Just Opened Tumblr And This Is Is The First Thing I See… Gulp

might have to come out of retirement

sinners… bo chow… my google docs r speaking to me.

YALL I-

Pairings: Oliver Quick X !fem reader

Summary: Oliver is invited to Saltburn by your twin brother Felix and after the first dinner things get a little heated.

CW: SFW!! kissing, bad language, mention of sexual content (not much)

WC: 2.1k

warning: i am dyslexic so don’t expect all words to be spelled correctly, also i don’t autocapitalise my words

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

being a Catton had many advantages, a never ending list of friends, money, a level of smartness that seemed to be genetic, and sex. lots of sex. my brother, Felix, knows this too well. Felix Catton, my twin brother, is, for a use of better words, a whore. a new girl on his arm every single night. although recently there has been less women and more of a certain man. a very handsome man. Oliver Quick is his name, i had been told by my friend, and one of Felix’s little fuck buddy’s, Veronica. Oliver Quick is a beautiful man, not the type that Felix would usually hang out with. Oliver Quick is a nerd, a man who always has his head in a textbook, a man with glasses, a man who hangs out with Michael Gavey for fucks sake. he is beautiful, a loony, but beautiful nonetheless. when Felix had told me Oliver would accompany us back to Saltburn for the summer with our cousin Farleigh Start, i had almost choked on the very air i was breathing. this information became known to me three months after i had first seen Felix and Oliver together in the pub with Felix’s group of dimwit friends. poor Oliver is going to be eaten alive, Saltburn is going to eat him alive.

two months later.

Saltburn never ceases to amaze me, it’s the home i’ve lived in all my life and yet every time i’m here it feels like the first time. i’m sitting by the pond when Felix comes behind me and scares me. i scream and hit him in the chest when he crouches to my level.

‘Ollie is looking around. when he gets here be nice,’ he warns me with a straight face.

‘i’m always nice. it’s mum you have to worry about,’ i roll my eyes, ‘let’s not forget Venetia too, she’s been anticipating his arrival after your little description of the poor boy.’

Felix sits beside me, ‘i’ve told Venetia, no more Eddie situations. i do not want to lose another friend,’ he sighs.

‘if you do, you’ve still got me,’ i nudge his side with my shoulder, ‘you know, twin sister, built in best friend.’

he chuckles and puts an arm around my shoulders. the both of us stare at the pond until we hear a voice.

‘Felix? Felix, where are you?’ Oliver.

‘over here mate,’ Felix shouts over his shoulder, Oliver soon appears from the side of the house and he sits with Felix and i.

‘this house is,’ there is a pause, ‘beautiful’ Oliver lets out a sigh.

my lip quirks up, ‘Felix given you the tour yet?’

‘yeah. when i first got here,’ his Scouse accent is strong, a stark contrast to Felix and i’s.

‘you meet Venetia or mum and dad yet?’ i question.

Felix flicks my ear, a scowl on his face, ‘leave him alone. enough of the questions.’

i roll my eyes and shut my mouth.

‘no i haven’t. Felix told me to watch out for Venetia,’ Oliver speaks up after a moment of silence, ‘said she has been parading herself round all morning in hopes of finding me, whatever that means.’

‘it means she wants to fuck you, Ollie,’ Felix grits out harshly.

i hit him in his side and he lets out a huff, moving his arm from around my shoulder and to where i hit him. Oliver laughs at the two of us and the sound makes me smile a little myself.

‘Sir Felix, Madam y/n,’ Duncan speaks up from behind the three of us, making Oliver jolt, ‘your mother has requested that the three of you get ready for dinner.’

