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gweelczz · 3 months ago

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“Home”

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Y/N (Sugar)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, smut (Y’all KNOW he a FREAK) MDNI

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap your Willy!) mentions of child abuse, this fic is LONGGGG I got a bit carried away y’all I’m sorry!!!

Summary: A lover’s quarrel breaks out between the two love birds and it’s up to Sammie to choose what he goin do

The Mississippi sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the fields when the shouting started. Folks in Clarksdale knew better than to pay too much mind to lovers’ quarrels, but when it was Preacher Boy Sammie Moore and his girl Sugar — everybody knew.

“You always talking ’bout dreams, Sammie,” Sugar snapped, arms crossed tight against her chest, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “But you too scared to chase ‘em. Scared of your daddy. Scared of what folks gon’ say.”

Sammie’s fists were balled at his sides. Not to strike — Lord, no. Just trying to hold it all in. His pride. His shame. His fear.

“I ain’t scared,” he bit out, jaw tight.

“Then prove it,” she shot back, tears glassing her big brown eyes. Her skin, a rich dark ebony with that gold shimmer whenever the light caught her just right, looked like it belonged to some goddess out the old stories. Her coily hair framed her face, a wild crown she didn’t even know she wore.

He said nothing.

That silence — heavier than any slap — broke her heart clean in two.

Sugar turned on her heel, dust kicking up under her bare feet.

“You ain’t ready,” she said, voice small now. “And I ain’t waitin’ ‘round watchin’ you let yourself rot.”

He watched her walk away. Watched until the blue of her skirt disappeared down the road toward the woods where Annie’s shack sat hidden behind a crooked fence of bones and bottle trees.

——

Annie’s place smelled of sweetgrass and turpentine, smoke curling out the chimney like lazy fingers. Inside, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Jars of oil, roots, and stones lined the shelves. Every color and spirit of the Delta lived in that little shack.

Sugar slumped into a chair, head in her hands.

Annie — full-figured, dark-skinned, with a warmth about her like a heavy quilt — sat across from her, shelling peas slow and easy. She was only a few years older than Sugar, but the way she moved, the way she looked at you, made her seem like she’d lived two lifetimes already.

She watched Sugar for a long minute, not rushing her.

“Man’s got chains on his soul,” Annie finally said, voice low and knowing. “Ain’t easy breakin’ ’em. ’Specially when them chains was put there by his own blood.”

“I just…” Sugar started, but her throat caught. She shook her head. “I just want him to see what he could be. Not what folks tell him he gotta be.”

Annie smiled, soft and sure.

“Don’t give up on him, girl. Some seeds take longer to sprout. But when they do, Lord, do they grow strong.”

Outside, the night thickened. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a hound barked long and low.

And then — a knock at the door.

Sugar turned, heart thudding.

There he was. Sammie.

Hat crushed in one hand. A scraggly bunch of wildflowers in the other. Dirt smudged on his knees from where he’d fallen once, maybe twice, on the way over.

He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Like he knew the fall would kill him but he was ready to jump anyway.

“I cain’t do this without you, Sugar,” he said, voice raw. He dropped the flowers, sank to his knees right there on Annie’s worn floorboards.

“You hear me?” he begged, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bein’ a fool. I’m sorry for not fightin’ harder. I’m gon’ be better. I swear it on my life.”

Sugar’s chest squeezed so tight she thought she might fall over.

Annie sat still, shelling peas, not saying a word. She knew some things had to be worked out without her hand in it.

Sammie looked up at Sugar, eyes wide and wet, heart cracked open for the whole world to see.

“You my home, Sugar,” he whispered. “Ain’t no point in dreamin’ if you ain’t in it.”

The flowers were crushed. His hands were dirty. His voice was breaking.

But it was real.

God help her, it was real.

Sugar knelt too, lifting his face in her hands.

“Don’t you ever make me walk away again,” she said, voice shaking.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I swear it.”

And in that little shack, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors hanging thick in the smoky air, Sugar forgave him.

——

Sammie led her back to his daddy’s house, hand in hand, heads bowed against the heavy southern night. He didn’t care if his father was sitting on the porch with a belt or a bottle.

This time, he wasn’t walking alone.

And this time, he wasn’t running from himself either.

The porch light was nothing but a flickering bulb, casting long, mean shadows across the yard. Sammie slowed his steps when they reached the gate, hand tightening around Sugar’s.

There he was — Preacher Moore — sitting in his rocking chair, a half-drained bottle of corn liquor at his feet, the old hunting belt looped lazy across his lap like a coiled snake. His face, carved rough like old wood, didn’t flinch when he saw them coming.

Sammie’s throat dried up. Every memory of every beating, every harsh word, every dream stomped down under his father’s heavy hand — it all came rushing back like a flood.

Sugar gave his hand a squeeze.

“You got this, baby,” she whispered.

Sammie swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The porch boards groaned under his weight, but he didn’t falter.

Preacher Moore watched him, slow drag on his cigarette, eyes hard as river stones.

“You finally decide to come back with your tail tucked?” he rasped.

Sammie stood straight. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I come back a man,” he said, voice steady. “And I ain’t askin’ your permission no more.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Preacher Moore’s mouth. A dangerous flicker lit in his eyes.

“You gettin’ mighty bold for a boy livin’ under my roof,” Preacher Moore growled.

“I ain’t just livin’ under your roof,” Sammie said, taking another step closer. “I’m buildin’ somethin’. And if you can’t see that, then maybe I need to build it somewhere else.”

Sugar stayed right behind him, her presence a warmth at his back, a shield he hadn’t even known he needed.

“I wanna sing,” Sammie said, the words dragging out of him rough and painful like pulling a thorn from flesh. “Not just in church. Not just in secret. I wanna sing the blues. I wanna write my own songs. Play my own music. And I ain’t gonna be ashamed no more.”

The porch went still. The crickets even seemed to hush.

Preacher Moore’s face cracked — not much — but enough for Sammie to see something raw underneath. A flash of fear. A flash of sorrow.

“You think singin’ them devil songs gonna feed you? Gonna save you?” Preacher Moore spat.

Sammie shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. “I think bein’ me gon’ save me.”

He reached back, took Sugar’s hand in his again.

“I got folks standin’ with me now. Folks who believe I ain’t just some broken piece of you.”

Preacher Moore set the cigarette down. The belt slid off his lap and onto the porch with a soft thud.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just rocked. Just stared.

And then, like a levee finally giving way after too many rains, the fight drained out of him. His shoulders sagged. His chin dipped. His pride — that big, ugly thing that had ruled the Moore house for two generations — cracked and crumbled like old clay.

Preacher Moore dragged a hand down his face, voice rough with something like regret.

“You your own man now,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to change that.”

Sammie felt the breath he didn’t know he was holding rush out of him.

“You sure that’s what you want, boy?” Preacher Moore asked, almost gentle now.

“I’m sure,” Sammie said. “Been sure.”

Preacher Moore nodded once, stiff and slow.

“Then go on,” he said. “Go sing your songs.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was enough. Enough for tonight.

Sammie turned to Sugar, who was smiling through tears, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

Together, they stepped off that porch — not as preacher boy and dreamer girl — but as something new. Something stronger.

The night wrapped around them as they walked into a future that, for the first time, was theirs to claim.

———

The road to Sugar’s house twisted through cotton fields and thick woods, the night air humming with the slow, secret music of the Delta. Sammie held Sugar’s hand tight as they walked, his heart still hammering from what he’d left behind on that porch.

Preacher Moore’s voice still echoed in his ears, but it was faint now, like a storm rumbling far off. What mattered was the hand in his, the steady light ahead — the little house Sugar’s granddaddy had left her when he passed.

The place wasn’t much to look at to anybody else. A two-room clapboard house, porch sagging a little, white paint peeling like old bark. But to Sammie, it looked like freedom. Looked like home.

Sugar fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t say much, just pulled him inside by the hand. The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread, warm and good.

Sammie had only been here a handful of times, always with the nervous, guilty feeling of a boy sneaking into someplace he didn’t belong. But tonight was different. Tonight, she opened the door wide and left it open behind him, like she meant for him to stay.

“Granddaddy wanted me to have it,” Sugar said, setting her purse down. “Said a woman needs her own land to stand on.”

Sammie nodded, drinking it all in — the soft quilt folded on the couch, the little wooden cross nailed above the door, the framed picture of Sugar’s granddaddy smiling wide in his Sunday suit.

“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, “I got my own shop now too. Folks come from all over for my oils and teas. I do good.”

He smiled, proud in a way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“I know you do,” he said. “Ain’t nobody like you, Sugar.”

She laughed, light and low.

“One day,” Sammie said, voice almost breaking with the bigness of it, “I wanna be able to take care of you too. Not ’cause you need it. But ’cause you deserve it.”

Sugar crossed the room in two quick steps and pressed her forehead to his.

“You already do,” she whispered.

They stood there a long moment, breathing each other in, letting the world fall away.

Sammie knew he didn’t have much. A voice. A few songs still trapped inside him, scratching to get out. A heart bigger than he knew what to do with.

But somehow, standing there in the warm light of Sugar’s house, it felt like enough.

Tomorrow, there would be work to do. Songs to write. Battles to fight. Maybe even more nights spent arguing with ghosts and memories.

But tonight — tonight he had her.

Tonight they had a roof, four walls, and a world of dreams between them.

And sometimes, Sammie thought, that was more than enough to start a whole life on.

The hum of cicadas mixed with the soft shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors of Sugar’s house, and Sammie, still buzzin’ from the confrontation with his father, felt the weight of it all.

Sugar’s house was quiet now, the air in the room feelin’ as heavy as the memories. The house was sturdy and worn, like time had kissed it just right. A little faded around the edges, but still standin’, just like her. Just like him.

Sammie’s fingers trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, still feelin’ the heat from his father’s words mixed with the pride he hadn’t known he could hold. But Sugar… she was the one who’d always seen it in him, even when he’d been too blind to see it himself.

She sat beside him, her body close but not touchin’, her presence like a balm for all his frayed nerves. He could feel the heat of her, the warmth of her gaze that was so full of pride, so full of somethin’ deeper that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You did it, Sammie,” she said, her voice soft but steady like a slow river. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I always knew you had it in you.”

He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I ain’t never thought I’d be here, Sugar. Never thought I’d be standin’ up to him like that. Didn’t think I had the strength to fight for what I wanted. Hell, didn’t think I deserved it.”

Sugar’s eyes softened, her lips parting like she was about to speak but then she just shook her head. Her hand reached out, like it always did when he needed it most, and she placed it over his.

“You deserve every bit of it, Sammie,” she said, her voice full of that calm confidence that always made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. “And you’ve got so much more in you than you even know.”

His chest tightened, and he didn’t know if it was from the weight of her words or the way she made him feel like a man again. A real one, with dreams and a purpose. And as she looked at him, that proud smile on her face, Sammie couldn’t help but feel a pull deep in his gut. She always did that to him — made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

“Sugar…” he breathed, his voice a little rough. “You’ve always seen me. Always been the only one who believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

Sugar moved closer, her body just inches from his, and he could feel the heat of her against his arm. Her touch was like a spark, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did. But tonight, he saw something else in her eyes — something softer. Something real.

“I ain’t never stopped believin’ in you, Sammie. You’ve got this, baby. You always had it in you.”

Her words were like a lullaby, and as they lingered in the air between them, Sammie couldn’t help but draw her in closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pullin’ her to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her tight, his chest full of so many emotions he couldn’t even name.

The softness of her body against his made his breath hitch. Sugar felt like home. Like everything that had ever mattered. Her scent filled his senses, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You make me feel like I can take on the world, Sugar,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with the weight of what he was feelin’. “Like I ain’t never been broken, like I’m whole again. I ain’t never been able to thank you for that.”

Sugar’s hand slid up his back, her fingers light against his skin, and she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were dark with emotion, and the softness in her gaze made Sammie’s heart ache.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sammie,” she said, her voice a whisper now, like the words were only meant for him. “I’ve always been here for you. Always will be.”

Sammie’s chest tightened again, and this time, he didn’t fight the urge to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, soft at first, like he was askin’ for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, when she leaned into him, it felt like a release. He kissed her deeper, the tension in his chest unwinding as he pulled her closer, feeling her warmth flood him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sittin’ there, lost in each other, but when he pulled away, breathless, he looked at her with all the words he hadn’t said, all the things he still needed to say.

“Sugar, I ain’t never been more sure of somethin’ in my life. I need you. I’ve needed you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sugar smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and her fingers grazed the side of his face, tender but firm.

“You don’t need to say nothin’, Sammie. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

And before he could say another word, she leaned in again, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that made him ache deep inside. He held her tighter, his hands roaming to the small of her back as the heat between them built, the air thick with need.

Sammie pulled Sugar into his lap allowing his hands to rest on her waist not going any lower than that, pulling he looked into her eyes silently asking for permission to touch her which she gladly granted. Leaning forward he kissed her once more, the kiss full of want, need and hunger. His hands moved down to grab handfuls of her ass causing them to moan into each other’s mouths, their breaths mingling together.

Sugar’s hips ground themselves against Sammie’s making him bite down onto her lip, she pulls away swirling her tongue around his ear before biting down onto it. She trails her lips lower kissing on his neck tasting the salty sweat with her tongue. Meanwhile he’s lifted up her dress with permission, unbuckling his pants afterwards letting her sink down slowly onto his cock.

They moan into each other’s mouths once again, Sugar wrapping her hand around his throat and his fingers tangled in her hair as she rides him. “Sugar? Lemme try somethin hear?” He speaks through moans and she answers with a breathy “yes”. With permission granted he flips them so she’s now under him, his hips rolling into her while his free hand protects her head from slamming into the arm of the chair.

Pulling down the straps of her dress he exposes her breasts to him, lowering his head he takes a nipple into his mouth. His free hand reaches down between them finding her clit giving it tight fast circles to match the pace of his thrusts. “Sammie… Baby…” Sugar pants out watching him angle his hips to go deeper hitting her spot without knowing.

“Baby right there” he pulls off her nipple long enough to respond in his baritone voice “right there sugar?” To which she nods gripping the back of his head when he dove back in sucking on her nipple. She gasps arching her back slightly moaning loudly into the air not caring about who heard. “Sammie… I’m gonna…” he keeps his tempo the same while rubbing her clit, pulling off to rest his forehead against hers. “C’mon sugar, cum for me, let go”

The coil in her stomach snaps and she swears she sees white as she cums around his cock, Sammie thrusts a few more times before pulling out cumming on her stomach with a low groan. They lay there for a few moments before Sammie gets up picking Sugar up bridal style carrying her down the hall.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. “I ain’t gonna leave you like this.”

He lifted her into his arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body press against his. Her head rested on his shoulder as he carried her, every step slow and deliberate as if he didn’t want to break the moment. The bed creaked softly as he laid her down, his hand lingering on her side for a moment longer than necessary.

Sugar closed her eyes, her body still humming with the aftereffects of everything they’d shared. But Sammie knew there was more to do. He wasn’t about to leave her just like that.

He stepped away briefly, his movements purposeful as he went to the basin in the corner. He ran his hands under the water filling up a huge pot heating up the water on the stove, the steam rising in the small space. He grabbed a soft cloth and soap, his hands shaking slightly with the anticipation of what was next.

When the water was ready, Sammie dumps it all into the bathtub before he returned to Sugar, who was propped up on the pillows, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. She smiled weakly, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do all this, Sammie. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “You deserve every bit of care, Sugar. You trusted me, and I’m gonna show you how much you mean to me.”

With a gentle touch, he helped lift her into his arms again, guiding her to the edge of the bed. He carefully wiped her skin with the warm cloth, his touch slow and steady as he cleaned the traces of their love from her body. Each stroke was soft, as if he was worshipping every inch of her, every curve, every part of her that he cherished. He then lifts her into the tub gently washing her body. The cloth moved over her belly, down her legs, until every trace of him was gone, and all that was left was the soft heat of her skin.

Sugar looked up at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and trust. “You make me feel safe, Sammie. Like I’m the only one that matters.”

Sammie’s heart ached. He placed the cloth back in the bowl, then turned his attention to the small copper pot of warm water he’d heated. He poured it gently into a shallow basin, setting it between them.

“I’m gonna wash your hair now, Sugar,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take care of you, just like you took care of me.”

She nodded, a soft, grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was so gentle with her, so focused, his every movement thoughtful and deliberate. He poured the warm water over her hair slowly, his hands cradling the back of her neck as he worked the lather into her thick curls. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

“Mm, that feels good, Sammie,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed into his touch.

