#I post long lore leave me be

[moonpoolcat]

Epoch Moon Backstory (Long version)

Ya'll actually did it. Okay. As promised, here is the longer version of Moon lore. I'm not very good with rainworld lore no, none of this is tied to anything canon to the game, for the love of christ DO NOT spam my inbox trying to correct me. Everything has been written months in advance so there will be no changes unless it proves to be an obstacle in future posts. So sit back, put on some music, because this is going to be extremely long. How does this universe work? Simple! This universe takes place before the Rivulet campaign (don't worry they still show up in this timeline. All iterators are able to leave from their cans at will with no restraints. They have the ability shift into animals their creators designed them from. Their superstructures are mobile (yes i'm letting these mfs move) and are able to traverse the land long as they're close to resources such as ground water an void fluid. The cities are wrapped in a gravity that keeps it from tipping over or falling off. The rot is curable in this universe but only if cured within a short timespan. I hope this helps.

The beginning-

In the beginning, when the iterators first emerged, they served their creators known as the ancients. The ancients, who held the first generation by the throat, gave no hope for individuality. LTTM and other iterators of her generation had no concept of mentors. Instead, they were self-taught and guided by their administrators. The ancient who mentored her was named Spangled Sinking Dagger, four hundred flowers. belonging to the House of Silhouette, count of 8 living blocks, Counselor of 13, Mother, and spouse, and the true founder of the Congregation of Moderated Dedication. Also, she was a legend, and was the administrator responsible for LTTM's creation, oversaw Moon teachings. In this universe, iterators have three stages of growth, and the role of the senior respectfully. The puppets being a small part of them were meant to interact with the real world, but they can grow into whatever size suits them best depending on the conditions and environment the ancients placed them in. Moon and her creator's relationship, basically parent and child, was not a very cherished one. Spangles' teachings were very strict, keeping Moon on a tight leash and making sure the iterator stayed on course in terms of finding a solution to the great problem. This did cause trauma, as Moon only knew to obey and never ask questions out of term under any circumstances.

However, the maintenance worker, Five Webbed Clouds, a spiraling anchor, was responsible for maintaining the stability of LTTM's superstructure and would then go on to help build Five Pebbles. Five Webbed Clouds was much kinder to the iterator than Moon's creator. He was the only ancient Moon who had any real physical connection with helping Moon's personality develop. It does not come without its setbacks. The ancients believed their creations were incapable of expressing emotion, merely imitating it for the sake of communication. Moon was one such exception. Despite being one of the many first iterators created, she was not limited in terms of emotions. Many iterators hardly even noticed Moon's behavior, as they saw it as natural - until someone pointed it out. Her behavior of showing more compassion and empathy than the standard iterator, thanks to her maintenance worker who gave Moon more permission to develop her personality, drew other iterators towards her rather than away. Though some had doubts, such as an iterator that went by "Enlightened Overturned Silk," who joined Moon's local group not too long ago speculated that Moon's kindness would inevitably be her downfall in the long run, but was brushed off as harmless by the majority.

The original members of her local group were Sliver of Straw, Chasing Winds, and EOS, along with others. Later, Seven Red Suns and Sig joined the group as the youngest members before the arrival of Five Pebbles and UP. Moon worked hard to build an empire based on friendship and determination, creating a sanctuary for all forms of life. Because of this, she earned the titles "Mother Moon" and "Queen Moon," with all the fourth-generation iterators looking to her for comfort and safety. As Moon matured, she realized she didn't have an apprentice of her own, even though she was told that it was not necessary for seniors to have one. However, Sliver insisted that she should have a successor since there was no one else to become admin after her should anything happen under strange circumstances or natural causes. This made taking on an apprentice seem like a good idea? LTTM was originally planning to take on Seven Red Suns as an apprentice, but he was taken under the wing of EOS instead, with the trust that EOS would teach Suns to the best of his abilities. Overall, the local group had become a refuge for troublesome generation 4 iterators. She was more than willing to let them in, as her group was able to shape them into what iterators should be. They were then released back to their mentors, but this time with much more personality and individual freedom. This allowed them to make a significant mark, prompting all local groups to replicate these methods. Everyone agreed it was best not to traumatize the youth with what they had to endure when they were younger.

Moon's first apprentice was Unparalleled Innocence, a spirited, feisty fourth generation iterator who was spoiled yet poorly maintained by her creators. Moon, being a merciful iterator, brought Para into her local group and took on mentoring the young iterator herself. With the arrival of Five Pebbles, Moon was overjoyed, considering Pebbles as a younger brother. Pebbles was the last fourth generation iterator to be created, and their cans were so close to each other Moon was default his Admin. Moon introduced Pebbles to the local group with open arms, giving him the nickname "young prince" as she was already nicknamed a queen. She hosted a ceremony to make him feel welcomed, just as she had done for all the newest members.

Everyone reacted positively, except for Unparalleled Innocence, who didn't like the idea of the young prince taking up Moon's time. Later on, Moon found it tough to juggle work and mentoring. The responsibilities of being a senior were much more stressful than watching over a rebellious teenager. Moon couldn't manage both at the same time. The task of teaching was then passed on to Chasing Winds, who kindly offered to mentor Para until Moon could return. However, this arrangement didn't last long, as Para proved to be difficult and too stubborn for Grey Winds to handle. The young iterator saw their work as meaningless and boring, desiring more entertainment and excitement, which was an insult to their purpose, especially because it was based on pacifism. This caused Grey Winds to give up on mentoring Para after she rejected his teaching style. Moon tried her best to find someone in her local group to mentor Para, but no one was willing to take on the challenge of handling such a troublesome individual. Everyone, except Seven Red Suns, had already taken on the duties of mentoring Moon's troublesome brother, Five Pebbles, who had reached an age where he questioned everything and became rebellious. Para would be no different. Suns didn't mind, for he had already corrected this behavior through specific methods of discipline with Pebbles. They were mildly violent, yes, but Moon approved of it as it was the only way to try and teach the two their place within the local group. Moon knew Sun's silent aggression was enough to combat Innocence's loud ferocity and hopefully tame the little fox into becoming more modest and less quick to assumptions that lead nowhere.

As the great ascension began, Moon didn't have an attachment to her creators as they left for the void sea. She made sure that every last one left her city and never returned. The cycles she had to endure by her administrator encouraged Moon to do the impossible and she was the first to break free from her umbilical, standing firm before her creator as she ascended the elevator. She mocked the ancients that had spent their entire existence tormenting her. They cursed Moon's name, but it didn't matter, as Moon's act of rebellion became the reason she became an echo, forever locked in their prison to be mocked by Moon out of spite.

The maintenance worker that built her had sealed himself in a stasis pod deep within her structure, instructing Moon to never wake him up until a specific amount of cycles had passed. Moon didn't miss her ancients at all. She respected them, yes, but missed them? No. They were just parasites on her back with opinions.

Grief and healing

Moon felt proud of Five Pebbles and Innocence, for they had come a long way since unit 1, becoming very intelligent yet maturing iterators thanks to Suns. On this night, it was supposed to be a time of independence and celebrations for iterators who had finally found their place in the world, free to do whatever they pleased. Little did Moon know - this would be the last time she would ever see Sliver of Straw again. Five cycles later, Sliver would send out the "Triple Affirmative" never to be seen or heard from again. The signal shocked every local group to their core; a solution had been found, but Sliver had died before she could even explain. Moon was heartbroken. The love of her life had just died before her eyes without any explanation. She knew Sliver was close to a solution, doing everything she could to help, promising a future where they could ascend together. But she hadn't expected she would find it so soon. Instead of using overseers, Moon made the journey to Sliver's can herself, in denial that her love had truly just "died." She wasn't the only one.

Billions of iterators. Young, and old. Who saw the triple affirmative and considered Sliver a leader, inspiration, a friend, made the journey hoping it wasn't true and that they could somehow save her ignoring they were miles apart from each other. Moon was the first to arrive, but it was already too late. LTTM, her local group, and all the local groups, present or via overseer, gathered together to mourn Sliver.