‘no problem Duncan we will go now,’ Felix waves off our butler and stands.

he lifts a hand in my direction and i grab it for him to pull me up. he does so and the same is done for Oliver. we all part ways once back in the house and go to our respective rooms. i decide on a blue dress for dinner, an elegant dress. it hugs my curves and finishes just above my knee, its off the shoulder and used to be my mothers. she had given it to me as a birthday present. she knew id always dreamed of owning a dress like this. i look at myself in the body length mirror and spray a little perfume on my neck. a knock has me looking from my reflection to the oak door of my bedroom. i make my way over and open up to see Oliver on the other side, looking sheepish.

‘uh, Felix left me in my room to get changed and he, uh, left. i don’t know where the dining room is,’ he averts his gaze to the floor.

‘it’s okay, i get lost sometimes and i’ve lived here my whole life. i’ll take you to the dining room,’ i smile and link my arm with his, closing my bedroom door behind me.

we are in the dining room a moment later, everyone already there. including mums friend Pamela. Oliver and i take a seat and i give a smile to my mother. she returns it and begins to speak.

‘welcome to Saltburn Oliver, we hope everything is to your liking. my name is Elspeth, this is my friend Pamela,’ she points a hand in her direction, ‘that is my husband Sir James,’ and dads, ‘and this is Venetia,’ she finally points toward my younger sister, ‘i assume you have been acquainted with y/n and Farleigh.’

‘yes Mrs Catton, Farleigh and i had a few classes together, and y/n and i have briefly met,’ he looks at me and interlinks our fingers under the table, ‘it is lovely to meet everyone else,’ he smiles.

‘oh please, do call me Elspeth,’ mum states, ‘Felix has told us so much about you, how are your parents?’

the conversation picks up with Oliver being the centre of it. we all eat, Oliver’s finger still entwined with my own under the table. the night finishes when mum has successfully fried all the information out of Oliver about his personal life. parents, siblings, education, friends, favourite colour, heck she knows it all. we are all excused from the table when it has been cleared and Oliver and i’s fingers finally break apart.

‘can i talk to you for a moment,’ i feel a hand on my own as i’m leaving the dining room, i turn and see Oliver, ‘alone.’

‘sure, yeah. is everything okay?’ i question as we make our way to my room.

he says nothing, he just continues to walk with me, his hand in my own. we make it to my room moments later and i let him inside, our hands detach.

‘you’re very beautiful y/n,’ Oliver says as i close my bedroom door.

a blush spreads across my cheeks, ‘thank you Oliver.’

he comes closer to me and my breath catches in my throat. i have had a little tiny crush on Oliver ever since my brother first started hanging out with him 5 months ago. Oliver is handsome, brown hair and big blue eyes that are the perfect colour as to not look too bright or too dull. his hand comes up to stroke my cheek and i lean into it.

he hums, ‘Felix doesn’t shut up about you, you know that?’ he tilts my head so i am looking up into his eyes.

i don’t get the chance to open my mouth before he is speaking again, ‘you’re an easy person to like y/n, i know everything about you because of Felix,’ his thumb rests on my bottom lip, ‘i know your favourite colour is pink, i know you didn’t talk til you were 4 years old, i know you have never let anyone touch you the way i’m touching you now,’ his voice is suddenly deeper.

my lips part and a breath of air is let out. my cheeks becoming even more hot the longer Oliver goes on.

‘you’re beautiful y/n, i mean that. you’re drop dead gorgeous, such a pretty face,’ his thumb tips back so it is half way in my mouth, my tongue is laid flat against the bottom of my mouth, cautious of not touching the pad of Oliver’s thumb.

Oliver’s eyes trail down my face, stopping at my mouth, ‘do you think Felix would understand if i were to kiss you?’ he questions, his accent getting thicker with each word.

his thumb moves from my mouth and there is an icy hot sensation left where he once had it, my lips still agape.

‘i don’t think he would,’ i finally speak up, my voice scratchy, ‘not if he doesn’t find out.’

