the basket.

The contents scattered—herbs tangled with worm-bitten apples, their skins split, flesh browning, seeds glinting like tiny wounds in the grass.

“You were meant to be sacred,” she said, trembling. “I fed you from my hands. I scrubbed you with salt and prayer. And now you’ve spoiled the ground with your filth.”

She pointed at you, accusing, shaking.

“You think that’s love? That’s hunger, girl. That’s decay. That’s the kind of wanting that turns the womb sour.”

Her words stuck to your skin like smoke. You couldn’t cry—not yet. Not with the way her voice dropped to a whisper, now more to herself than to you.

“You don’t know what you’ve invited in,” she murmured. “You don’t know what wakes when blood and want mix under the garden.”

“I should’ve buried you both when you were still sweet.”

Then she turned.

And walked away barefoot, crushing her herbs, her apples, and whatever tenderness was left of her love into the dirt.

–

Mama didn’t come.

No footsteps down the hall. No door creaking open. No accusations in the dark.

Just silence.

It should have comforted you, but it didn’t. Not really. Not when the house still felt like it was watching, like the very walls held their breath, waiting for her to strike.

Your bed still smelled like jasmine.

The petals you’d pressed between the sheets weeks ago had long since dried, but their sweetness lingered—faint, stubborn, like something that refused to be forgotten. Caleb’s body curved against yours beneath the thin quilt, his arm draped around your waist, his breath warm at the nape of your neck.

Everything in you ached—from what you’d done, from what she’d said—but in that moment, you felt more whole than you’d ever dared to dream.

Caleb pressed his forehead to yours, his thumb tracing slow circles along the back of your hand like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

“She’s going to do something,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

“But not tonight.”

His voice was barely a breath. “No. Not tonight.”

You shifted closer, burying your face into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It sounded tired. Brave. Like he was trying to keep beating just for you.

“I’m not sorry,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He kissed the top of your head. “Me neither.”

The bed groaned beneath you as you turned into each other, limbs tangled like roots beneath wet earth. You didn’t speak after that. There were no more words left to make sense of what you’d done or what was coming.

But your fingers stayed locked. And when he wrapped his arms around your waist, you finally let your eyes close.

Outside, the trees shivered under the moonlight.

Inside, two sinners clung to each other like salvation.

–

The door slammed open like a shot.

You didn’t even have time to scream. Just a second of fear—and then Mama’s hand was in your hair, yanking you up from the bed with a strength that didn’t seem possible for her frame.

“You think I wouldn’t hear it?” she spat, dragging you across the wooden floor. “Your filth. Your moaning. That boy grunting like a hog in heat.”

“Mama—!” Caleb scrambled after you, half-naked, but Mama shoved the door shut behind her with a thunderous crack.

“You want to be grown? You want to be touched like a wife?” she snarled, hauling you toward the bathroom. “Then you’ll be cleansed like one.”

“Mama, I’m sorry!” you cried, your voice cracking.

“Keep your sorry,” she snapped. “It’s as cheap as your legs.”

You clawed at her arm, trying to get your footing, but her grip was iron. She kicked open the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind you. The basin was already full—rainwater, cold as bone, a faint smell of herbs and rust rising from it.

“I should strip the skin from your back,” Mama hissed, “but I’ll give you a chance to be clean.”

You thrashed as she forced your head down.

The first plunge into the water was shock, cold slicing through your skull like a scream you couldn’t make. You gurgled, kicked, bubbles rising, but her hand pressed down harder.

You thought of jasmine. Of Caleb’s lips. Of the ache between your legs that still hummed like a hymn.

She let you up just long enough for a gasp, then shoved you down again.

“You let him in you,” she growled. “Let him ruin what I raised. He planted something wicked in you.”

You came up coughing, hacking water from your lungs as your hair clung in wet ropes across your face. Water streamed from your nose, your chin, your eyelashes—blurring everything. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, soaked and nearly translucent, every seam heavy with water. Your knees slammed against the tile when you tried to crawl away, but before you could gain footing, Mama's fingers twisted into the back of your neck.

She slammed you down again.

This time, you saw stars. Not just light, but colours.

Blooming behind your eyelids like bruises, like galaxies unravelling. Shades of violet and stormcloud, like the marrow of twilight. You thought of Caleb’s eyes—those impossible, bruised-lilac things that always seemed too vivid for a boy raised in dust and silence. The kind of purple that didn’t belong to earth or blood or sky, but to something older. Something watching.

Darkness pooled at the edges of your vision. Your limbs went slack, heavy and useless. Your fingernails scraped helplessly against the porcelain, clicking like a desperate metronome.

Bang.

The door crashed open.

“Let her go!”

Caleb.

His voice didn’t sound like his own—it was cracked, raw, feral. But Mama didn’t move. She held you underwater like she could baptise the sin out of you. Like if she just pressed harder, longer, she could drown the past. Your choices. Her shame. Herself.

Then, he slammed into her.

Hard.

The force sent her stumbling into the wall, arms flailing. Her grip slipped, and you came up with a gasp that tore from your throat like an animal’s cry.

You collapsed against the basin’s rim, arms trembling, water streaming off you in waves. You coughed so hard it felt like you might turn inside out.

“Get away from her!” Caleb roared, and the sound of it was terrifying—half a sob, half a snarl.

Mama staggered back, wild-eyed, her hair tangled and dripping, her chest heaving like she’d run for miles. Her dress, soaked from the struggle, clung to her bony frame, water darkening the fabric and dripping steadily onto the floor in sharp, angry splashes.

“She’s unclean!” she shrieked, pointing at you with a trembling hand. “Let me finish it—she needs to be cleansed!”

“She’s not yours to fix,” Caleb spat, stepping in front of you. His body blocked hers like a wall. “Not anymore.”

“She was never yours to ruin,” Mama hissed, voice splintering with something sharp and bitter.

You crawled toward him, limbs jelly-like, and he caught you before you collapsed. You curled into Caleb’s chest, still coughing, shaking, your nightgown soaked and clinging to every inch of your skin. He wrapped himself around you like armour—like he could protect you from all of it just by holding you tight enough.

Mama stood frozen. Her gaze darted between you and him, as if she were looking at strangers. Like she couldn’t reconcile what she was seeing with what she thought she’d raised.

Then, slowly, her arms fell to her sides, and she turned. Wordless. Hollow. She walked out, her footsteps trailing water and wilted herbs across the hallway like a funeral procession.

You and Caleb stayed there for a long time—on the bathroom floor, drenched and trembling—his arms around you, your face buried in his chest, your heart beating wildly against his ribs.

Neither of you said a word.

But in the silence that followed, you knew that nothing was clean. Nothing would ever be clean again.

The house around you exhaled like a beast satisfied. The boards creaked under her retreating steps. Then—stillness. No prayers. No threats. No thunder of her fury. Just the soft drip of water from your hair, the shallow wheeze of your lungs trying to recover.

Caleb helped you up, gently, like you might break if he moved too fast. He wrapped you in the old towel hanging by the door and guided you out, not to your room, but to his.

The door clicked shut behind you.

He crossed the small space, dropped to his knees beside the bed, and pulled out an old tin container from underneath. It was battered, the corners dented and rusted, but achingly familiar.

It had once been a candy tin—mixed fruits, all bright wrappers and artificial sweetness. You remembered now how you used to fish out the orange-flavoured ones and hand them to Caleb, scrunching your nose because you couldn’t stand the taste. He always took them with a grin, no matter how many you passed his way.

The tin was still covered in the stickers you’d stuck on years ago—little stars, faded cartoon characters, a crooked heart where you’d once scratched both your initials inside. You hadn’t thought about it in years, but here it was. A piece of life you’d almost forgotten.

He pried it open and held it out.

Stacks of cash. Folded neatly, bundled with rubber bands. Not just pocket change—this was serious. Months, maybe a year’s worth.

“I’ve been saving,” he said. “From the garage. The boss pays under the table. I took every extra shift he offered—worked through the summer, stayed late when he needed hands. Just in case...”

You stared at the money, disbelieving. “You were planning to leave?”

“I was planning to survive,” he said quietly. “For both of us.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes again, but they didn’t fall. Not this time. You’d already drowned once tonight.

“I can get the car from the shop,” he continued. “We’ll take the old highway out. I know a back way through the woods, no one’ll see us leave.”

“But where would we go?” you asked, your voice so small you barely recognised it.

“Anywhere,” Caleb said. “Everywhere. Somewhere with streetlights. Somewhere, people mind their business. We can find work. A room. I’ll fix cars. You could do anything you want.”

Anything.

The word echoed inside you, strange and weightless. You’d never really thought beyond this place—this house with its rotten floorboards, its prayers and punishments, its bruised kind of love.

“I can’t leave like this,” you whispered. “I’m still wet. I’m still shaking.”

“We’ll wait ‘til she sleeps,” he said. “Pack only what matters. You can wear something dry. I’ll keep watch.”

You looked at him—really looked. His eyes were rimmed red. His knuckles scraped from where he’d shoved her. His jaw clenched with rage—he hadn’t fully come down from it. And still, he was looking at you like you were worth saving, like he’d do it again.

“I should’ve stopped her sooner,” he murmured, guilt bleeding through every word. “I should’ve known it’d come to this.”

You reached out, fingers curling around his wrist. “You stopped her when it mattered.”

Caleb nodded slowly, leaning in and pressing his forehead to yours. “We’re getting out. I swear it.”

–

You and Caleb waited, hearts pounding, ears straining for every groan and pop of the old house. Past midnight, the whole town was dead—no glow in the windows, no distant engines, only that thick, waiting dark pressing at the walls. The plan was airtight: pack light, move fast, slip away before dawn. Caleb would drive. You’d keep your head down, quiet, invisible.

Caleb brushed dirt off his jeans and checked the door. “I’m grabbing tools from the shed,” he muttered, gripping your shoulder just once before moving out into the dark. “Get us food for the trip.”

You nodded, moving stiff but sure down the hall. The kitchen felt colder than it should have, the bulb overhead buzzing and flickering. You threw open the fridge and worked fast—sandwiches, water bottles, jerky, whatever you could hold. Your breath steamed in the air. You slammed the fridge shut—and froze.

She was there.

Mama.

She looked like something raised from the grave—hair wild, face hollow and sagging, lips pulled back over her teeth in a grin too wide, too knowing. Her eyes glittered like glass marbles, vacant but furious. And her voice—ragged, deep, twisted into something that didn’t even sound human—rattled through the room.

“You thought you could sneak out,” she hissed, dragging her nails across the table, making a horrible screeching sound. “Thought you could slip away like roaches in the night.”

She came closer, slow at first, but jerking with unnatural movements, like a puppet yanked on broken strings. “I've seen the way you look at each other. Filthy. Godless. You belong to me—you both do.” Her eyes rolled up for a second, her whole body convulsing, froth bubbling at the corners of her mouth. “The maggots are in you, too!” she howled. “But they can’t eat me—I’m too strong. I’ll burn you out!”

You stumbled back, but she lunged. Her hands shot out, clutching your hair, yanking so hard your knees buckled. She slammed you into the counter, spitting curses, her nails clawing at your face, wild and frenzied. “God’s watching, you little whore! He sees everything! Filth! Filth!”

She was rabid. Eyes rolling, breath wheezing, twisting like something possessed. Like all those years of rot had finally eaten their way into her skull—the maggots gnawing their way to her brain, hollowing her out from the inside.

You screamed, fought, kicking and clawing. Then Caleb’s voice tore through the chaos—raw, desperate: “Get OFF her!”

He was in the room like a lightning bolt, grabbing Mama by the waist and hurling her back. She hit the floor with a sickening crack but scrambled up, snarling, face a mask of rage. Caleb grabbed her, but she clawed his face, biting, writhing like a demon in human skin.

“Hold her!” you yelled, your hand scrabbling for the butcher knife. Caleb pinned her arms, chest heaving, face bleeding, but Mama shrieked and fought, her feet kicking wildly. Her eyes met yours as you brought the knife down—sharp, cold steel plunging into her side. Once. Twice.

She screamed, gurgling, frothing. Caleb twisted her down, his arm around her throat, holding her tight as you drove the blade again and again, each strike shaking your whole body, until her movements slowed—her breath hitching, wet and ragged.

Mama’s last sound was a shuddering gasp—her head lolling back, eyes rolled white, body spasming before it went still.

You and Caleb stood over her, heaving for breath. The room was splattered with red—her blood smeared across the counters, dripping down your arms, staining the china. She lay twisted, mouth gaping like she was still trying to scream, but no sound came.

Caleb reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. You lifted his hand, brought it to your lips, sucked the blood clean—metallic, bitter, tasting of death and something deeper. Caleb did the same to yours, his mouth slow, shaking. When he looked at you, his eyes were wild and wet, but there was something else in them too—something raw and boundless.

“It’s done,” he whispered, hoarse.

–

The adrenaline crashed down hard. You dragged a bucket from under the sink, hands shaking uncontrollably as you scrubbed the floor, bleach burning your nostrils. The rag soaked through with blood almost immediately—pink at first, then darkening to maroon. You scrubbed and scrubbed, wrists aching, every inch of you trembling, but it felt like you were outside your body watching yourself move.