Sammie continued to work, washing her hair with tender care, making sure every strand was clean, every inch of her body pampered. He rinsed her hair, his hands careful and slow as he ran them through the curls, feeling the smoothness of her wet locks slip between his fingers. There was something so intimate about it — the way he was taking care of her, the way she let him in.

When he was finished, he dried her off gently, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders, letting the warmth of it sink into her skin.

“You’re perfect, Sugar,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration. “I just want you to know that. You’re perfect.”

Sugar looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.

“You don’t have to do all this for me, Sammie,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m glad you do.”

Sammie smiled, his hand brushing through her damp curls, his heart full. “I’ll always do this for you, Sugar. I’ll always take care of you.”

He laid beside her then, pulling the covers over them both, his arm around her waist. Sugar nestled into his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted into a peaceful sleep, the weight of the day finally settling in. Sammie held her close, his heart full of love and pride, knowing that, for once, everything was exactly as it should be.

#sinners film #sammie sinners #stack sinners #smoke sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners #sammie moore #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore #preacher boy #Sammie Moore fanfic #Sammie Moore x reader #x black!reader #x black! fem reader #preacher boy x reader #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x reader

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ozarkthedog · 1 year ago

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𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

summary: dbf!joel video calls you during a meal with your parents.

warnings: 18+ mdni. toxic dbf!joel miller x afab!reader. unspecified age gap. daddy kink. tit play. dirty talk. male masturbation. no beta. w.c: 641

author's note: spawned from the "who's your daddy?" clip and @mrsmando mentioning toxic dbf!joel. 😘

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Doin' the right thing pickin' up," Joel praises with a velvety tone as he moves his phone to rest in front of his chest.

The video screen displays his tan, aging face, slicked-back gray hair, and trimmed silver whiskers. He's reclined in a chair wearing a white t-shirt under a gray flannel button-up like he just got home from a job. "Be a good girl 'n show me those pretty tits."

Your eyes bug at his command. Thank god you stepped out onto the deck and shut the slider.

"Joel, not now. Please." You'd been eating dinner with your parents, and now you're on a video call with your dad's best friend, who's asking to see your tits.

Not that he hasn't already seen them and every other inch of you.

"C'mon now, show me wha's mine," he pesters with a clipped, unwavering command.

You nervously peer through the glass slider and into the kitchen, praying your parents don't come outside before lifting your top and showing the older man your bare breasts.

"Thatta girl." A deep, tinny groan spills from the tiny speakers and nestles in your lower belly. Your cunt throbs at the sound. Sticky arousal leaks into the gusset of your panties as you squeeze your breasts together between your arms, propping them up for him.

"Jus' what I needed," he praises with ravenous eyes locked on the lower part of the screen, shamelessly drinking in the image of your naked chest. "Wanna get my hands on those fuckin' pretty tits. Suck 'n bite 'em until you're cryin'."

A chilly gust blows through the trees and races up your spine, making your skin prickle under Joel's heated stare. He darkly hums as your nips pucker and stands at attention for him. "Looks like someone likes bein' a slut."

Your chest heaves, breasts lightly bouncing as an intense wave of lust sends shocks rippling through your system. His body shifts, and you hear the click of his belt before his left, flannel-clad arm begins moving up and down out of frame. A gravelly moan pours from his pouty lips and drips through the speakers straight into your quivering cunt.

"Go on, give 'em a pinch."

You acquiesce, giving into his demand and your own greedy perversion, and palm one of your breasts. Your flesh prickles as you playfully circle a pert bud and lightly pinch it, letting a soft mewl tumble into the night.

"Who's your Daddy?" He asks with a throaty groan; the muscles in his neck pulse under his freckled, tan skin as he jerks his cock.

Your cheeks flame at his words, and you can't help but pathetically whimper.

"C'mon, say it, or else I'm comin' over," he states, cocking his head with a deadly smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. "'N we both know it'd kill him to see what a lil' whore his daughter turned into."

A gasp tears from your parted lips. He wouldn't-

"Best do as you're told, pretty girl. Don' wanna disappoint me now, do ya?"

Your eyes flutter, and you nervously lick your bottom lip, making it shine under the deck light.

"Daddy."

Syrupy slick flows freely from your cunt, drenching your panties as you softly chant the word "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy" over and over to the older man. Your cunt pulses in time with his movements, wishing he was fucking his cock into you instead of his fist.

He jerks his length greedily, faster and faster, until his neck flushes like a golden sunset, his eyes pinch tight, and he comes with a hoarse growl between gritted teeth.

Ropes of white land on his heaving chest, staining his button-up. The sight makes you lightheaded, and you fall back against the side of the house, breathless.

"Next time, I'm leavin' my mark on 'em," he gruffly declares before abruptly ending the call, leaving you to stare at your pathetic, wanton reflection in the murky black screen.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal

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twistedsistas-stuff · 1 month ago

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Songbird Sins

Sammie x Reader

Requested by : @yourm0mish0t 😉

Warnings :Sammie “Munch “ Moore

Mississippi Delta, 1953

Ain’t too many folk sang in the Delta back then. Least not where somebody could hear it.

Not unless the blues got ’em so low they ain’t care who knew, or they was too drunk

to hold their tongue. But up and down them dirt roads and creaky porches, across cotton fields and shotgun shacks, everybody knew one name:

Delta Slim.

Old fool with a smile full of gold and sin. That side tooth caught the light like a promise—or a threat. Always wore them dusty suits, shiny from wear, hangin’ off him like memories he couldn’t shake. Tilted his head when he walked, like he was listenin’ to somethin’ nobody else could hear—maybe the Devil, maybe the Lord. Hard to tell in those parts.

They said he lived down by the station, in a room above the old feed store, though mostly he could be found sittin’ at that broke-down upright piano inside Harper’s Joint—just past the levee where the light don’t quite reach and the air always tastes like smoke, sweat, and yesterday’s regret.

No sign on the door. Just a red-glass cross hangin’ in the window, glowin’ soft and sinister. Like God was watchin’… but only barely.

And in there, Slim wasn’t just some drunk with a gold grin and a bad back. 

He was a whole storm sittin’ on that piano bench.

Man played like he had ghosts in his chest.

His fingers hit them keys like he was knockin’ on heaven’s gate—or breakin’ it down. And that harmonica? Folks swore it was carved from bone and baptized in bootleg. Sounded like a man cryin’ through steel bars, or laughin’ at his own funeral.

He played like he was beggin’ for mercy and cursin’ the sky in the same breath. Shoulder all hunched, back sweatin’ through his shirt, music pourin’ off him like he couldn’t hold it

no more.

And the people?

They caught it like sickness.

Some cried. Some danced like they’d been struck by lightnin’. Some just stood there, eyes glassy, waitin’ for the song to tell ’em what to do next.

He made the night feel thick. Like something holy was bein’ broken right in front of you.

And folks wanted it. Needed it. Didn’t matter if they came in straight—they left bent.

Ain’t nobody walked out early when Slim played. Hell, most forgot how to walk at all.

Ain’t much change in this stretch of the Delta. The roads still red with clay, the trees leanin’ like they tired of standin’, and the air heavy with the kind of heat that made folks slow down whether they meant to or not.

The juke tonight sat out past the cotton fields, where the trees thinned out and the music got thick. They’d hammered it together from scrap wood and tin, whitewashed it once maybe ten years ago.

Now the place sweated just like the people inside—walls thumpin’ with bass and breath and bodies leanin’ too close.

And word was, Delta Slim would be there.

Not that he was famous—not in the way the big city crooners were—but he was known.

Folks said he played like his fingers was born on the keys and died there every night. Said he didn’t play songs so much as spill somethin. Like his soul didn’t know how else to speak.

But before the juke, there was church.

That’s where you were.

A little tin-roof chapel off the old levee road. Just big enough to fit two choirs, three fans, and a whole lotta guilt. The walls breathed gospel and sweat, and the windows stayed open to let the Lord in—or maybe to let temptation out.

You sat straight in your pew, gloved hands folded in your lap like Mama taught. If you was gon’ sing, you best look like you meant it. Ain’t no room for wrinkles in the house of God, she always said. Not on your dress. Not on your face.

And sing you did—high, bright, clear like spring water spillin’ from a jug.

You wasn’t performin’. You was praisin’.

Or at least, tryin’ to.

‘Cause right there, sittin’ slouched in the corner pew, one leg crossed over the other, hat tipped low over his brow, was Samuel Moore.

Folks called him Sammie when they liked him, that boy when they didn’t.

And when you sang? 

He watched.

Half-lidded eyes followin’ every note, lips barely movin’ like he was hummin’ under his breath. 

“Lord,” he thought, “that girl don’t sing—she calls things down.” 

You hit a run and he felt it in his gut. Like a storm comin’ slow, but sure. When your eyes met his, you smiled—just a flicker. Just enough. He sat up then, wiped his palms on his trousers like they was sweatin’.

The choir shifted. He stood. Picked up his guitar—the old one with the wood worn smooth from years of tryin’ to be heard—and he sang. 

Deep. Full. A little cracked, like a road too long walked. 

And when Sammie sang, it was like the devil leaned in to listen. You shouldn’t feel like that in church. But you did. He made you breathless. Like you’d run clear through a field without movin’ a step.

Service let out, and you stood up polite. Smoothed your dress down, fixed your gloves, made sure the hem was right. Mama used to say, “Don’t let the Lord catch you lookin’ like you forgot who raised you.”

You heard him before you saw him.

Boots slow and heavy. Floorboards creakin’ like they knew who walked on ‘em.

“Mornin’, little songbird.”

You looked up, and he was smilin’ that slow, crooked kind of smile like he already knew your answer to whatever he was about to ask. You could feel your cheeks heat up beneath your brown skin, and you prayed the Lord was lookin’ elsewhere.

His eyes danced over your face like he was takin’ inventory.

“Samuel,” you said, voice hushed but firm, “I told you stop callin’ me that.”

You swatted his arm with your glove, and he laughed—real soft, almost sweet. You peeked over at your daddy, still speakin’ with Mr. Moore, but watchin’ you two just the same.

“And I told you stop callin’ me Samuel,” he said, leanin’ just close enough to steal your air.

“Then what I’m supposed to call you?” You lifted your chin, bold now.

He stepped in, real slow.

“I can think of a few names.”

You blushed deep, hand tappin’ his chin gentle.

“You wish, Moore. You wish.”

That’s when his father’s voice cracked through the evening like a thunderclap.

“Samuel!”

They always said Mr. Moore didn’t need to raise a hand. His voice did the work for him. Two fingers curled in a beckon sharp enough to slice. 

Sammie looked that way, then looked back at you. “My cousins openin’ up a juke tonight. You gon’ come?” You worried your bottom lip, just for a second.

“I’ll think on it.”

“Come on, Birdie… don’t do me like that.”

You dropped your eyes, couldn’t hide your smile.

“You’ll come. I know you will.”

And with that, he tipped his hat and turned, boots tappin’ out slow music on the old floorboards as he walked back toward his father. You watched him go, feelin’ like you’d just read a psalm and forgot the words right after.

The last hymn had long since faded, but the air in the chapel still held onto the weight of it—sticky and slow like syrup in the summertime.

Your daddy came striding down the center aisle, Sunday boots hitting the floor like a quiet kind of thunder. Passed right by Sammie with only a nod, short and sharp. Sammie nodded back, chin barely dipping—like the gesture cost him somethin’.

Your daddy reached your side, arm bent just so, the way he always offered it after church. You slipped yours through it, gloves soft against the wool of his jacket. The two of you walked out together, steps steady, shoulders straight.

But you couldn’t help yourself. You turned.

Sammie was still standing there near the pews, guitar slung over his back, eyes fixed right on you. Like he could still hear you singin’ in his head.

You gave him half a smile—just one corner of your mouth liftin’.

 And then you turned back toward the door, footsteps carryin’ you out the chapel and outta his sight.

Back inside, Sammie’s father stood waiting by the pulpit, arms crossed over his chest like he was guardin’ somethin holy.

“Boy,” he said, voice low but iron-heavy, “that music you playin’—it don’t belong in a house of God.”

Sammie didn’t answer, just kept his jaw set, eyes on the dust motes floatin’ in the shaft of windowlight.

“It’s too dark,” his daddy went on. “Too powerful. You don’t stir up folks like that in here. You confuse spirit for show.”

Sammie ran a thumb over the worn fret of his guitar.

“And that girl—Reverend Clark’s daughter—” His daddy let the sentence hang like a noose.

“She’s a good girl, and you… you walkin’ too close to the edge. Temptation ain’t always dressed in red, son. Sometimes it look like music. Sometimes it look like love.”

Sammie just nodded.

 He’d heard it before. Word for word. Sunday after Sunday.

His mind wasn’t here no more.

His mind was already down the dirt road, where the juke joint pulsed like a second heartbeat and the music didn’t care who was holy and who wasn’t.

When the sermon ended, Sammie gave one last nod, grabbed his guitar case, and stepped out into the heat. His cousin was already in the truck, engine coughin’ under the hood.

He jumped in, slammed the door, and they pulled off, tires spittin’ up red clay as they disappeared down the road—toward the sound.

In your daddy’s car, the sun slanted through the dusty glass, settin’ fire to the dashboard. He drove one hand on the wheel, the other propped up on the windowsill, thumb and forefinger pressin’ against his temple like this talk was already wearin’ him out.

“What’s goin’ on with you and that boy?”

His voice was calm, but stretched thin.

You looked out the window, watchin’ the fields pass like ghosts.

“Nothin’, Daddy.”

He snorted, didn’t buy it for a second.

“You lyin’ to me, girl.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes still fixed outside.

“No sir.”

He looked at you then. That look that scraped down deep—hot and hard. A father’s stare. The kind that pulled truth like blood. Silence filled the car, thick and close.

You and Sammie weren’t in love. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you were tied up in something neither of you had a name for. Bonded by chords and chords again. Two kids with fathers that feared the same thing: that music might set you free.

Or worse—make you feel too much.

“You ain’t to go near that boy.”

You didn’t answer.

He turned his head full, eyes wide now.

“You hear me, dammit?” His hand came down hard on the steering wheel—WHAM—a crack loud enough to startle the crows.

You jumped. “Yes sir,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded once, jaw workin’ but sayin’ nothin’ else. He had a temper, your daddy. Never laid a hand on you, but his anger filled a room like smoke. You knew not to feed it.

The rest of the ride was quiet. But your heart? 

Your heart was loud as thunder.

She didn’t say a word when she stepped through the door.

Not to her mama, not to the house. Just walked straight down the narrow hallway, past the family Bible open on the side table, past the photograph of her grandfather in a borrowed suit, and straight into her room. The screen door clicked shut behind her like punctuation.

Her mama looked up from the stove.

“Evenin’, baby—”

But the girl was already gone. That energy she carried in with her moved like smoke—heavy, unsettled.

Her mama didn’t follow. Just stood there with her hand on the handle of the pot, staring at the hallway, breath caught in her chest.

She felt it.

The thing about anger is, you feel it the same way you feel heat. It rises. Sticks. Waves out from a body like a warning. Just like the shimmer in the air under the Delta sun when the ground’s about to crack.

She waited.

And sure enough, minutes later, her husband walked in.

Boots dusty. Shoulders stiff. Jaw set like he’d been chewin’ bricks. Didn’t say nothin’. Just sat down at the table like he was about to break it in two. She didn’t ask no questions. Not yet. She just reached for the jug sittin’ by the window, poured him something bitter—strong enough to distract a man from the fire in his chest.

Set it down in front of him without a clatter. Smooth. Deliberate.

Then she sat beside him, real gentle, like you’d approach a sleeping dog you weren’t sure wouldn’t bite. “What happened?” she asked, soft but clear.

He took a long sip, grimaced at the taste, but didn’t stop drinkin’.

“She lyin’ to me,” he said finally. “Over that Moore boy. I see the way they look at each other. Like fools. Like fire waitin’ on a match.”

She nodded, didn’t interrupt.

“That boy don’t know how to walk no straight line. His daddy can’t keep him in church, can’t keep that guitar from twistin’ his head around. That music he plays… It don’t belong near my daughter. Don’t belong in no holy place. It’s wild. Unclean.”

His wife listened. Let the words settle like dust.

Then she leaned forward just a bit, eyes still soft.

“Let me tell you somethin’, Henry.”