Moon made sure that Sliver's puppet was taken care of, as everyone pitched in to create an altar around her body so that all of them could mourn her properly, as the first iterator to ascend. Only NSH stayed behind and helped Moon mourn. Moon had no choice but to move on; her local group needed her, for it would have been what Sliver wanted if she was still alive. That also didn't mean that she would find companionship in someone else either. Sig was more than happy enough to fill that missing hole in Moon's heart as he eased the senior from spiraling into depression.

Despite the initial challenges, the discovery of a solution encouraged many groups to continue their work as iterators. However, it also led to divisions among the groups. The Sliverest group focused on investigating the cause of Slivers' deaths, hoping to replicate a solution. Meanwhile, the anti-Sliverest faction accused Sliver of Straw of betrayal and opposed any discussion of the self-destruct taboo. Those who disagreed were silenced or removed from chatlogs. Although Moon opposed the creation of the Sliverest group, she saw value in their role. The data pearls left by Sliver were stored in a secure room within Sliver's can, and Moon was the only one with access. The Sliverest group was tasked with protecting Sliver's can from anti-Sliverest iterators. Access to the room was restricted to Moon and other trusted admins.

The incident...

Work continued, and she and Sig would form a formidable pair. They wouldn't do anything without the other. Moon insisted that Sig become an admin, but for that to happen, he needed to take on an apprentice, which he had never done before. Another local happily gifted one by sheer luck. The role could have gone to Seven Red Suns for taking on two apprentices at once while managing a large workload. However, after witnessing his crippling sanity and the banishment of EOS for malpractice and physical/emotional abuse, he was proven to be unfit for seniority due to his unstable mental health. This sparked conflict between Seven Red Suns and Sig. Moon tried her best to explain the reasons behind her decision to Suns, but they blamed her for favoritism, leading them to never trust Moon's word again. During another meeting, a fight broke out between him and his brother Chasing Winds, one that she had to promptly break apart.

What Moon didn't know was that her late wife's death would cause her brother, Pebbles, to fall into madness himself. He started bringing up very unusual topics and theories that were not aligned with the main issue, thinking outside of the box as younger generations of iterators tend to do. This behavior concerned the entire local group including his sister Moon who could only discouraged Pebbles from speaking on such subjects instead of scolding him. Meanwhile, Suns, still holding a grudge about his canceled seniority against Moon, would do something that would ultimately lead to an event that would cost Moon her life. (You already know what happens) Five Pebbles began his experiment, causing Moon to panic as he took a large amount of ground water shared within their territory. Despite multiple attempts to get Pebbles to stop, he had cut all forms of communication. Moon was unaware of why he was doing this, but it marked the start of her slow, agonizing cycles of dehydration as Moon's eternal systems began to fail. Moon pleaded with Pebbles to stop his experiment, even using her senior privilege to force a broadcast and beg for her life. However, Pebbles was merciless, with his only goal being to break the taboo and end the cycle. He ceased all contact. Moon's last message was broadcast with the help of Spearmaster, sent by Seven Red Suns to restore her communication tower. Her words were heavy an labored- begging, pleading for anyone who was listening to help her, but there was only silence. Just as Moon's legs were beginning to buckle on the brink of collapse, No significant harassment, loyal as he always had been, ran on foot with his slug Hunter to her aid. Using his virtual panels, he managed to stop her legs from breaking, sealing them together with all his strength, despite almost being damaged in the process.

But he was not the only iterator who had answered. Another iterator, Fire Epoch from the Oasis local group, the first and only of his kind whose can was mobile, had traveled for nearly 45 cycles at maximum speed after hearing her plea for anyone to help, caught Moon's superstructure (literally and physically) from hitting the ground. Everyone around the world sat in wait, hoping and praying that LTTM had not collapsed.

Moon was awakened by Hunter, who had brought a neuron containing slagkeys created by Sig, bringing LTTM back from her coma. However, for a moment, while floating in the celestial plane of nothingness, Moon was able to see Sliver of Straw. Their reunion was brief, but she cried happy tears to see Sliver again, and they shared a long embrace. Before she could even ask Sliver how she ascended, Moon was pulled back into the land of the living, with a new perspective and a new personality.

The majority of Moon's memories would suffer a fatal error, forever erased from existence. This included personal memories of her and Sig being together, tarnishing their relationship as Sig attempted to help Moon recover her memories. Yet, the damage had already been done; the only relationship she had known to have was with Sliver. Fire of Epoch spent cycles repairing the damage to Moon's legs. Even her rarefaction cell was missing and could not be found or recovered. Five Pebbles did not contact Moon once during her time of recovery... Beloved by many, other groups were willing to pitch in and help the best they could, costing them thousands in supplies and resources to help in the repairing process to fix what had been broken. The good news was a random modified aquatic slugcat Rivulet was found with the rarefaction cell in the depths of the groundwater under LTTM. No one knew where it came from or who sent it, but it had successfully brought it back in one piece. Moon named them Ruffles.

Thanks to Fire epoch, every iterator's superstructure was upgraded to became mobile. Now, iterators could join their local groups and live together, combining entire cities into empires if they wished. So that the situation of collapsing would never happen again. It was the greatest mass migration of biomechanical masses ever seen on the planet, as the earth shook under their legs. The world didn't feel so large anymore now that they could move along its surface no longer restrained to their shackles.

Regret, despair, the madness...

The situation had become critical as both Five Pebbles and UI had contracted the rot. Moons could still be connected to Pebbles and, if not cured, could spread to her as well. For some reason, UI's illness was worse than Pebbles, but Moon cared deeply for both iterators' well-being more than ever. They demanded answers, wanting to know how this could have happened? However, as NSH explained the situation, her mood turned to anger upon learning that it was Seven Red Suns who had created the pearl that caused this calamity. The truth was that Seven Red Suns had planned an assassination on NSH, not LTTM, by disguising the forbidden taboo in the form of a coded purpose organism that, upon creation, would give Sig the rot. But his slugcat was intercepted in the mix by someone else, causing both Pebbles and UI to become infected. Moon gave Suns a second chance—if he cured both Pebbles and his late apprentices' rot, he would be spared. It was a good thing he heeded her warning. As for Pebbles, she could forgive him for wanting to escape, but she could not forgive him for his lack of showing her any mercy.

He was punished with exile, (basically muted) and he had to leave the area, being denied from ever speaking in the local group. Before exiling him, Moon did her duties as an older sister going as far as to stay by his side until his rot was completely eradicated, wanting her little brother to be safe as a last act of kindness before he carried out his sentence. Knowing Pebbles would never forgive her ever again, she was not in a position to show weakness as everyone in their group now questioned her inability to lead. Cycles after she was filled with a sense of relief being notified that he was found by Chasing Winds who took responsibility of looking after him until further notice.

Moons main focus was on the well-being of her local group. However, she found it odd that, after her supposed 'death', only a few members of her local group had contacted her to express concern about her well-being? Suspicious, Moon allowed Sig to infiltrate private group chats using an anonymous ID. What Sig discovered revealed Moon's increasing insanity. The chat logs, recorded on each active date, began to provide a clearer picture. The individuals Moon had spoken to for cycles, the ones she had trusted, were all traitors. They were part of the anti-Sliverists, with the soul purpose and goal of infiltrating Moon's group to identify her weaknesses and gain information for a planned assassination. If they could get close to Moon, she would grant them access to Sliver's can, where they could destroy the archive data pearls and eliminate Sliver's puppet, ultimately getting rid of the traitor.

Their plan was halted when Five Pebbles, so-called 'completed the mission for them.' Moon was described as weak, clinging onto Sliver's death as if she were a prophet. Spending too much time protecting the traitor was considered treason, making it a reason she was not fit to be senior. There was a debate on whether Sig or Suns was the better outcome, knowing they would fight over Admin after her death.