Mama’s blood clung to everything. It dripped into the cracks of the tiles. It stained the walls where her flailing hands had slapped. The kitchen still smelled like her powder, stale sweat, rot—and it felt like she was watching from the shadows, waiting to claw her way back up.

Your thoughts spiralled as you worked. Had you really killed her? Was she really gone? The rag slipped from your hand, and you pressed your fingers to your lips, choking back a sob.

Caleb’s shovel bit hard into the frozen earth, over and over, the clang of metal on rock sharp in the quiet night. His muscles burned, but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. His chest heaved, every breath ragged and raw. Dirt flew, spraying his boots, his jeans—he didn’t care. All he could see, even now, was her—the way Mama’s hands had gripped your hair, her nails digging into your skin, her voice rising in that inhuman shriek.

He still heard it. Your screams. The panicked crash of dishes. The guttural, awful sounds Mama made, like something had crawled inside her and taken over. Maybe her husband’s soul, a demon

He’d seen red. That was all. One second he was at the shed, grabbing tools, thinking about the road ahead—then he heard you, and the world blurred. His hands were fists before he knew it, legs pumping fast as hell down the hallway, and when he saw her—saw Mama on you—everything snapped.

His vision went fuzzy around the edges, his ears roared like static, and there was nothing left but raw instinct: get her off you. Kill her if he had to.

And he had.

Caleb stopped, shoulders shaking, leaning on the shovel. He stared down at the deep pit he’d carved out near the apple tree, sweat dripping from his chin despite the cold.

He wasn’t sorry.

He wasn’t even shaken anymore.

He was glad she was dead.

–

Downstairs, you were waiting by the basement door, eyes wide and hollow, arms wrapped around yourself. You didn’t say anything—just looked at him, at the blood smeared across his clothes, and then at the body lying on the tarp-covered floor. Mama. Wrapped tight in plastic like cheap meat at the market. Her face was hidden now, but you didn’t need to see it—you could feel her lingering, a poison in the air.

“She’s ready,” you said quietly, voice so hoarse it barely sounded like you. Caleb just nodded, jaw clenched hard, and grabbed the other end of the tarp.

Together, you dragged her down the basement steps. Each thud of her body hitting the stairs made you both wince, but you didn’t stop. The basement was cold and damp, the cement floor sweating under your bare feet. That smell hit you again—chemical, rotting, metallic. The freezer sat in the corner like a tomb, humming low, waiting.

Caleb paused, chest heaving. “On three.”

You braced yourself. “One... two... three.”

Her body was heavy, awkward, the plastic squealing as you heaved her up and rolled her into the freezer. It wasn’t the first body in there—you both knew that.

Her husband was in there too. Or... what was left of him. You could see the plastic wrapping under the flickering freezer light—parts of a man, shrivelled and iced over. His head tilted sideways, mouth frozen open like he was still mid-scream. An arm bent at an unnatural angle. Ribs poking out of torn flesh, gnawed down to the bone in some places.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard. Caleb stood frozen, staring down, eyes wide and dark.

“I kept thinking,” you whispered, voice trembling, “that meat… it tasted different sometimes. Too... soft. Too dark.”

Caleb's eyes flicked to yours, haunted. His voice was tight, strained. “Remember that time we asked? At dinner?”

Yeah. You remembered. Too well.

It was late, sticky-hot, and the dining table was set the same as always—rice, greens, and a big pot of red-stewed meat. You’d poked at yours, frowning.

“This meat tastes weird, mama,” you’d said quietly, glancing at Caleb.

He looked at you, then at Mama. “Yeah. It’s... different.”

Mama didn’t look up from her bowl. “Eat. Don’t waste food.”

“But—” you started.

She slammed her chopsticks down, making the bowls rattle. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

That was the end of it. You’d both lowered your heads, shovelling in mouthfuls with your colourful spoons, swallowing fast, trying to ignore the strange texture, the bitter aftertaste. Neither of you dared speak of it again.

Back in the basement now, you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. Caleb finally closed the freezer lid with a solid thunk, locking it tight. He stood there for a beat, eyes closed, hand resting on top.

You nodded, but it didn’t feel real yet. Not with the freezer humming like that. Not with the echoes of her voice still rattling around in your skull.

Caleb moved to the workbench, grabbed the half-crushed pack of cigarettes, and lit one. He took a drag, then passed it to you, like it was second nature, like sharing was survival.

You took it with shaky fingers, inhaling deep, the smoke sharp and bitter in your lungs. You both stood there, quiet, the glow of the ember flicking between you like a secret pact.

Caleb passed the cigarette back to you, his fingers brushing yours. You took a drag, but your hands were trembling now, the adrenaline long gone. The smoke sat heavy in your lungs, like it couldn’t fill the hollow sitting in your chest.

“She’s gone,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, like you were waiting for her voice to rise from the walls, for her to come stomping down the hall and catch you both.

Caleb let out a bitter breath of smoke. “Yeah. She’s gone.”

You stared at the cigarette, fingers tightening. “It doesn’t... feel real.”

Caleb’s jaw clenched. He looked at you, eyes sharp and raw. “Good. It shouldn’t feel real. She was—she deserved it.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. “I keep thinking she’s gonna come back. Like none of this matters because she’s still... here. In this house. In my head.”

Caleb shifted closer, watching you carefully. His voice softened but didn’t lose its edge. “She can’t hurt us anymore.”

You looked at him then, blinking fast, the cigarette shaking between your fingers. “But I keep hearing her. Like she’s still... yelling. Still telling me I’m nothing.”

Caleb exhaled slowly, reached out, and plucked the cigarette from your hand. He took a deep drag and let the smoke curl between you both. “She fucked us up. All those years... making us perfect. Be quiet, be good, be better—for what? Just so she could tear us down again.”

“She was worse with me,” you whispered.

His hand twitched, grip tightening on the cigarette. “I know.” His voice cracked, full of guilt and something hotter, meaner. “I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve—”

You shook your head quickly, cutting him off. “We were kids. There was nothing we could do.”

He stared at you, eyes glassy and bloodshot. “We did something now.”

You bit your lip hard and tasted iron. “I don’t know if that makes it better.”

“It makes it over,” Caleb said, voice low but certain. “That’s enough.”

You sat in silence for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth until it was just ash and smoke between your fingers. The quiet pressed down heavily, but was different now, like something had cracked open inside the house.

“What do we say... when people ask?” you finally whispered.

Caleb flicked the stub into the ashtray, wiped his hands down his jeans. “We tell them she’s visiting a relative. Far away. A cousin, maybe—someone from the old village. Somewhere out east.”

“For how long?”

“Weeks. Months. No one will question it if we say she’s tending to something important. An inheritance, maybe. A sick uncle. Whatever sounds just believable enough.”

“They’ll think it’s weird we’re still here.”

He met your eyes, steady. “We tell them she left us in charge. She trusted us. We make it normal. We act normal.”

You nodded, slow and mechanical. “And if they don’t buy it?”

Caleb’s face went tight, jaw hard as stone. “Then we keep lying. We don’t slip. We cover each other’s backs.”

You stared at your hands, still faintly smudged with blood even after scrubbing them raw. “I keep thinking she’s watching.”

Caleb leaned forward, brushing your hair back, his touch so gentle it almost broke you. “She’s not watching. Not anymore.”

Your throat burned. You blinked down at his hand, that same familiar scar on his knuckle. “What if we never feel free?”

He sighed, tipping his head against yours. “Then at least we’re stuck together.”

You closed your eyes, holding onto that small, quiet truth.

Together. Still breathing. Still here.

And somehow, that had to be enough.

–

They carried on with their lives.

The chickens still needed feeding. The garden still needed turning. The house, despite everything, did not collapse under the weight of what they’d done.

When people asked—and they did, gently at first—Caleb would offer the same easy reply, like something rehearsed and folded neatly away.

“Mama’s visiting her cousin near the coast. Said she needed time. Family matters.”

You nodded when prompted. Gave soft, vague smiles. Said things like “She sends her love,” or “We’re holding down the fort.” The sort of polite nonsense that satisfied most of them.

But not all.

Because things had changed.

You wore your hair down now. Ate when you were hungry. Slept without the weight of footsteps creeping down the hallway. Caleb fixed the broken porch rail. Cleaned the windows. Started to whistle again. Some days, he even went down to the river with his sleeves rolled and his ankles in the shallows, laughing when the minnows nipped at his toes.

The rot had stopped spreading.

And to the townsfolk, that was strange.

Because grief wasn’t supposed to soften you. It was meant to turn you inside out. Meant to hollow you into something unrecognisable.

But you and Caleb? You looked… better.

He stood straighter. Spoke more clearly. His eyes, once dulled from too many sleepless nights, held a quiet sort of focus now. You smiled more—at the market, at the temple, at nothing in particular. The bruises beneath your eyes faded. You no longer jumped at loud voices.

They noticed.

And then they started to whisper.

The house had always been a place people crossed the street to avoid. But now they looked longer. Peered from behind the curtains. Paid too much attention to how often Caleb walked into town alone, and how you always waited on the porch for him to come back.

It wasn’t just that Mama was gone.

It was that you seemed… lighter. More alive. As if her absence had let you both become someone else entirely.

And that—more than the mystery, more than the lies—was what truly unsettled them.

Because what kind of children thrive when their mother disappears?

And what kind of family moves through mourning without mourning at all?

That’s when they started watching you more closely.

They noticed how you never locked the front gate anymore. How the lights in the upstairs bedroom burned late into the night. How Caleb sometimes stared too long when you weren’t looking, and how your hand lingered on his back just a little too tenderly when you passed him a bowl of soup.

Whispers became suspicions.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Not right.

It was near midnight when Miss Martha took the orchard path home, her arms full of half-wilted carnations and a chipped pie tin borrowed from her cousin’s wake. The sky hung heavy with clouds and cricketsong, and the trees shimmered with heat still trapped from the day. She walked slowly, as if the shadows themselves might whisper to her if she lingered long enough. Martha always took the long way—said it was for her knees, but everyone knew better.

Martha had a particular gift for seeing what wasn’t meant to be seen. She prided herself on knowing whose daughter snuck out, who’d started drinking early, which widow had a man’s coat drying by her hearth. She was the town’s unofficial historian of shame, chronicler of soft scandals.

That night, she found a new chapter.

She paused just past the fencepost where the orchard opened onto your back yard, your house nestled like a wound between the trees. The light from the back window was low and golden, flickering like candlefire. The curtains had been carelessly pulled back, a breath of summer wind teasing them open.

That’s when she saw him.

Caleb stood with his back to the window, the glass fogged behind him, his silhouette washed in the dim gold light of the lamp. The glow cast a halo along the slope of his bare shoulders, turning sweat-slick skin into something near-sacred, like a fallen saint caught mid-confession.

His chest rose and fell with quiet effort, breath shallow, trembling. The low-slung jeans clung to his hips, unbuttoned and careless, threatening to slip with every twitch of muscle. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. His hands were pressed flat against the wall —tense, white-knuckle— as though bracing himself against a world that kept tilting.

His head hung low, chin nearly to his chest, with his messy dark hair that fell forward, veiling his face in shadow. He still hadn’t looked up.

And—gods, you were there too.

Pinned between his body and the plaster, breathless and gasping.

Your dress was crooked, one strap fallen off your shoulder, the hem hitched high around your thighs. It was a thin summer cotton thing, white with tiny blue flowers, the kind Mama would’ve said was “too soft for a girl your age.” It clung to your damp skin, translucent with sweat. There were faint bruises blooming along your collarbone, purpling down your throat, where Caleb’s mouth had been—not angry, but reverent.

One of your hands was buried in his hair, the other pressed against the small of his back. Your leg curled up around his hip, bare foot flexed against the wallpaper, trying to pull him closer even though there was no space left between you. It wasn’t just the position—it was the way your eyes were closed, the soft part of your lips parted, the faint sound of your sighs echoing against the wall.

It looked like he was praying.

Like your body was the altar, and he couldn’t stop confessing.

That was when Martha dropped everything.

The pie tin clattered to the ground with a metallic ring, carnations scattering like startled birds. One bloom landed face-down in the dust. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. She backed away slowly, half-tripping on a root, heart pounding loud enough to drown the cicadas. She could have looked away. Could have turned and gone back the way she came.

But she didn’t.

She stood there and watched, face pale, fingers trembling at her throat. She watched the way Caleb cradled your jaw in one hand, whispered something against your cheek, kissed your mouth like he was starving and only you could save him. His hips rocked forward in rhythm, desperate, aching, like he was trying to crawl inside you just to feel whole again.

And then he looked up.

Not quickly. Not startled. Just… aware. As if he’d always known she was there. His eyes—unnatural and violet, lit from within by something that had no business being human—met hers through the dark glass.

And he didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

He held your body closer, one strong arm curling around your waist, the other still cradling your jaw like it was something sacred. As if shielding you from her gaze. As if daring her to look away first.

He held you like you were both wrapped in something ancient and sacrilegious. Something too holy for the world to understand. Something that did not care for sin or shame or consequence.

And in that moment, Martha knew two things:

She had seen the devil staring back at her.

And worse, he was in love.

—

Martha didn’t tell anyone that first night.

She staggered home with her skirts clutched in both hands, flowers long forgotten, the borrowed pie tin denting her hip with every step. Her mouth was dry, throat raw from the gasp she hadn’t let out, and the image—the truth—seared itself behind her eyes like a holy vision turned rancid.

