Hope Your Days Get Softer From Here On Out. Hope The Hurt Lessens And The Dark Turns To Light. You Deserve

sylus // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

resonance

caller id

tag, you're it

stupid

all is fair in lust and robbery

strictly (un)professional

baby how do i look;

too close for comfort

take a breather

the unlikely refuge

i have you, you're alright

playing fair

you make one out of two

fly to you like birds do

the murmurs of crows

touch red

you are my favorite mistake

slow dance

crow in the bedroom

would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought provoking questions)

seeking light

a lust for love

shameless

the dance of the black feather

geto for ferrari 🏎️

ac: aransmind

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slow burn fr, Flirting, jealousy, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, Minor language (light swearing), Light possessiveness/territorial behavior, Small-town charm and shenanigans Art by: @/-3aem on X

Your first day at the farmer’s market brings more than just fresh air and sunshine—you were just supposed to help sell eggs. Instead, you caught yourself eyeing every fine man in town, accidentally flirting with a bakery owner, and maybe (definitely) making someone jealous. Small-town life might be a lot more complicated (and a lot more fun) than you thought.

Chapter Three: A Harvest of Firsts

You never thought you’d get used to it—the early mornings, the dirt under your fingernails, the way the sun could bake the back of your neck until it felt raw.

You never thought you'd want to get used to it.

But somewhere between scrubbing out water troughs and learning which stalls creaked the loudest at night, you stopped counting down the days until you could leave. Somewhere along the way, Ashford stopped feeling like a punishment after a few weeks of living there. 

It started feeling a little like... home.

There were the slow mornings with Grandma, who always set a second mug of coffee out for you without asking, even when you shuffled into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion, bags incredibly prominent under your eyes.

The afternoons spent hauling feed buckets, boots slipping in the mud, Gojo laughing himself stupid every time you nearly wiped out.

The quiet evenings on the porch with Grandpa, who taught you how to whittle wood and told you stories about the ranch like it was a living, breathing thing that needed loving just like a person would.

And somewhere in there, somehow, Gojo went from being a thorn in your side to... something else entirely.

There’d be the dumb contests he always started—who could stack hay bales faster, who could catch a loose chicken first. (Spoiler: he cheated.)

There were the long, lazy rides out into the fields, where he'd tip his hat low and glance at you like he was thinking something he wasn’t brave enough to say.

There was the way he'd toss you an apple from the barrel by the barn, a crooked grin on his face, daring you to catch it one-handed. (You missed. Every time.)

You were still clumsy, still slower than the others, still the occasional butt of a joke—but it didn’t sting the way it used to. It just made you try harder.

And some mornings, when the sun rose soft and gold over the fields, you even thought—you could maybe be happy here.

If you let yourself.

You woke up to the crow of the rooster you still hadn't forgiven for existing, the scent of fresh coffee from grandma sneaking through the cracks in your door.

Another day. Another chance to embarrass yourself on the ranch.

You dragged yourself out of bed with a stretch, going through the motions of your new morning routine: Brush your teeth, rub the exhaustion from your eyes, stand at the front of your closet for way too long trying to decide what cute outfit to wear (even though your nice clothes from home were slowly getting ruined every time you worked). You always just ended up in the same thing—some denim shorts and that old green flannel you never used to touch.

By the time you stumbled outside, sneakers half-laced and hair barely wrangled into a ponytail, Gojo was already there—leaning against the fence like he'd been posing for a Western catalog, one boot kicked up on the bottom rail, hat tipped low to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

You squinted at him, yawning a little under your breath, "Do you ever actually work or just stand around lookin’ pretty?"

"Princess," he drawled, grinning slow and wide, "some of us are blessed enough to do both."

You muttered something rude under your breath and made a beeline for the feed shed. You barely got the door open before you heard boots crunching behind you, followed by a suspiciously innocent, "Need a hand?"

You turned to glare at him—and immediately got whacked in the chest with a bag of grain. You staggered back a step, barely catching it before it hit the dirt.

"Oh, fuck!" you gasped, wrestling the bag into your arms.

"Training your reflexes," Gojo said, the picture of smugness as he loaded another bag onto his own shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. Smug bastard.

"Training to murder you, maybe."

He winked. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Despite your grumbling, you followed him back out into the yard, the morning already warm against your skin. You worked side-by-side, him tossing bales of hay like they were toys, you dragging yours with a determined scowl. Every once in a while, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you caught yourself sneaking glances—at the way his sleeves stretched around his biceps tightly, the way he squinted into the sun, the way he laughed, low and warm, at his own bad jokes.