He looked up.

“The more you smother a voice, the louder it gets. You know that. And that light in them—your daughter and that Moore boy—you and Mr. Moore keep tryin’ to cover it up like a flame, but baby… the more you press it down, the brighter it gon’ burn. Light don’t snuff out easy.”

He opened his mouth, but she wasn’t done.

“Now I know you want her safe. I know. But safety ain’t a lock. Not all the time. It’s a space. A space to stretch. To move. To figure out who you are without someone squeezin’ you down to nothin’. Even a flower don’t bloom tight shut.”

She slid her hand across his shoulders, the way she used to when they were younger—when his body still knew how to soften beneath her touch. Then she pressed a slow kiss to his cheek. Warm. Certain.

Without another word, she rose and walked down the hall. Her steps quiet against the old wood floor.

He watched her go, glass still in his hand, that bitter burn runnin’ hotter in his throat now. She reached the girl’s door, paused just long enough to turn back.

She smiled at him—sad and full of understanding. Then she closed the door behind her. He caught a glimpse just before it shut. His baby girl, curled up on the bed like a prayer somebody forgot to say out loud. The sight of her like that—small, tired, glowing faintly in the lamplight—burned worse than anything in his cup.

The sun was just starting to tuck itself behind the trees when her mama called her out to the porch.

She stepped outside, arms still damp from doing dishes, the smell of soap and lemon lingering in the folds of her sleeves.

Her mama was sitting in that old cane chair, the one that leaned to the left, with her Bible closed in her lap and a look on her face that said she’d already prayed and made peace with what she was about to say.

“Your Auntie called. Said Alice been askin’ for you.”

You leaned against the post, trying not to hope too loud.

Your mama looked up at you—steady, soft, the same way she looked at the moon when it was full.

“I want you to go,” she said simply. “Go be with your cousin. Sing with her. Laugh some. Stretch your arms out and feel the air on your skin. You hear me?”

You blinked. “Mama…”

“You don’t owe me no ‘but.’ Not tonight.”

She stood, brushing her skirt smooth with both hands, then reached out and cupped your face like she used to when you were small.

“You always carryin’ somethin’ heavy. Walkin’ like the world already claimed you. But baby, you still light. You still got some dance in you. Don’t let it get smothered out before you even know what it feel like.”

You nodded, eyes stinging more than you expected. She kissed your forehead like a blessing.

“Go on now,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Before I change my mind.”

And with that, she turned and went back inside.

Now here you were.

Alice’s room was lit up like it was waiting on a good story to happen. Record player hummin’ something low and smooth, the scent of cocoa butter thick in the air.

You stood in front of the mirror, skin shining, your pulse a little louder than before.

Alice was already dancing across the room, slipping into her red skirt, big smile chasing every movement.

“Girl, I can’t wait to see my man,” she giggled, practically glowing.

You shook your head, laughing as you rubbed more shea into your shoulders.

“Lord, you bold. Runnin’ wild behind that man.”

“He run wild behind me,” she shot back, tossing her hair like she was in one of them picture shows.

You laughed again, teasing, “Ooooohhh, Alice and Smokey sittin’ in a tree…”

She threw a towel at you and you caught it, still grinning.

“I don’t know why you messin’ with me when you goin’ for Mr. Sammie Moore,” she said, narrowing her eyes with mischief.

“We just friends,” you muttered.

“Mmhmm. Friends don’t stand that close in the house of God,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “I seen that, baby bird.”

You blushed deep, trying to hide the way your smile curled at the corners.

“Are you ready?” you asked, voice a little higher than usual.

Alice turned to the mirror, applied her lip gloss with a practiced hand, and smacked her lips.

“I been ready,” she said.

Then she reached for your hand.

“C’mon, baby bird. Let’s fly.”

And just like that, y’all stepped out into the night.

You and Alice felt it before y’all even stepped inside. The music, the heat, the electricity of something about to happen—it all pressed up against the skin like a lover’s breath. The gravel path leading to the juke was packed tight beneath your heels, like even the earth didn’t dare disturb your entrance.

Cornbread saw you both before the porch creaked under your weight. He gave a low whistle, lips curled up around a cigarette that had long since gone cold.

“Well, don’t y’all look finer than my patience tonight,” he said, stepping aside like a gentleman with a grin that wasn’t.

Alice laughed, tossing her curls off her shoulder, and you just gave him a look that said we know. The door groaned open, and the music inside washed over you—blues tangled with sweat, clinking glasses, and something wild humming in the bones of the place.

The Twins’ Juke Joint didn’t glow so much as smolder. Lamplight flickered against wood darkened by decades of heat and heartbreak. The air was molasses-thick, bodies pressed together in time with a rhythm too old to be written down. You and Alice stood there for a beat, letting it all seep in.

“This place,” she murmured beside you, voice low and full of wonder, “got more soul than any church I ever been to.”

You nodded. “Feels like it’s lookin’ right back at us.”

Then came Smoke—slick and tall, wearing confidence like a second skin. His suspenders hugged his broad chest like they were lucky to be there. A silver watch chain glinted at his hip, and his hat sat just so, like the night bent to his mood.

“Well, now,” he said, voice dipped in bourbon and velvet, eyes locked on Alice. “If I knew you was comin’ lookin’ like this, I’da brought flowers instead of just sin.”

She flushed, pleased, but held her ground.

He glanced at you, respectful but just cocky enough. “Ma’am,” he said with a tip of the brim.

He was always polite, but right now? He was a guiding Alice down the road to sin with a touch that lingered longer than polite. You looked away, not out of shyness—but because you didn’t want to see what she was already feeling.

Then came Sammie. Where Smoke was cool and measured, Sammie burned just a little. A spark under the skin. Same sharp jaw, same dark eyes, but something in his grin promised mischief more than charm.

“Well damn,” he said, sauntering up like he’d been waiting all night, “ain’t a man in here gon’ keep still with you two walkin’ around lookin’ like that.”

He jerked his chin toward the stage. “Slim’s ‘bout to go on. You best get a drink while you still got room to breathe.”

You and Alice made your way to the bar, shoulders brushing, the wood beneath your feet sticky with years of dancing and spilled bourbon. You ordered sweet and slow drinks, the kind that don’t hit ‘til you’re too deep to turn back.

“He still got that look in his eye,” you said, glancing toward where Smoke was already stood eyes unmoving from Alice.

“Oh, I see it,” she said, sipping through a smile. “My knees still hummin’.”

You laughed, but something in your chest tugged. That juke was alive tonight—every wall watching, every shadow whispering.

Smoke reappeared then, grinning like he knew he’d already won.

“Mind if I steal this vision for a dance?” he asked, hand already reaching for Alice. Then, to you, “Beggin’ your pardon, but a man’s gotta dance with a woman this fine. That’s just gospel.”

He led her off before you could answer, her fingers curled into his like they remembered him from another life.

Then Sammie slid in beside you, slow and easy. “Well now,” he murmured, voice low like a sin, “look what the moon left behind.”

You turned to him, glass cool in your hand. “You always come in second?”

“I don’t mind followin’ when the path’s this sweet,” he said, his smile tilting wicked. “Now you gon’ dance with me, or just stand there pretendin’ you don’t want to?”

He pulled you onto the floor before you could argue, one hand strong at your waist, the other laced through your fingers. The music swelled, all brass and smoke and drumbeat hearts.

“You dance,” he said, spinning you into the sway, “like you already know how this ends.”

“Maybe I do,” you said, letting him pull you closer. “Maybe Id like the way it plays out.”

His lips brushed your ear, barely a breath.

“Told you I’d have you movin’ tonight,” he said. “Meant that… one way or another.”

The night answered with a swell of music. The juke groaned. And somewhere out there, the Mississippi moon kept watch.

The song ended in a blur of sweat and sway, the final notes hanging in the air like a held breath. The room stilled for a beat—just long enough for Slim to step forward, slick with rhythm and shine, guitar still humming against his hip.

He grinned wide under the low lamplight, breathless but riding the high of his last lick.

“Y’all ain’t ready for what come next,” Slim said, voice rasped like gravel soaked in syrup. “Ladies and gentleman—ain’t no need to play coy. You done seen him. You done watched him work. But now, you ‘bout to feel him.”

The crowd leaned in.

Slim nodded toward the side stage, making his way toward the mic. “Gimme a holler for the Delta’s favorite bad idea—my brother. The one and only Sammie Moore.”

Applause scattered through the haze, but you barely noticed. Sammie turned to you, his eyes catching yours like a hand around your wrist.

“‘Scuse me, sugar,” he murmured with a crooked grin, pulling away from your side. “Duty calls.”

He stepped up slow, his boots tapping a lazy rhythm against the worn floorboards. He adjusted the mic like it knew to behave for him, and looked out across the crowd—but you could tell he wasn’t talkin’ to them, not really. He was talkin’ to you.

“I go by Sammie,” he said into the mic, voice low and smooth. “People call me preaches boy.” He strummed a few notes. “On the count of my daddy being a preacher.” The men on the stage began stomping a rhythm.

“Thats if you wanna say it proper.” He looked up at you under those long lashes. “But I don’t mind if you scream it instead.

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. The band struck up behind him—lazy at first, like the night itself was stretching—and then that guitar let loose.

His voice hit like warm smoke curling up your spine. Not loud, not showy—just true. It carried through the room and into your skin, into the places you thought no man could reach. Every word hung in the air, tugging at something old and deep in your chest. Every strum of that guitar felt like he was plucking the strings wrapped ‘round your heart.

And he kept watchin’ you.

As he sang, he tilted his chin toward you, beckoning without a word.

The drink from earlier warmed your belly, gave you that perfect sort of buzz where all the rules melt. So you moved. Slow. Smooth like honey, sweet like the sound pouring from his lips.

You made your way toward the stage like you weren’t even touchin’ the floor. His voice wrapped around you like silk and smoke, and the crowd parted like they knew this moment wasn’t meant for them.

Sammie stepped forward to meet you, circling like a storm about to form. You didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. You turned too—equal parts warning and invitation.

“I hope you can stand it,” he sang, low and dirty.

He came in behind you now, close enough for heat but not quite touchin’.

“Stand it all…” he sang, drawin’ that word out until it didn’t sound like a lyric no more, but a challenge. Maybe even a promise.

You moved back against him, feelin’ him there without lookin’. Then you turned, slow and bold, brushin’ past him as you walked backward, eyes still on his. He followed like he was always gonna.

The whole damn crowd watched, but it might as well have just been the two of you.

Over near the bar, Smoke leaned close to Alice, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Your cousin always dance like that?” he asked, sipping slow from his glass.

Alice snorted, eyes still fixed on you. “Only when she mean it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Lord help us.”

Back on stage, the music rose—horns wailin', guitar cryin’—and Sammie’s voice hit its peak, all grit and gospel and gut-pullin’ want. You felt it burst through your ribs like somethin’ holy and wicked all at once.

And just as the song hit its crescendo—you swear you did too.

It wasn’t no ordinary fire, no—it was the kind of flame that lived in the space between pain and pleasure. A holy burn, the sting right before the sweetness. And in that moment, you knew one thing for sure:

Sammie moore had set your soul on fire. And Lord, you didn’t want nothin’ put it out.

The final note of the song dropped like thunder, soft but final, and the crowd roared with it—cheers and whistles rising in the steamy juke like smoke from a fire. Sammie held his guitar by the neck, breathing heavy, eyes never once leaving you.

He raised the mic again, grin stretched wide across his face like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried.

“Now that,” he drawled, still lookin’ dead at you, “was somethin’ else.”

The crowd hollered in agreement.

“She ain’t just got moves, folks,” he said, motioning to you with a sweep of his hand. “This one? She got a voice on her too. One that’ll make a man drop straight to his knees. I ain’t proud to say it, but I done it once already.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Folks leaned in, lookin’ at you different now. Some with curiosity. Some with hunger. Some with that kind of church-smothered judgment you’d learned to spot even in the dark.

Sammie nodded. “If it do that to me, I know it could move y’all.”

But you ain’t move.

Your heart thumped against your ribs like it was tryin’ to break out. The laughter, the applause—it got thick in your ears. All of a sudden you weren’t in the juke no more. You were sittin’ on a hard oak pew, sunlight catchin’ dust through a stained-glass window, sweat pricklin’ under your dress, eyes on you from faces that knew your mama, your pastor, your past.

You scanned the crowd now. Strangers. Folks who’d only ever seen you pass by, maybe once or twice. And Sammie—Lord, he was still smilin’. Still lookin’ at you like he believed in something bigger than music. Like you was the sound.

But your feet moved before your heart could catch up.

You turned quick, slippin’ offstage and out the back hallway. No words. Just the sound of your breath startin’ to speed up. The juke door banged shut behind you, muffling the crowd into a dull echo. You found the storage closet without even thinking—shoved open the creaky door and slipped inside.

It was small. Dusty. Hot. The kind of place that smelled like old wood and lemon oil, with stacks of crates and broken-down stools. But it was quiet. And it was away.

You leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to your chest like you could settle your heart just by touchin’ it. Your breath hitched. You weren’t scared of your voice. You were scared of being seen.

Sammie stood on stage for a second, eyes still on the door you’d disappeared through. The crowd murmured, confused but entertained. He gave a short laugh—gentle, not mocking—and leaned into the mic.

“She alright,” he told them, raising a calming hand. “Y’all give her a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Then he slipped offstage, just as smooth as he’d walked on, winding through the hallway with a purpose in his step and something real soft in his eyes.

The hallway behind the juke was dim, barely lit by a single bulb swingin' from the ceiling like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to stay on or not. Sammie moved through it slow—he wasn’t in no rush, not like he was chasing. He just knew where you went. Some things don’t need directions.

He paused in front of the closet door. Knocked once, soft.

“You alright in there?” he asked, his voice quiet now. Like he wasn’t on stage no more. Like it was just you and him in the whole wide world.

You didn’t answer at first. Just breathed. Tried to even it out. But that rhythm had left you back on the dance floor.

“I ain’t tryna push you,” he said. “Ain’t mad. Just… didn’t expect you to vanish like smoke.”

You exhaled—long, shaky—and cracked the door open just enough to see him. He leaned one hand on the frame, hat off, sweat at his temples, but no pressure in his face. Just that same crooked smile that somehow knew how to wait.

Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“I can’t do that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not like that. Not here.”

He nodded slow, took a small step back, like givin’ you room might help you fill it.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said. “You from here. Church folks got long memories and longer tongues.”

You winced, and he saw it.

“They’ll talk,” you murmured, finally lookin’ up. “You know they will. If daddy- if they heard me sing in a place like this…”

“They’ll talk anyway,” Sammie said. “That’s what folks do. They talk while they watch you burn, then ask how you did it when the smoke clears.”

You blinked, like that thought hadn’t occurred to you.

He stepped forward again—just enough for you to feel the pull of him.

“You scared to sing in front of strangers,” he said, “but baby… strangers don’t know where to stab you. That fear you feel? That’s just the edge of somethin’ real. You touch it, and you don’t gotta run no more.”

Silence settled between you like a breath being held. Your hand still pressed to your chest, his eyes on it like he could feel the beat too.

“I ain’t tryna make you do nothin’,” Sammie said after a moment. “But I saw the way you looked when I said your name. Like you almost believed it. Like maybe… just maybe, you could take up space.”

You looked at him fully now, and something in your chest cracked open.

“I ain’t ready,” you said.

“I think you ready.”

Sammie’s voice cut through the silence like a match striking dry wood.

You froze, back still half-turned toward him, breath caught somewhere between fear and want. He wasn’t smilin’ now—no smirk, no teasing. Just him, standing there with his chest rising slow and eyes locked on yours like he knew exactlywhat he was saying.

“No,” you said, barely louder than breath.

“No I ain’t.”

“You are,” he said again, steady. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

He stepped closer. The storage closet was small to begin with, but now it felt like the air had thickened between you, warm and heavy with everything unsaid. Your hand went up, like maybe it could hold back what was coming—but he didn’t stop.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered. “I can’t be seen like that. Not here.”

He tilted his head, slow and serious. “Why not?”

You swallowed hard. It took everything in you to answer.

“My daddy.”

The words came like a stone falling out your chest. You said it like it still had weight over you, like the sound alone could drag you back down to your knees.

“He’s out there,” you went on, voice trembling. “Not in the crowd, maybe, but in the pews. In the people. In what they think when they see me standin’ on a stage like this. In how they’ll run tell it come Sunday.”