She didn’t sleep. Just sat in her chair by the window, staring out toward the orchard, toward that house, the way you might watch for wolves—or lightning.

By morning, the story had already begun writing itself inside her, word by trembling word.

She told her cousin first. Not directly. Just a few shaken words in the church foyer as they adjusted their hats and smoothed their skirts. “Something’s not right up there,” she whispered, hands fluttering like frightened birds. “I saw… I saw something I shouldn’t’ve.”

The cousin leaned in, breathless. “What kind of something?”

Martha only shook her head, eyes wide. “The kind you can’t unsee.”

It was all she had to say. The cousin, eager and wide-mouthed, filled in the rest.

By the time Sunday service was over, the butcher’s wife had heard. Then the schoolteacher. Then the woman who ran the boarding house, who passed it along to the girl who swept the church steps, who whispered it to her brother, who whispered it to his friends with dirt under their nails and lust in their eyes.

The tale grew swollen and slick with suggestion. It twisted like smoke between mouths, changed shape with every retelling. The orchard house, long a source of rumour, bloomed with new horrors.

They said Mama hadn’t gone to visit a cousin at all.

They said she’d seen something—heard something—and fled into the night. Or worse: that she’d been put in the ground and covered over with sweet-smelling flowers and lies.

They said the boy and the girl—Caleb and you—had taken to sleeping in the same bed. That she called his name like a hymn, and he touched her like she was an altar. That they only came into town when they needed bread or thread, and left again just as quickly, looking flushed and lit from within like candles burning at both ends.

The town turned on its haunches.

Old women turned their noses up at the orchard fence, clutching their shopping baskets like they might shield them from blasphemy. Men at the barbershop muttered into their shaving bowls about the rot of young blood and what happened when a house was left unsupervised too long. Even the children stopped cutting through the back trail, swearing the trees whispered to each other, and that they saw strange lights flickering behind the curtains at night.

The postman, whose route took him past the house twice a week, swore he’d seen Caleb shirtless on the porch, cigarette between his lips, a girl’s laughter curling out the window behind him like smoke. He didn’t wave. Just stood there and stared until the postman’s truck rolled past.

“They don’t act like siblings,” he muttered later in town. “Ain’t never seen siblings look at each other like that.”

And still, the house stood quiet. Untouched. Not quite dead, not quite living.

You and Caleb moved through the days like nothing had changed. He walked with his hand on your lower back. You wore loose dresses that slipped off your shoulders, skin blooming with half-hidden marks like soft bruises. You looked brighter. Fuller. As though something terrible had been lifted. As though whatever you’d buried beneath the floorboards had finally stopped haunting you.

But that was what unsettled them most of all.

You were happy.

And in this town, happiness without permission was the worst sin of all.

So when Miss Martha crossed the street to avoid you in the grocer’s lane, when the pastor began to preach just a little louder about purity and repentance, when someone tossed a Bible into your yard in the dead of night—it wasn’t just out of disgust.

It was fear.

That something had grown in the orchard that no one could name.

And it was blooming right in front of them.

—

The fear festered.

By the second week, whispers had turned to plans.

The pastor called a special meeting—just the women at first. A prayer circle, he said, though no one prayed. They gathered in the fellowship hall under the low light of lanterns and muttered their concerns like curses. It was Miss Martha who finally spoke what they all were thinking.

“They’re not right. Something unclean is happening in that house.”

Heads nodded, slow and solemn. The pastor’s wife—always quiet, always watching—spoke next. “It’s like Sodom, isn’t it? All sweetness on the outside, but rotten under the skin. That kind of sin spreads.”

After that, it stopped being about what you and Caleb were doing—and started being about what it meant. A blight. A curse. A sickness that could leap from house to house if it wasn’t rooted out. Mothers began pulling their children closer. Fathers looked up from their newspaper columns with hard-set jaws.

The pastor stepped into the pulpit that Sunday with fire in his throat. He didn’t say your names—not directly—but every word rang like judgment:

“They have turned their backs on the Lord, and the Lord has turned His face from them. We are not meant to watch wickedness thrive in silence. You know what must be done.”

A silence fell over the church. Thick. Final.

The men stayed behind after the final hymn.

They spoke in low voices beneath the great wooden cross, surrounded by the scent of wax and old leather. Caleb’s name came up first. Then yours. Then Mama’s—how long had it been since anyone had seen her? Was it possible, someone asked, that she never left at all?

That night, someone lit a torch.

And just like that, a line was crossed.

The orchard trees seemed to whisper louder in the wind, their leaves twitching like nervous hands. Even the crickets were silent. You felt it in your spine—that something had shifted. That something was coming.

And then came the knock.

Late. Too late for anything good.

Caleb answered the door in worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dust clinging to the hem like he’d just come from the cellar or the far side of the orchard. His hair was unkempt, shadows clinging to his face like old bruises.

Behind the cracked door stood three figures—Elias, Royce, and Thomas—men molded by the land and hardened by years of sermons and silence. Elias held a Bible, its leather cover weathered and flaking like old bark, his fingers curled around it like it was a weapon. Royce had a coil of rope, thick and stiff, slung across his chest like it belonged there—his jaw set, eyes flat with purpose. And Thomas, ever silent, gripped a rusted shovel, the edge jagged from use, its metal lip bumping softly against the porch rail as he shifted, like it was eager for dirt.

The man in front—Elias, the deacon, a taxidermied smile stretched too tight over yellowing teeth—tilted his head in mock kindness. “Evening, Caleb. We’d like to talk.”

Caleb didn’t open the door any farther. He stood like a statue behind the wood, filling the threshold, one hand braced on the frame. The porch light flickered once, then held steady.

“You don’t look like men come to talk,” Caleb said quietly.

Thomas chuckled, low and humorless. “That depends on how the talking goes.”

Elias’ smile didn’t falter. “We’ve had… concerns,” he said. “Worries. There’s a sickness in this town, Caleb. And folks say it starts here. In this house.”

Caleb’s brow twitched, but his mouth stayed a hard line.

Elias shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Where’s your mama, son?”

Caleb blinked slowly.

“She’s not here.”

“That don’t answer the question.”

Royce leaned forward slightly, the fibers creaking. “We heard she never left. That she’s still here, under your floorboards, feeding the roses.”

Caleb’s jaw clenched. “She’s not here,” he said again.

Elias narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t nobody seen her in weeks. Not since the girl started wearing her apron. Not since the bread started showing up at the market with your name on it. People talk.”

“They always have,” Caleb replied. “Only difference now is they’re listening to each other.”

“And they’re listening to the Lord,” Elias snapped. “He tells us something’s wrong in that house. That you and that girl—”

“You mean her,” Caleb said, voice low and sharp.

Elias continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “—ain’t living the way decent people live. They hear the sounds, Caleb. They see her out there with bare shoulders and those marks blooming like bruises on her neck. They say she walks like a woman who’s been claimed.”

Caleb didn’t flinch. “She has been.”

Royce stepped forward. “So you admit it. You’re not brother and sister.”

“We never were.”

“Then what are you?” Elias asked, eyes gleaming. “Lovers? Heathens? Devil-marked and half-mad?”

Caleb met his gaze with a calm so cold it burned. “We’re something you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re a sin,” Elias said, spitting the word like it tasted foul.

“No,” Caleb said. “We’re a mirror. And you just don’t like what you see.”

The shovel scraped once against the porch. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the kitchen,” he said softly. “Making dinner. Hands in the sink, humming to herself. We had turnips left from the root cellar, and she wanted to roast them with rosemary. Said they make the house smell warm.”

Elias’ smile twitched.

“She doesn’t know we’re here?”

Caleb met his eyes again. “She does.”

“And she’s not scared?”

Caleb’s lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something older, steadier, heavier than any fear they’d brought with them.

“She’s not scared,” he said. “Because she has me.”

And then he shut the door. Slowly. Cleanly. No slam. Just a quiet finality, like the last line of a prayer.

Inside, the bolt clicked into place.

And outside, on that porch, the men stood frozen, torches flickering behind them, unsure whether they’d just been turned away by something unholy… or something sacred.

—

The mob’s voices thundered like a gathering storm outside the orchard house—shouts of “Sinners! Repent!” and “Turn back from your wickedness!” pounding against the walls. Lanterns bobbed like angry fireflies, casting long, trembling shadows.

Caleb stood by the front door, clad in worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his expression unreadable but his eyes steady. You stood beside him, the heavy scent of gasoline thick in the air, the weight of what was to come pressing down on your chest.

Among the crowd, Gideon’s face was pale and conflicted, eyes darting between the angry mob and the house where you and Caleb waited. He had been dragged here by his parents, forced into a hateful chorus he wished he could escape.

Caleb’s voice cut through the chaos. “We’re here. What is it you want?”

Elias stepped forward, Bible in hand. “You’ve turned your backs on God. This ends tonight.”

You and Caleb exchanged a glance—silent understanding in the midst of chaos. Neither of you were naïve enough to think running would save you. You could have fled into the night, disappeared into shadows beyond the orchard.

But you both knew the truth.

If you kept living, you would only repeat the cycle Mama taught you—the way love could consume and destroy, like the twisted hunger between her and her husband. You loved each other too fiercely, too dangerously. You feared one day that love would devour you whole, body and soul, like a slow, relentless fire.

Caleb’s hand found yours, fingers curling tightly. His voice was low, filled with a fierce tenderness. “We can’t keep running from what we are. We love too much. And that love… it could tear us apart, just like it did them.”

You nodded, the lump in your throat growing heavy. “We’re not afraid of dying, Caleb. We’re afraid of living a life where love becomes a cage—or worse, a weapon.”

Caleb brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, violet eyes burning with raw emotion. “So if this is our end, it will be together. On our own terms.”

The crowd’s shouts faltered as you pulled a small lighter from your pocket. The flame flickered to life, steady and fierce.

You let the burning metal drop onto the gasoline-soaked porch. A hiss, then a roar as flames swallowed the wood like a living thing.

Caleb wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as heat curled and twisted around the doorframe.

One last time, he whispered against your skin, “I love you.”

“I love you,” you breathed back, voice breaking but steady.

Hand in hand, you stepped inside the fire—into the blaze that would end the pain, the fear, the cycle.

Outside, the mob’s cries turned frantic. Some shouted for mercy, some wept, others stood frozen in shock.

And Gideon—his heart shattered and heavy—stood at the edge, caught between the demands of his parents and the devastating truth of the two people he had cared for most choosing fire over fear.

The orchard house burned bright, a blazing testament to love too fierce, too broken, to survive in a world built on fear.

—

By dawn, the orchard house was reduced to a blackened skeleton — a charred ruin where flames had danced their merciless dance through the night. The fire had devoured everything: the walls that once held laughter and secrets, the floors worn smooth by footsteps, and the fragile memories nestled within its beams.

The early morning air was thick with smoke and ash, still rising in lazy spirals against the pale sky. Police officers cordoned off the scene with yellow tape, their faces grim and expressionless beneath wide-brimmed hats. Firefighters, their gear soot-streaked and heavy, moved among the ruins, hosing down smoldering embers and probing the debris for any sign of life.

The townsfolk gathered behind the barriers, eyes wide and voices hushed with a mix of fear and fascination. They sifted carefully through the ashes, desperate for any trace of you or Caleb — some sign, some whisper of your existence.

But there was nothing.

No bones. No ashes. No remnants to mourn.

Only two relics remained.

Near the cracked, blackened hearth lay the brittle skeleton of an older woman—the delicate curve of her bones unmistakably female, fragile like a fading hymn. Beside her rested a weathered skull, bleached white by years underground, silent and eternal—a man’s skull, cracked but unyielding.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.

“Mama… and her husband.”

Gideon stood apart, his breath fogging the cold morning air. He had once run through this garden — chased butterflies beneath the heavy, sun-dappled boughs of the old apple tree, his laughter mingling with Caleb’s and yours in days before whispers turned to rumors, before fear twisted into something darker.

The apple tree still stood, tall and proud amid the ruin, its gnarled branches twisting defiantly toward the pale dawn. Its bark was scorched black near the roots, but green leaves clung stubbornly to its limbs, shimmering like emerald flames against the ash-gray sky.

Gideon’s gaze was fixed on the tree, his voice barely audible as if speaking to the spirits lingering in the smoky air.

“Like a crown of thorns worn by saints and sinners alike, they burned… but their roots run deeper than fire. They are the martyrs of this orchard, bearing love that both saved and destroyed.”

His eyes, heavy with sorrow and regret, traced the scarred earth beneath the tree. Memories flooded back—Caleb’s reckless smile, the way he’d once carved your initials into his skin with a nervous laugh; your whispered promises, a fragile rebellion against the darkness that Mama had taught you to fear.

Gideon swallowed hard, the weight of the moment settling deep into his bones. He had been forced to join the mob, pushed by his parents’ fearful hands and the preacher’s relentless sermons. But even now, standing here amidst the ashes, he knew the truth: those two had loved too fiercely to live in a world so cruel. They had chosen their fate—not out of despair, but out of a desperate hope to break the cycle that had bound them since childhood.

“Their love was both salvation and sacrifice,” he whispered. “Like two stars burning so bright, they consumed each other to save what little light remained.”