Unfortunately, Gojo always caught you looking.

"You're staring," he said, voice all singsong and smug.

"You're imagining things," you snapped, feeling your ears burn.

He only smirked and went back to work, whistling off-key as he moved.

You hated that you smiled.

By the time mid-morning rolled around, you were sweaty, sore, and a little sun-dazed—but you didn’t mind it as much as you used to. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of it—the work, the quiet hum of the ranch, and Gojo's constant, irritating presence. And at lunch, when you sat down with your grandparents on the porch, your grandpa shot you a look over his coffee mug. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what you were pretending not to feel for his certain ranchhand.

"Y'know," he said casually, "I always thought you two’d make a good team."

You nearly choked on your sweet tea. Gojo just grinned wider and kicked his boot against yours under the table.

"She's still got a lot to learn," he said, tone teasing but eyes warm, lingering on you a little too long.

"Yeah," your grandma said with a sly little smile, "but luckily she's got a good teacher."

You ducked your head, cheeks burning, pretending to be very interested in the pattern of the wood floor as you chewed on a piece of toast with homemade jam. Gojo just laughed under his breath, low and rough, like he'd won something you hadn't realized you were playing for.

And despite yourself—despite everything—you smiled too.

You were still smiling into your sweet tea when Grandma set her cup down with a soft clink.

"I was thinking," she said, smoothing her hand over the tablecloth like she was trying to play it casual. "About setting up a booth at the farmers market this afternoon. Sell some of the extra eggs and jam, and veggies we’ve got piled up."

You looked up, brushing a crumb off your shorts. "The farmers market?"

"Mm-hm." She smiled at you, a little sly. "Thought you might like to come with me. Help out. Meet some folks."

You hesitated—only for a second—but surprisingly, the idea didn't make your stomach twist the way it might have a few weeks ago. You could picture it already: sunlight filtering through the old oaks in the town square, tables full of fresh produce and baked goods, people milling around with shopping bags and mason jars of lemonade.

"Yeah, I’d like that," you said, surprising yourself with how much you actually meant it.

Grandpa gave a grunt that sounded suspiciously like approval. Gojo just leaned back in his chair with a lazy stretch, grinning at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I suppose I can hold down the fort here, princess," he drawled. "Try not to miss me too much."

You rolled your eyes, tossing a crumpled napkin at him that made your grandparents share knowing glances with each other, but the truth was—you kind of already did.

Later that afternoon, after a quick rinse and a change of clothes, you found yourself wedged into the bench seat of Grandpa’s old pickup, rumbling down the road toward town with baskets and crates rattling in the truck bed.

Grandpa whistled low under his breath, hands steady on the wheel, a battered Stetson tipped low on his brow. "You girls got everything?" he asked, glancing over at the two of you.

Grandma patted the tote at her feet, crammed full of jars and bundles of herbs. "Eggs, jam, preserves, and all the cucumbers we grew too many of," she said, shooting him a teasing look.

"You’ll thank me come pickle season," Grandpa grumbled good-naturedly, making you smile.

Ashford’s downtown unfolded in front of you, all red brick and white-painted storefronts, an old barbershop pole spinning lazily in the breeze—a few blocks of brick buildings with faded awnings, an old courthouse with a clock that hadn't worked in years, a diner that smelled like fried bacon even from the sidewalk. But it had a kind of charm that stuck to your ribs, all sweet and stubborn, like the town itself refused to grow up.

The farmers market stretched across the town square, a handful of colorful tents and tables sprouting like wildflowers between the oaks. Bunting fluttered from the lampposts, and the air buzzed with the hum of conversation, the strum of a banjo from somewhere near the fountain, the air thick with the scent of kettle corn and cut grass.

Grandpa found a spot to park right along the curb, then hopped down with a grunt. He helped you unload the heavy crates, stacking them neatly beneath the folding table that already had a wooden sign swinging proudly from it: Sundown Ranch Goods. Hand-painted in faded blue letters, with a little horse silhouette carved into the corner.

"Looks good, don’t it?" Grandpa said, stepping back to admire your little setup, hands braced on his hips.

"It’s perfect," you replied, brushing a smudge of dirt off the corner of the sign.

Grandma beamed, arranging jars of jam and shiny bell peppers with practiced hands while you filled small baskets with cucumbers and tomatoes and snapped peas. Grandpa stayed long enough to fuss over the egg cartons—making sure they were packed safe—before tipping his hat at you both.

"I’ll come fetch ya when you’re ready," he said. "Don’t let your grandma sell you for a jar of pickled green beans now. And holler if y'all need anythin’.”