Sammie’s face didn’t move much, but you saw the way his jaw flexed. His voice dropped low—quieter, but sharper.

“Your daddy the reason you scared of your own voice?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

He stepped in closer, crowding your space now, but still not touchin’. Just letting you feel him—solid and warm and there.

“I know men like him,” he said. “Men who keep their daughters in the shadows just so they don’t outshine ‘em.”

You flinched at that, but Sammie didn’t pull back.

“You ain’t small,” he said. “He just wanted you to feel small. You think I don’t see that?”

“I’m not like other girls,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “You don’t want me round, Sammie.”

That struck something in him. His mouth parted slightly, like he almost laughed, bitter and soft.

“I don’t want you?” he said, stepping in so close you could feel his breath ghost against your lips. “You really think that?”

You looked away.

He reached up, fingertips grazing your jaw just enough to guide your face back toward his.

“I don’t give a damn what your daddy think. He don’t get to tell you what your voice is worth, and he sure as hell don’t get to tell me who to want.”

Your eyes were glassy now, tears right there at the edge.

“I’m my own man,” he said. “He can’t keep me from you. Ain’t nobody can.”

Your bottom lip quivered, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You gon’ sing,” Sammie said, not a question. A vow. “I’ll make sure of it. Even if I gotta hold the whole damn world back for you to do it.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. Your throat was tight.

“I’m not ready,”

Her voice barely made it through the stillness, like it got caught on the dust in the air. She didn’t look at him when she said it—eyes dropped to the floor, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was holdin’ in a storm.

Sammie didn’t flinch. He just nodded slow, like he’d been waitin’ on that truth to come out.

“That’s alright,” he said, voice low, steady. “But I can help with that… take those nerves off you.”

You looked up at him then, brows drawn tight. “What you mean?”

“Help you breathe,” he said, taking a step closer. “Help you relax. A little… or more than a little. Whatever you need.”

The heat in his voice coiled around your spine, slow and deliberate. It scared you, but not in a way that made you want to run. In a way that made you want to know what it was like… to be touched like that. Seen like that.

“I ain’t never had that before,” you murmured, a tremor in your voice. “Not from nobody who didn’t want somethin’.

Sammie’s face softened, but the fire in his eyes didn’t.

“That ain’t your fault,” he said. “That’s ‘cause nobody ever appreciated you right.”

And then—like his words pulled the rest of him forward—he kissed you.

Slow at first. Warm, coaxing, sure.

His hands stayed light at your waist, like he was asking permission with every breath between you. But the moment your lips parted against his, the moment you kissed him back, that lightness burned away into something deep and hungry.

His bigger frame closed the space like a door shutting tight behind you. You felt the difference in your size—the strength in his chest, the weight in his grip—but it didn’t scare you. It made you feel protected. Wanted.

His hands slid lower, pulling you gently against him, and he breathed into your mouth like he was trying to tell you something without breaking the moment.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips barely brushing yours.

“That what you want?” he asked, voice rough now. “Want me to help you… relax?”

Your breath caught. You nodded once—but that wasn’t enough for Sammie.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’. Say it out loud.”

You swallowed, voice barely there.

“I want you,” you said, then steadier—“I want you to… help me. To relax me.”

That did it.

Sammie’s eyes went darker, like you’d struck something deep. He reached for you, hands curling under your thighs as he lifted you like it was nothin’. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders as he carried you three steps to the back corner of the closet where an old wooden crate sat, covered in a thick wool blanket, worn but soft.

He set you down atop it gently, like laying a secret down in the dark.

And then he stepped between your knees, both hands braced on either side of your thighs, his body crowding yours, that same fire flickering behind his smile.

“Now,” he said, voice low as a prayer, “just breathe.”

He hooked a finger ‘round the edge of your drawers—lace worn soft from too many summers on the line—and dragged ‘em down slow. Like he ain’t never unwrapped nothin’ so precious. You lifted your hips without a word, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

“Ain’t nothin’ finer than this,” he murmured, ballin’ the fabric in his fist and settin’ it gentle on the table ‘side y’all. “You don’t even know.”

Then he knelt, dark eyes holdin’ yours just a second longer—just long enough to make sure you knew he meant it—before leanin’ in and pressin’ one hot, open-mouthed kiss against your center.

You gasped—soft, startled—hips twitchin’ as his tongue dragged up slow, just once, deliberate. The kind of lick that knew where you was goin’ before you even got there. Then he pulled back, lips glistenin’, and blew warm breath right over you—low and steady.

Your thighs trembled, breath stuttering out your mouth like it forgot how to land. He grinned up at you, slow and wolfish, and planted his palms back firm on either side of you.

“Breathe, baby,” he said again, voice not much more than gravel and gospel. “Ain’t no need to run from it. I got you.”

He went back in, tongue and lips workin’ like he was coaxin’ a song outta you—your own body hummin’ in tune with the slick sound of his mouth between your legs. It weren’t just touch—it was rhythm. The way a man plays his favorite guitar—calloused hands, soft jaw, steady pulse.

Your voice came out like a moan wrapped in melody, lilting and broken, your back archin’ like a bow strung too tight. He moaned back into you, deep in his throat, like he felt every ounce of it.

“I love this song,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “You hear that? That’s you singin’. That’s your sound. Don’t hold back now.”

And Lord, you didn’t. Couldn’t. The music of your body rose with his mouth, heat curlin’ through your belly like a slow Southern summer storm.

He didn’t rush. Just kept at it, mouth workin’ slow, tongue paintin’ over you like he was takin’ his time with a sacred text. You cried out soft, hands grippin’ the edge of the table like it was all that held you to this earth.

Then he slid one thick finger in—easy, patient—pressin’ up slow ‘til your breath hitched. Your body clutched at him like you’d been waitin’ on this moment longer than you knew.

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the sound vibratin’ clean through your belly. “Still so tight for me. You feel that?”

He didn’t wait for no answer. Just moved that finger in and out, curlin’ it careful, then slid another in beside it, stretchin’ you open slow. It weren’t greedy—just steady. Deep.

You looked down at where he was knelt, workin’ you over with mouth and hand both, and somethin’ about the way his fingers moved—strong and skilled and sure—brought you right back.

Back to those Sunday mornin’s in the colored chapel, where the preacher’d be late and Sammie’d sit on the porch steps, guitar in his lap. You used to sneak glances while pretendin’ to read scripture, watchin’ the way his fingers danced on them strings—calloused pads pressin’ and pluckin’ with such feelin’ it made the whole holler quiet just to hear.

That same ease was in his touch now—pullin’ notes outta you he already knew by heart. Each stroke slow and tuned to your body, your breath catchin’ like a chorus buildin’. His fingers curved just right, his mouth never quittin’ you, tongue workin’ that tender place up top with steady devotion.

Your hips started rockin’ without askin’, thighs squeezin’ tight around his head.

“There she go,” he mumbled against you. “Don’t hold back, baby. Give it here.”

You felt the build rise slow—like heat from the fields, like summer thunder just waitin’ to break. Your eyes rolled back, mouth fallin’ open, that cry leavin’ your chest like a hymn that’d been trapped inside you for years.

You came undone on his tongue and fingers, shakin’ like you caught the Holy Ghost, whimperin’ his name like a prayer too worn to whisper. He held you through it, never lettin’ up til every bit of that storm ran through you.

You was still tremblin’, legs slack, breath comin’ in broken pieces when he rose up just long enough to look at you—eyes dark, jaw tight.

“Nah,” he said low, voice guttural now. “We ain’t done.”

Before you could catch your next breath, he was back down there, mouth latchin’ on with more hunger this time—like he’d tasted heaven and wasn’t satisfied with just one bite.

You cried out, high and sudden, legs tryin’ to jerk away. But he gripped your thighs firm, pulled you down harder against his face, lockin’ you in place.

“Uh-uh, don’t run now,” he growled, voice muffled in you. “You gone take every bit.”

His fingers dug into the meat of your hips, holdin’ you steady as his mouth worked ruthless, tongue flickin’ quick now, pressin’ hard, suckin’ at that spot til your head rolled back and your body bowed.

Ain’t no gentle rhythm no more—he was relentless, starved, like a man who been out in the field too long and come home thirsty. Your hands flew to his hair, tryin’ to anchor yourself as heat bloomed again, sharp and fast.

“S-Sammie,” you choked out, but it came out all breath, no strength behind it. He answered with a deep moan, the vibration of it shootin’ through your belly.

His fingers slipped back inside you, but this time they moved fast, determined, stretchin’ and pressin’ into that tender spot til your thighs shook around his head. He worked you like a song that needed finishin’, like your body was a rhythm only he could play proper.

You felt the build come quick—too quick—like your body was betrayin’ you, risin’ up to meet his mouth with nothin’ left to give.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take no more, he sucked hard, fingers curlin’ just right—and you broke again.

This time it hit harder. You cried out from deep in your belly, body seizin’ tight as a fresh wave rolled over you, sharp and blinding. A little stream left you, leakin’ down over his mouth, but he didn’t flinch—just groaned into it like it fed him, like it proved somethin’ he already knew.

Your vision blurred. Chest heaved like a river tryin’ to calm itself after a flood.

He didn’t move for a while, just stayed down there, lips soft now, kissin’ the inside of your thigh like he was thankin’ you for lettin’ him take you there.

When he finally stood, his face glistened in the lamplight, jaw wet, eyes dark as a stormcloud. He looked down at you—bare, spent, shakin’ on that table—and grinned like a man who’d just played the last note of a good long blues.

“You still breathin’?” he asked, voice husky, smug, gentle all at once.

And Lord, you was—but just barely.

You tried to sit up, legs still unsteady beneath you, breath all tangled up in your chest like wild vines.

Your voice came out scratchy. “Lord, Sammie… I don’t even know how to stand.”

He chuckled low, pride warm in his chest as he moved in close, one hand slippin’ behind your back, the other reachin’ for your drawers. He knelt again, gentle now, like a man piecin’ together something fragile, and helped you step into them.

“Ain’t no rush,” he murmured. “I got you.”

He smoothed the soft cotton up over your thighs, takin’ his time, thumbs glidin’ against your skin like he didn’t quite wanna let go. Then his hands traveled up your sides, strong palms slidin’ up your back to your shoulders, fingertips findin’ your hair and gently layin’ it down right, tuckin’ it back like he was settin’ you in order.

“There,” he whispered. “Pretty as always.”

You sighed, heavy, still floatin’ in the afterglow, eyes slippin’ shut as your weight leaned into him.

“How you feel?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath against your cheek.

You smiled lazy, eyelids flutterin’. “Relaxed. Sleepy.”

He chuckled, that deep familiar sound you loved so much, and pulled you tighter against his chest. But then his hands slid back to your shoulders, firm but tender, and pushed you upright just enough to look at you proper.

He held your face in his hands for a second, eyes searchin’ yours like he was readin’ scripture written right across your soul. Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow, sure, the kind of kiss that says I see you, I know you, I still want you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You ready now?” he asked, voice lower than before, more serious. Like this part mattered just as much as the rest.

You took a deep breath. The nerves crept back in then, just a little. That pull in your belly, that flicker of fear—what the outside world might think, what it might take from you if you showed too much of yourself.

He saw it. Picked up on it without you speakin’ a word.

“I got you,” he said, quiet but firm. “When we out there, just focus on me. Don’t matter who watchin’. Keep your eyes on mine—just like you doin’ right now.”

You looked up at him—those steady brown eyes, that dimple hidin’ in his cheek when he spoke soft—and the nerves started to fade, meltin’ down into trust.

You nodded slow. “Okay, Sam.”

Then your voice came steadier. Stronger.

“I’m ready.”

The door creaked open, and the light from the juke spilled in like floodwater—amber and loud, warm and alive. Sammie stepped out first, hand still at your back, steadying you as y’all made your way toward the stage. The crowd had thickened since y’all been gone, the air now dense with heat, sweat, cheap cologne, and somethin’ holy buried under all that noise.

Soon as folks caught sight of you, a cheer rose up—half surprise, half praise. Somebody hollered Sammie’s name, and Smoke—already on stage, leanin’ on his upright bass like it was part of his body—grinned wide and pointed.

“There she go,” he laughed, turnin’ toward the cousin standin’ stiff in the crowd. “Aye, ain’t that your kin?”

She blinked, brows pulled tight, lips partin’ like she forgot how to breathe. “What she doin’ up there?”

Smoke didn’t even turn his head. Just kept watchin’ you make your way slow, the lights catchin’ on your skin like you was lit from within.

He snorted. “Look like she fixin�� to sing.”

Your cousin’s eyes went wide, voice small now, stunned. “She don’t sing. Not out loud. Not ‘less it’s behind them four walls her daddy built ‘round her.”

But you was already steppin’ up on that stage, boots hittin’ the worn planks like you belonged there. Like the floor remembered your weight even if the world didn’t.

You ain’t even looked at the crowd.

Just Sammie.

He nodded once—slow, sure—then took your hand and led you to the mic like a man leadin’ prayer. The room dipped into a hush, a kind of expectant quiet that pressed in on all sides.

And you—heart poundin’, hands tremblin’—took a breath.

You could still feel the way his hands been on you not ten minutes ago. The taste of his kiss. The way he said “Just focus on me.”

So you did.

Eyes locked on his. Lights warm on your skin. And for the first time in your life, you sang.

Not behind a door. Not in secret. But loud. Free.

The room didn’t just quiet.

It bowed.

Chairs creaked. Ice clinked and went still. The lights above the stage hummed soft like breath, but everything else was gone—gone ‘cept her voice and that moan of the upright bass below it.

Her mouth wrapped around that first note like it was a sin. And the next no better. You hummin like your soul was spillin out from your lips.

“Oh, pale moon…”

Low.

Heavy.

The kind of sound that don’t rise—it sinks, down into the floorboards, into the cracks in the wood, into men’s bones.

Sammie felt it before he understood it.

That low register, smooth as molasses but with a grit underneath, filled the room like smoke off a brushfire. It didn’t come to ask for space—it took it. Claimed it. Filled the hollows of that juke joint like the spirit of somebody long gone just walked back in and grabbed the mic.

And it filled him, too.

From the soles of his shoes to the back of his throat. It slid up his spine, made his eyes close, his knees lock. That song curled ‘round his ribcage and settled, made a home in him.

And Sammie—he knew that feeling.

The one his daddy warned him ‘bout.

“Some voices ain’t just voices,” his daddy said, once, sittin’ on the porch with a toothpick and a faraway look. “They omens. If a girl ever sing like she own your soul… boy, you best run.”

But Sammie ain’t run.

He leaned into it.

Watched you stand up there, all soft skin and hard truth, hands not trembling a bit at your sides—your voice didn’t shake. No, your voice was sure.

Like it’d been waitin’ years to get out.

“I wanna be, I wanna be naturally. Free,” you sang, and your mouth barely moved, but the walls shook. Like the Lord Himself was listenin’, and the devil, too.

And Sammie?

He opened himself to it. All of it.

The sound. The story behind it. The fire in your throat. The grief. The power.

It split him open.

That’s what his daddy meant. That moment—when a voice becomes more than melody. When it becomes possession.

And Sammie let it take him.

Didn’t fight it. Didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, breathless, eyes locked on you.

And in the crowd, folks whooped along, danced with you when you felt it all too deeply. Some turned away. Others held their hearts like they was prayin’. But Sammie—he was smiling.

Not ‘cause it was pretty.

But ‘cause it was true.

You weren’t just singin’.

You were callin’ something.

“ sing my song when the day is done”

And Sammie was the only man in that room who had the sense to answer.

#black reader #x reader #elias moore #sinners #elijah moore #pearline #preacher boy #ryan coogler #smoke and stack #smut #x black reader #sammie moore #sammie sinners

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bleufu1 · 2 months ago

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MEMBER’ HER

“You grew up.”

“Ain’t pose’ to stay small now am I?”

SYNOPSIS : Where Sammie ‘preacher boy’ Moore, sees his Sugar again for the first time in a long time.

If you ever asked Sammie bout his ‘lil friend’ back when he was just bout’ 14 years old — he would’ve dodged the question under any circumstances. He tended to avoid speaking’ bout Sugar since it was still a soft spot. Even though he grew up, the topic of her is still a bit sensitive.

But if he had to speak about her. He’d say that she was probably the best thing that ever entered his life. He knew now that he was too young to understand what he was feelin’ before. He always chalked it up to nerves or sum’n wrong with his heart. Or maybe he just liked er’ company a lot. Now that he’s a young man — he knew now that he was feelin’ love.