The orchard held its breath, a silent witness to the story that fire could not erase.

A story of love that defied condemnation.

Of broken chains and the price of freedom.

And beneath the apple tree, Gideon vowed that their memory would never fade—that some flames, no matter how fierce, could never destroy the roots of the soul.

#꒰ა 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 .ᐟ #dividers by v6que #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #lads caleb #lnds caleb #love and deepsace fanfic #caleb angst #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace angst

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meadowfics · 3 days ago

Text

byeol's first birthday steps

father!kang dae-ho x f!mother!reader

this is a chapter to my 'KANG FAMILY' series linked here!

synopsis: it is your daughter's first birthday, and so much is already happening!

warnings: emetophobia trigger!!!!

the house is quiet, a stillness settling over it like a soft blanket. you’re in your bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor with byeol, her chubby hands clutching a wooden block as she babbles to herself.

through the window, the late afternoon sun pours which paints the room in warm hues of gold and pink. byeol’s first birthday is in two days, and the thought has been tugging at your heart all week, leaving you teary and sentimental.

your baby, your little star, is growing up too fast.

you watch her stack another block, her tiny brow furrowed in concentration, and your chest aches with a love so big it feels like it might spill over.

dae-ho’s out with seo-ah, who’s been happy with excitement about her playdate with na-yeon.

you can picture her now, pigtails bouncing as she chases her friends around the park with dae-ho and gyeong-seok trailing behind with that easy smile of theirs. you can imagine daeho carrying her stuffed bunny, mr. flops, in case she needs it.

the thought makes you smile, but it’s fleeting.

as you sit, a sudden wave of nausea hits you, sharp and unexpected.

you tried to ignore it, but it is twisting your stomach so intensely. you press a hand to your mouth, your heart racing as you try to breathe through it.

it’s probably just a stomach bug, you tell yourself...something from the spicy tteokbokki you ate last night at that restaurant in itaewon with dae-ho and hyunju last night.

the food was delicious, but maybe it didn’t sit right.

you glance at byeol, who’s still focused on her blocks, oblivious to your discomfort.

“be right back, byeolie,” you tried to murmur, your voice shaky as you scramble to your feet.

you barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea overtakes you, and you lean over the toilet, your body heaving. the cool tile against your knees grounds you, but your head spins, and you feel clammy, unsteady.

when it’s over, you slump against the bathtub, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

your throat burns, and you close your eyes, willing the dizziness to pass as tears flow through your eyes as a side effect.

it is just a bug, you think again, trying to convince yourself.

you’ll be fine by tomorrow.

as your body calms down you hear a soft patter, like tiny feet on the hardwood.

your eyes snap open, and your breath catches.

byeol’s standing in the doorway, her little hands gripping the frame for balance, her gummy smile wide and bright.

she’s not holding onto anything else.

no furniture, no wall, just her own two legs keeping her upright.

your heart stops, then races.

“byeol?” you whisper, your voice trembling with disbelief.

she giggles, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and takes a wobbly step toward you. the baby's bare feet slap the floor, deliberate but unsteady, her arms flailing slightly for balance.

you lean back against the bathtub, the nausea forgotten, your entire world narrowing to this moment.

“come on, baby,” you say, your voice soft but urgent, tears already pricking your eyes, “come to mama.”

byeol laughs, a silly, bubbling sound that fills the room, and takes another step.

she’s slow, so slow, her focus intense as she moves one foot, then the other, her knees wobbling but holding. you can see the effort in her face, the way her tongue pokes out slightly, just like seo-ah’s does when she’s trying hard.

your baby’s been furniture-walking for months, ever since she mastered crawling, always clinging to the couch or your leg for support.

however, these are her first real steps, and you’re here to see them.

“that’s it, byeolie,” you say, your voice breaking as you hold out your hands, “you’re doing it! keep going!”

she sways, her little body tilting, but she catches herself, her smile never faltering.

another step, then another, her feet making soft thuds on the floor.

you’re crying now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t care. your baby’s walking, her first birthday just days away, and the joy of it is overwhelming.

you laugh through the tears, your hands shaking as you beckon her closer.

“come on, my brave girl,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“you’re almost here.”

byeol’s eyes are locked on yours, her laughter turning into excited squeals as she picks up speed, her steps still clumsy but determined. she’s so close now, just a foot away, and you lean forward, ready to catch her if she falls.

she doesn’t. she takes one final step, her tiny hand grabbing your finger, and collapses into your lap, her giggles echoing in the small bathroom.

you scoop her up, pulling her close, your tears falling into her soft hair.

“oh, byeol,” you whisper, “you did it. you walked to mama.”

she babbles back, her hands patting your face, smearing your tears, and you laugh, the sound shaky but full of love.

“my big girl,” you say, nuzzling her, “you’re growing up so fast.”

you sit there for a moment, holding her against your chest, your nausea a distant memory. the bathroom feels smaller, warmer, like it’s holding this moment just for the 'two' of you.

byeol’s weight in your arms is grounding, her warmth a reminder of how much she’s changed in just a year.

you think about her first days with the sleepless nights, the way she’d curl into you, so tiny and fragile.

now she’s walking, her personality bursting through in every giggle and determined step. the thought makes your tears fall harder, but they’re happy tears, the kind that come from loving someone so much it hurts.

you shift, leaning back against the bathtub again, and byeol squirms, wanting to move. you set her down carefully, watching as she pulls herself up using your knee.

she’s not done yet...she wants to keep going.

“okay, okay,” you say, laughing softly as you wipe your face, “let’s see it again, byeolie.”

you scoot back a little, giving her space, and she stands again, her little legs wobbly but stronger this time. she takes a step, then another, her arms flapping like tiny wings. you clap your hands, cheering her on.

“look at you! you’re a pro already!”

she makes it three steps before she plops onto her bottom, her laughter filling the room. you crawl over to her, scooping her up again and peppering her face with kisses.

“you’re gonna be running circles around us soon,” you say, your voice muffled against her cheek. you remember how seo-sh wouldn't stop running when she first started to use her feet.

byeol squeals, grabbing at your hair, and you laugh, the sound echoing off the tiles.

unfortunately, the happiest wouldn't last long. the nausea creeps back, a faint twinge in your stomach. you push it aside. it’s nothing, you tell yourself...just last night’s food.

you focus on byeol instead, helping her stand again.

she’s determined, her tiny hands gripping your fingers as she pulls herself up, ready to try again. you guide her gently, letting her take the lead, and she manages a few more steps before collapsing into your arms with a triumphant giggle.

“you’re amazing,” you tell her, your voice soft and full of awe.

“my little star, already walking.” you hold her close, rocking her gently, and the tears come again. you can’t help it...her birthday’s so close, and the weight of it hits you hard.

you carry byeol back to the bedroom, setting her on the rug with her blocks. she’s still giggling, banging two blocks together like it’s the best game in the world. you sit beside her, your stomach still uneasy, but you ignore it, focusing on her instead.

you stack a tower for her to knock over, and she does, her laughter loud and infectious. you laugh too, but your mind drifts to the last few months...byeol’s milestones piling up so fast you can barely keep track.

she started crawling just after her eighth month, thanks to seo-ah’s secret coaching, and now she’s walking.

it feels like you blinked, and she grew up.

you think about last night, the dinner in itaewon with dae-ho and hyunju. the restaurant was cozy, tucked into a narrow street, the kind of place with fairy lights and mismatched plates.

you’d shared plates of tteokbokki and kimchi fried rice, laughing over old stories. you had teased dae-ho about his old construction job, how he’d show up to the café covered in dust to pick you up.

hyunju would ask if thats really true, since you didn't know her before the games, but dae-ho grinned, his arm around your shoulders, saying, “still got her to fall for me, didn’t i?”

you’d rolled your eyes, but your heart had been full.

maybe the food was off, though.

your stomach twists again, and you take a deep breath, pushing the thought away.

byeol tugs at your sleeve, pulling you back to the present.

“ma!” she says, her voice clear and bright, and your heart skips.

it’s one of her first words, and every time she says it, you melt.

“yeah, baby?” you say, leaning down to kiss her forehead. she points at the blocks, demanding another tower, and you oblige, stacking them carefully while she watches with wide, eager eyes.

the front door opens, and you hear seo-ah’s voice, high and excited, followed by dae-ho’s low chuckle.

“mama! byeolie!” seo-ah calls, her footsteps pounding as she runs into the house.

you smile, wiping your eyes one last time before standing, byeol in your arms.

“in here, sweetie!” you call back, heading toward the hallway.

seo-ah bursts into the bedroom, her cheeks flushed from the playdate, her pigtails slightly messy with flyaways.

dae-ho’s behind her, carrying her backpack and mr. flops, his sweatshirt rumpled but his smile warm.

“mama, na-yeon’s got a new slide!” seo-ah says, bouncing on her toes, “it’s so big! and gyeong-seok tried to go on it but he was too big fell off, don't worry he’s okay!”

you laugh, setting byeol down so she can try standing again.

“sounds like you had fun,” you say while ruffling her hair, “did you thank gyeong-seok?”

“yep!” seo-ah says, then gasps as she notices byeol.

“mama, she’s standing!”

dae-ho’s eyes widen, and he drops the backpack, kneeling beside byeol.

“whoa whoa, byeolie,” he says, his voice full of pride for his babygirl, “you’re up on your own?”

“she’s walking,” you say, your voice catching.

“just now, in the bathroom. she took her first steps.”

dae-ho looks at you, his eyes soft and a little teary.

“no way,” he says with his voice hushed, “our baby’s walking?”

“show appa, byeolie,” you say, helping her stand again. she wobbles, gripping your fingers, then lets go, taking two shaky steps toward dae-ho.

he catches her as she stumbles, lifting her high and spinning her gently, her giggles filling the room.

“that’s my girl!” he says, kissing her cheeks, “you’re gonna be chasing your sister soon!”

seo-ah claps, jumping up and down.

“i’m gonna teach her to run!” she says, her eyes bright.

you laugh, but the nausea hits again, and you press a hand to your stomach, hoping they don’t notice. dae-ho does, though...his eyes flick to you, concern creasing his brow.

“you okay, babe?” he asks, setting byeol down with seo-ah.

“yeah,” you say quickly, forcing a smile.

“just something from dinner last night. i’ll be fine.”

he doesn’t look convinced but nods, trusting you.

“let me know if you need anything,” he says, his hand brushing yours.

you’re emotional, your heart full and raw, but you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

byeol’s first birthday is in two days, and she’s walking, growing, becoming her own little person.

you don’t know why you’re feeling so sick, but you push it aside for now.

two days later...

you wake to the sound of byeol’s gentle babbling through the baby monitor. you turn to dae-ho, who’s already stirring, his hair a mess and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

it’s byeol’s first birthday today, and the thought hits you like a wave, your heart swelling with joy and a touch of bittersweet ache.

your baby is one.

you roll out of bed, your bare feet padding across the hardwood, and dae-ho follows, his hand brushing yours as you both head to byeol’s room.

she’s sitting up in her crib, her tiny hands clutching the bars, her gummy smile wide as she sees you.

“happy birthday, byeolie!” you say, your voice bright but trembling with emotion.

you scoop her up, kissing her chubby cheeks, and dae-ho leans in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“our little star’s one,” he says, his voice soft and full of awe.

you shake your head, tears pricking your eyes as you hold her close.

“I can't believe it” you murmur, nuzzling her soft hair, “feels like she was just born.”

dae-ho starts singing “happy birthday,” his voice low and a little off-key, and you join in, your voices blending in a quiet, loving harmony. byeol giggles, her hands flapping, her eyes sparkling with delight.

you carry her downstairs, deciding to let seo-ah sleep in since she deserves her beauty sleep after all the excitement of the playdate two days ago.

in the kitchen, you set byeol in her highchair, and dae-ho starts making her breakfast: mashed banana and a little oatmeal, her favorite.

you sit across from her, feeding her small spoonfuls, laughing as she smacks her lips and reaches for more.

“you’re such a big girl now,” you say, your heart full as she babbles back, her tiny voice saying “ma!” in response.

dae-ho watches, his chin resting in his hand, his smile soft and content.

“she’s gonna be running soon,” he says, sipping his coffee.

“just watch. she’ll be chasing seo-ah next week.”

you laugh, wiping a smear of oatmeal from byeol’s chin.

“don’t rush her,” you say, though you know he’s probably right. she’s already walking, her wobbly steps from two days ago still fresh in your mind, a memory you’ve replayed over and over.

the morning passes in a quiet, happy blur, and by afternoon, the house is ready for byeol’s intimate birthday celebration.

you didn’t want anything big...not like seo-ah’s parties, with her gaggle of friends and piles of gifts. byeol’s only one, and you wanted this to be just family, just love.

hyunju’s coming over, though, and you’re grateful for her.

unfortunately ji-yeong is with na-yeon and gyeong-seok so she won't be coming.

hyunju has been your closest friend lately, always showing up with her warmth and laughter.

when the doorbell rings, seo-ah races to open it, her pigtails bouncing.

“auntie hyunju!” she squeals, throwing her arms around hyunju’s legs. hyunju laughs, balancing a box in her arms as she steps inside.