Grandma laughed and swatted his arm, though the gesture was filled with love. “Go on, get now. Them horses need tending to.”

You laughed as he ambled back to the truck, engine sputtering to life as he pulled away with a wave out the window.

Left alone, you and Grandma fell into an easy rhythm, arranging your goods just so, the late afternoon sun slanting warm across the table. The market bustled around you, alive with the low murmur of conversation and the distant twang of a banjo from near the courthouse steps.

Ashford’s town square had a charm to it—the kind that couldn’t be built, only grown. Little boutiques lined the street alongside a diner with a neon sign that buzzed faintly, a hardware store with creaky floors, and a bakery that made the whole block smell like cinnamon and fresh bread. Kids darted between booths with paper snow cones dripping down their fingers, dogs strained at leashes to sniff everything in sight.

People wandered past your booth in slow, easy currents. Some just nodded politely, but a few stopped—a woman with silver hair and a woven basket, who bought a jar of blackberry jam and complimented Grandma's canning; a wiry old man in suspenders who teased you about city girls not knowing a tomato from an apple (you rolled your eyes but still smiled); a young mom chasing two toddlers, who asked if you'd have more eggs next week.

It wasn’t perfect—you still caught the occasional curious glance, a few whispered comments—but it wasn’t mean, either.

It was... cautious.

Interested.

Like maybe the town wasn’t sure what to make of you just yet. But maybe, just maybe, they were willing to find out.

You let yourself breathe, finally, under the easy buzz of it all, feeling the slow and steady beat of something you hadn’t realized you’d missed—belonging.

By late afternoon, the market had settled into a lazy hum, the early rush tapering off into a comfortable trickle. The sun hung low over the rooftops, painting everything gold, and the jars of jam on your table gleamed like little jewels in the light.

You were just brushing crumbs off the tablecloth when Grandma leaned over and patted your hand. "You're doing good, honey," she said warmly. "Why don't you take a little walk, stretch your legs? I can hold down the fort for a while."

You hesitated, but when she smiled at you—soft, encouraging—you relented, slipping a few dollars into your pocket just in case something caught your eye.

You wandered through the booths, taking your time, soaking it all in: the clatter of horseshoes over pavement, the faint buzz of cicadas in the trees, the buttery smell of something baking from the other side of the market. A trio of kids dashed past you with sticks of cotton candy, and someone strummed a guitar lazily from the corner near the old general store.

It was… nice. Quaint. Warm in a way the city never had been.

You were smiling to yourself when you saw him.

Gojo.

Leaning against a lamppost like he owned the damn thing, with all the casual arrogance of someone who knew he looked good doing it, laughing at something a guy beside him said. And not just any guy—tall, with long black hair pulled back in a low, messy tie, a sleepy, wicked sort of smile stretching across his face like he knew secrets you didn’t.

You slowed instinctively, ducking behind a nearby booth, peeking without meaning to.

First of all, rude that Gojo looked even hotter off the ranch. His white t-shirt clung in all the right places, sleeves stretched over the kind of arms you didn’t want to admit you stared at sometimes (all the time). His jeans rode low on his hips, accentuating that sweet ass of his that never quit, and your gaze treacherously dipped lower before you yanked it back up.

The guy next to him was no slouch either—just another unfairly attractive man standing in your direct line of sight.

Your stomach flipped once, awkward and unwanted.

Was there some kind of water around here that just grew fine men like crops?

Because it wasn’t normal how every single one of them looked like they could grace the cover of some country-living magazine and ruin your life at the same time.

You might’ve been able to ignore it—could’ve told yourself you didn’t care—until you spotted them.

Two girls, standing a little too close, batting their lashes, twirling their hair. They were pretty in that easy, sun-kissed way that only girls who grew up in towns like this seemed to manage. One of them playfully smacked Gojo’s arm; the other leaned into the dark-haired guy, laughing.

You tore your eyes away, busying yourself by pretending to admire a booth near your own selling beeswax candles. Grandma must have wandered off because she was no longer standing there in her cute little sunhat. You could hear Gojo’s stupid laugh floating through the air behind you, low and bright. It made your blood heat in a way you didn’t want to think about.

You scowled and huffed, determinedly turning away—and nearly collided with someone standing at your booth.

"Excuse me," a voice said politely, low and even.

You blinked up—and into another gorgeous face.

Different from Gojo’s bright, arrogant handsomeness.

Different from the other guy’s lazy danger.

This man was... solid. Golden-skinned and serious, with messy blond hair pushed back from his forehead, warm brown eyes, and a steady kind of strength that wrapped around him like armor. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing flour-dusted forearms that made your brain short-circuit for a half-second.