That love was strong too. He felt like her presence always made his day a bit better — especially when he had disagreements with his father. She always seemed to know when to pop up an’ make his day special. Even when she pose’ to be close to the house, she’d make a point to at least stop by an’ say hi. Anytime she was round’ Sammie found himself getting lightheaded — in a good way.

Sammie thought no other girl in town compared to her. Sure some of em’ were pretty. But she was more than pretty.

The way he remembered her — to little ol’ him she looked ethereal. Like something straight outta’ a song. When ever he looked at you he’d be stunned all over again, even though he’d seen her before. He was sure now, she’d look as perfect as she did before. She’d look like something carefully crafted by the lord himself — that he took his time with her.

Sammie was too busy daydreaming when Stack nudged him out the car. Laughing at his cousin bein’ lost in his own mind. They both walk up to Bo shop — Smoke said sum’n bout’ new plans for the juke joint. Sammie sat with the tree men — discussing the main issues they had at the moment.

Stack and Smoke was tellin’ Bo how they wanted some new banners. An’ maybe some new equipment if they found the right person. They told Sammie to think of new songs to sing — to get his blues brain workin’.

The door for the shop chimed — a lady walked in.

“Excuse’ me ma’am, how may i help you this fine day?” Bo Called loud enough for the lady to hear.

“Well Bo — I sure ain’t old enough to be called ma’am.”

When the lady was seen clearer, the men looked in shock. It was her. Sammie knew she was comin’ but he thought that day was tomorrow. But here she was, long dress down to her ankles, tight fit enough to show her figure. Hair pinned to perfection and that smile still makin’ his head turn.

“Well i’ll be — lil’ _____ that you?”

Sugar walked over an’ hugged Bo and Smoke first. Smoke commented on how much she grew, an’ how she look like she carryin’ herself well. Giving him a little nod, she turned to stack with a goofy look on her face.

“I don’t think i trust you enough’ ta’ give you no hug.”

“What? Cmon what i do?”

Sugar laughed at him, then turned to Sammie. Her smile faltered a little bit. They both sat there for a little bit — just staring at each other. Sammie was right bout’ her being perfect. Nothin’ really changed bout’ her. Still beautiful in his eyes. She just looks older — her hips were full, silhouette more — mature.

“Well well — ya’ look grown.”

She laughed a little, a sly smile on her face.

“Ain’t pose’ to stay the same age, ain’t i?”

Sammie smiled at her, slowly stepping closer to her. Everyone watched as they interacted with each other. The air was a bit thick, noticeable tension. Stack let out a whistle tryin’ to stir the pot.

“Gon’ head lil’ Sammie!”

Smoke slapped him on the back of his neck. The other three men decided to let the two have they moment — watching as they walked out the shop to the front. They both took a seat on the floorboards, facing one another.

“How ya’ been preacher boy — ain’t miss me too much did ya’?”

Sammie let out a low chuckle from his chest — scooting a bit closer to Sugar.

“I been good, Sugar — i did miss ya’, thought you’d forget bout’ me.”

Sugar shook her head. She’d never forget him. That boy that was kind to her when the others would throw cans an’ sticks thinkin’ they’re funny. He was real sweet to her for his age. An’ she loved that bout him.

“I’d never forget bout’ chu. Only boy that was nice ta’ me — wonder if that changed, hm?”

“Oh never — i’ll be kind to ya’, any way you want me to.”

“Any way huh? There’s limits to that?”

“You want it to be?”

They both let the question linger — keeping eye contact. Sugar noticed sum’n shift in his eyes when he asked her that.

“And if i don’t?”

“Then you don’t. I’ll be real kind to ya’ — like always.”

Sammie’s eyes dimmed a little — she seen it too. Was he flirting? Or was he just tryna get in her sheets? Either way she knew it was working for both. Sugar gave him a lopsided smile an’ sat next to him leg to leg. She layed her head on his shoulder, felt him stiffen up before relaxing. Sammie put his arm round’ her waist.

“Wonder if you lay up on the boys you met after me, like this.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to no boys — i only talk to men i know can satisfy me.”

“You sayin’ i satisfy you? what that pose to mean huh?”

Sammie looked down at her. She looked up at him from his shoulder.

“I’d rather not say — too many ears for hearing round here. Plus it ain’t lady like.”

She smirked at him holdin’ his eyes in hers. Sammie watched as her eyes trailed down — then back at him. This won’t the same Sugar he grew up with. Sure she was still sweet an’ kind. Real respectful. But now — she sweet. Real kind on a man an’ respectful with her words.

He won’t complain’n either.

“Maybe we need somewhere else for this conversation then, how bout’ that?”

Before she could retort — Sammie’s name got called from inside the house. Smoke an’ Stack needed to talk to him bout’ his performance at the joint. He was gon’ tell em’ wait till he felt her shift off him and stand up.

“Bout’ time i should go — gotta see my ma’. She been askin’ for me all day.”

“Sure she can’t handle ya’ comin home morrow’?”

Sugar looked him up and down — eyes lowered.

“Careful there Preacher boy — don’t throw out what ya’ can’t take.”

Sugar giggled a little, walking off while swaying her hips. Sammie watched as she walked off, keeping a good eye on her. The way he remembered her was a sweet girl, always makin’ him smile an’ feel better when he was down. That ain’t change, but it’s sum’n more bout’ her. She feels easier to be drawn to. Sum’n telling Sammie to go but he wanna stay.

Things definitely felt different. That’s what happens when you grow up. Sammie remembered her like the back of his hand. But sum’n tellin’ him he gon learn a new side of her since she been gone. An’ he won’t complaining not one bit.

Tonight should be interesting.

——————————————————————————

🫶 — Hey guysssss!! what we thinkkkkk 😼 (i hate ts so much lord SAVE ME.

#miles caton #preacher boy x reader #sammie moore #sammie moore x reader #sinners 2025 #sinners #sinners x reader #sinners fanfiction #sinners imagine #ryan coogler #smoke and stack

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cinnamonlouu · 1 month ago

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Juke joint blues

Brother au Elias (stack) and Elijah (smoke)

Synopsis: you been begging to go to the juke and you finally can but not withought being hovered 24/7.

The juke joint outside clarksdale ran by your brothers opened up over three weeks ago, and you’d been begging to go since Monday.

“Elijah,” you pleaded, trailing him while he was getting ready to leave, “I’m grown. Twenty years old.”

“You grown enough to get hurt?” he asked without looking up.

You tried Elias next. He was easier.

“If I take you,” Elias said “you can’t be lookin’ at nobody like you interested. You got a face too soft for temptin’.”

“You mean I’m pretty?”

“I mean niggas are stupid,” he replied flatly. “And I ain’t afraid to break a jaw for lookin’ too long.”

In the end, you won,but only because Elias swore he’d keep an eye on you and Elijah agreed.

⸻

The juke joint was already jumping by the time you arrived. The screen door creaked, the wood floors vibrated with bass and boot stomps, and the whole place smelled like sweat, smoke, and good trouble.

Your dress pink ,and custom, nothing scandalous—still felt too bold under all those eyes.

But you walked in anyway, sandwiched between the two.

Elijahs stare alone cleared a path through the crowd.

Elias talked too much, as usual. “Y’all make way now. Got the little princess with us tonight.”

Someone whistled low. Elias’s smile vanished. “Get him out.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Y’all are worse than I don’t know what .”

Elias grinned and whispered, “Nah, we just care more.”

⸻

You managed to get to the edge of the dance floor before Elijah posted up near the wall like a sentry, arms folded, eyes cutting the whole room.

Elias? He was everywhere—greeting folks, laughing, hollering—but he always circled back to you, dropping a drink in your hand or tossing a warning glance over your shoulder like you were some kind of treasure left unattended.

You sipped slow, eyes wide, soaking it all in—the glint of gold teeth, the scratch of the phonograph, the way some of the girls danced like fire catching wind.

You wanted to try. Just once.

A tall boy with a nice smile and rolled sleeves offered his hand. “Care to dance?”

You smiled shy, heart racing. “I think I—”

“she was just leavin’ the floor,” Elias said behind you, voice like a warning bell wrapped in velvet.

The boy laughed, nervous. “Didn’t mean no harm.”

“I know, and I see you talk to her again I’m the one who’s gon mean some home” Elias said, still smiling.

The boy disappeared too quick without a second thought.

You glared up at him. “You didn’t have to scare him off.”

“I did if I ain’t like how he looked at you.”

“Y’all hoverin’,” you whispered. “I can’t breathe in here.”

Elijah’s voice slid in from the shadows. “You said you wanted to come. Didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ alone.”

You exhaled. Loud. Frustrated.

“I just wanted one night to be a girl, not your little sister with an armed escort.”

Elias looked at you. Really looked.

Then he stepped back.

Elijah didn’t.

You turned toward him. “Can I at least dance?”

He stared at you for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod.

“One song ,” he said.

“ two and that’s it.”

He stepped forward, surprising even Elias. “Fine two and then that’s it .”

You danced. One slow, one up beat. And for that Time alone you felt free.

That was until Elias told you it was time to go.

Elias clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Now that you done showin’ off, you ready to head home?”

You looked around at the joint still bouncing, the people laughing and dancing and sighed.

“Yeah. I just wanted to say I came.”

Elias slung an arm around you. “Don’t be all side I’ll bring ya next Friday. Now come on. Elijah’s itchin’ to punch somebody and I’m outta breath.”

You walked out between them like you always did, the air cooler now, stars brighter above the trees.

Maybe you didn’t get to be wild tonight.

But you were sooner or later.

#sinners #elias moore #michael b jordan #stack sinners #elias moore x reader #micheal b jordan #stack x reader #smoke moore #smoke and stack #smokestack twins

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barcapix · 15 days ago

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Heyyyy can I pls request fluff 9 w pedri for ur summer event. I love ur work sm💕💕💕

❀ Your Smile, My Religion - Pedri González

pedri gonzalez x fem!reader

prompt/s: “when you smile like that, it’s like nothing else in the world matters.”

a/n: hey so i used to fangirl over ur gavi fics last year so this is kinda crazy and a blessing for me?? i love you omf. i hope you like thisss💓

warnings: noope.

ON THE BRINK OF THE CANARY ISLANDS, the secluded, tucked away beach awaits you. after a wearisome, hellish buggy ride there, the coastal breeze is enough to stun you into paralysation.

the view is cinematic. as if being pulled right out of the blue lagoon, except somehow, a lot more indulging. the buggy parks just a walking-distance away from the actual beach, instead introducing you into a rocky, sandy pathway that’s surrounded by palm trees.

“you got all of your stuff?” pedri asks, hauling the last of your beach bags and towels onto his shoulders.

you nod. “yup, yeah—ready to go.”

you say that, knowing you have about a half an empty beach bag dangling from your forearm and only sunglasses perched atop your scalp. other than that? he’s—willingly, carrying the heavy weight of everything.

so alas, you both start trekking through the mounts of sand and eventually, after digging out from the canopy-like palm trees that stood at what you could assume—15ft tall—which you even had a debate on through the journey.

“no way. that’s easy 80ft tall,” pedri spiels confidently. “15ft tall? that’s basically yours and my height combined.”

“how tall do you think you are?” a bubble of giggles escapes your lips. “80ft is like.. 8 elephants,” you exclaim, hovering your hand in the air at a straight angle and going up along the stump of a tree. “yeah, no.”

then after a humiliating, simple google search, pedri was unfortunately, right. he hovers over your shoulder, his eyes widening in buoyancy.

“i told you! i know my trees,” his grin is wider than than the horizon stretched out a few feet infront of him.

“alright, you win this one time.. dork.”

anyway, back to the clearing of the beach. the sand is bathed in a creamy, white sunlight that’s glistening along the waves of the ocean. it’s toasty under your feet, soft like powdered sugar, with the occasional shell poking through the surface like little surprises.

you make a small “woah,” out of pure excitement and bewilderment that you aren’t even aware of.

in your own little world, you’re engaged in observing the way the seagulls squawk over the ice cream handouts, and almost stifling a laugh when they achieve so, but fail to fly off with it. meanwhile, pedri is only trained watching you: the way your head tilts up towards the sun; the way you squint one eye harder than the other when it gets too bright, but refuse to look away.

more importantly, the way your smile beams across your face—the way your cheeks puff, and your eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners with every smile.

the oxygen feels like it’s been knocked clean from your lungs. “pedri, this is—”

“amazing huh?”

“its more than amazing.”

your eyes gravitate back to him, unexpectedly catching his attention right away as if his eyes were locked onto you—which, is not wrong.

“why are you staring like that? were you watching me?” you laugh, raising a brow.

“not watching per se,” his free hand hovers onto your lower back as he encourages to walk over to the sun lounges. “i like to call it admiring.”

pedri instantly dumps the dozen bags onto the sand, the towels practically falling from his grasp with a suppressed sigh of relief.

“you do, do you?” you do the same but with a lot less dramatic flair. “well i like to call it creepy.”

“eh—creepy, admiring? same thing,” the spaniard settles on the lounge chair, but not before shuffling it closer to the one you claimed as yours. “or maybe i just love you enough to admire.”

you grin, undeniably wide and infectious that has his heart quietly skipping a beat. assuredly, pedri’s back to being ‘creepy’ and his full attention watches how your face brightens when you smile.

“you’re doing it again amor.”

“see, i can’t help it,” your boyfriends thumb reaches to smooth a little sand from your cheek. “when you smile like that, it’s like nothing else in the world matters.”

the waves could swallow the whole beach and he still wouldn’t notice anything but you.

heat on your cheeks rise, as they always do when pedri randomly decides to throw you a compliment. two years, and it’s always been the same.

pedri smirks, evidently pleased and runs a hand through his shaggy, tousled hair. “you blushing bonita? you’re awfully red.”

with a sheepish groan, you cover your rosy cheeks with your palms, but it’s futile to deny. “no.. i’m blushing because of the view, relax.”

“ah right,” pedri nods, knowing full well that wasn’t the reason. “if so, does this mean i win again for choosing this place?”

your hand goes to loll his head out to the side, swaying him. “get out of that big head of yours,” you sigh, regretting that and pulling him into your arms. “but yeah. i guess you do.”

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli (lmk if you wanna be added or removed ◡̈)

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millermouth · 3 months ago

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Can you do Daryl with an intelligent girl who maybe came from the same trailer park but went to nursing school or something

Summary: Daryl never could accept the fact that you were leaving him. He knew you were meant for more than the trailer park, that you were making something of yourself, chasing the kind of life he never thought he could touch. But that didn’t make it hurt any less when you got accepted into nursing school. So he did what he always did—lashed out with sharp, thoughtless words he didn’t mean, and let you walk away before he could ask you to stay.

|| angst, hurt with delayed comfort, tp!daryl, farm!daryl, kind of established relationship with no label, the man has a lotta feelings and has no clue how to handle them || notes: I'm so sorry this is probs NOT what you were expecting but god I love angsty Daryl. This is like what the ruins of us could’ve been if they’d just accepted their feelings.

The porch creaked when you stepped out, half-empty beer in one hand, the other bracing against the chipped doorframe. The air smelled like hot asphalt and cheap cigarettes—someone in the next lot over still had their music playing, something low and twangy.

Daryl was leaning against the railing, a nearly empty bottle dangling from his fingers. But he wasn’t where you left him—not lounged into the second rocking chair, hidden in the corner of the porch out of the baking sun like usual. He was standing now, stiff-backed and still, staring down at the paper in his hands.

“You weren’t even gonna tell me,” he muttered without looking at you, and he held up the paper.

Your opened acceptance letter.

You blinked. “I was. I am.”

His jaw tightened, like he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He dropped the letter onto the small cigarette littered table by the door. “So that’s it, then? You’re just leavin’.”

You stepped down from the doorframe to stand beside him, the wood warm from the sun even this late. “I told you I was applying. Daryl, they gave me a full ride scholarship. That’s not just—”

“Yeah, I know what it is,” he snapped. His arms folded across his chest like armor. “Ain’t gotta talk to me like I’m stupid.”

Your mouth opened, then shut. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretched out between you, thick and restless. The cicadas screamed in the trees. Down the road, a truck rumbled past with its headlights off.

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” you said after a long beat. Voice quieter now, uncertain.

Daryl let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well, guess I ain’t real good at pretendin’.”

You stared at him, trying to find the softness underneath all that bark, the boy who used to hand you bottle rockets and steal peaches from old man Gentry’s tree. The man who held you close at night, who kissed you in the bed of his truck on summer evening at the drive in.