Breaking point

Something within Moon- SnApPPed! After all she had done for her local group, this was how it all paid off. Her kindness, generosity, sympathy, compassion and endless sacrifice to provide them with a sanctuary of comfort well as safety among a sea of bitterness and envy were all in vain. To top it all off, she was nearly killed by her own brother, who had nothing to do with this, and was caught in the crossfire. Either of them almost paid the price with their lives. All because she wanted to protect Sliver's can as a last act of honor, hoping her body could be left to rest in peace.

It couldn't have been farther from the truth. Ever since UI was infected, Moon hadn't questioned a thing, for she denied the thought that her apprentice would ever dream of killing her senior, let alone attempt such a traitorous act in the first place. She felt bad for neglecting UI to focus on her duties but she hadn't forgotten the young iterator entirely an did her best to be present. Moons heart was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seven Red Suns had redeemed himself, except he left out one crucial detail: who exactly intercepted his pearl? NSH, still being loyal as ever despite being somewhat grief stricken would go out to investigate on his own for that answer. Out of all the iterators he investigated no one confessed or knew who had done it, however not even him would suspect Unparalleled Innocence of all iterators to confess to another group member of her crimes. LTTM was distraught obviously, she had just banished her brother for no reason for a crime he didn't commit. It was UI who had intercepted Sun's pearl. It was she who had caused her death. She knew the two of them shared resources and the consequences that lay if Pebbles carried out the taboo! Instead of telling Moon of Seven Red Suns attempted murder on NSH, she instead gave the pearl to Pebbles out of jealousy while he was on a rampage searching for a solution.

Five Pebbles name was cleared of all accusations and he was allowed to return. UI however, was placed in Moon can for judgment. The soon-to-be heir was sentenced to exile, and forced to carry out the rest of Five Pebbles's banishment till further notice. UI called Moon a tyrant. Moon screamed she was a queen. Spending cycles building an empire was no easy task. To be betrayed was the worst feeling to ever experience especially from her. To think she treated UI as if she were her own when Moon had done nothing to deserve it. What did she do to make her point clear? LTTM- beheaded UI's puppet in front of what was left of her small shamble of a local group without a second thought. It hurt her, memories spent carrying for the iterator all thrown out the window. What a waste of potential. Chasing Winds was never seen again when this occurred soon leaving to make his local group disgusted by Moons actions no longer saw her as his senior, Sliver was his mentor after all and he could not obey Moon's new vicious demands on the belief that Moon's teachings were setting a bad example for younger generations straying away from the path Sliver of straws had created.

Moon regretted nothing, she was an old heart that was in pain. And yet the queen was not satisfied? She wanted ALL of them to pay for their crimes in causing harm to her family and the world she and Sliver had put their blood, sweat, and tears into creating. Those loyal to her were ordered to stay within their cans. Under any circumstances, they were not to attend the meeting at all. It rained during Moon's travel, a hellish rain that was red. Ironically this would be her an Slivers anniversary night... if she was alive to see it at all? an agonizing reminder of what she could not have. As she confronted these traitors in front of thousands of spectators the old admin could have sworn she saw Sliver's haunting ghost in the corner of her eyes. Overwhelmed, betrayed, saddened, ill-ridden in speculation, and uncertainty LTTM raised her scythe into the air in front of a hellish blood moon, there was no going back from this. She was doing this for her local group. For her… There will be blood on her hands. She was very aware of this and quite possibly no one will trust her again but she could not care less for anything else other than wanting revenge. Maybe ascension was never possible? Looking at the other Admins she wondered if they had betrayed her as well? It would mean no difference to be rid of them like the rest. Their groups would have to suffer without their precious leaders. Or did everyone want her dead? Why was the world unfair? Moon could not fathom to think of an answer for all of them only thinking of the consequences when she was the one suffering all this time. Where was her relief and prosperity? No one was allowed to leave the building, she needed- no- wanted them to watch. An urge to feel their fear watching their friends die in front of them, setting an example to anyone who dared to cross her path again. And so the traitors, the admins who played a part in all of this were slaughtered in the dead of the night. Anyone else who tried to escape met the same fate. The polished marble floor pooled with the blood of the fallen, their cries echoed throughout the abandoned city. This night was known as the crimson massacre. (All meetings have since been denied on this certain date)

[Recovery overseer surveillance feed has been removed. Seek permission from an admin before viewing contents. Viewers discretion is advised.]

Meanwhile the secondary group that was sent to infiltrate Slivers can in Moons absence never saw the light of day either. Moon an Slivers anniversary meant security was decreased. Seven red Suns, NSH, Pebbles of all iterators and everyone else who was told to stay back fought alongside Moon who had gained a profound sense of vengeance to protect what was hers. During the aftermath she was banned from gatherings for a short while. Not that she cared though. Cries of outrage from the public for Moon to be stripped of admin status were all anyone could talk about but the new admins that replaced the old ones couldn't bring themselves to do it out of fear of what she'll do. The sliverists were of course on her side, the rest wanted Moon dead. She laughed knowing none of the remaining admins who did not attend that night couldn't possible think of a better plan to stop her. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife sparking a repeatedly never ending war between the sliverist and anti-sliverist. Not a surprise there. In the eyes of the older generations ones- the innocent little Moon they had known and loved had become a monster blinded by hate. Anyone remaining was denied a moment's rest. The criticism an blasphemy she received did not matter anymore. From this day forward. LTTM showed no mercy to anyone. Not even her local group. If they wanted her dead so badly. They would have to come and rip her head off themselves.

She had sworn not to become like her creator, but she had become the monster she had tried to avoid. On long, open nights when the moon hangs in the clear open sky, you can hear her wailing into the night. She never wanted to be this way. All she wants is her sliver back. She'll do whatever it takes to keep her group safe and out of harm's way.

"Do not gaze into the moons eye's. Avoid the Moons wrath. Fear her venomous tongue, the scythe that cuts into failures. Bow at your own risk. The Moon carries the souls of the dammed, her cries shall drown the world in blood. Do not let the moon catch you. Running is all you can do. Did you make it to the end? Good job ya little gremlin you're actually paying attention.

[szilverer]

mentally they are still there

physically too.

the waswood has shifted, the gates of the collective dream memory have closed to everyone else. but they haven't returned.

it's been days.

this is the first event in the waswood we have actually participated in! :D and to the ghostie, it's. well. its a (literal) throwback to their first weeks of life. now reisz gets to (literally!1!) look back and trace everything they missed in the event & compare everything they didn't know then but do know now. but also, crucially,

they are being confronted with the fact that this empty-headed beginning might have been the happiest they've ever been and that's...

that's something to reflect on, isn't it?

that's something to think about.

bonus bc also rly liked this version

[affectionatecorpse]

It's now about 17 minutes until 3am and insomnia is playing up so instead of, y'know, ACTUALLY trying to sleep, I'm just gonna tiredly ramble again. Hooray!

So anyway I really really wish we'd gotten to see more of Moriarty's personality OUTSIDE of giant evil plans. I understand why they couldn't really do that because- run time- but at the same time, we actually barely know anything about Moriarty as a character. There's two outlets that show us more of his non master plan related personality, and that's the museum scene, and the credits.

You can tell from general reactions that the big bridge plan was NOT a normal thing for Moriarty to do. It was completely new. He left no clues, he gave no time limit, and it really felt more like a grand finale to his game with Sherlock, rather than another day. Like he truly was planning to end their entire streak right there that night. You can even see it in his attitude towards the game in the beginning and end. In the beginning, he's clearly enjoying it, just playing around and having fun with his mass murder attempts. He literally says "you enjoy our little game as much as I do", so he obviously finds it fun. But in the end, the way he says "it's just OVER. And you lose" doesn't sound like fun. It doesn't sound like he's hesitant to put a stop to it whatsoever. He sounds almost impatient to finish it quickly.

But if he really enjoyed it, what changed his attitude so suddenly?

You know what I think the reason for his sudden decision to stop playing completely out of the blue was?

He got scared by his brush with death.

In the recording of him nearly getting crushed by the skeleton, he looked absolutely TERRIFIED. Heavy breathing, eyes darting around, and blatantly unsure how to feel until he saw his phone and got snapped out of his little trance. This wasn't just another day, another loss. He actually could've DIED. He actually got INJURED. And it clearly scared him to know he could've been killed by a GNOME of all things, just on a random day.