“hey, kiddo!” she says, ruffling seo-ah’s hair.

she turns to you, holding up the box with a grin, “got something special for the birthday girl.”

you peek inside and gasp. it’s a smash cake for byeol, small and perfect, decorated with soft pink frosting and delicate edible flowers.

“hyunju, it’s gorgeous,” you say while hugging her, “she’s gonna love it.”

“and we’ve got a big cake for the rest of us,” hyunju says, nodding to another box on the counter.

“no flowers for us, though...don’t want seo-ah thinking shes eating real petals.”

seo-ah giggles, already eyeing the bigger cake, which is chocolate with swirls of vanilla frosting.

“i want a big piece!” she declares, and dae-ho laughs, scooping her up.

“we’ll see, princess,” he says, tickling her side, “you gotta save some for the rest of us.”

you set byeol in her highchair, placing the smash cake in front of her. her eyes widen, her little hands reaching out as she squeals with excitement.

“look at that, byeolie,” you say, your voice soft with emotion, “your very own cake!”

hyunju pulls out her phone, ready to capture the moment, and dae-ho stands beside you, his arm around your waist.

“go for it, baby girl,” he says, and byeol doesn’t need any more encouragement. she plunges her hands into the cake, grabbing fistfuls of frosting and smearing it across her face.

the edible flowers tear apart under her tiny fingers, petals sticking to her cheeks as she laughs, her joy infectious.

“oh my gosh,” hyunju says, laughing as she snaps photos, “she’s an artist just like her momma!”

seo-ah claps, bouncing in her seat.

“byeolie, you’re so messy!” she says, giggling as byeol flings a bit of frosting her way. it lands on seo-ah’s cheek, and she squeals, wiping it off with a dramatic flourish.

you laugh, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

byeol’s giggles fill the room, her face a mess of pink frosting and flower petals, and you can’t stop watching her. your baby, one year old, tearing into her first cake with pure, unfiltered joy.

you lean against dae-ho, your eyes misty, and he squeezes your waist, kissing the top of your head.

“she’s perfect,” he murmurs, and you nod, too emotional to speak.

you’re cutting slices of the big cake for everyone when seo-ah tugs at your sleeve, her ponytail lopsided from where byeol’s frosting missile hit her.

“mama, can you fix my hair,” she says, pouting as she holds up a sticky strand.

“got it, sweetie,” you say, setting the knife down. you kneel beside her, gently tugging the hair tie loose, but as you start to rebraid her ponytail, a sudden wave of nausea hits you, sharp and relentless.

your stomach churns, the chocolate cake you ate moments ago threatening to come back up.

you freeze, your hands trembling, and take a deep breath, hoping it’ll pass.

“y/n?” hyunju says, noticing your pause.

“you okay?”

“yeah,” you say quickly, forcing a smile.

“just need to run to the bathroom. hyunju, can you finish her ponytail?”

“of course,” hyunju says, her eyes narrowing with concern as she takes over. dae-ho’s watching you too, his brow furrowed, but you wave them off, hurrying upstairs before they can ask more questions.

you barely make it to the bathroom before you’re over the toilet, your body heaving violently. the taste of bile burns your throat, and you grip the edge of the sink, your head spinning.

it’s just the food, you tell yourself, like two days ago.

maybe that restaurant in itaewon is cursed.

you’re wiping your mouth with a shaky hand when you feel someone behind you, gently gathering your hair and holding it back.

“it’s okay, baby, i got you,” dae-ho says, his voice soft and steady. his hand rubs slow circles on your back, and you lean into his touch, grateful for his presence even as your stomach twists.

when it’s over, you slump against the sink, catching your breath. dae-ho hands you a damp washcloth, his eyes full of worry.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice low.

“that’s twice in two days, y/n.”

“i’m fine,” you say, your voice hoarse, “just something from the restaurant, I think it was that bad tteokbokki or something.”

he doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“if it happens again, we’re calling the doctor,” he says, his tone gentle but firm, “no arguments.”

you manage a weak smile, nodding.

“deal,” you say, though you’re already dreading the thought of another wave. you rinse your mouth, splash water on your face, and take a deep breath.

“let’s go back down. it’s byeol’s day.”

he hesitates, searching your face, then kisses your forehead.

“okay,” he says, “but i’m keeping an eye on you.”

you head downstairs together, his hand on the small of your back, steadying you. the living room is still alive with laughter...hyunju’s helping seo-ah wipe frosting off her cheek, and byeol’s still smearing cake across her highchair tray, her giggles loud and joyful.

you slide back into your seat, your heart swelling as you watch her.

she’s one, and she’s perfect, her tiny hands covered in frosting, her eyes bright with wonder.

“look at her,” you say softly, your voice thickening with emotion.

“our little star’s growing up.”

hyunju smiles, handing seo-ah a clean napkin.

“she’s a superstar,” she says, “and she’s got the best big sister to keep her in line.”

seo-ah beams, puffing out her chest.

“i’m gonna teach her how to eat cake without throwing it,” she says, and you all laugh, the sound filling the room.

dae-ho sits beside you, his hand finding yours under the table.

“you sure you’re okay?” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

you nod, squeezing his hand.

“i’m good,” you say, and you mean it, despite the lingering unease in your stomach. you focus on byeol, on her laughter, on the way she claps her hands when daeho blows a raspberry on her cheek.

you cut another slice of cake for seo-ah, who’s already asking for seconds, and you lean back, watching your girls.

your little star is one, and she’s growing.

you couldn't be happier.

full series masterlist linked here

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r3ynah · 1 year ago

Text

Someone's Oughta Change

Jazz waited impatiently for Danny to finish preparing for the gala, they were invited as guest due to jazz being one of the most successful therapist at Arkham.

Jazz wore a simple mountain green off shouldered floor length silk gown, with her hair tied neatly into a bun making her look ethereal and calm, which was very different to what she was feeling currently: she was practically walking around the whole living room in nervousness and checking her dress in the mirror every second to see if she dirtied it.

"Danny! are you done?" Jazz shouted from the living room. as she tapped her right foot on the tile continuously.

Cue Danny entering the living room with the same outfit if the dress made Jazz looked Ethereal like a goddess, it made Danny look radiant that made all the stars above envious, they were practically the exact copy of each other if you ignore Danny's short black hair and Jazz's orange hip-length hair, and they're height difference.

The siblings stared, then looked at each other up and down for a good 2 minutes.

Silence

"Well someone's oughta change" Danny crossed his arms over his chest, while Jazz just chuckled her nervousness disappearing.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc prompt #dpdc #danny is nonbinary #dpxdc fanart #danny did this to cheer up Jazz #he wore this to the gala #he didnt bother to change #every stucked up people staredat him in judgement #The wayne's meanwhile were amused

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 17 days ago

Text

Echoes of the Phoenix

bob floyd x mutant!fem!reader

lowkey an x-men crossover (she’s literally jean grey but a different name)

requested by @lovelyypythoness

The kitchen smelled like fresh basil, butter, and something else Bob couldn’t name—but whatever it was, it felt like home.

His back rested against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched Y/N hum quietly to herself, barefoot in an oversized sweatshirt, stirring something in a copper pot. Her hair was up in that slightly messy bun she always twisted in the back of her head when she cooked. It bounced a little every time she danced in place to whatever 80s playlist she had going.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just watched her for a second. He liked this version of her—warm light on her skin, socked feet sliding against the tile, perfectly at ease. She looked like someone who’d never had a bad day in her life. That was the thing about Y/N L/N. She looked untouched by the world.

And yet…

There were moments.

Moments where Bob felt like she was trying not to touch anything too tightly. Or feel anything too deeply.

“You’re staring again,” she said without turning around.

Bob smirked. “Can you blame me?”

She glanced back, one eyebrow arched. “I could. But then I’d be a hypocrite.”

He crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder, brushing his nose softly against her temple. “What’s this?”

“Risotto,” she replied casually. “And I might’ve bribed someone at that little shop downtown for real truffle oil, so if you don’t like it, we’re breaking up.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

It was easy between them. Always had been. The kind of easy Bob Floyd wasn’t used to. Three months in, and it still caught him off guard—how quickly she’d carved out space in his life. In his chest.

He’d never dated someone like her before. Not just because of the quiet mystery she wore like perfume, or the way she could navigate any conversation and still tell you almost nothing about herself.

It was something else.

Something quiet.

Something… buried.

He couldn’t name it. But he felt it.

Especially when she’d go still for no reason. When she’d shut down conversations about her past with a soft smile and a subject change. When her eyes seemed to flicker with something hot and electric—and just as quickly, it was gone.

But every time he thought to press, she gave him a look. One of those soft, careful looks that said please don’t.

So he didn’t.

Yet.

—

They ate on the balcony, legs tangled under the table, the city lights stretching far below them.

Y/N was laughing at something stupid he said—truly laughing, eyes scrunched and shoulders shaking. Bob was sure the sound could keep stars alive.

But just as suddenly, she stopped. Just for a second. He watched the laughter dim from her eyes like a light going out, replaced by something sharp and calculating. Not panic. But control.

“You good?” he asked gently.

She blinked once. Then smiled like nothing had happened. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… remembered something dumb.”

Bob didn’t believe her. But he didn’t say so.

That was starting to become a pattern.

—

Later, they were curled up on the couch, a blanket over both of them, movie playing quietly in the background.

Bob felt her breathing slow. She was drifting off, curled into his side with her cheek against his chest. And he was drifting, too, fingertips tracing soft circles into her spine.

Until the screen suddenly cut to black.

Bob sat up a little, confused. “What the…”

The TV blinked. Static. Then returned to the menu screen.

Y/N stirred. “Power surge?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Weird though. Weather’s fine.”

She sat up, running a hand through her hair, suddenly wide awake. “Old wiring, probably. Or… I don’t know. My fault for buying a smart TV on a holiday sale. Want me to reboot it?”

He looked at her, not the screen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just tired.”

But the tension in her shoulders said otherwise.

—

He kissed her before he left that night. Soft and slow. She kissed him back like she was afraid she wouldn’t get the chance again.

As the door closed behind him, she exhaled hard and leaned against it. Her eyes burned with unshed panic.

She didn’t even realize the wine glass on the counter behind her was cracked until it finally gave out with a delicate tink—and shattered completely.

She didn’t move. Just stared at it. Then whispered to herself:

“Keep it together. Just a little longer.”

———

Bob never really believed in gut feelings.

But lately, his gut had been screaming at him.

He was still thinking about the wine glass. He hadn’t seen it break, but Y/N’s text that night was short, almost too casual.

“Dropped a glass. All good. Don’t worry.”

He hadn’t mentioned it, but something about her tone—like she was trying to convince herself more than him—had stuck.

And this morning? She was quiet again. Not in the sleepy, post-date kind of way. In the guarded, “I’m here but not really” kind of way. He noticed the way she gripped her coffee cup a little too tightly. The way her eyes scanned the café like she was listening for something no one else could hear.

“You okay?” he asked for the second time in ten minutes.

“I’m fine,” she said again, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And just like that, her wall was back up.

Bob hated how practiced she was at that. Like she’d been doing it her whole life.

⸻

Later that day, he was walking with Phoenix—Lieutenant Natasha Trace—across base. She was his wingman, his best friend, and the one person with the guts to call him out when something was up.

“You’ve been in your head all day,” she said, adjusting her aviators. “Spill.”

He hesitated. “It’s Y/N.”

Phoenix stopped walking. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing,” Bob said quickly. “That’s the thing. It’s just… weird stuff keeps happening.”

She tilted her head. “Weird how?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Like… I don’t know. She zones out. Rooms go weirdly cold. Lights flicker. Stuff falls over. She always has an excuse, but—”

“But your gut’s telling you she’s lying,” Phoenix finished.

“Not lying,” Bob said quietly. “Just… hiding something.”

Phoenix gave him a look, one he knew too well. “You think she’s cheating?”

“No,” he said immediately, surprising even himself with how certain he was. “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Then what do you think it is?”

Bob opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But something��s off.”

⸻

That night, they went out to dinner.

Nothing fancy. Just a quiet place tucked away in the corner of the city. Somewhere they could pretend they were normal.

Y/N looked beautiful—black blouse, hair half-up, gold jewelry catching the candlelight. She smiled, she laughed. She ordered for both of them like always.

But Bob kept catching her glancing around. Like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“You keep looking over your shoulder,” he said gently. “Are you expecting someone?”

Her fork paused mid-air. “No. Just… habit.”

“Bad one,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

—

They were halfway through dessert—something chocolatey and rich, the kind of thing Bob always tried to say no to and never could—when the waiter passed a little too close.

It happened fast.

A shoulder bump. A wobble.

And then—splash.

Ice-cold water soaked Y/N’s lap. The entire glass emptied itself across her dress, dripping from the table, pooling onto the floor. It was freezing. Shocking.

“Shit—” Bob reached for a napkin. “Are you okay?”

She jumped up from the booth, hands hovering, unsure of what to do with them. “I’m fine, I—sorry, I just—just need a second.”

The waiter was apologizing profusely, scrambling to mop up the mess, offering towels and murmured regrets. But Y/N wasn’t listening. Her eyes were distant. Her breath shallow.

Bob stood too, worry prickling his chest. “Y/N—”

“I’m okay,” she cut in, too quickly. “Just—give me a second, I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She grabbed her purse and all but fled toward the exit, heels clacking sharply on the tile floor.