“Why are you bein’ like this?”

He finally turned to look at you, and you wished he hadn’t. His eyes were sharp and wild and wounded.

“’Cause you’re actin’ like this place never meant nothin’ to you. Like I never meant nothin’.”

That landed hard. Your chest pinched around it.

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” His voice rose just a little. “You get to run off, play nurse, start some new life, and what? I just stay here? Fix Merle’s shit, watch Pop drink himself to death?”

“I never asked you to stay here.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t ask me to come with you, neither.”

That stopped you cold. Because you hadn’t. You hadn’t even thought to.

“Daryl…”

He looked away again, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Angry. Embarrassed. Small.

“You’ve always thought you were better than this place,” he muttered. “Better than me.”

You stood up then, heart pounding, beer forgotten. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve fought for everything. I worked my ass off to get outta here.”

He nodded, jaw working. “Yeah. And now you get to go patch up college boys and drink your little lattes and forget all about the rest of us.”

“You think I’m gonna forget you?”

“Ain’t that what you do?” he shot back, standing up, crowding your space. “Climb high enough, leave the rest of us in the mud.”

It hurt. God, it hurt more than you thought it would. More than it should’ve.

“I loved you,” you said, voice shaking. “I love you, Daryl. But I can’t stay here and rot just to prove it.”

Daryl’s mouth opened. Closed. He didn’t know what to do with that. With love. Especially not yours.

So he did what he always did. He lashed out.

“Go play nurse for all them rich boys,” he said, tone flat. “Bet they’ll eat that shit up.”

You flinched like he’d hit you. Over and over like each word he spewed as a hit to your gut.

The porch lights buzzed above you. Inside, the old box fan in the window rattled against the frame. You suddenly hated this place. Hated how it was in your lungs, in your clothes, how it would never let him go.

“I’ll call,” you said, softer now.

Daryl shook his head, not looking at you as he stepped off the porch into the Georgia night.

“Don’t bother.”

Daryl

Fourth day out.

The sun was high, thick in the trees. The air pressed down on Daryl like it had weight, clinging to the sweat on his back, his neck, the inside of his shirt. His legs ached, but it didn’t slow him. Nothing would. Not yet. Not until he found Sophia or dropped dead trying.

He hadn’t slept right in days. Couple hours here and there. Rested up in trees like he used to, one eye open. Rick kept saying they had to keep faith. Carol was hanging on by threads. And the others...hell, most of them didn’t believe she was alive anymore.

But Daryl did. Because she had to be.

The heat made his vision blur around the edges.

He’d been walking since sunrise, following signs—scrapes on bark, half a shoe print in the mud that might not’ve even been hers. But it was something.

His body was on autopilot now. Step, scan, step. Branches slapped at his arms. Sweat stung his eyes. He barely felt it.

He dragged the back of his dirty hand across his forehead, took another few steps up the ridge, eyes scanning the trail ahead. The air felt different here. Cooler. Stiller.

He paused.

Listened.

Something moved through the trees—soft, fast. Too light for a walker, too smooth for a deer. The trees were quiet. That kind of quiet that made his skin crawl, like the whole world was holding its breath.

Daryl raised his crossbow without thinking. “Sophia?” he called, voice rough from hours of silence.

No answer. Just another rustle. Closer. He moved toward it, careful.

And then... You stepped into view.

And the world stopped.

You looked like a ghost. Not clean, not untouched—no one was anymore. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not. Standing there in jeans stained at the knees, a pack slung over your shoulder, sun catching in your hair like it always had.

His lungs quit working.

Then you said his name.

And Daryl Dixon, who had gutted walkers, walked through fire, faced death over and over, had flinched.

He knew your voice. Knew it better than anything. Could’ve picked it out blindfolded in a storm, could’ve followed it straight into hell. And here it was, soft and real and saying his name like he hadn’t shattered everything the last time you stood in front of him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His brain went blank and loud all at once—static and screaming, every memory shoving itself forward like it had claws.

The memory of the last time he saw you, a memory he only saw in dreams now because he would shove it away every time it surfaced in the days afterward, was fresh behind his eyes. The things he said—sharp, stupid things—just to make you feel as bad as he did. You’d looked at him like he’d broken something between you, something that couldn’t be put back.

Now you were here.

And you didn’t hesitate. You ran.

Boots hitting the earth fast and sure, arms open, crashing into him like you were sure he’d catch you—and he did, though his feet stumbled back a step and his breath seized like he’d taken a hit to the ribs. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating. That maybe he was dying on the ground from heat stroke and you were some angel come to take him to hell.

But your arms were real. Solid around his shoulders. Your body warm against his. And then his own arms, slow and unsure, wrapped around you like they were remembering something they hadn’t felt in years. They settled there—tight, desperate, almost trembling—and then he buried his face into the curve of your neck, because there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.

You still smelled the same, now with the undeniable scent of dirt and sweat from months of survival on your own. But you still had that faint, warm sweetness that had haunted him on nights he couldn’t sleep. His fingers clenched at the fabric of your shirt, bringing you closer to him like he was scared you’d disappear again. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe. Let himself feel.

You held him like no time had passed. Like the years hadn’t hollowed both of you out. Like he hadn’t said the one thing he regretted more than anything in the whole damn world.

And that… forgiveness? That grace? That mercy cracked something open in his chest. Because maybe you remembered every word. Maybe you hadn’t forgotten a thing. But you were still here. Still choosing him.

He’d expected a reckoning if he ever saw you again. Silence. Distance. Maybe a slap. But instead, he got this. You pressed against him. Breathing him in. Holding him like coming back was never a question.

And he was surprised when it didn’t feel like punishment.

Because it felt like hope.

And when he finally opened his mouth, the words barely made it out.

“I’m sorry,” he shuddered into you.

“I know,” you breathed.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still warm where they rested on his shoulders. Your eyes searched his face, like you were trying to find all the pieces he’d buried and put them back together.

And then you did the thing he’d tried hardest to forget. The thing that twisted in his gut whenever it surfaced in the dark. The thing that lived somewhere just behind his ribs, where no one else could reach.

You kissed him.

And Daryl didn’t stop you.

Couldn’t.

He kissed you back, rough and aching, like something in him had come loose. Like all the time between then and now had built up behind his ribs, waiting to crack open the second your mouth touched his. There was no thought, no hesitation. Just instinct. Just you. His hand found your waist, pulled you in, desperate to feel all of you—solid, breathing, here.

The first kiss was quick. Too quick. Like he was afraid to take too much. But then you leaned into him, your hands curling into the back of his sleeveless shirt, and whatever hold he thought he had on himself snapped like dry twigs.

He kissed you harder. Messier. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of hunger he didn’t know he still had in him. You were warm under his hands, grounding. Familiar and different all at once. And God, the way you held onto him—like you wanted this. Like you still wanted him—it nearly dropped him to his knees.

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until you slid your hands up to his shoulders, steadying him. He pressed his forehead to yours between kisses, trying to breathe, trying to think, but nothing made sense except your mouth and your hands and the way your breath caught when he kissed the corner of your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, breathless, eyes squeezing shut like it hurt to say it. They were the only words he knew right then. Everything else was too big, too messy. But those—those three words—were the truth. They scraped up from somewhere deep, somewhere buried, and left him raw. “I’m sorry.”

He felt you nod, felt your hands curl tighter in his shirt, grounding him.

“It’s okay, Daryl,” you breathed, the words quiet but certain. He barely had time to register the sound of them before your fingers slid into his hair, fisting the short, sweaty strands around your knuckles. “It’s okay.”

He let out a ragged breath. His eyes stayed shut, like if he looked at you too long, it might break the spell. No one said things like that to him. Not like they meant it. Not without an edge, not without a catch. But you did. You always had.

The woods were quiet around you, all dappled light and heat rising from the earth. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. Not thinking about it, not trying to start anything—just needing that contact. That proof.

He finally opened his eyes, just a crack.

You were already looking at him.

Not with pity. Not with anger. Just that same steady gaze you’d always had when he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably. Like you saw straight through all the armor and decided to stay anyway.

He swallowed hard. His throat was tight.

“You’re really here,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling just a little. “I am.”

He let out a quiet laugh—barely a breath. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever find you.”

And that hit something deep. He dipped his head, pressed his forehead to yours. Just stayed there. Breathing the same air, feeling the same weight settle between you.

It didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It felt like a second chance.

And slowly—like you both knew there was nowhere else to go—you leaned in at the same time.

This kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about need.

It was about recognition.

About two people who had been carrying the same ache for too long finally setting it down.

#the walking dead #daryl dixon #twd daryl #the walking dead daryl #daryl #daryl x reader #daryl twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl one shot #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon angst #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd

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himasgod · 2 months ago

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Can I request the first years finding out that their S/O is touch-aversed? She still loves them, she's just uncomfortable with being touched by other people.

FIRST YEARS X READER

Where you are touch-aversed

How would guys react if they tried physical contact with you, and you told them you are not comfortable with physical contact?

Epel had always felt like people underestimated him.

Too soft, too cute, too “girlish”—words that stung worse than a hex.

So when he started dating you, he was determined to prove he could be a strong n reliable partner. Not clingy. Not needy. Just dependable.

Except he also kind of wanted to hold your hand.

The idea kept floating in his mind. Every time you smiled at him like he’d just handed you the moon, every time you tucked your head when you laughed—it made him want to hold you close, just a little.

So one afternoon, after sneaking off to an apple orchard near Ramshackle, he reached for your hand as you stood beneath a tree. You gently stepped aside, not rude, just… careful. And Epel paused, hand mid-air.

“Ah… sorry. Did I mess up?”

“No. I just... don’t like being touched. Not really by anyone. It’s not about you.”

Epel blinked, lowering his hand slowly. He rubbed his neck, thinking.

“I see. That’s alright.”

You tilted your head. “Really?”

“‘Course. Granny always said that love ain’t about what you take—it’s what you give without expectin’ nothin’ back,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

You smiled, eyes a little wide.

Epel picked up a fallen apple and tossed it into his hand, smirking faintly. “I don’t need to touch you to know you care. You bein’ here with me says enough.”

He offered you the apple instead of his hand. You took it.

“Maybe someday, you’ll let me hold your hand. But if not, no big deal. I’ll just find other ways to make you feel special. Like teachin’ you how to climb trees or sneakin’ out with me for pie.”

You leaned into his shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough to count.

Epel flushed. “Whoa, okay, that’s kinda intimate for you, huh?”

You laughed. “I’m trying.”

He grinned, fiercely proud.

“You’re doin’ great. I’ll go your pace, always.”

Sebek prided himself on being the most dutiful boyfriend anyone could have. Protective, watchful, vocal about his admiration (often too vocal).

But subtlety? That wasn’t exactly his strongest suit.

So when you gently pulled away the first time he tried to offer his arm during a stroll around Diasomnia, he froze like someone had cast spell on him.

“You… recoiled?” he asked, stunned.

You winced.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just... not good with being touched. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Sebek looked like he’d been slapped with a wet fish.

“You mean to say you dislike physical closeness in general? Even from me?”

“Yes. But I still like you, Sebek. I just... express affection differently.”

He went quiet for once, lips parting and closing again like he didn’t know how to argue with something so… personal.

Then, after a long pause, he straightened his spine.

“Very well. If this is your nature, then I shall honor it to the fullest extent! Affection does not solely rely on touch!”

He cleared his throat, raising a finger dramatically.

“I shall serenade you with sonnets of adoration instead!”

You stared.

“Sonnets?”

“Yes! Glorious declarations of loyalty, recited from a safe distance!” he beamed.

You snorted, unable to help yourself.

“That’s... actually kind of sweet.”

“Of course it is,” he huffed proudly. “I am no crude brute. I am capable of restraint and—above all—respect.”

From that day forward, Sebek began to show his love with grand words, acts of service, and excessive praise.

He’d always ask permission before getting close, and though his voice was loud, his intentions were always gentle.

Jack wasn’t one for public displays of affection anyway. He liked his space, liked his quiet.

But when he started dating you, he found himself wondering what it’d be like to hold you—just once. Maybe sling his arm around your waist walkin side by side, something simple.

The first time he brushed your fingers and saw you recoil slightly, he froze mid-step.

You were quick to reassure him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that—it’s just... I don’t really like being touched.”

Jack stared for a second, ears twitching. “…Got it.”

You looked at him nervously. “Does that bother you?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It surprised me. But I get it.”

You waited for more, but he didn’t speak right away.

Jack wasn’t the type to talk just to fill space. When he did finally speak, it was with quiet conviction.

“I don’t need to touch you to be close to you.”

You exhaled in relief, and Jack gave you a small smile.

“You’re important to me,” he said, looking straight ahead. “If that means showing I care by keeping my distance, that’s fine. I’ll be right here anyway.”

From then on, Jack would stand just close enough for comfort, always aware of your space. He’d open doors, carry your bag, walk you to class—even leave fresh bottles of water near your locker with your name written on them in neat blocky letters.

He didn’t say “I love you” out loud much—but you could feel it in the steadiness of his presence, the quiet loyalty in his gaze, and the respectful distance he never dared cross without your okay.

Ace had always been casual with touch.

Slinging his arm around your shoulder, ruffling your hair, poking your cheek when you pouted—it was all part of how he expressed affection. So when you flinched the first time he held your hand, his smile faltered for half a second.

He didn’t say anything right then.

You laughed it off quickly, and he let it slide.

But it started happening more. A subtle tense in your shoulders when he leaned too close. A quiet step back when he jokingly tried to pick you up. The realization came slow.

So one lazy afternoon, with you both sitting in Heartslabyul’s lounge after a round of magical history tutoring, he brought it up.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

You looked up from your notes.

“Yeah?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wandering to the roses outside.

“You don’t like being touched, do you?”

There was a flicker of guilt in your eyes, and you opened your mouth—but he was quick to wave his hands, sitting upright.

“Wait—don’t freak out. I’m not mad or anything! I just... wanna know if it makes you uncomfortable.”

You hesitated, but nodded.

“Yeah. It’s not about you. I just don’t like... being touched. It makes my skin crawl sometimes.”

He blinked, taking that in. No teasing grin. No smug quip.

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, grinning now but softer this time. “You think I’m gonna make you hug me if it makes you uncomfortable? I’m annoying, not evil.”

You laughed, a bit breathless, and he leaned back on his hands, glancing up at the ceiling.

“Still,” he added, tilting his head your way, “if there’s ever a way you do like affection—just tell me. I’m good at switching tactics, y’know. Might even start writing you love letters or something dramatic like Sebek.”

You giggled, warmth in your chest, and bumped your shoulder gently against his.

He looked shocked, then smug. “Hey—was that your version of a kiss?!”

“Shut up, Ace.”

Deuce wasn’t exactly the smoothest when it came to romance, but he tried. Maker, did he try. Carrying your books, pulling your chair out, offering you his jacket even when it wasn’t cold. He’d blush furiously every time—but your smile made it worth it.

But the one time he reached out to hold your hand after class and you instinctively pulled away, his heart sank.

He’d pulled back immediately, stammering an apology. You'd assured him it wasn’t personal.

But he’d spent the rest of the day racking his brain, worried he’d messed up somehow.

It wasn’t until the weekend—when you two sat by the Ramshackle steps, sharing snacks—that you brought it up.

“I’m not mad about earlier,” you said gently, watching the sky. “I just... I’m not good with physical touch.”

Deuce blinked, fingers tightening slightly around his sandwich wrapper.

“You’re not?”

You shook your head. “Even hugs or hand-holding. It’s not something I’m comfortable with. I still love being with you, though.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious.

“Okay,” he said softly.

You glanced at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean—yeah, I’d like to hold your hand and stuff someday. But it’s not more important than you being happy. I’d rather walk beside you without touching than make you uncomfortable.”

The way your lips parted made his cheeks turn red.

“I’ll learn what works for you,” he added quickly. “Like, if you like words better, or... if there’s something else I can do. I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

Your heart swelled, and you gently placed your hand over his—not quite holding, just a light touch of fingers.

He froze, eyes wide.

“Like that?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Sometimes.”

His grin was shy but proud, like he’d just passed the world’s most important exam.

From then on, Deuce never reached out without asking. He’d offer a hand with a quiet “Is this okay?” or send sweet notes folded into perfect rectangles. He still blushed every time you smiled at him. But more than anything, he was patient.