Going off my previous post about how desperate he is for attention, possibly due to his naturally lonely design of just being a truck decoration, I wouldn't be surprised if that made him afraid of people forgetting him. Those things usually go together. What if he actually lost? And Sherlock just moved on with his life? What if Sherlock forgot about him and got a new rival? What if no one ever thought about him ever again?

And after such an experience, he did something BIG. Something absolutely no one could forget. A grand finale to his game with Sherlock, ensuring Sherlock wouldn't kill him in the end, and doing an act of mass genocide and destruction so horrific, absolutely no one could possibly forget it. It's the perfect plan, after all.

He's also SO much more angry than normal upon losing this time. When he got found out by Sherlock and Watson in the museum, he really didn't care. He was just happy to see them, and happy that they'd get to fight. He didn't care that they freed the gnomes, he just wanted to play. But when they freed the gnomes from the bridge, he is OUTRAGED. He actually shrieks in reaction, and it's clearly not an act, because you can hear the absolute rage and impatience in his voice, that definitely was not there earlier.

I went on a tangent- but also! In the credits, you really can see what his feelings about the game were before the big plan. It shows him having fun messing with Sherlock, running him about rampant, tricking him at every corner, messing with both him and the cats, just for the fun of it. It shows his more silly and goofy side, and how much he actually did enjoy playing the game while it lasted. I love Credits Moriarty, he's such a little mischievous goober and it's so entertaining to watch asgjkdghd--

If you wanna get extra autistic (which I'm gonna do somehow), you could even see his attitude shift in the post credits scene! It starts with him having a great time, running up and making a mockery of Sherlock, and laughing. Then the magnifying glass falls on him, crushes him, and his tone goes incredibly quiet and serious as he just says "I hate you, Sherlock". Like- isn't that EXACTLY what happened in the film? It was all fun and games until he got crushed by something, then he suddenly turned serious and petty?

I'm sorry I know I'm looking WAYYYYY too much into this silly little kid's film but I'm autistic as fudge and there's literally no content, what do you want me to do here?? STARVE??? Please! Also it's now 2 minutes past 3am--

[kaye-go-moo]

Shapes and Strange Ciphers AU: Need a hand? Pt. 1

SaSC by me

Shapes and Pines by @/void-dude

Next Part

Bill and Ford

While exploring one of Gravity Falls’ caves, Bill stumbled upon a wall covered in ancient text. Bill recorded his findings and translated the writing to reveal an incantation to summon an oval-shaped entity. Bill hesitated to try the summoning but felt he couldn't miss the opportunity to push past his plateau and continue his research. So he read the incantation aloud.

Later that day, Bill experienced an extraordinary dream. While floating through an infinite cosmos filled with books and scrolls, Bill was greeted by the creature pictured on the cave walls. A yellow, oval-shaped being with one eye and glasses at its center–part of its form appeared chipped away. The entity, underwhelmingly named Stanford, told Bill that he was there to help expand his research by acting as a ‘mentor’.

-

Bill, though wary in the beginning, grew to trust his new friend. Ford shared his knowledge of Bill's world and the oddities that resided in it–though never enough to satisfy the man. He would always leave Bill with a tease of new information, promising to teach him more later on. Like a fishing lure, Ford would use his extensive knowledge to reel Bill in and keep him close.

Ford also fed into Bill's narcissism, telling him that he was special and different from those who had summoned Ford in the past. This gave Bill the love and attention he so desperately craved, inflating his ego just enough to keep him happy and obedient. Before long, Bill was completely wrapped around Ford's finger, hanging on his mentor's every word, utterly infatuated. Ford believed Bill was ready for the next phase of his plan, but he had to be sure.

To test Bill’s commitment, Ford asked Bill to remove his lazy eye, reasoning that it was only holding him back and that doing so would prove Bill was serious about expanding his knowledge. Bill's lazy eye–something he was teased for while growing up, but also something that he and Tad had bonded over–was an innate part of his identity. But Bill didn't hesitate.

-

A few months later, Ford revealed that it was nearly time for him to leave, explaining to Bill that he didn't have anything else to teach him, and soon there would be no point in staying. Bill was caught off guard and desperate to keep his Mentor close. He frantically searched for an excuse to have Ford stay, telling him that he still has so much more to learn, not just about his world, but about Ford’s too. Bill’s desperation grew, overtaking his mind in hopeless pleas. Don’t leave me. Please. Please don’t leave me alone. Not again.

Seeing Bill's anguish over his leaving, Ford relented before offering a solution. He explained that it wouldn’t matter if he talked about the makings of his world because Bill couldn’t experience it for himself–unless he could. Ford admitted to knowing a way for Bill to explore not just Ford’s world, but countless others, hinting that he could also continue as Bill’s mentor–if Bill was fully prepared to expand his research. Bill jumped at the opportunity, swearing that he was ready. Ford revealed his plan: Bill needed to create a portal that would open a gateway to other worlds, allowing him to explore beyond the limits of his dimension.

Bill was eager to create the portal, especially since he could work on calculations with Ford. However, they still needed to gather materials and build the machine. After realizing that it would take far too long to do on his own, Bill called his old college friends–some lent him supplies, while others traveled to Gravity Falls to help him build. But Ford was not happy. He chose Bill to do the work, not his bumbling group of ‘friends’ with their useless degrees. What infuriated him the most wasn’t that Bill had gone over his head, but that he was right–things were progressing much faster with their help. But this didn’t matter to Ford. He already knew the sting of trusting the wrong person, so he wanted them gone.

Ford couldn’t outright tell Bill to kick his friend out, so he restored to planting subtle doubts in Bill's mind, suggesting that his friends might sabotage their work. Bill, initially confused, tried to reassure Ford that there was nothing to worry about. However, Ford persisted, slowly dripping poison into Bill’s mind. Slowly, Bill began to believe him. He started double-checking his friends’ work, scrutinizing the materials they brought, and analyzing their actions. Ford's words gnawed at Bill until he was on the brink of sending away his friends. It was only after Ford confided in Bill, sharing how trusting the wrong person had cost him everything, that Bill was fully convinced.

One by one, Bill began dismissing his friends with various excuses, though it was clear that he simply didn't want them around anymore. Over time, they watched Bill twist into someone they barely recognized–cold and distant, treating them less like friends and more like subordinates. Some tried convincing Bill to let them stay, but he wouldn't budge. He told them they were no longer needed and that he couldn’t risk their shoddy work jeopardizing his project. In the end, Bill all but called them stupid before severing ties and destroying his friendships.  

However, one friend, Jheselbraum, stayed behind. She sensed something was off and wanted to keep an eye on Bill, making sure he was safe. Jheselbraum would stop by Bill's home to check on him and hang out, and while he enjoyed her visits, Ford would always convince him to send her away. Eventually, Bill banned her from coming over, insisting he needed to focus on finishing his project and couldn’t afford any distractions. But Jheselbraum persisted, calling daily to check on Bill until she finally convinced him to let her at least drop off food.

Every time she visited, Bill was either locked away in the basement or gone from the house entirely. On the rare occasions she saw him, Jheselbraum noticed how worn down he looked–becoming more decrepit with each passing day. She tried talking to him, but he either ignored her or brushed her off, insisting he was fine and too busy with his project to worry about his appearance. The more she tried reaching out to help him, the further away he felt, like an ever-widening chasm. She could scream and still, he wouldn’t hear her, her voice swallowed by the void between them. Even when standing in the same room, Jheselbraum couldn’t help but feel they were miles apart, and it frustrated her.

It wasn’t long before Jheselbraum reached her breaking point. One day, she noticed a trail of blood leading to the basement and found Bill crumpled on the floor. She managed to get him out of the basement and into her car, wanting to take him to the hospital. But during the drive, Bill woke up and demanded she take him back home. He insisted he was fine and that a hospital visit would only waste more of his time. Jheselbraum tried reasoning with him but Bill rolled his eyes and muttered, “I knew you’d get in the way.”