The waiter turned to Bob, still looking mortified. “Sir, we are so sorry. Your entire meal is on the house.”

Bob gave a polite nod, but his eyes were already on the door, heart thudding. Something about the way she left—too fast, too stiff—sent warning bells ringing in his head.

This wasn’t just about a spilled drink.

⸻

He found her outside around the corner of the restaurant. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, chin tucked down. Her wet skirt clung to her legs as the evening breeze cut across her skin. She was shivering, but it wasn’t just from the cold.

“Y/N,” Bob said gently, stepping toward her. “Hey. What just happened?”

She didn’t look at him. “Nothing. I just got water on me. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “I’ve seen you laugh off worse. You’re shaking.”

She exhaled sharply. “I’m not shaking.”

“You’re trembling, and I don’t think it’s because of the ice water.”

Still, she didn’t speak. She just stared straight ahead, as if grounding herself against something invisible.

Bob waited a beat. Then: “This isn’t the first time something’s happened and you’ve shut down like this.”

That finally made her look at him—fast, defensive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not accusing you,” he said quickly. “I’m just… I’m trying to understand you. Because sometimes it feels like you’re holding something back. Like you’re scared of letting me get too close.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didn’t have a retort ready this time.

He took a careful step closer. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, I’m not gonna push. But I don’t want to keep walking blind.”

A pause.

Then her voice came out quiet, a whisper so low he barely heard it.

“There is something.”

Bob’s stomach twisted. “Okay.”

“But you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

She hesitated. Every muscle in her body was pulled tight—like one wrong word would send her flying into pieces.

“I have psionic powers.”

He blinked. “What kind of powers?”

“I can move things. With my mind. I can hear people’s thoughts if I don’t block them out. I can feel too much at once, and sometimes it’s too loud. Sometimes I lose control.”

Bob stared, unsure whether to speak or just let her finish.

“I’ve tried to keep it in check,” she said. “But when I feel too much—when I’m angry, scared, hurt—things start to happen around me. Lights flicker. Objects move. Glass breaks. That’s why I’ve been acting weird. That’s why I leave. I’m not cheating on you—I’m trying to protect you.”

Bob let out a quiet breath. “That’s what you were hiding?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say I’m crazy,” she snapped. “Go ahead. That’s what everyone says.”

“I’m not saying that,” he replied gently. “I’m saying I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You wanted honesty,” she said. “Now you’ve got it.”

A gust of wind rushed between them—sharp and sudden. Somewhere above, a streetlight flickered.

Bob took a step back and looked at her again—really looked.

The way her hair lifted slightly in the breeze, though the wind had already passed. The way her hands were clenched into fists, but not touching anything—and yet his shoelaces started to slowly untie themselves.

He stared.

Y/N’s expression crumbled. “See? This is what I mean. This is why I didn’t want to tell you—because it’s real, and it’s terrifying.”

Bob was silent. And then he said, very softly:

“I believe you.”

She looked up, stunned.

“I don’t know how this works. I don’t know what it means. But I believe you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s lip trembled.

“I’ve flown next to missiles at Mach 10,” he added. “You think a woman who can throw a vase with her mind is gonna scare me off?”

And that’s when her shoulders finally dropped.

———

The wind had quieted by the time Bob gently reached out and wrapped his fingers around Y/N’s hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes. You can stay at my place tonight. I’ll grab you something oversized and comfy.”

Y/N didn’t resist. Her walls were down. Her eyes shimmered, but she nodded once and followed him.

⸻

The drive to his place was quiet—comfortable, despite the knot of emotion still curling in Y/N’s stomach. Bob kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the console, close enough that her fingers grazed his once or twice. Neither said a word.

When they arrived, Bob handed her a clean T-shirt and a pair of joggers that hung off her frame in that perfect, boyish way. She disappeared into the bathroom to change, and when she emerged—damp hair pulled back, his clothes swallowing her—Bob felt his heart trip in his chest.

She looked soft. Fragile, even. But there was something electric beneath her skin, and now he knew what it was.

“Hey,” he said, offering her a warm mug of tea. “Figured you could use something not ice-cold.”

She smiled faintly and sat beside him on the couch.

They didn’t speak for a few seconds. The clock ticked. The storm in her chest hadn’t passed. Bob could feel it—he just didn’t know what direction it would go next.

Finally, he broke the silence. “So… how did you come to have powers like that?”

Y/N glanced down at the mug in her hands.

“I was born with them,” she said quietly. “I’m what they call a mutant. Some of us don’t show signs until we’re older. But me? Mine kicked in young.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She took a slow breath, voice trembling just a little.

“When I was nine, my parents were driving me home from school. I’d had a bad day—some kid was picking on me, saying I was a freak, and I… I got upset. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but the next thing I knew… the car spun out. My dad lost control. I screamed—and then we hit a tree.”

Bob’s stomach sank.

“They didn’t make it. I did.”

She swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the mug.

“A week later, someone showed up—said there was a school for kids like me. A place where I could learn to control it. They tried their best. But even there, they said I was… different. They said what I could do was ‘otherworldly.’” Her voice hardened slightly. “Didn’t exactly make me feel safer. Or less alone.”

Bob reached over and gently brushed his fingers against hers. She didn’t flinch this time.

“For a while,” she continued, “I stayed. I trained. I even started helping people. Back home, people called me a hero.”

There was a pause. The air shifted.

“But then something happened,” she said.

“What?” Bob asked gently.

Her voice dropped. “His name was Peter. Peter Maximoff.”

Bob nodded slowly. “A boyfriend?”

She nodded once. “He was fast. Like, faster-than-sound fast. Could cross a city in seconds. He was reckless. Always thought he could outrun danger.”

A pause.

“I loved him,” she admitted. “God, I loved him.”

Her breath hitched, and she looked down again.

“One night, we got caught in something. A mission gone wrong. I saw it—everything—going sideways. I tried to hold it together, tried to use my powers to stop what was happening, to protect him.”

A tear slid down her cheek.

“But he pushed me out of the way. He thought he could outrun the blast. I begged him not to. And then—he ran anyway.”

Bob stayed still, listening, heart breaking slowly.

“He didn’t make it. And I couldn’t stop it. I tried. I used everything I had, but it wasn’t enough. And after… after, everyone just looked at me like I was the one who killed him.”

Her voice cracked.

“Sometimes I think I did. If I hadn’t lost control, if I hadn’t been there—maybe it would’ve gone differently.”

Bob shook his head. “You didn’t kill him.”

She looked at him, tearful, wide-eyed.

“He killed himself, Y/N. He made the choice. You tried to save him. That’s not the same.”

“But if I lose control with you—if I get overwhelmed—what if something happens again?”

Bob leaned forward, gently placing a hand on her knee.

“I’m not Peter. And you’re not who you were then. You’ve spent your whole life protecting people—from yourself, from the world. But you don’t have to protect me from you.”

She stared at him.

“I know you’re scared,” he said. “But that doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human. And it makes you someone worth staying for.”

Her breath hitched.

Then—

CRACK.

The mug in her hands shattered—splitting clean down the middle, spilling tea across her lap. She gasped and jumped back instinctively.

“Oh my god—”

But Bob didn’t flinch.

He simply reached over, took her shaking hands in his, and said, “It’s okay. Let it happen.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

He gently wiped the tea from her wrist with his sleeve, then pulled her into his arms.

And for the first time in a long time, she let someone hold her through the chaos.

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multi-fandom-imagine · 3 months ago

Note

hellooooo love you work!! may i request another installment of the “fave places” series with antinous? 👀 (in no way condone his actions in hold them down but his vocals and visuals make him FINE ASFFFFF)

-💜⚡️ (Electra anon)

A/n: Of course

Au! Where Antinous is married to the reader and was never a Suitor.

1. The Temple Ruins at Dusk

The gods had abandoned this place centuries ago. Ivy crept across crumbling stone, statues worn down to faceless shapes, their stories long forgotten. But to Antinous, this ruin wasn’t dead—it was sacred. Because this was where he first claimed you as his. Where he knelt between your legs on cracked marble and swore vows not even Olympus could break.

You’re there again tonight, dusk bleeding across the sky in deep purples and fading golds. He lays out a blanket, but you both know you won’t stay on it. You sit on a smooth slab of stone, legs draped over his lap, and he kisses you like time doesn’t exist—slow, reverent, hands stroking your thighs like you’re a miracle he doesn’t deserve.

“I don’t care if the gods see,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing his mouth over your jaw. “Let them watch. Let them envy.”

He lays you back, dress hiked up to your hips, and slides down your body with that dark hunger in his eyes. His tongue finds you easily, licking slowly, purposefully, while his fingers keep you wide open. He doesn’t rush. He wants to make you cry out, to echo through the empty temple and leave a new legend in your wake. When he finally thrusts into you—hard, deep, perfect—you dig your nails into his back and swear you see stars behind your eyes. His name on your lips becomes the prayer that breathes life back into the ruin.

2. The Royal Baths (When No One’s Watching)

You’d already soaked for a while, the scent of jasmine in the air and flower petals floating lazily around your shoulders. You didn’t hear him enter—but you felt him. The way the air shifted. The way your skin prickled with anticipation.

Antinous undressed slowly, watching you the whole time. Like a man who had already claimed the world but only ever wanted one thing. You.

He steps into the water, curls an arm around your waist, and pulls you flush against his chest. His voice rumbles in your ear, low and hot. “I dreamed about this last night. Woke up hard. Thought about you with your legs open and your lips saying my name.”

His fingers drift under the water, teasing between your thighs. He presses two fingers in, slow and firm, his thumb circling your clit while his other hand holds your neck. He brings you to the edge and stops—again and again—until your pleas echo off the tile walls.

Then, finally, he presses you against the smooth edge of the bath and enters you from behind, water splashing around your hips. He fucks you slow and possessive, murmuring things in Ancient Greek you barely understand—except for your name. That one he says like a vow.

When you both come, the water goes still. But you stay wrapped in each other, and he kisses your shoulder like he’s trying to burn the moment into time itself.

3. The Throne Room—After Hours

It was late. The moonlight filtered through high glass windows, silvering the marble floor. The guards were dismissed. The council gone. And there you were—sitting in his throne, draped in one of his silk robes and nothing else, legs crossed, chin raised like the queen you were.

Antinous stops in the doorway, heart thudding like war drums.

“You trying to kill me?” he says, voice ragged. You only smile and open your legs.

He crosses the room in seconds. His hands are rough as they push the robe open, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and his heated stare. “You want to rule?” he growls, yanking you up and bending you over the armrest. “Then I’ll show you what power feels like.”

He slides into you with one brutal thrust, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The throne creaks beneath you with every thrust. He fucks you like he’s staking his claim again—like the throne means nothing if you’re not beneath him, moaning, trembling, undone.

When you come, it’s loud. Filthy. Beautiful. And he follows, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spills inside you, breathless. Afterward, he sits with you in his lap, robe tangled around you both.

“You’re the only crown I care about,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

4. On the Beach Beneath a Storm

The sky is split open. Thunder cracks like war drums in the distance, lightning flashing across the horizon. The sea is restless—frothing, crashing—like it can sense what’s about to happen.

You were supposed to be walking the shoreline barefoot, hand in hand with Antinous, enjoying the calm before the storm. But he’s never been good at resisting you. Not when your dress clings wet to your thighs. Not when your hair sticks to your neck and your eyes dare him.

You’re pinned against a jagged rock before you can say a word. Rain pours down in sheets, soaking you to the skin as he yanks your dress up and tears your underthings aside. His hands are freezing. His mouth is fire. He kisses you like he’s claiming land—messy, hungry, desperate.

When he thrusts into you, you cry out, and it’s lost to the wind. His fingers dig into your hips, the rhythm brutal, primal. “You think the sea can take you?” he growls against your throat. “I am the storm, wife. And you are mine.”

You come hard, legs shaking, the sky flashing white as you unravel around him. He finishes with a guttural moan, forehead to yours, both of you panting like beasts beneath the wrath of the gods.

5. In the Gardens, Hidden in the Blossoms

The royal gardens are supposed to be peaceful—a place for meditation, for prayer, for diplomacy. But not when Antinous finds you barefoot in the lavender, humming softly, skin kissed by the sun.

He’s behind you in an instant, his body pressed tight to your back, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. “You think I won’t take you here?” he whispers against your ear, teeth grazing. “Where anyone could see you coming for me?”

He lays you down in a bed of wildflowers, fingers parting your thighs like he’s unwrapping something divine. His mouth finds your cunt, and he feasts—slow and deliberate, your taste coating his tongue as you writhe beneath him.

When he finally gives in to the ache in his cock, he enters you in one deep, possessive thrust. The flowers are crushed beneath you. Bees buzz lazily nearby. And Antinous fucks you like the garden itself was made to hold your screams.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t care. He kisses you with dirt on his knees and flower petals tangled in your hair.

6. On the Ship Deck Under the Stars

Nights at sea are quiet—except when you sneak up to the deck, dressed in nothing but one of his loose linen tunics. The air is thick with salt and secrecy, and Antinous is already waiting for you by the mast.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a smirk, walking toward you like a man possessed.

You barely have time to respond before he’s lifting you, your back pressed to the mast, legs wrapping around his waist. He thrusts into you with a groan, one arm locked around your lower back, the other braced against the wood. The stars above are bright and infinite—but his eyes are darker, wilder.