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localfanficlover · 2 months ago

Text

Behind the Joint

(Sammie “Preacher Boy” Moore x OC)

Trigger Warnings:

(Sexual content, public, outdoors, power dynamics, oral (f. receiving))

MDNI below the cut

You hear him ‘fore you see him—Sammie’s quiet breath, the faint shift of gravel under his heel as he waits in the shadows. The juke joint’s still jumpin’ behind you, all sweat and horns and heat, but the second you step through that back door, it’s like you done stepped into a whole different world.

No music. Just the hush of cicadas. The night pressin’ close.

He’s leaned up ‘gainst a tree, shirt open at the collar, damp with the day. His eyes lift when he sees you, slow like molasses spillin’ from a spoon. There’s always been somethin’ unspoken between y’all. It ain’t new. Just never been said out loud.

“You always wait this long to come find me?” you murmur.

He shrugs, voice rough like bark. “You was dancin’. Ain’t wanna steal you from your joy.”

You step in closer. “What if you are my joy?”

He don’t answer with words.

First time he touches you, it’s gentle. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he grabs too tight. Fingers at your waist, breath warm on your neck. You feel him exhale real slow, and it lights up somethin’ deep, somethin’ hungry.

Then—he kneels.

Don’t ask. Don’t say a thing.

Just eases your dress up with them long musician’s hands. Cotton whisperin’ ‘gainst your thighs, night air cool on all the places heat already claimed.

His mouth finds the inside of your knee first. A kiss like a promise. Then higher. Slower.

When he reaches you—really reaches you—it ain’t rushed. Sammie moves like he’s slidin’ into a blues line he wrote just for you. Every lick got purpose. His tongue traces them soft circles ‘til you forget how to stand. One hand against the tree, the other tangled in his hair, hips liftin’ like they got a mind of their own.

He groans low into you, like the taste of you wrecks him a little.

And Lord—it wrecks you right back.

The tension builds quiet, dangerous. Your thighs tremble. Breath catchin’. He holds you there, firm and steady, one hand grippin’ your hip, the other spread wide at the small of your back, keepin’ you grounded while he draws you down into the rhythm he made.

And when you break—chin tipped, mouth open to the stars—he stays right there with you, tender and sure, like a man who knows the difference ‘tween sacred and sinful, and loves you for bein’ both

————————————————————————

I hope yall enjoyed ❤️

Tags:

#sammie moore x reader #sammie x reader #sinners2025 #sinnersfanfic #sinners 2025 #historical romance #sinners x reader #historical fiction #preacher boy x reader #preacher boy

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pinkmirth · 2 years ago

Note

i need more cowboi reiner tryna knock u up pls 🥺 👉 👈

⸻ STUFFED!

SYNOPSIS ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ reiner just can’t seem to control how hungry he is for you. what better way to make you his than by stuffing you full of him?

CONTAINS ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ ( 2.5k+ words of . . . ) cowboy!reiner x fem!reader (black coded), nsfw/smut, modern au, countryside setting, established relationship, reiner has a big fat breeding kink, sex flashbacks, doggie style, standing sex, creampie, use of pet names (ex. mama, sugar, honey), reader calls reiner ‘papa’, mentions of pregnancy, lowercase intended, explicit language, minors shoo!

MY LOVE NOTE! ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ it’s undeniable that cowboy reiner’s got a raging breeding kink. thanks so much for sending in your thoughts, my love! now here’s rei-rei bein’ a shameless feen for his pretty girl! 🎀

reiner’s terribly distracted.

the last thing he wants to do is lay blame, but in a way, you’re the reason why. the mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild. rei-rei swears he usually has more self control, it’s just that you strip him of all common sense.

you, pretty little you, make him all scatterbrained. his head’s been filled with nothing but romantics and vulgarities ever since he took you on a date seven months ago. you’ve turned him into some fool in love, for goodness’ sake.

memories of last night’s escapades come to mind. his mouth practically waters when remembering your plush ass; how you tossed it onto his pelvis with an arching back and swaying tits, peering at him with the sultriest smile, not to mention those glimmering bedroom eyes of yours. he recalls having to hold you still, so you wouldn’t be able to squirm away if his pounding were to become too much. you were soft, he remembers, so soft. the flesh of your hips would squish beneath the imposing pressure of his callous fingers, digging tighter into your sides whenever you’d flutter around the girth of him. he remembers the way he came inside with a rumbly moan, leaving your pussy full and the sheets wet . . . he wants to do it all over again.

with all that’s going on in that perverse little mind of his, he can hardly bring himself to focus on feeding the cattle. the only thing that can solve his problem is its source; you. and just like that, reiner’s dropping whatever he’d been doing before. his chores can surely wait, but this surge of desire can’t be overlooked. not a thing matters as much as finding you, fucking you, filling you.

he rounds the barn, passes by the apple trees and the horse stables in search of you. his cock pulses with every step, prodding stubbornly against the soft cotton of his boxers, now smeared with sticky precum. reiner brings a hand down to provide himself some relief, palming his boner with a low grunt. he’s so fucking hard that it almost hurts. that’s what he gets for fantasizing about you for the past thirty minutes and doing nothing about it until now.

with heavy steps, reiner makes his entrance into the farmhouse and is met by the sight of you lounging in the living room. you’re seated on the floral-print recliner with your pedicured toes propped up, all nice and comfortable. you’re wearing the dainty string of pearls he bought you for your birthday earlier in the year. pride flushes throughout his chest when seeing how prettily it rests on your collarbone.

you greet your man with a glossy smile, one that makes his dick throb beneath his hay-specked coveralls. reiner wonders if you’ve taken note of just how red he looks, rosy heat scattered across his face, from the highs of his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. he can feel his skin blazing with complete and total need.

reiner elicits a weak mumble of ‘hey, sugar. . .’, a stark contrast to your tone being all light and cheery as you ramble on about the cute little mini-skirt you’re crocheting for yourself. ‘since the weather’s getting warmer,’ you chime.

reiner loves you. he really, truly does, but he simply isn’t in the headspace to pay mind to the mundane task you’re occupied with at the moment— not when he’s this close to tearing off your summer dress, bending you over, peeling himself out of his spurred boots and pumping you full of every drop of cum he has to offer. fuck, he’s breathing harder now. gradually, he feels his resolve slip.

“you alright, honey?” you set down your crocheting hook, staring up at him with big, curious eyes. your voice, soft and consoling, grounds him just a little. reiner pulls off his signature cowboy hat, sets it on the nearby coffee table, and ruffles his hair so it falls into place. “yeah, i’m just—“ a pause amidst his sigh. truthfully, he’s here because he wants to fuck you pregnant. “i wanted t’see you, is all.” he settles on saying that instead. it’s much sweeter, all the more more romantic. less fetish-y. you probably would’ve looked at him funny if he admitted to crossing the entire farm by foot just so he could fill you up.

“aw, rei! you were missin’ me?” you laugh out of flattery. oh, your reiner. he’s so sweet in his own right. your boyfriend wants to ‘see you’, as he claims, like he hadn’t woken you up with nibbles to your neck, taken a (somewhat long, fairly busy) shower with you this morning, and ate breakfast alongside you before heading off to tend to the farm. you assume he can’t help but cling to you and want more.

it’s sudden, but welcomed, how reiner closes in on you. he draws near like a magnet, until the space between you no longer exists. he’s crouching down to the level of the chair, hovering over you to press a kiss on your lips. “mhm. missed you so bad, mama,” he mumbles against your mouth. in reply, you whisper onto his lips, something about how he’s always ‘so eager.’ he leans into you, desperate for more, and the chair creaks underneath the addition of his weight. he’s a large man, anyone can tell. his brawny build and imposing height never fail to make you feel safe underneath him.

reiner dips his head low and plants one, two, three sloppy kisses along your warm neck, and it gets you hotter than the southern heat. he leaves saliva in his wake, trailed by the lightest of bruises from his suctioning lips. he tries to undo your clothes and his, but the small space that this decade-old chair provides won’t allow for it. besides, it wouldn’t be wise of him to make you squirt on a family heirloom. “this won’t do,” he clicks his teeth, decidingly picking you up. your legs wrap around his torso like second nature, arms circled around the back of his muscular neck.

“reiii, baby wait!” you draw out the call of his name, but all it does is coax him further. can’t you tell that your voice is only making him harder? that your whines urge him to fuck you silly?

“wait?” he reiterates, grinding up into your clothed core. you shudder upon contact. “what for?” from beneath the denim he wears, you can feel his stiffness poke against your flimsy panties. “don’t you wanna head to bed first, honey? hm?” you whine into his neck. it takes a good eight seconds for him to respond.

“uh-uh,” reiner gives you a half-hearted grunt, with his gaze fixed on your cleavage that the low neckline of your dress presents to him. obviously, he’s interested in other things. “here’s just fine, sugar.” he’s strong enough to fuck you standing up with nothing else supporting him, and you know that. he doesn’t need a goddamn mattress.

reiner’s large hands grab at your underside, using your ass as the perfect leverage to press you close to him. this is your third time fucking this week, and it’s only tuesday. you’d mention it, but he’s too busy kissing down the valley of your breasts. impatience seeps through his every movement, from how he grasps at your thighs to keep you upright, to eagerly feeling along your lower half like it’s his first time touching your body.

“slow down, rei.” begrudgingly, reiner removes his lips from your chest. he finally calms for just a moment, so that he can meet your beautiful eyes. your face has been overtaken by a subtle pout. “m’sorry, honey,” he murmurs between a deep kiss, all wet and tongue-filled. you assume that’s supposed to be his form of an apology. his toned arm re-fastens itself around your body, holding you tight, while the other bunches up your dress and pushes down his bottoms, “but i need you. so fuckin’ bad.” you could never deny him and that sweet southern drawl. he knows that his smooth mouth works magic on you— he always gets what he wants from his pretty girl.

now freed of any confines, reiner lowers his hand to stroke at the base of his dick, tugging himself with a low hiss. involuntarily, his hips buck. “you can finish up that skirt later, hm?” he releases himself and appoints his attention to you, the pads of his fingers circling your clit in just the way you like. your head falls forward onto his broad shoulder. “hell, i’ll even buy you some o’those frilly ones at that fancy mall you like goin’ to . . .” he utters partially to you and a little to himself, still occupied with keeping pressure on your bud. by now, with your head thrown back, you’ve already forgotten what you were working on in the first place.

having done this countless times before, reiner’s quickly able to find your dripping entrance. the drag of his tip through your puffy folds causes a ‘shlck’ sound to elicit. reiner smiles to himself; you’re embarrassingly wet. your hips begin to swivel and writhe, that’s how he knows you’re getting as needy as he. choosing not to waste any more time, he pushes himself inside with one swift motion. you cry out from the stretch, already fluttering around the first few inches he gives you. so far, it's just the tip and some, but he's so wide.

“goddamnit, baby . . . i fuckin’ love this pussy,” reiner grunts through clenched teeth. he’d usually start off with a shallow thrust and ease you into it, but he isn’t feeling as patient. every thrust is fast-paced, almost rushed. the impact has you bouncing in his arms, all as he continues his unrelenting efforts.

“s’good, rei— so good,” wavering moans spill past your lips. he hisses when your manicured nails dig into the hot flesh of his firm, round biceps. you squeeze around him until his eyes go rolling back. “i know, mama. i know,” reiner whines and groans, because it’s all he can manage to do. if he was air-headed about you earlier, surely he’s braindead now. he pumps into you rapidly, restlessly, but he still finds a way to make it feel so thorough. that’s probably because he’s fucking huge; incredibly endowed, like every other big and buff part of him. with a cock this thick, how could he not strike every nerve and hit every spot?

he rolls his hips up into you with breathtaking fervor, fucks into you until he’s balls deep within your pulsating cunt. sweat dripping down his furrowed brow, he rasps out, “can’t wait to fill you up,” sloppy kisses follow, and his tongue slides across yours as he mumbles on about cumming inside, stuffing you full, making you his. you finally know what he’s doing, you should’ve known all along— he’s going to pump his cum into you as deep as he can get it to go. thrust his seed into your pliant womb until he’s fucked a baby into you.

the mere thought of makin’ you a mama has his head spinning. reiner’s breath catches in his throat, and your sounds heighten in pitch— the pair of you can tell that you’re bound to reach ecstasy. he squats a bit lower, goes a little faster, attempting to propel you both into your orgasms. it’s coming on like an impending wave; your belly tightens, toes curling from where your heels dig into reiner’s strong back.

he knows you’ve come undone once your smooth, ridge-like walls begin to spasm around him, to the point where he can hardly pull back or push in further. he likes to think that it’s your pretty pussy’s way of begging for his cum. still, he doesn’t let up, not until you’re thoroughly impregnated. “jus’ a lil more. hold on ‘fa me, honey, m’kay?” he pleads through throaty whimpers. weakly, you nod. the overstim makes you pant and mewl, biting onto the damp skin of his exposed jugular to try and quiet yourself.

reiner slams you down onto him, the veins in his forearms bulging as he desperately grasps onto the globes of your ass. the resounding slap of skin rings around his tingling ears, lewd sounds floating throughout the otherwise quiet farmhouse.

“g’na let papa fill you up? yeah?” you cry out a weak ‘mhm!’ along with other pleas of how much you want it; want him. his balls twitch and his abdomen goes tense. “m'close,” he gruffly whispers. you decide to spur him on: “g-gimme your babies, papa, i need it!” that’s all he needs to topple over the edge. “oh fuck, mama— m’gonnacum,” reiner’s words jumble together when he comes, coating your insides with warm globs of white. though his thighs never cease their trembling, he still maintains a steady hold on you, keeping your limp frame upright.

reiner stays inside as a means of keeping all his seed plugged into you, just for good measure. he doubts that he’s got enough energy remaining to round up the cattle after this. his chest heaves slowly, and his hair’s a mess from all that pulling you were doing, but he’s more than satisfied. he's even got this dumb, blissed-out smile on his face to show his content. you're sure he's knocked you up thoroughly by now.

he’ll make sure to buy you a pregnancy test by next morning.

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

Text

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression

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Gif: @daryl-dixon-daydreams 🥰

TW: lighting, tooth rotting fluff, physical contact, mentions of past abuse (briefly)

Part 28

Dead Weight - Part 29

The wind howls outside like a dying animal, tearing through the trees and slamming rain sideways against the warped wooden sides of the old barn. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the rafters in stark, eerie flashes.

Every thunderclap rattles the loose boards, but your asleep, soundly nestled against Daryl, in the kind of hush that wrapped around the rafters and softened the harsh world outside.

Daryl was still watching you. His eyes hadn’t moved for a while.

You stirred.

At first, it was just a subtle shift—fingers twitching, chest lifting ever so slightly with a new rhythm. You didn’t speak. Not right away. The floor beneath you was cold through the blanket, but the weight of Daryl’s arm wrapped loosely around your waist anchored you in place. In safety. In him.

You weren’t sure what pulled you from sleep—until you caught the faintest whisper.

"…ya look peaceful.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But your heart picked up a little. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy from slumber, fluttered open and searched the shadows. You found him watching you.

Daryl’s eyes widened a fraction—like a kid caught doing something he wasn’t meant to.

He started to look away.

But you whispered, soft and raspy from sleep.

“Have you slept yet?”

Daryl shifted closer, head tilted just enough that his nose brushed your temple. He hesitated before answering, the heat of his breath painting across your hair.

“Nah,” he murmured, low and gravel-edged, barely audible, “Just been... thinkin’. S’nothin’.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

He could feel your eyes on him in the dark—soft, questioning, open in a way he’d never really known how to be.

“About what?” you whispered.

He sighed, the sound brushing against your hair.

A heartbeat passed.

"Nothin' he whispered "G'back to sleep."

His hand curled slightly at your side, just enough to pull you a bit closer—but not so much that it’d scare you off. He was always careful like that. Like you were made of porcelain, like he was always one twitch away from breaking something too good for him.

There was a stillness then.

Not awkward, not empty.

Almost like it's own Holiness.

You turned a little in his hold, enough that your noses almost touched—just the barest graze. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. Your eyes, half-lidded and uncertain, held his like a secret waiting to be shared.

He didn’t move.

But his breath hitched—and stayed. Like he was memorizing this. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him that close.

Your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers barely curling in the edge of the fabric. No words. Just touch. Just trust.

“You don’t have to stay up, Daryl,” you whispered, lashes fluttering shut. “We're safe. You can rest.”

But his voice came back rough, warm, and close enough to feel in your chest.