Jheselbraum went silent, and her grip tightened on the steering wheel. She turned the car around, helped Bill back into his house, and placed him in a chair. She patched up his wound in continued silence. When she finished, she stood up, looked Bill in the eye, and told him that she was done. She wouldn’t be dropping off food or visiting anymore. She was through with him. However, Jheselbraum couldn’t bring herself to leave Gravity Falls completely. She was angry, but a feeling in her gut wouldn’t allow her to leave. Something was wrong. Though she couldn’t pinpoint what, she knew she had to stay–lingering around places she thought Bill might go, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Her actions more akin to monitoring a suspicious than simply looking out for old friend.

-

Now that Bill was alone, Ford concentrated his manipulation into pushing Bill further into isolation. He used Jheselbraum's leaving as proof that Bill couldn’t trust anyone–except for Ford. Yet, Bill began second guessing himself, more importantly, Bill geban second guessing Ford.

Bill tried his best to remain focused on building the portal, but doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind, festering until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. What exactly was Ford planning to do with the portal? Bill hated the thought–hated that he was question his mentor–but he couldn’t help it.

As soon as this doubt bubbled to the surface of Bills mind, Ford new instantly. Ford attempted to reassure bill, emphasizing that the portal was more beneficial for him than it was for Ford, stressing that his only concern was Bills success. However, this reassurance didn’t fully take hold, and Ford knew it.

Bill continued to build the portal, doubt still lingering in his mind. He didn't want to believe that his mentor had ulterior motives. Desperately, he clung to their friendship like a life raft in a vast, empty sea–though one of his own making. He wanted to believe Ford, to trust that their partnership was genuine. But as time passed, his doubts only deepened, and he bagan to long for his old friends.

Before Bill could act on his feelings, Ford intervened with further manipulation, choosing to have a ‘heart-to-heart’. He reminded Bill of their previous conversation about how trusting the wrong person had cost Ford everything. This time, he revealed that it was his brother who he had misplaced his trust in, leading to the loss of his family and his dimension–everything. Ford claimed that his journey for knowledge was meant to help others, serving as a way to overcome his past.

Ford also admitted that he had lied to Bill in the past, but not out of malice. He confessed that he was ashamed of his limited understanding of Bill’s dimension. Having always prided himself on his vast wealth of knowledge, Ford felt inadequate and uncertain about to teaching Bill. He explained that he feared Bill would take advantage of his naivety–just like his brother had. However, over the course of their partnership, Ford had come to genuinely trust Bill and was happy to call him a true friend.

Moved by Ford’s supposed vulnerability, Bill apologized to for doubting him, realizing that he had been wrong. Ford’s manipulation had work. Sensing the shift in Bills mind, Ford seized the moment to reveal a new ability: the power to control someone's body through their mind. He asked if he could try it on Bill. More trusting of his mentor than ever before, Bill admently agreed.

-

Weeks passed, Bill and Ford settled into a routine. When Bill was awake, he worked on the portal. But when he was asleep, Ford took control of his body and did the work to keep Bill alive–ensuring he ate, drank, and rested. Of course, Ford would also work on little side projects. Using the schematics of a former interdimensional follower, he created a tool that could erase memories, hiding it from Bill. Ford knew it was only a matter of time before one of Bill's pests would try to interfere, and he wanted to be prepared. It didn’t take long before he was proven right.

_____

Lore Comment

[evergreen-endo]

i’m thinking about my selfship with endo in the tfys universe and i really think a lot of our relationship would be me stirring shit up every now and then on purpose to keep him interested. the rollercoaster of emotions he experiences with takiishi is one thing, whereas with me he gets this unfamiliar feeling of comfort that i keep trying to break and he is just fighting to keep me around not realizing that my tactic is doing the exact same thing to him.

[jichanxo]

how it started:

how it's going:

[hizznbyte]

Y’know what. What the heck. Go my animals.

As promised, I come bearing the gift of OC lore

GO MY MASTERPOST!! THE ENTIRETY OF THE PERSONERI LORE EXPLAINED!!…

…poorly, by yours truly … Happy reading :3

The first thing I want to do is clarify what exactly this is all about:

PN is this personal little project I’ve been cooking up all about exploring identity, learning to heal and accept and embrace it, and ugly little cat fellas. Because you know me. And I deserve it I’ve been a good boy, haven’t you heard? It’ll either be in writing or art [as maybe a form of comic strips], short episodic stories that are comedy slash slice-of-life shtuff, but the main goal is kind of just figure myself out. Yeah it’s a little venty because of how personal it is but I s’pose that’s par for the course.

It follows the story of this.. quirky cast of colorful little characters [fragments of a single mind] as the world develops around them and they deal with each other’s BS. Every character has a unique personality, ideology, and role within the Mind Escape. More on that in a minute! These characters -with a few exceptions- are known as the PersoNeris [Abbreviated: PNs] . Obviously. They are like me but also… not. Does that make sense or am I talking crazy? [Uhhh in that case just think of the Inners from TWA. Or Inside Out but worse if you’re a normie]. The PersoNeris come into the world fully grown and knowledgeable, but are only truly effective after a process called “gaining sentience”. This is essentially their birthday. The PNs gain sentience when their expertise is called for, and will become active immediately. Once their work is over they will go dormant and act as any normal human would. They can’t die as they aren’t physically living, so anything they do is purely for recreational purposes. There’s also a subcategory of PNs called derivatives. They are separate entities that break off from an already existing PN in a process similar to cellular mitosis [ew] and take on most of the characteristics of the original, plus additional traits.

Anyways. All the characters live within the body. Also known as the host or the husk. Because this guy is just a walking corpse at this point. Wait… hey! That’s me!

The host is named Oleander. Like the flower. Physically a teenager, uses any and all pronouns, most aggressive case of resting btch face ever. Pretty quiet and somewhat jaded in all honesty. The body gets sick like A LOT. I don’t what the problem is the body just seems to never get better. Yeahhh… the body is a pain in the ass. We don’t ever actually see the host in the story, just mention of it. It acts less as a vehicle to be piloted from the inside and more as a… container for the PersoNeris. Which they deserve probably. Within the host’s brain is the Mind Escape [mentioned earlier. It’s a play on the term mindscape.]

The Mind Escape is an urban cityscape made up of strings of binary code representing the host’s mental state. This code programs the design and function of the whole world. It’s pretty limited so there’s like an invisible border surrounding the area. The sky is more like a screen that cycles through various stages and conditions. It’s also color changing! The weather is entirely simulated but it seems to greatly affect their moods and condition, likely some sort of adaptation in response to physical circumstances. The Mind Escape resets every time the host goes to sleep, wherein the PN are given access to areas that were once restricted and they’re allowed free time till the Host eventually awakens.

The Mind Escape is broken up into four districts based on this one Indian proverb I heard in health class some time ago. I dunno. But there’s District One [Mental], District Two [Emotional], District Three [Social], and District Four [Physical]. There’s also an area debated in-universe as the fifth district [Spiritual] but the main guys don’t like that as anyone who actually lives there isn’t considered a PersoNeri. Yes I will elaborate soon enough. There’s also a large, circular dome area in the central point connecting each district but what it contains is a whole other story.

Around the Mind Escape you’ll find a buncha structures like skyscrapers and commercial/industrial buildings. However these serve no real function and are purely decorative. You can enter and explore them internally but they act as those fckin liminal spaces where you just cannot escape. There’s nothing in em anyways they’re always empty and lifeless. But they go on forever. These are known as Faux Facilities. The only buildings that actually work as they’re supposed to are the Living Library, MegaMart [it’s a mall], and housing for the PersoNeris themselves. Speaking of which…

Character intros go!