You move together in perfect silence, hips rolling, breath catching. Only the creak of the ship and your stifled moans break the stillness. He whispers your name like a vow, each thrust carving it into the night.

When you both come, it’s like a wave crashing—violent, beautiful, and endless.

7. In His War Tent the Night Before Battle

The camp is tense. Soldiers whisper. Blades are sharpened. And Antinous is pacing like a caged lion—until you enter the tent, wearing nothing but his tunic, your bare legs glowing in the candlelight.

He stops cold.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but his eyes devour you.

You cross to him slowly, slipping the tunic off your shoulders, baring yourself completely. “You might die tomorrow. I’m not letting you go into battle without this.”

He doesn’t speak again. He just kisses you—desperate, bruising—and lays you down across the map table. Scrolls scatter. Strategy forgotten. His armor is still half-on as he ruts into you with wild, frenzied thrusts.

He grips your throat lightly, not to hurt—but to feel your pulse. To know you’re real.

When he comes, it’s with your name on his lips, not the gods’. Not glory. Just you.

And when he wakes before dawn, sword at his side, your scent still clings to his skin like armor.

8. In the Underworld, When He Thought He Lost You

(Alt-scene / high angst + filth combo)

You died. Or so he thought. For three days, Antinous tore apart half the realm trying to find a way to cross into the Underworld. When he finally does, and he sees you—alive, radiant, just out of reach—he falls to his knees.

“Come back with me,” he begs, voice raw. “Or I’ll burn the world to stay here.”

When you fall into his arms, he takes you to the cold stone floor of Hades’ domain, needing to feel your skin, your breath, your life.

He fucks you like a man resurrected—rough, messy, weeping against your throat. His tears mix with the sweat between your bodies, and every thrust is a vow never to let go again. “You’re mine. No gods. No death. No fate can take you.”

And this time, when he walks back into the light, he does it with you.

#drabbles #drabble #antinous #imagines #antinous x reader #Antinous x you #Antinous x y/n #epic #epic the musical #epic antinous #epic Antinous x reader #antinous epic #antinous epic the musical

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elryuse · 3 months ago

Text

About You

Han So Hee X Male Reader

Tags : Lovely Girlfriend, Kissing, Intense Sex, Lots of Romance, Vanilla, Older Girlfriend So Hee, Age Gap, Past Traumas, A Lesson of Moving on, Empowering. Words : 5,752 Words

You remember the first time you saw her.

The senior hallway always felt like foreign territory—older students with sharper eyes, louder laughs, and heavier footsteps. You didn't belong there, not really. But she did. Han So Hee. The girl who walked through that corridor like it was a runway she never asked for, but one the world insisted she deserved.

She had that kind of beauty that didn’t shout—it whispered. It wasn’t the way her hair curled slightly at the ends or the way her lips curved into half-smiles that people would kill for. It was her presence. The kind of presence that made time slow just enough for you to notice her brushing her sleeve, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing sideways when she thought no one was looking.

But you were always looking.

You’d never spoken to her then. She was a year above you—miles, really. And yet, there was something magnetic about her cold tone, the way she answered questions without flinching, the way she walked out of classrooms with headphones in, shoulders straight like nothing could touch her. Like the world couldn't reach her.

But underneath all that… you knew there was warmth. Something soft. You saw it once—when she helped a junior pick up their spilled books without saying a word. Or when she smiled at the school janitor every morning. Like she didn’t want the world to know she cared, but she did. Deeply.

You wanted to be part of that warmth. You wanted her to see you—not just as the junior with a messy tie and an awkward smile, but as someone real. Someone capable of loving her in all the ways she never let herself be loved.

So you did the only thing you could. You stayed close. Watching. Quietly admiring from the corners of crowded classrooms, shared hallways, school festivals she barely attended.

And then came winter.

Snow had started to fall earlier that day. Flakes like stars, dancing down in lazy spirals, softening the edges of the world. The sky was the color of secrets, pale and heavy, and the ground shimmered like it was holding something sacred.

You found her in the school lobby.

Classes were done. Most students had already rushed out, coats zipped up, boots squeaking against the tiled floor. But she stayed behind.

So Hee stood near the glass entrance, arms lifted gently, palms open, catching snow through the open doorway like she was waiting for a miracle. She looked otherworldly—like a painting trapped in the wrong era. Her hair was damp at the ends, darkening near her coat collar, and her skin glowed under the dull golden lobby lights.

You watched her, your heartbeat skipping. Something about her stillness—the peace she wore so casually—made your chest tighten. Like maybe, just maybe, the universe had placed this moment here just for you.

You stepped closer.

The snow was falling quietly now, barely a whisper against the world, and your voice almost faltered.

"Aren’t you cold, Noona?" you asked softly, the words barely leaving your lips.

She turned, slow and delicate, like she already knew you were there.

And then she smiled.

A real one.

The kind you’d never seen before, not directed at anyone else. Not gentle. Not forced. Just… warm.

"Not at all," she said, voice airy, almost amused.

Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

There it was again—that pull. That undeniable, invisible string between you and her.

You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t know what she felt. But in that moment, under the snow, in the empty lobby, you knew this: You were falling for her.

And you were ready to let her know.

Even if it took a thousand more winters.

The snow didn’t stop for days after that moment in the lobby.

And neither did your thoughts of her.

You saw her the next day, sitting on the wooden bench just outside the music room, legs crossed, headphones in, head tilted slightly like she was somewhere else entirely. You wondered what she was listening to. You wanted to ask. But instead, you sat three seats away, pretending to read a book you weren’t even flipping through.

And then something unexpected happened.

She took off her headphones.

“You’re always around, huh?” Her voice was cool like iced tea in summer. But her eyes… they glimmered with something warmer. Something close to curiosity. Maybe even affection.

You froze. Then nodded, heart knocking against your ribs.

“Is that okay?” you managed to ask.

She looked at you for a moment. Not through you—at you. And that made all the difference.

“I don’t mind,” she said, slipping one side of her headphones off and extending it toward you.

You hesitated—then leaned in.

A song was playing. Soft. Instrumental. A little sad, like the kind of melody you’d hear in a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. She didn’t tell you the title. She didn’t need to.

For the next few minutes, the two of you just sat there—sharing a pair of headphones and the space between you. Not speaking. Just… existing. Side by side.

And it felt more intimate than anything you'd ever known.

It became a pattern.

She started showing up in the places you went to. Or maybe you had always followed her there. The library, the back garden behind the school where few students wandered, the abandoned art room with dust-covered canvases and paint that had long since dried.

You never asked her why she let you stay. She never asked why you kept coming.

Sometimes she spoke. Sometimes she didn’t. But you learned to read her silences. Her little habits.

The way she bit the inside of her cheek when deep in thought. The way her fingers lingered on windows, like she was trying to touch something just beyond the glass. The way she always looked up when it rained, like the sky had a secret only she could understand.

You didn’t know what to call the feelings building inside you.

Infatuation wasn’t strong enough. Crush felt too childish. Love felt dangerous—like a word that might scare her away.

But whatever it was, it bloomed every time she looked at you and smiled like she was letting you in on a secret no one else knew.

One evening, just before dusk, you found her outside, near the bike racks. The sky was melting into shades of lilac and ash, and a wind had picked up, chasing loose pages across the schoolyard.

She was leaning against the fence, arms folded, eyes closed.

“Were you waiting for me?” you joked, stepping closer, trying to hide the hopeful tremble in your voice.

So Hee opened her eyes slowly. “Maybe,” she replied. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d come.”

That night, you walked her home for the first time.

She lived further than you expected, tucked away in a quiet alley, past rows of lantern-lit shops and winding stone paths. The walk was quiet. Peaceful. You didn’t speak much. Just the sound of your footsteps, the hush of wind, and your heart pounding like a war drum.

Before she went in, she turned around and asked, “Do you think I’m cold?”

You blinked. “Cold?”

She nodded, gently brushing her hair behind her ear. “Everyone says I’m hard to read. Unapproachable. Cold.”

You wanted to tell her she was wrong. That her coldness was a myth—something built by people who never looked closely enough. That you saw the way her eyes softened when she talked about music, or how she always left behind an extra pack of milk on the teachers’ table when she thought no one noticed.

But instead, you said, “You’re warm in all the ways that matter.”

And for a second, she just looked at you. Like you said something she had been waiting a long time to hear.

“Thank you,” she whispered, almost too softly to catch.

Then she disappeared behind the gate.

But her scent lingered in the air—floral, faint, like fading rain. And your chest ached in the most beautiful way.

You knew, in that moment, you were falling completely.

And you didn’t want to stop.

The art room was colder than usual.

Maybe because it had rained earlier. Maybe because it had always felt cold—like time froze in this place and forgot how to start again. The shelves were still littered with dried-up paint tubes, broken brushes, and ceramic figures that never made it to the kiln.

But there was something sacred about that stillness.

That’s why you brought her there.

You weren’t sure why she said yes. You’d casually asked her if she wanted to skip study period and hang out somewhere quiet. You thought she’d scoff, or at least say she was busy.

But instead, she said, “Okay. Lead the way.”

And now she was here.

Sitting on top of the old wooden table by the windows, legs swinging softly, her hands behind her to prop herself up. She looked out at the courtyard beyond the glass, where rain still clung to every surface like a memory.

You were pretending to clean a dirty paintbrush. But really, you were watching her reflection on the window.

“I used to come here alone,” she said suddenly, her voice echoing a little. “Last year. When things got too loud in my head.”

You set the brush down, quieter than your heartbeat. “Why this room?”

“Because no one ever looks for you in a place like this,” she answered with a soft laugh. “It’s forgotten. Like me, sometimes.”

You moved closer. Not because you planned to. But because your body knew—she needs someone to step into her silence.

“You’re not forgotten, So Hee,” you said, her name falling out of your mouth like a secret. “Not by me.”

She looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The way someone does when they’re not sure if they’re about to be hurt or healed.

“You always say things like that,” she murmured. “Things no one else does.”

You swallowed. “Because I see you.”

She blinked. Slowly. Then smiled—like she wanted to cry but didn’t have the strength to.

The light from the window hit her just right. Her hair glowed at the edges. Her skin pale and soft, kissed by shadow. You took a slow step forward.

So Hee didn’t move away.

You were standing so close now.

You could feel the warmth off her skin, the faint scent of her shampoo—lavender and rain. Her lips parted just barely, like she was about to speak. But no words came.

Your hand hovered near hers on the table.

She turned to face you completely now, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Y/n…” she said quietly.

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t need to.

Because you were both holding your breath.

The space between you grew smaller. The world outside disappeared. All that existed was her half-open lips, your trembling fingertips, and the question that hung between you like fog in the winter:

Are we going to cross this line?

But then—

A knock.

Someone at the door.

You both jumped.

Her hand slipped away.

The spell broke.

She hopped down from the table in one graceful motion, brushing invisible dust off her skirt.

“That was close,” she said with a half-smile, eyes looking anywhere but yours.

You forced a laugh. “Yeah.”

But your chest ached. Not from disappointment.

From almost.

You walked her home again that night, neither of you talking about what happened.

But everything had changed.

Every time her shoulder brushed yours, you felt her pause just a little longer. Every time she looked at you, there was something new in her eyes—like she was replaying that moment in the art room, over and over.

You were falling.

And you could tell—so was she.

But something was holding her back.

A shadow you couldn’t name.

Not yet.

The first snow of December fell like a whisper.

It painted the streets in silence, covering rooftops, railings, and your breath in something almost magical. You found yourself walking beside her again—shoulder to shoulder, two shadows under the pale street lamps, your footprints trailing behind like a secret path only the two of you knew.

You hadn’t planned to meet her tonight. But when you looked out the classroom window and saw the snow falling for the first time, your heart thought of her before your mind did.

And as if fate was listening, she texted:

"Meet me. Usual spot."

She was sitting on the swings behind the old playground.

Headphones on. Snow in her hair.

You approached quietly, not wanting to startle her.

She didn’t turn around, but her voice came out like breath:

“Do you believe in déjà vu?”

You blinked. “Sometimes.”

She looked over her shoulder, lips pale from the cold. “Because this moment feels like something I’ve lived before. But maybe… I wanted to rewrite it.”

You sat beside her, the chains creaking softly as you swayed.

So Hee took off her headphones and placed them in her coat pocket. Her fingers were red from the cold, but she didn’t seem to mind. She kept watching the snow.

“You ever trust someone too much?” she asked. “So much that when they leave… it feels like they took something out of you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because you knew this wasn’t just a question.

It was a memory, dressed in metaphor.

She continued, her tone quieter now. “I was fifteen. There was this boy—older. Confident. The kind everyone adored. He made me feel like I was seen… like I wasn’t invisible.”

Her voice faltered for a second, then steadied again.

“I told him things I never told anyone. About my parents’ divorce. About the nights I stayed up listening to my mom cry in the kitchen. About how sometimes I felt like a ghost in my own house. He said he understood.”

You looked at her, your chest tightening with every word.

“And then one day,” she whispered, “he just disappeared. Blocked my number. Transferred schools. I found out later it was all a game. A dare. I was the joke.”

A breath escaped her lips like frost. “I never told anyone.”