“Ain’t about bein’ safe.”

You fell asleep facing him, your cheek brushing his collarbone, your breaths slowing.

He waited.

Waited until your fingers loosened from his shirt. Until your breathing deepened. Until the last bit of tension left your body.

He watched your face for a long while. The way your lashes rested on your cheeks, the delicate rise and fall of your chest. And then—he gave in.

He shifted slowly, cautiously. Didn’t want to wake you.

But didn’t want to not be close, either.

Daryl pressed his face into the hollow between your hair and the crook of your neck—a reverent, almost bashful nuzzle, his breath spilling out like a confession against your skin.

“Don’t get why you’d ever look at me like that,”

he whispered, lips moving as if the words could be tucked into your dreams.

“Not when you’re this soft… an’ I’m just...”

His voice faded. It wasn't self-pity. Just truth. Raw and low and barely a vibration against your skin.

Your body stirred gently, a soft little sigh from the depths of sleep as the warmth of his breath and the subtle movement of his lips called you back from the edge of dreaming.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Just made a sleepy, murmured sound as your fingers wandered up, finding the tangle of unkempt hair at the nape of his neck. Slow. Drowsy. Gentle. You threaded through the still damp hair like you’d done it more then a hundred times in dreams before.

Daryl stilled. Every muscle locked tight like he didn’t trust this was real.

But when your hand settled—palm resting against the base of his skull—he exhaled, long and low, like you’d just pulled the weight off his chest.

Daryl shifted closer, his legs tangled with yours under the worn blanket, his hand settling on your waist, fingers curling against the soft cotton of your shirt like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold you—but needed to.

And then his lips...

They brushed the juncture of your neck and shoulder—a featherlight kiss, barely more than breath.

Then another.

And another.

Each one was cautious, unsure, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he was too bold.

“Ain’t never had this,”

he whispered again between kisses,

“not once.”

Your only reply was the quiet sound of contentment as you shifted, turning just a touch into his neck, burrowing sleepily against him.

And he let you, even if it was just this breathless, sleeping moment.

The others sleep across the barn floor—Rick’s soft breathing, Judith’s occasional whimper, Gabriel’s restless shifting—but to Daryl, they’re a thousand miles away.

You stir just slightly in his arms. A sleepy sound leaves your lips as your fingers loosen ever so slightly. Daryl, already so still, freezes completely.

Your eyes flutter open—half-lidded, blurry.

You were waking.

His face was still tucked in close, nose brushing the curve where your shoulder met your neck. The warmth of your skin still lingered on his lips.

When your fingers slipped from his hair, he hesitated—reluctant to pull away, but he did, just slightly, leaning back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were barely open, sleepy and warm. A little dazed. A soft, dopey smile pulled at the corners of your mouth like you’d been dreaming of something good.

Daryl blinked slowly, his brows twitching down in the faintest flicker of confusion.

You weren’t supposed to look at him like that.

Not him.

Not like he was someone worth smiling at.

But you did.

He exhaled quietly, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried to steady himself. Then, in the dimness, his fingertips began to travel, moving up the length of your arms—slow, hesitant, like he was reading something secret off your skin.

Each touch was deliberate. Careful. Like you were breakable.

When he reached your wrists, he paused. His rough fingers worked gently, untangling yours from his hair completely.

And then—one of you moved.

Neither of you quite sure who. It didn’t matter.

Fingers threaded together like they’d been waiting for that all night. Both your hands, woven together. A subtle squeeze. That soft click of something falling perfectly into place.

There was a beat.

Neither of you moved.

You just looked at each other—like there was nothing else outside the walls of that ruined barn.

Then you noticed.

He was hovering.

Your back was on the floor, tangled in the nest of blankets, and Daryl was braced above you, one arm bent, the other not but both hands still tangled with yours. His chest close. His breath warm.

His eyes dropped—to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.

He swallowed hard.

“Y'alright?”

His voice was barely there, a low, whispered rasp.

“Didn’t know if you were… y’know. Awake. Before.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You didn’t need to.

Your smile just widened, soft and dreamy and still somehow shy. And that killed him. Because despite everything—you weren’t afraid. You trusted him.

Daryl lowered his head again, just a little. He hesitated, glancing up at you for permission—even if he didn’t say it aloud.

Your fingers are still woven through his.

His palms are callused. Yours are soft. The contrast is unmistakable.

And then you blink slowly, lashes fluttering, still drowsy.

“...What’re you doin’?”

You ask it softly—your voice thick with sleep, laced with curiosity, not fear.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

The question isn’t sharp. There’s no accusation. Just a sleepy smile and half-lidded eyes that glimmer like you already believed you where dreaming.

Daryl’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink slowly, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you fight off sleep. The corners of your lips twitch with a faint, shy smile—almost like you’re embarrassed to ask, even though the question comes from a place of softness, not suspicion.

Daryl startles just a little. Not visibly, not with a jolt—but in the way his brows pull together and his eyes flicker away for half a second, like he was caught stealing glances.

His fingers twitch in yours.

You squeeze them gently in response.

Reassurance. Permission. A silent I’m here.

He licks his lips, unsure how to answer. His voice is rough, low like gravel in his throat, but quiet enough that only you can hear it.

“Ain’t… wasn’t doin’ nothin’."

His eyes drift across your face again, slower this time. He’s still hovering, still scared he’s overstepping. So he checks in, because Daryl doesn’t want to take anything for granted—not anymore.

“Y'good? I ain’t makin’ you uncomfortable or… nothin’, right?”

His body language is different now—still guarded, but gentler. He holds himself like he’s afraid to press his weight down, not just physically but emotionally—like he might ruin the one soft thing he’s been allowed to hold onto in years.

Your voice comes out low, sleep-thick and a little shy.

“No… you’re not. Just didn’t expect you to be so close… like this.”

There’s a pause. He looks like he’s about to pull back. But you squeeze his hands again, just a little firmer.

“I… I don’t mind.”

The words hang in the air like incense—thin, delicate, sacred.

He just breathes.

Neither of you speak. The silence isn't awkward—it’s thick, full of unspoken truths that haven't found the courage to be said aloud yet.

Your foreheads are nearly touching. Your fingers, still interlaced, are warm and slow between you. Your breath fans across his cheek and neck, and he soaks in the feeling like a man who’s spent his whole life in a storm and just found shelter.

He glances down at your mouth again—but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he exhales like he’s releasing something he’s held for too long.

“Didn’t think you’d be okay with me bein’ like this,” he murmurs, eyes steady on yours.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his balance, but never letting go of your hands.

His thumb brushes a slow, absentminded stroke over the curve of your palm, like he’s grounding himself.

"I ain’t crossin’ no line?”

The way he says it—like he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt you—carries so much weight with it.

You squeeze his hands again, and this time you make sure he feels it.

“You’re not, Daryl. I’m… okay.”

Your voice shakes a little. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the sheer softness of this moment, how careful it feels, like it might dissolve if either of you breathes too hard. But your eyes don’t leave his, and neither does the trust in them.

Daryl exhales. It’s quiet, barely there, but you see it in the slight collapse of his shoulders.

His head dips lower, tentative. His nose brushes yours—accidental, then intentional. The contact is fleeting at first, then slower, steadier. You feel the brush of his breath across your lip. Neither of you kisses. Not yet.

Instead, his forehead grazes yours, the skin cool and warm at once. Your noses bump again, soft and clumsy and perfect. He chuckles once, quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to let it out.

“M'Sorry,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t move away.

Your heart is hammering now—not in fear, but in something far more sacred. His calloused fingers tighten just a little in yours, and when he nuzzles closer, cheek against cheek, you turn into the contact without thinking.

For a moment the entire world is still.

And he asks, voice barely a whisper, almost like a secret.

“Can I stay like this?”

It breaks something open in you.

Because that wasn’t a request for sex or even affection—it was a plea for belonging, a quiet hope whispered through years of silence. He isn’t asking for more. He just wants to be near you. To be wanted. To not be alone.

Your eyes close, your chest swelling with emotion that’s too big to name. And your answer is simple.

Just the barest nod.

He doesn’t move, not really. But something shifts. The way his body relaxes slightly, the way his thumb presses more firmly into your palm. He dips his face into the crook of your neck and stays—not like a man taking, but like a man finally allowed to rest.

You stay like that, just breathing together in the darkness.

The barn groans.

The storm doesn’t let up.

After what might be a moment but could be longer, Daryl’s face shifts upward, blue eyes meeting yours.

Something unnameable passes across his features—a relief, a tenderness, and a thousand walls crumbling at once. His posture eases, and he leans in slowly. His nose drags down yours slowly—tentative, careful, barely there.

He’s never been this close before, not like this, he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin, the shape of your smile when you think no one’s looking, the faded scar across the bridge of your nose.

You tilt your face toward him just slightly, a shy, instinctive movement. He exhales like he’s been holding it in for days, his breath warm against your lips.

Then, softly, his blue eyes meet yours again.

The kind of look that’s never asked for anything. The kind of look used when someone thinks they might get told no, and will accept it even though it might break them.

You nod.

Tiny. Gentle. Shy.

But it’s enough.

He leans down slowly, and when his lips finally brush yours, it’s not a kiss—not really. It’s a question in the shape of a breath. A touch so feather-light it barely qualifies.

His lips hover a heartbeat longer, then brush yours again—just once—a soft press, then a retreat, as if he’s afraid he might want too much.

When he finally pulls back just enough to see your face, you’re smiling.

Not big. Not bold.

Just… safe.

And Daryl?

He smiles, too.

Barely there, more in his eyes than his mouth—but you see it. The crinkle at the corners, the way the tension in his jaw eases. Like he’s home.

He watches you like you might disappear if he blinks. His blue eyes flicker across your face, lingering on your lips, your lashes, the blush creeping across your cheeks. His breath is shallow. His fingers are still tangled with yours, your hands a warm knot between your chests.

Daryl swallows, throat working visibly, and then lowers his head. There’s that delicate nuzzle again—The stubble on his jaw grazes your skin, but there’s no harshness to it. He’s learning you. Savoring the permission you gave him.

Then he kisses you again.

This time, it’s a little less hesitant—just a shade bolder. His mouth moves against yours like he’s searching for rhythm, his hand untangling from yours so he can brace beside your head. The kiss is still slow, reverent, but his lips part ever so slightly, tasting the edge of something he hasn’t dared ask for before.

And you respond in kind—tilting your head, catching your breath, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

His hand finds your waist, cautious at first—fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

Your body arches subtly into the touch, and he takes that as permission.

His palm unfurls across your hip, sliding along warm skin in a delicate exploration. You can feel the slight tremble in his fingers, the restraint in his grip. Daryl doesn’t take, doesn’t demand—its like he’s asking with every movement.

And then—

A soft sound escapes you. Not pain, not protest.

A whimper.

Instinctive. Breathless.

But Daryl freezes.

His entire body goes still above you, like a startled animal caught mid-step. He pulls back just enough to search your face, blue eyes wide with fear. Panic flickers across his expression like wildfire catching dry leaves.

His hands retreat instantly, as though he’s burned you. They hover above you helplessly before curling into fists against the blanket.

The old fear surges back—that he’s just like Merle, just like their father. That no matter how gently he moves, he’ll still break the things he cares about.

“Ain’t like I wanted to scare ya…”

“Didn’t mean to be like him…”

His voice drops on that last word, barely more than a whisper—so low it’s like he’s trying to bury it in the dirt.

You reach up, slowly, not to pull him back, but to anchor him. Your hand cups his cheek—warm skin beneath your fingers, rough with stubble and taut with tension. He flinches at first, but doesn’t pull away.

Your thumb brushes under his eye.

“it didn’t hurt.”

Soft words. A truth he doesn’t quite believe yet.

You take his wrist gently, guiding his hand back to your waist, resting it over the very place he had just touched. Your own hand covers his, holding him there. Safe. Welcome. Wanted.

“That sound… it wasn’t bad. Just… surprised me, I guess.” You say heat creeping up your neck.

Your eyes plead with him to understand—not just the words, but the feeling underneath. That his touch didn’t scare you. That he doesn’t scare you.

You can feel the minute tremors in him, the silent war between his desire to stay close and his instinct to flee before he ruins everything.

His voice breaks the silence, so soft it almost doesn’t exist.

“I ain’t never had nothin’ gentle.”

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You close your eyes and let your fingers trace the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You won’t.”

And he believes you—just a little. Enough to stay. Enough to let his hand remain where it is, pressed lightly to your side, no longer frozen in guilt.

The two of you lie there like that, skin to skin, breath to breath. Outside is rot and ruin, the rage of the storm, but here… here is something human again.

“Y'sure?” he asks again, low and rough, voice curling with that Southern rasp.

You nod, eyes still closed with complete trust, lips parted slightly with unspoken want.

He leans in.

This time there’s no pause, no hesitance—just the sure, gentle press of his mouth against yours. The kiss is bolder now. Still slow, still reverent, but there’s a weight behind it—need that’s no longer afraid to make itself known.

Daryl’s hands, begin to move. They unfurl, calloused fingers seeking the warm, smooth curve of your waist. He moves cautiously, as though touching something breakable—but the longer you stay close, the more he lets go.

His hands explore your sides, slipping just barely beneath your shirt to find the bare skin of your waistline your stomach, but no further. You shiver under his touch—not from fear, but from the heat it draws up your spine.

You answer him without words.

Your fingers trail along the front of his shirt, slow at first. Then you shift, one hand planting gently on his chest—feeling the solid weight of him there, the fast thud of his heart beneath flannel. You kiss him back slowly. There’s nothing demanding in your touch, just curiosity. Longing. Affection.

-------------------------------

Then your fingers move toward the buttons of his shirt hesitantly.

A soft slip.

The first button gives way. Daryl’s breathing hitches. His hand stiffens on your waist.

The second.

His lips stutter on yours, slightly. His brow furrows. His eyes open. There’s no anger—just something darker. Raw. Old.

It’s subtle. A slow, sharp inhale against your lips. His hand falters against your side. Your fingers have only slipped two buttons when you feel the change. He’s gone still—not from want, but fear.

His forehead rests against yours, eyes clenched shut. You can feel his jaw tight beneath your palm.

“Daryl…?” you whisper, uncertain.

He pulls back half an inch—just enough to look down, not at you, but away from you. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Shame is a silent, crushing thing in him. You see it in the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, like he’s trying to hide.

“S’fine,” he mutters after a moment. But it’s not. His voice is rough, guarded again. “Just… leave it. S’all right.”

But it isn’t all right. You can see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes. The way his sits up fingers fumbling to re-fasten the buttons.

You sit up slowly, carefully, he almost flinches. He’s bracing for rejection—has been since you started undoing the buttons.

He’s not scared you’ll mock him.

No.

He’s scared you’ll pity him.

That if you see the old scars on his back and realize what they mean—what kind of man he comes from.

That you’ll see him the same way he sees himself—broken, tainted by things he had no control over.

For a man like Daryl, who was taught love comes with pain, the act of being seen—really seen—is terrifying.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are dark with something distant.

Haunted.

“Ain’t nothin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says lowly. “Ain’t like I got anythin’ you wanna see.”

Your brows furrow gently. You don't understand, not completely, but that deep ache in your chest isn’t just for him, it’s for the boy he was. The one who was never told he didn’t have to carry shame for someone else’s cruelty.

You'd heard of his father, and while Merle wasn't cruel to you, you knew what Daryl's brother was capable of, but you didnt know all of it just enough to know why he flinches, you'd picked up on it long before he'd voiced it.

You reach for him again, slower this time.

Your fingers find his jaw, brushing it with the featherlight touch of someone who isn’t trying to fix him, just be with him. You guide his eyes back to yours, and there’s no judgment in them—just soft concern and something much deeper.

"Hey" you whisper "I'm sorry"

Daryl’s throat bobs. His lips part, but the words tangle.

"D'want you ta see… what I am.” he says eventually. Just that. Raw. Honest.

You shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I already do,” you whisper. “I like who you are.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours again. This time, you feel him shake—not with fear, but with the slow unraveling of decades of guardedness.

"More sleep?" You ask quietly.

"Yea, C'mon" Daryl responds, a gentle hand guiding you down to settle against him, you curl and arm against his chest, laying your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t try to undo his shirt again. You just let him hold you.

Daryl shifts the blanket to cover you both, his arm curling you closer pulling you more firmly into him. His nose brushes your hair, just for a moment—barely there.

“Storm’ll pass,” he mumbles into your hairline. “Always does.”

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