Nerium 🌺 [Also known as Neri, no known In-Code Alias]

Acting representative of D4 and primary control over the Host body… quite literally just the Host but as a cat-boy

Any/All pronouns [They/It preferred]

Assumed to be the same age as the Host

Form has a somewhat chubby build, lots of body hair, rather short for its age, big ol buggy eyes

Outfit primarily consists of an open oversized hoodie [some sort of bomber jacket or letterman seems to be preferred], long cargo pants, thick black glasses, floral or military camouflage pattern with some sort of null symbol [the circle with a line dashed through it] motif. Wardrobe may change occasionally

Alternative outfit [casual/indoors] consists of either a cat sweater and long floral pajama pants, or a graphic tee and shorts. Without the hijab, their hair is shoulder length, has little nubs for cat ears, slicked back and tied up high resembling the shape of a leaf.

Wears a hijab in a variety of colors [it’s based on vibe really]. Excess fabric draped down the back acts as a pseudo-tail. Similarly, two protrusions at the head act as pseudo-ears. Both work as normal and move independently. This goes for most if not all PersoNeri characters that wear a headscarf.

Interests include art, photography, botany, zoology, music, rhythm games, collecting toys, literature, poetry, and procrastinating

“Exposed nerve” [or the Hetalia hair string TM] is curled into the shape of a heart, resembling a plant sprout with leaves at the tip and when pulled, will cause them to go limp

Nerium is generally a lazy, chronically exhausted but empathetic and well-mannered little guy who tries their best but never gets all too far. He’s a little bit of an ass sometimes. Though they often don’t have the motivation due to burnout, they are very passionate and love to learn and explore. Extremely anxious, introverted, and socially inept until you get close enough to break its shield and become its friend! They can get competitive sometimes.

“ Okay , okay , listen ! We’ll get there when we get there . But we haven’t gotten there yet so DON’T GO THERE .! ”

[Note that each unique quote -indented like above- has a character specific typing quirk. For Neri, they often space out space out punctuation.]

Typewriter 📁 [Also known as Type, Slash SRS in-code]

D4 advisory and token straight-man, essentially just the Host but locked tf in

They/He pronouns

Assumed to be slightly older than the Host however range is unknown

Form has a broader build and darker tanned skin than the Host, slimmer eyes

Outfit primarily consists of a navy green [almost blue] military-esque uniform because I was suddenly struck with the military man propaganda beam someone save me, oh also the anarchy symbol / star motif because irony

Alternative outfit consists of a coat, suit, and fedora

Headscarf is generally longer and covers more of the face but is obscured by their hat and uniform. It’s tied into two at the back and one of the pseudo-ears is folded

Interests include history, geography, linguistics, religion, biology, mathematics, puzzles, and being an ass criticism

Expose nerve is curled into a spiral like shape and when pulled will cause them go through an internal system reboot, error 404 style

Typewriter is an observant, highly critical pessimist perfectionist who’s there to keep the Host on track! It’s not always effective but it’s the thought that counts right? They’re particularly nit-picky when it comes to Nerium’s behavior but as strict as they seem they are well meaning. They are a bit of a yapper and have quite the sharp tongue. Something of a chronic overachiever.

Nerium/Typewriter relations: Mutually find each other nuisances but hold some begrudging admiration for the other.

“ You Fail This And So Help Me You Will Die And Go To Hell. Do You Hear Me? ”

Krass 🎭 [Also known as Crass, Slash J in-code]

Professional class clown of D3

Basically the Host if he was an extrovert

She/He/They/Fella pronouns

Assumed age is unknown as data from observations fluctuates between Hosts age to half of Hosts age

Form is round. That’s kinda it

Outfit primarily consists of an asymmetrical, brightly colored clown-styled performing costume, striped birthday hat, and full face mask which serves as a pseudo face. It’s literally just the awesome face. Its uniform is very ruffley and light.

Headscarf is shorter and looser, not fully covering her front hair [which can be seen without the face mask]. It also lacks a pseudo-tail

Interests include comedy, puns, dark humor, sarcasm, internet memes, theatre, technology, literature, poetry, and lying for no reason spreading misinformation,

Exposed nerve is looped and when pulled, will cause it to cackle obnoxiously loud

Has a variety of laughs for all sorts of situations. There’s a lot. And they’re all annoying.

Krass is a bothersome, noisy, flat out idiotic clown, and they’re pretty proud about it! It’s the self awareness I think, that keeps em doing their job to the very fullest. On the outside, this fella seems very optimistic and happy-go-lucky, full of whimsy and joy, but it’s really just a mask for some insecurities that run deep. He uses humor as a coping mechanism, and actually has very low self-esteem, often making himself the butt of the joke. She has a crass sense of humor. Obviously. It can be kind of offensive and suggestive and lame. But she doesn’t do anything to intentionally hurt anyone. He’s also pretty clumsy, so.. slapstick comedy!

Nerium/Krass relations: Krass thinks Nerium needs to lighten up and be more physically active, Nerium finds Krass to be too noisy and energetic for their tastes but endearing in a way.

Typewriter/Krass relations: HATEHATEHATEHATEHATE-

“ BAHSJSKEN WHY did you BLOCK me on discord ALL I said was that I was gonna TOUCH YOU??!!! ”

Faith 🌑 [Also known as Fate, Slash NEG in-code]

One of two PN representatives of D2

Only active during the Hosts episodes, gaining sentience during the Hosts tween years and becoming more active as the years progressed. Exists as a shadow in back of the Host’s mind

She/It pronouns, very rarely He/Him

Assumed age is unknown. Fluctuates during activity and may regress/progress rapidly

Form is lankier, skinnier, appearing frail and weak and broken. Flesh is a patchwork of scars and is lighter in tone than the Host.

[Detailed appearance should be included in updated files]

Outfit primarily consists of a black tank-top and shorts. No glasses or hijab. No pseudo-ears

Interests include silence, attention, and poetry

Exposed nerve is crooked and bent and when pulled, will cause it to become violently sick

Fate is the manifestation of everything the Hosts hates about itself. It is a hideous monstrosity, an amalgamation of every negative trait there is to loathe. She is only ever used in a vent setting. She is never fully dormant even when its other half is active. She is most active during depressive, manic episodes. She is an intrusive thought. She is religious trauma. She is obscene and offensive. …HEY, somethings not right,, THIS is going too far!! WHO wrote this script??

Nerium/Faith relations: Faith wants to be acknowledged but Nerium refuses to look her in the eyes.

Typewriter/Faith relations: Faith wants to be recognized but Typewriter tells her to stay in her district and to shut up.

Krass/Faith relations: Together they are… the Dark Humor Squad!

“ …it doesn’t MATTER.. i don’t matter enough to earn your SYMPATHY… ”

Fazio 🌕 [Also known as Eff, Slash POS in-code]

One of two PN representatives of D2

A lingering presence in the back of the Host’s mind, however is less active than its negative counterpart

He/It pronouns, rarely She/Her

Assumed age is unknown, likely around the same as the Host

Form is chubbier and darker in tan compared to its negative counterpart

Outfit is inconsistent and always changing. Primary wardrobe includes a long white abaya overlayed with a suit-jacket [probably makes more sense when you actually see it. kinda hard to describe]

Headscarf reaches up to the chest, pseudo-ears and tail resemble more of a wild/big cat

Interests include music, dance, art, journaling, literature, the company of friends, and philosophy

Exposed nerve is curled forward with something like a bulb at the end, and when pulled, will cause it glow

Eff is the manifestation of everything the Host wants to love about itself. He is a shining ray of positivity! It is incredibly upbeat and happy-go-lucky, with a lot of love to give. While only ever used in a vent setting, its focus is on healing. He is the resident “caretaker” of its other half. Some may seem him as even more annoying than Krass, but he can’t be bothered to hold a grudge! Sometimes they unintentionally come off as passive aggressive due to their overwhelming positivity. His nickname is pronounced like [the letter] F, not “Eef”. Please stop messing it up.

Nerium/Fazio relations: Nerium is codependent on Eff to keep the host running without issue, which he reasonably points out is very unhealthy. However, they both have a lot of love to give and greatly appreciate the other.

Typewriter/Fazio relations: Typewriter is very grateful for the work Eff does within the host, but wishes he could tone down the energy.