Oliver’s lips quirk up into a smirk, ‘sneaky y/n, what if i were to fuck you?’ the breath i was taking in gets caught in my throat and i let out a strangled sound, ‘would you still keep that from him?’

i nod. all sensible thoughts seem faraway at this moment and i need Oliver.

he leans close, so that his lips are mere millimetres away from my own, ‘you’re beautiful y/n, the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen,’ his arms snake around my waist, hands stopping just above my ass.

i lean up to connect our lips, my head is spinning, warmness pooling in the bottom of my stomach. i don’t realise how bad i have needed Oliver until he is pulling away from me. my lips are, no doubt, a mess. Oliver has my pink lipgloss all over his lips, i smile and reach my hand up to cup his jaw as he had done to me a moment earlier. my thumb reaches out to his lip and wipes away the lipgloss. he pulls me closer to him so i can practically feel every muscle in his chest and stomach.

‘kiss me again Oliver,’ my hands now lay flat on his chest.

he obliged and pulls me into him once more. the urgency of this kiss is more than the first, Oliver’s hand slips down from my back to the curve of my ass. he gives it a squeeze and i let out a little noise into the kiss. we continue kissing for what feels like forever til a knock comes from my bedroom door. i pull away from Oliver quickly and shoo him into my wardrobe. i know that knock, it’s Felix.

‘y/n? you in there?’ Felix questions from the other side of the door.

‘yeah hang on i’m changing,’ i grab the first piece of clothing i see, one of Felix’s shirts, and put it on after quickly slipping my dress off. i look at myself in the mirror and wipe the remains of my lipgloss off from around my mouth and open the door. Felix doesn’t wait before barging into my room.

‘have you seen Ollie? he hasn’t come back to his room yet,’ Felix is worried, that much is evident in his tone.

‘no i haven’t. maybe he’s talking to mum or in the garden or something,’ i lie straight through my teeth.

Felix quirks a brow, i hate lying to Felix but it has to be done. he would hate Oliver if he found out what he was doing to his baby sister a moment ago.

‘i’ll go check in the garden. will you go ask mum please?’

‘yeah, i will,’ i reply.

‘thank you y/n’ he gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves my room.

i let out a sigh and make my way to my wardrobe. i open it and Oliver comes out quickly, ‘i hate small spaces,’ he shudders.

‘i’m sorry Oliver. i didn’t know,’ i feel bad.

‘don’t worry about it. it’s fine,’ he smiles, i instantly feel better.

‘you need to go to your room. Felix is looking for you,’ Oliver’s eyes widen, ‘i told him i’ll check with mum to see if you’re with her so I’ll take you back to your room, okay?’

‘perfect,’ he confirms.

before i can move he gives me a quick kiss and a slap on the ass.

‘behave,’ i tell him as we walk out of my room to which he replies with a chuckle.

we are in Oliver’s room in 5 minutes, all his belongings had been unpacked by the maids during dinner.

‘so how are you liking Saltburn?’ i question Oliver, sitting on his bed.

‘it’s amazing. nothing like home. it’s bigger for starters,’ he lets out a laugh, ‘and it is so beautiful. truly incredible,’ he looks out of the window.

i lay back in his bed and let out a sigh, ‘i’m glad you’re here Oliver.’

‘me too.’

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

AN: would like to thank my best friend @lovandr for being as Saltburn obsessed as i am and making me feel like whatever i make, whether that be a story or an edit, is good enough.

im dead. 💀

im reblogging this from beyond the grave.

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving) ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ ᴘᴛ.2

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street — 𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already. Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt. He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally. "Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —

But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it. He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it — like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six — hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door — and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things — God, it was the little things — that drove you crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter — how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle. How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood — shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy — arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting — like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed —

Low, unexpected — a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second — God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.

And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours. He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing — the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by — every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew it. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it — job’s yours."

You tried to speak — tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes — but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself. You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him — that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you — if you were honest — was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on — rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest — shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves — and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag. That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close — not on purpose, not really — but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter — and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest — vest scratchy and warm against your back — his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent — just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall — his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what — and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers — right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back — you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except — the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh — your shoulder scraped his chest — and your ass — oh, Lord — your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still — felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you. You didn’t dare look up.