You felt something break inside you.

Not because you were angry for her.

But because in that moment, you wanted so badly to go back in time—to shield her from that pain. To take fifteen-year-old So Hee by the hand and say you’re not invisible.

But now, you just sat there—trying to hold her silence the way she needed it to be held.

So Hee turned to you.

And for the first time, her eyes weren’t guarded.

They were wounded.

“I don’t push people away because I enjoy it, Y/n.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“It’s just… when someone looks at me the way you do—like I matter—I get scared.”

Your voice trembled. “Why?”

“Because I might start believing it again.”

The wind whispered through the trees, scattering snow like confetti.

And you did the only thing you could.

You reached out.

Not boldly. Not dramatically.

Just… gently.

Your hand found hers, resting cold in her lap.

And this time—she didn’t pull away.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours.

Two people, barely speaking. Letting the silence cradle you. Letting the weight of old wounds settle into the snow beneath your feet.

Then, before she stood up to leave, she said something so soft, you almost missed it:

“Don’t fall for me, Y/n.”

You looked at her. “Too late.”

She didn’t smile.

But her fingers tightened around yours.

And somehow, that said more than anything else could.

“Do you ever think about Future ?” Her voice was soft, almost fragile, as if the words might shatter if they lingered too long in the air.

I paused, the weight of her question pressing against my chest. “All the time,” I admitted, my voice just above a whisper. “Every damn day.”

So Hee turned to face You, her dark eyes searching mine for something I wasn’t sure I could give. The dim glow of the streetlamp painted her features in a soft, golden hue, making her look almost ethereal. We were sitting on the edge of the old playground, the same spot where I’d first truly seen her. The snow had started to fall again, tiny flakes catching in her hair like stars.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But I don’t know if I can be what you need.”

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin was cold, but there was a warmth in her eyes that didn’t match her words. “You already are,” You told her. “You’ve always been.”

She looked away, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You don’t know that. You don’t know everything.”

“Then tell me,” You urged, my hand sliding down to rest against hers. “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stared out at the snow-covered playground, her expression unreadable. You knew this wasn’t just about You and Her. It was about the walls she’d built around herself, the scars she’d hidden so well that even You sometimes forgot they were there.

“When I was fifteen,” she began, her voice barely audible, “there was this boy. He wasn’t just any boy. He was… everything. Confident, charming, the kind of person everyone wanted to be around. And for some reason, he chose me.”

You felt Your chest tighten, but You didn’t interrupt. This was her story, her pain, and You needed to let her tell it.

“He made me feel seen. Like I wasn’t just the quiet girl in the corner. He listened to me, really listened, and I thought… I thought he cared.” Her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “But it was all a lie. It was just a game to him. A dare. And when he was done, he left. Blocked me. Transferred schools. I was the joke.”

The words hung heavy between us, the weight of her vulnerability almost too much to bear. You tightened Your grip on her hand, hoping she could feel the sincerity in Your touch.

“So Hee,” You said softly, “that wasn’t you. That was him. And I’m not him.”

Her eyes met mine again, and for the first time, I saw the tears she’d been holding back. “I know,” she whispered. “But what if I’m the one who’s broken? What if I can’t give you what you deserve?”

“You’re not broken,” You said firmly. “And you don’t have to be anything for me. I just want you to be you. That’s enough.”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to our intertwined hands. “I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Scared that if I let you in, you’ll leave too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” You promised. “Not now. Not ever.”

For a moment, there was only silence. The snow continued to fall around us, wrapping You two in a cocoon of stillness. Then, slowly, she leaned in, her forehead resting against mine. Her breath was warm against Your skin, and You could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat where our hands were clasped.

“Y/n,” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want to try.”

“That’s all I need,” You whispered back. “Just try.”

Her lips brushed against mine, soft and tentative, as if testing the waters. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but one of vulnerability—a silent promise that she was willing to let me in. And in that moment, I knew I’d do whatever it took to keep that promise alive.

The snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in a quiet hush as You two sat there,trying to navigate the messy, beautiful chaos of love and healing. And for the first time in a long time, So Hee let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

The snow fell in soft, silent waves as you guided So Hee down the narrow streets, her hand warm and steady in yours. Her breath formed little clouds in the icy air, her cheeks pink from the cold, but there was something else in her eyes now—something brighter, bolder. A flicker of trust that hadn’t been there before.

Your place wasn’t far, but the walk felt endless, every step charged with an unspoken tension. The weight of her past still lingered in the air between you, but there was something else too—a kind of electricity that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat quicken. She didn’t speak, and neither did you. Words felt unnecessary now. The quiet between you was its own language.

When you finally reached your door, you fumbled with the key, your fingers shaking just enough to betray your nerves. So Hee stood beside you, her breath shallow, her eyes fixed on your hands as if she were memorizing the way they moved. The lock clicked, and you pushed the door open, stepping inside with her close behind.

The warmth of your apartment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket, the soft hum of the heater filling the silence. You turned to face her, and for a moment, you just stood there, your eyes locked in a silent conversation. Her lips parted slightly, a faint tremor running through her, and you could see it—the fear, the hesitation, but also the want. It was there, raw and unguarded, and it took everything in you not to pull her into your arms right then and there.

But you waited. You let her decide.

Her eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up, and something in her gaze shifted—softened. “Y/n…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was enough.

You closed the distance between you in one swift motion, your hands cupping her face as your lips met hers. It wasn’t gentle this time—it was hungry, desperate, like you were trying to erase every bit of pain she’d ever felt with one kiss. She gasped into your mouth, her hands gripping the front of your coat as she leaned into you, her body pressed tight against yours.

The kiss deepened, her tongue hesitantly brushing against yours, and a low groan escaped your throat. Your hands slid down to her waist, pulling her even closer until there was no space left between you. She responded with a soft moan, her fingers tangling in your hair as she kissed you back with a desperation that matched your own.

You stumbled backward, still locked in each other, until the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. She broke the kiss for a moment, her chest heaving as she looked up at you, her eyes dark with need. “Y/n…” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I’m scared.”

You gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, your thumb grazing her cheek. “I know,” you murmured. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She searched your face for a moment, as if trying to find any sign of doubt, but when she found none, she nodded. “Okay.”

That single word was all you needed. Your lips crashed into hers again, and this time, there was no hesitation. Your hands moved to the buttons of her coat, fumbling slightly as you peeled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She did the same with yours, her fingers shaking as she worked the zipper down and pushed it off your arms.

The layers between you disappeared one by one, each piece of clothing hitting the floor with a soft thud until there was nothing left but skin. Her hands traced the lines of your chest, her touch tentative but curious, and you could feel the heat of her skin against yours. You guided her backward onto the bed, your lips never leaving hers as you climbed over her, your body hovering just above hers.

Her breath hitched as your hands explored the curves of her body, every touch igniting a fire within her that she hadn’t felt in years. Her fingers dug into your back, pulling you closer as she arched into you, her hips pressing against yours in a way that made your head spin.

“Y/n…” she whispered, her voice breaking as your lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear. “Please…”

You pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, your hand gently brushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me what you want,” you murmured, your voice rough with need.

Her lips trembled as she looked up at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desire. “I want you,” she whispered. “All of you.”

You kissed her again, slow and deep, as your hand slid down her side, tracing the curve of her hip before moving between her legs. She gasped into your mouth, her body trembling beneath your touch, and when you slipped a finger inside her, she let out a moan that sent a shudder through your entire body.

Her nails dug into your back as you moved your fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, each one drawing another breathless sound from her lips. Her hips rocked against your hand, her body seeking more of the pleasure you were giving her, and when you added a second finger, her back arched off the bed, a strangled cry escaping her throat.

“Y/n… I…” Her words dissolved into a moan as you curled your fingers inside her, hitting the spot that made her see stars. Her legs wrapped around your hips, pulling you closer as she came apart beneath you, her body trembling with the force of her orgasm.

You kissed her through it, your lips soft against hers as she rode out the waves of pleasure, her hands clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded. When she finally relaxed beneath you, her breath slowly evening out, you pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice gentle.

She nodded, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen from kissing. “More than okay,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you could respond, she pushed you onto your back, her hands trailing down your chest as she straddled your hips. Her eyes met yours, and there was something new in them now—a confidence, a fire that hadn’t been there before. She leaned down, her lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss before she whispered, “My turn.”

And then her lips were on your neck, her teeth grazing your skin as she made her way down your chest, her hand wrapping around your length and stroking you slowly. You groaned, your head falling back against the pillow as she teased you, her touch light but deliberate, driving you absolutely mad.

“So Hee…” you breathed, your hands tangling in her hair as she took you into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip in a way that made your entire body tense. Her eyes met yours, and the sight of her like this—completely lost in the moment, her lips wrapped around you—was almost enough to push you over the edge.

But you wanted more. You wanted all of her.

With a shaky breath, you gently pulled her back up, your hands cupping her face as you kissed her deeply. She moaned into your mouth, her hips grinding against yours, and when you broke the kiss, she looked at you with an unspoken question in her eyes.

You reached for the nightstand, fumbling with the drawer until you found what you were looking for. She watched you, her breath coming in shallow pants, and when you rolled the condom on, she bit her lip, her hands tightening on your shoulders.

“Are you sure?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sure.”

You kissed her again, slow and deep, as you positioned yourself at her entrance. Her hands gripped your shoulders as you pushed inside her, her body tense for a moment before she relaxed, a soft moan escaping her lips as she adjusted to the feel of you. When she finally nodded, urging you to move, you started slow, each thrust careful and deliberate, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

But there was none. Only pleasure. Her eyes fluttered shut as she tilted her head back, her lips parting in a silent gasp, and when you hit the spot that made her see stars, her nails dug into your back, her hips rising to meet yours.

“Y/n… oh god…” she moaned, her voice breathless and broken, and it was the sweetest sound you’d ever heard.

You kissed her again, your lips swallowing her moans as you moved inside her, each thrust sending sparks

So Hee’s hands pressed firmly against your chest, her fingers splayed as she pushed you back onto the bed. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and you looked up at her, breath already catching in your throat. Her hair cascaded around her face, slightly messy from your earlier kisses, and her eyes—dark, intense—held a fire you hadn’t seen before.

“Let me take the lead,” she whispered, her voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your hands instinctively moving to her hips as she straddled you, her weight settling comfortably against you. Her skin was warm, her thighs brushing against yours as she leaned forward slightly, her lips hovering just above yours.

“You’re sure?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tightening around her waist.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, demanding, and it made your head spin. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, teasing and exploring, and you groaned, your hips involuntarily bucking up against hers.

She pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m sure,” she said, her voice dripping with confidence.

Then she shifted, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles against yours. The friction was maddening, her body pressing against you in all the right ways, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped your lips.

“Fuck, So Hee…” you breathed, your hands gripping her hips tighter as she continued to grind against you.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her hands sliding up your chest until they rested on either side of your head. “You like this?” she asked, her voice teasing as she leaned down, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You know I do,” you managed to reply, your voice strained as she moved against you, your cock throbbing with need.

She hummed softly, her lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses that had your skin tingling. Then she pulled back again, her eyes locking onto yours as she rocked her hips forward, the movement slow and deliberate.

“Good,” she said, her voice a low purr. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

She sat up fully, her hands moving to your chest as she began to move faster, her hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that had you seeing stars. Her head tilted back, her lips parting in a soft gasp as pleasure washed over her, and you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She was breathtaking, the way she moved, the way she looked at you, the way she took what she wanted without hesitation.

Your hands moved from her hips to her thighs, your fingers digging into her soft skin as you clung to her, your own hips lifting to meet hers. The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and the soft, slick sound of her body moving against yours, and it was driving you wild.

“So Hee,” you groaned, your voice breaking as she shifted slightly, her movements becoming more urgent, more desperate.

She looked down at you, her eyes dark with desire, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Say my name again,” she demanded, her voice husky as she leaned forward, her hands braced on either side of your head.

“So Hee,” you whispered, your voice shaky as she rocked against you, the pressure building inside you with each movement.

She kissed you again, her lips crashing against yours with a hunger that matched your own. Her tongue tangled with yours, muffling your moans as she continued to move against you, her body trembling slightly as she neared her own release.

“You feel so good,” she breathed against your lips, her voice barely audible as she pressed her forehead against yours.

You groaned, your hands moving to her back, pulling her closer as she quickened her pace. Her breath hitched, her body tensing as she reached her peak, and you followed soon after, your hips jerking up against hers as you came undone.

She collapsed against you, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath, her lips brushing against your neck as she let out a soft, contented sigh.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close as your heart rate slowly returned to normal. She was warm against you, her body fitting perfectly against yours, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“That was…” you started, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find the right words.

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting yours, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Amazing?” she offered, her voice teasing as she traced a finger along your jawline.

You chuckled, nodding slightly. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

She kissed you softly, her lips lingering against yours for a moment before she pulled back, her eyes searching yours. “I meant what I said earlier,” she said, her voice serious now. “I don’t want you to fall for me.”

You frowned, your hand moving to cup her cheek. “Why not?”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Because I’m scared,” she admitted softly. “Scared that if you do, I’ll lose you too.”

You kissed her again, your lips moving against hers in a way that you hoped conveyed everything you were feeling. “You won’t,” you whispered against her lips. “I promise.”

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