Krass/Fazio relations: JOY TO THE WORLD!!

Faith/Fazio relations: “I can fix her” ass mf

“ YOU just have to trust me!! I can make it better again,, LET me fix it!! ”

Kidd 🐾 [Also known as Kibby or Squish, Slash LH in-code]

Resident wild animal of D1

One of the more… unexplainable parts of the Host and is not very recognized within PN society

Any/All pronouns -including and especially Neos

Assumed age is half that of the Hosts, but tends to fluctuate lower

Form is short, round, and bright. Can’t be explained better than a big fat cat

Outfit consists of long, oversized color block sweaters in bright oversaturated tones, that rainbow propellor hat thing because it’s funny as hell, shorts and cat paw socks. Maybe even a comically large lollipop for good measure

Headscarf is one of those one-piece children’s hijabs with two folded pseudo-ears

Interests include animals, dinosaurs, drawing and coloring, playing with touys and bideo games, singing and dancing, sleeping a lot, and eating an unhealthy amount of sugars

Exposed nerve is actually connected to the propeller on the hat, not its headscarf. When pulled it will cause it to start flying a few inches off the ground. LMAO

Kidd is basically the… kid who still believes they’re an animal and goes around the playground larping Warrior Cats. Because that’s what I used to do as a kid… save for the biting people. Kidd is both physically and mentally a child, and is thought to be the personification of age-regression / lost childhood innocence. Their appearance and behavior resemble a mix of a dog and cat, leaning heavily on the cat part like a kittydog which, if you know then ya know. But they act like a big baby with childhood innocence and whimsy. It also tries to be cute which can either come off as endearing or forced and grossly annoying. This is not to be mixed up with age-play by the way. Vocal stims include frequently meowing, barking, and going awawawa. Because they are so young, it requires a caretaker or guardian to mange them during dormancy. It goes solo when active, which is rarely. “Child support” is split up between Neri, Eff, and two other PNs revealed later.

Nerium/Kidd relations: Neri begrudgingly babysits Kidd and monitors them during activity. He thinks Kidd is kind of weird and dumb but so is everyone in this story so whaddaheck. Kidd smiles at them goofy

Typewriter/Kidd relations: Type doesn’t like them around when they work but occasionally lets them play with their typewriter. Kidd smiles at them goofy

Krass/Kidd relations: They used cause trouble and play video games together, but Krass lost “custody” of them a long time ago. They share a similar mentality. Kidd smiles at them goofy

Faith/Kidd relations: Kidd frowns at them goofy

Fazio/Kidd relations: Fazio acts as the primary caretaker of Kidd, and his nurturing nature helps Kidd grow slowly each day. Kidd smiles at them goofy

“ :33 i lovee playing with my touys. and drawingg and i like orange juicee ”

DERIVATIVE Nene 🌷 [Also known as Lili or Gardener]

A derivative of Nerium and one of two chairpersons in D4, resident botanist within the Mind Escape

One of the hosts alternative identities

They/It/She pronouns

Assumed age is slightly older than the host, form is the same

Outfit consists of a floral-pattern shirt dress, large sun hat adorned with a variety of flower species, gold jewelry, and a canvas apron. Headscarf is short and set back, though it isn’t worn often in preference of tying its hair back

Interests include biology, botany, entomology, zoology, anthropology, mythology, photography, literature, and painting

Exposed nerve is a little flower on a short stem and when pulled, will cause it to spit up flowers

Nene is the world’s biggest sweetheart! Though a little shy, they tend to yap a ton about their interests. They love their friends a bajillion, and have a ton of Polaroid pictures of company and scenery hung up at their place. Their place is also full plants hanging from the ceiling and pots around here and there… so be careful. They frequent the Living Library to research botany and other living sciences. Nene is also another one of Kidd’s guardians. They seem to prioritize aesthetics above all and LOVE to decorate things, especially with stickers. They do go outside a ton to tend to the garden and are kinda dirty and scratched up because of it sometimes, as well as have very sun tanned skin.

Nerium/Nene relations: As a derivative, Nene and its origin are very close and tend to work off each other.

Typewriter/Nene relations: They respect each other but Nene still has a lot to learn on work ethic which Typewriter lectures them over.

Krass/Nene relations: While somewhat annoying, Nene only sees Krass as background noise and not much else. They’re on okay terms, but Krass’ obnoxious self can be a cause for lots of anxiety.

Faith/Nene relations: Nene sometimes forgets she exists, and then gets hit by the whiplash of Faith going active

Fazio/Nene relations: Absolute joy. Joy for the whole world. They are very much alike. Sometimes Nene is intimidated by him tho.

Kidd/Nene relations: Nene is very good with children, so Kidd hangs out them often and is uncharacteristically careful with their belongings. Kidd smiles at them goofy.

“ *These trees are for bearing fruit, not hanging, dear sir. *Please put that away, I want my mangoes. ”

DERIVATIVE Osman 🎖️ [Also known as Suleiman or Captain]

A derivative of Nerium and one of two chairpersons in D4, commander of the Mind Escape and resident narcissist

One of the hosts alternative identities

It/They/He pronouns

Assumed age is slightly older than the host, form is slightly more muscular

Outfit consists of… well it’s hard to explain but think of Type’s military style uniform and make it fancier / flashier. Because I do not have words to describe the kinda shit this guy wears but it’s pirate inspired. All I’ll say. Headscarf is wrapped up turban style with pointy, lynx-like ears.

Interests include philosophy, art, music, theology, geography, history, traveling, photography, cool crystals and gems, and bossing people around being absolutely based

Exposed nerve is just a long string that drags down and curls inward and when pulled, will cause it to swing its arms rapidly

Osman is a charming, easygoing egoist you can’t help but adore. His words, not mine. Despite being rather self-centered, it doesn’t mean it lacks empathy. Or does it? It seems it’s always up to help its friends… for a price of course. Like Typewriter, Osman is authoritative and commanding, a born leader ever since they came into sentience. The only thing that separates them is how seriously they take work. To which Osman doesn’t. Until it’s a minute past the deadline. They LOVE sparkly shiny things, and often resists the urge to act like a kleptomaniac. It can really harbor grudges when it assumes it’s been.. disrespected. It does not take well to criticism because obviously, he can’t do anything wrong! And when it has to face the truth? It starts to cry!

Nerium/Osman relations: As a derivative, Nerium treats Osman with a little more leniency for their eccentric behavior. While they usually work off each other, the Captain seems to take charge.

Typewriter/Osman relations: They have a small, petty rivalry based on their differences, but ultimately come together like some messed up militia.

Krass/Osman relations: Osman assures Krass they’re very funny, which is a lie because he’s much funnier.

Faith/Osman relations: He’s one of the few that will acknowledge her existence, but tries the hardest to tune her out.

Fazio/Osman relations: Despite both seeming to be a little alike, Fazio actually manages to piss Osman off a lot.

Kidd/Osman relations: Osman is another one of Kidd’s guardians, and they act very competitive towards each other

Nene/Osman relations: they kiss with tongue trust me vro

“ LOSERS! Breathe if you like !me, and die if you’re mediocre …Why are you all turning purple? ”

Derivative Null 🩸 [Also known as Teri or Suiciduo!Neri]

A derivative of Nerium, head of Operation “Kill-Switch” and resident hyper-suicidal maniac number one opp

Probably shouldn’t be allowed to go active but it kinda does sometimes we don’t know

Who/Whom? pronouns… nah I’m playing It/Its

Assumed age and form is the same as the host, just slightly bulkier. It’s also got sharp canine teeth that resemble vampire fangs… they are retractable.

Outfit consists of a black turtleneck, windbreaker jacket, boots, and a lotta belts and chains. Sometimes wears a face mask and collar. It has a tongue piercing that looks like a gun bullet. No headscarf it’s just a hoodie with pseudo-ears and a belt for the pseudo-tail. Underneath the hoodie is some sort of fungal plant growth.

Interests include fuck all. We think

Exposed nerve curls around resembling a halo and when pulled, will cause it to detonate like a BOMB. Only to recover once again.