You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you — you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat. Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him — the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again — caught yourself wanting — and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close — reached past you for something on the shelf — his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past — close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later — after closing — when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door — that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened.

You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it.

You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled — small and sweet and secret — because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you — you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow — hot and heavy, same as always — but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him.

Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters — and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands — God, his hands.

Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like — skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.

It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him — when you realized:

No customers.

None.

Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heart kicked up — wild, reckless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it — before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —

You moved.

Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps — grabbed his hand — and tugged him toward the back.

He let you.

No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty — and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you — those dark eyes burning — and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down — lips brushing yours — and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper — and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer — and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled — tried to pull back to catch your breath — but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it — with him — with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then —

You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist — guided it up — placed his big, rough hand around your throat.

Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze.

For one hot, crackling second — everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat — slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding — just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.

And he grinned — slow, wicked — all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered — so soft, so needy — and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again — deeper, dirtier — hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him — opened for him — let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer — thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth — before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you — no. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin — one you could feel in your knees — then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.

Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool — still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively — steadying yourself — eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step — just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face — as if trying to keep himself together — and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — but your eyes kept dropping.

To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands — scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat — holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry.

And Bo noticed.

His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"

You swallowed hard — nodded.

You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed.

Bo stepped between your knees — crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace — and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw — slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.

You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear — sucked there hard enough to leave a mark — and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "Gimme that pretty throat."

You could’ve melted right then and there.

His hands were everywhere — roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him — not even trying to play coy anymore.

You wanted him.

All of him.

And Bo — he was starving for you.

Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you — pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered — hand flying to his hair instinctively — fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation.

Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out — sharp and sweet — hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned — like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted — and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was ravenous — lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once — overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat — but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth — and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came — loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head — Bo just kept going.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

Made you ride it out — every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —

Bo looked up at you — mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild — and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him.

You wanted him.

God help you — you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

LET ME AT HIM

Bo in Sinners (2025) 😩😩

I’ve crawled out of hibernation to say

LOOK AT MY WIFE

Look at how cute he is oml. i freaking adore him.

AND TAZ SKYLAR IN THE LIVE ACTION?????

Pardon my French… BUT FUCKING HELL MAN

he is sooo

DEAR GOD SANJI VINSMOKE

I WANNA KISSY HIM ALL ON HIS FACE JESUS . H. CHRIT.

that is all.

THIS IS SO REAL

I forgot how lonely it is to write original fiction.

Where are the kudos? The subscriptions? The comments? The people cheerleading me chapter to chapter? Where are the kind words and compliments and reassurances that what I'm writing isn't complete crap? Where are the unhinged emojis? The asks on Tumblr? Where are my mutuals in my dms apologizing for not reading the latest chapter right away (side note, you know you don't have to apologize at all, right??). Where is the fanart? Where are the recs?

Where is my motivation to keep going?

It's something I've been thinking about a lot, actually, lately. How the experience of writing fanfic is so unique. How you already have an audience, willing and waiting and captive. And that's really it, isn't it? You have an audience. It's almost performative, writing fanfic. It's being on a stage, a one-person show (or two, if you do it with a friend); it's getting live reactions to your performance, it's feeding off the energy of the crowd and informing it back in a feedback loop; it's improvised, sometimes, in almost-real-time. It's building something that you couldn't have built by yourself. A thing that takes on a life of its own.

It's an experience you can't get writing original fiction, and, honestly, not having it is making it hard to write something original at all.

She..

that is all.

the LACK of nami fics on this app is should not be allowed because look at HER OMG how can you not want to write fanfiction of her smh disappointingly my girl deserves more love

concept: logan in a tutu and tiara

me and the logan hoes 😭

casual survey: reblog if you want to kiss a girl right now