Marrying this man within a month would honestly not be the craziest decision you could ever make.

He offered a small smile, polite but not unfriendly.

"Are you the one selling eggs?" he asked.

You scrambled to pull yourself together. "Uh—yeah! Yes. We sell eggs. Or my grandma does, anyway. We’ve still got a few dozen left."

He nodded, pulling a canvas tote higher on his shoulder. "I’ll take two, please. I run the bakery down the street."

Right. That explained the flour. (And possibly the unfairly attractive, husband-material energy.)

You busied yourself packing up the eggs, slipping them carefully into a cardboard flat. The man watched you with patient interest, like you were something worth paying attention to, which only made your hands fumble more.

"I’m Nanami," he said as you handed the carton over. "Kento Nanami."

You gave him your name, cheeks warming under the weight of his calm, unreadable gaze. His fingers brushed yours as he passed you the money, and you were so thrown off by it you barely managed to stammer out a "thank you."

Nanami dipped his head in a small nod, tucking the eggs into his bag like he actually cared not to crush them.

And maybe it was petty—maybe—but when you flicked a glance over to where Gojo was still laughing it up with his pretty little groupies, you felt a very particular kind of satisfaction bloom in your chest.

Because when you caught Gojo's eye—because of course you did—you saw it.

The sharp little glance at Nanami.

The narrowing of those stupidly bright blue eyes.

The faint tilt of his head, as if to say, Oh?

You turned your back, smiling sweetly as Nanami asked, "Would you happen to know if the strawberries here are fresh?"

God help you—you were about to flirt back.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling braver than you had in weeks. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the golden glow of the market. Maybe it was just the way Nanami looked at you—steady, warm, intent.

"They're fresh," you said, smiling up at him, "Picked just a couple days ago."

Nanami gave a small, appreciative nod. "Good. I'd hate to disappoint my customers."

"So, you run the bakery down the street?" you asked, leaning your elbows onto the booth a little, casual but undeniably flirty. "My grandma absolutely raves about your pastries."

A faint smile curved his mouth, something almost shy in the way he glanced down before meeting your eyes again. "I'm glad. I do most of the baking myself. Fresh ingredients make all the difference."

You hummed thoughtfully, "I might have to come by sometime. You know, for... quality assurance."

Nanami chuckled lowly, a rich sound that made something flip in your stomach.

"I'd welcome the feedback," he said, voice smooth as honey.

You were so caught up in the moment—basking in the way Nanami seemed genuinely interested, feeling that rare rush of being seen—that you didn’t even notice the approaching footsteps.

Not until a familiar voice, way too loud and way too casual, cut through the air.

"There you are, princess," Gojo drawled, leaning against the booth casually, one hand braced on the table, the other resting at the small of your back, way too familiar, like he had every right to touch you.

Your skin prickled under the heat of it.

Possessive little shit.

Nanami simply regarded him with polite curiosity, like a customer inspecting a product before buying. "Gojo," Nanami said, polite but clipped. "It's been a while."

Gojo grinned, all teeth, knowing exactly what he was doing. "Yeah, been a minute. Bakery keepin’ you busy, Nanamin?"

"It does," he replied simply, glancing at you before back to Gojo.

Gojo noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he leaned in just slightly, like he couldn't help but crowd your space, tipping his hat back with one hand so he could squint down at you with that slow, lazy smirk you hated for how much it made your heart stutter.

"Princess here’s new in town," he said easily, though his thumb brushed once, deliberately, against the fabric of your shirt. "Gotta make sure she don’t get led astray by all these smooth-talking country boys."

Nanami only arched a brow. "I think she can handle herself."

You bit your cheek, hiding a smile.

God, this was better than a soap opera.

Nanami, unbothered, glanced between the two of you, clearly filing something away in that sharp mind of his.

"Well," he said eventually, offering you a final, faintly amused smile, "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'll see you at the bakery sometime?"

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the way he phrased it like a promise.

You nodded—maybe a little too quickly—and Nanami dipped his head politely before strolling off into the crowd, the late afternoon sun catching in his hair like a halo.

You watched him go for a second too long.

Gojo leaned closer, voice dropping into something lower, rougher.

"Didn't know you were into the whole 'nice guy' thing," he teased, nudging your arm with his elbow. "Kinda boring, don’t you think?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

"He wasn’t boring, he was incredibly nice," you shot back. "Better than arrogant and annoying."

Gojo smirked—slow, lazy, dangerous.

"And smooth-talking country boys?" you echoed, eyebrow arching high. "You grew up here, too, stupid."

Gojo just grinned wider, like your irritation was his favorite thing.

You huffed, trying—failing—not to stare at the line of his throat, the stupid stretch of his biceps under his rolled sleeves that looked so, so, strong.

"You’re unbelievable," you muttered, half under your breath.

Gojo leaned even closer, voice dropping to something rough and velvet-soft, meant for you alone.

“And how was your first farmer’s market experience?”

You barely had a chance to recover from the way he said it, all low and teasing, before Gojo reached across the table and plucked a strawberry right out of one of the cartons.

"Hey!" you protested, smacking at his hand half-heartedly.

He just popped the berry into his mouth with a wicked grin, biting into it like he had all the right in the world, juice slipping down the corner of his mouth before he licked it away. Slowly. Purposefully.

Your brain fizzed like soda in the heat.

Before you could summon a single coherent thought, Grandma reappeared, bustling up behind the booth, arms full of fresh flyers she’d gathered from a nearby stall.

She took one look at the two of you—at Gojo standing way too close, at you practically vibrating with frustration (or something suspiciously close to it)—and just laughed, rich and knowing.

"Go on now, Satoru," she said, swatting at him lightly with the flyers. "Quit harassin' Y/N before she up and decks you good."

Gojo grinned, completely unbothered. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said, winking at you as he backed away, slow and lazy.

You huffed, crossing your arms, pretending your heart wasn’t trying to climb up your throat.

As he sauntered off into the crowd, whistling some tune you didn’t recognize, Grandma set her flyers down and leaned in close, conspiratorial.

"You be careful with that one, honey," she said, voice low and fond. "He’s always been trouble. Cute trouble, but still trouble."

Your face burned hot enough to fry an egg.

"I’m not—" you started, but she just patted your hand, eyes twinkling.

"I was young once, too, you know," she said, before turning to straighten the tablecloth like the conversation hadn’t even happened.

You stood there, flustered beyond all measure, watching Gojo’s stupid broad shoulders disappear into the crowd—and wondering how on earth you were supposed to survive a whole summer of this.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to realize this town had a whole lot more to offer than you thought.

Author's Note: Am I pumping these chapters out too fast?? If you wanna be added to the taglist, let me know in the notes below! Also, I think I mention Gojo's juicy ass too much. Bet let a girl have hobbies and interests.

Taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @vina21 @sweetwonieee @billiondollarworth @fati27ma 

no bra

萌一下鬍子把拔

part 2 (demon!Bakugou x nun reader)

second spoiler; coming soon~

anyways this is what this blog is ABOUT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

deadpool gojo & wolverine nanami

Eren is cock drunk

pairing - Eren x fem!Reader

Rating: mature (18+)

Content/Trigger Warnings: smut

The air in the room hung thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, a primal musk that clung to every breath. The two you have been going at it rabbits. Eren couldn't get enough of you. The way your cunt shaped his cock. The way your pussy swallowed his cock. He loved it. His green eyes burned with a feral hunger, locked onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

"Eren please!" you whimpered. You were gripping Eren's bed for dear life. Your legs were shaking and your body was warm.

" C'mon baby you can take it." Eren's fingers dipped in the fat of your thighs as he held a tight grip on your legs to keep you from escaping his trap. Eren loomed over you, his broad shoulders glistening with a sheen of perspiration, dark brown hair plastered messily across his forehead.

His cock was constantly hitting your g spot making you feel shivers down your spine. '"Fuuuck- feel so good baby." A thick, creamy white ribbon coiled tightly around the base of his throbbing cock, glistening under the dim light. Eren watched the faces you made as he thrusted harder. Your fingers had become instruments of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Fuck," he growled, voice rough and low, scraping against the silence like gravel. "You're unreal, you know that?" His calloused hands gripped your neck with his other dangerously close to your soaked pussy. His cock was digging into your soft walls as he spread you wider.

His movements were raw, needy, like a man possessed. He shifted his hips, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance again, slick with your juices and his own cum from the last round. "Look at you-taking me so fucking good. This cunt's mine, yeah?"

The bed creaked beneath his weight as he leaned in, one hand sliding up to brace himself against the headboard, wood groaning under his grip. His other hand stayed on you, tracing the curve of your hip before slipping down to rub slow, deliberate circles over your swollen clit. He watched your reaction with a smirk, lips curling as he drank in every twitch, every shudder. "Can't get enough of this," he muttered, almost to himself, his thumb pressing harder, coaxing out a fresh gush of wetness that made his cock twitch in response. "So fucking wet for me-shit, you're perfect."