Null stands for nothing. Seriously! It has no value! Well okay, there is ONE thing it wants.

Operation Kill-Switch. When the going gets tough, go for self destruction! Null really is an anomaly, seemingly gaining sentience for no reason and even without Nerium’s knowledge! It doesn’t inhabit any one district, instead wandering aimlessly like a nomad. There’s something so strange about that one. Mysteriously, it sits and watches, sometimes barging in to become active and leaving without a word. It’s hard to tell for sure, but it does seem to enjoy history, technology, explosives, and masochism.

How can one kill if one cannot die?_Interesting…

Nerium/Null relations: _Well aren’t you a doll?_Isn’t that right darling?

Typewriter/Null relations: Do you cower?_

Krass/Null relations: Get out of my head*get out of my head

Faith/Null relations: THEY ARE NOT TO BE STATIONED ANYWHERE NEAR EACH OTHER. IT IS PROHIBITED FROM BEING IN HER VICINITY. DO NOT LET BOTH GO ACTIVE, BAD THINGS HAPPEN!!

Fazio/Null relations: _I should definitely kill you first

Kidd/Null relations: _What the fuck?..

Nene/Null relations: When the angel’s trumpet blows_will you stay for them?

Osman/Null relations: _That’s right boss_I could play this game forever…

Polaris/Null relations: Two halves of a Suiciduo

“ _Dying this way*I’m bored of it all_God*Have I disappointed you yet?_Just like that then…You good for nothing animals_! ”

…

I think that’s it. That’s… most of them at least…

I’M FINALLY FREE?!

…Yep, that’s the bulk of it at least! There are some more minor characters, including the “Non-PN” but I really don’t wanna test Tumblr’s text limit on that. Besides, they aren’t all THAT important. And whew, this was an exhausting post to write. I figured I could be quick and get it out in a day but there was WAYYYY to much I had to get done, damnit. Oh, my kids! My beloved children of my brain!! I spent all this time for you! How long has it been? I’ve been writing this post in between school hours.

Here’s some PN trivia, I guess: Every character, with the exception of Kidd, goes by a nickname that happens to be one of the many aliases I used online. And I have a ton of em. I am a man of many names you know… Anyways. Because I treat the PN like original characters rather than extensions of me [with the exception of Nerium because they’re my persona and self insert basically], they are very shippable. As in, you can pair em up and make em kiss. Hell yeah. I’m personally fan of TextFlower [Neri/Type], PerfectParty [Type/Krass], BruisedEgo [Neri/Null], Osman/Nene, Fazio/Faith, and Type/Osman. Sorry. I’m going crazy. Speak of pairings though, the PN are not only separated by district but by seating groups. Essentially the classic highschool friend group cliche. Nerium, Typewriter, and Krass form the Head Front. Fazio, Faith, and Kidd form the Mind Back. Osman, Nene, and Null play Middle Ground. Why is this relevant? Because it plays into each characters relationships and the entire Host/PN system dynamic. More about that in the future.

Did you know Typewriter has an unhealthy attraction to vintage objects? No, because I just told you. They own one of those manual, portable kind of typewriters in wood brown and they treat it like a living being. They even named it Printcess. Like Princess + Print? Get it? I am very funny I know. Nene adores bugs and insects and usually picks up a few she stumbles upon when gardening. Osman is terrified to death of bugs. They’re also super scared of deep bodies of water, so there goes the pirate dream I guess. Null seems to have a thing for chains and cuffs. Which is like. Okay I guess. Freak. Activity during working/school hours is almost always copilot, meaning primarily Neri and Type are active during the day. The PN CAN get tired of being active, and usually have the option of stepping down and giving control to any other character, but sometimes when the body is locked in they’re kinda forced to work their ass off. This is almost always the case with Typewriter. Sorry bro.

[Scratches head] I don’t have any other trivia sorry. I’m tired. I will update when I remember more. Anyways. Thank you for reading your patience is so appreciated I’m giving you all a little kiss on the forehead. Thank you. These characters mean a lot to me as someone who struggles with their mental health. And while I wouldn’t compare it to any identity disorders like DID or OSDD [which I am not diagnosed with], I can definitely understand how my story might read that way and if it helps anyone who does have it, then that’s great! They really are a journey to create and build from the ground up.

As for Blood Magic-Verse… I’m making a separate post addressing what happened to them, don’t worry. Even if it takes a bajillion years to write. I love all my children equally trust I don’t pick favorites. Again, thank you for reading I have NO idea how to end this but it’s..been fun I think. Okay! Bye!

[cherrylight]

hi! this is going to be a long post about my hs self insert ^_^ + with additional lore! uh, i talk as if she's a separate person, hope that's okay!

cred for sprites & picrew(s): sprite & picrew

the rest under cut !

before, hs ashley basically just looked like this !

(there's two variants because i had many ideas)

her name is actually ashley property! and it has stayed because i love it so much ^_^

i actually REALLY love the hs sprite(s) of her so very much but i want to redo it, i just been very forgetful lately and haven't really decided to redo her sprite unfortunately >_<

she does actually look nearly similar to her sprite, but there are parts that i really want to rework and sort of redo; for instance the fact she's in all black! that is NOT what she wears all the time i assure you!

another thing about the old ver of hs ashley is the fact that i decided to create a cameo guardian for her to fit the criteria, i guess. his name was jax! he was purely made because i get really interested in classpects. although, he's not really fully fledged out or anything. a part of me doesn't even want to add him in the new version of ashley actually ^^;;

another thing about this version is the fact she has literal NO LORE WHATSOEVER. in all honesty, i just could NEVER THINK OF LORE FOR HER. so she got nothing. she was just. kind of there. and that was that. and nothing else.

to be completely honest with you, she was plain even if i absolutely adored her more than anything on this planet ...

now for the new and improve ashley ^_^

^^^ ISN'T SHE SO PRETTY GUYS I LOVE HER SO MUCH

new and improve ashley my love !!!! she makes me so happy :D

i'm still working on a lot of things with this version of her ! but i'm trying to stray away from like the entire ...... typical stuff, but it's still pretty much with her as i didn't take it away or anything, just focusing more on the game stuff makes ME upset because i only focus on that and yadda yadda whatever!

this time, i actually have lore and how she ends up with everyone. but because i don't follow the comic anymore or really anything, a lot of it is my interpretation (and the fact the game doesn't really "exist" but does exist because of them having "powers"? i guess? i can probably talk about it in a different post but yeah! i just don't care about the game or the rest of the characters sorry)

so, the lore for ashley on how she got in the beta/alpha kids' timeline is this:

ashley's timeline somehow got corrupted. a lot of that is purely unknown and she doesn't even know *why* her timeline got corrupted. but she ends up in their timeline, kind of just appearing from thin air. quite literally.

although she basically FELL FROM THE SKY. long story short: she is unable to get back to her timeline. a part of me thinks that she was SUPPOSED to be in the beta/alpha timeline, but something happened for an error to occur, thus her being in the null timeline.

if that's too much for you, just know that she's unable to get back to her timeline and is stuck in the timeline she's quote on quote "supposed" to be in.

because of this happening, she doesn't know if her own family is alive or well, or they'll appear in this timeline—i'll call it the OG timeline, AKA original timeline (as it's canon and so forth. sorry for the technicalities). however, i have no ideas for her family yet, maybe i'll add jax but i also highly doubt it. i don't know! don't want to add too much to my plate, so that's in the backburner for the time being!

knowing this information, ashley being in a completely new place—new timeline—she is alone, like completely so alone and the only thing she sees is like four people. which as much as she's already wary of her surroundings and already hypervigilant on where she is, she does at the very go over to them; or they go over to her.

won't get into HUGE details on that! but i absolutely adore the betas and she will be honestly afraid to even get to close to them. i had the thought of her being this fearful to get close to people because of her ending up in the og timeline, being alone, and without really any familiar faces to see. ashley has this sort of thought of if she gets close to them, something bad would happen to *them* and she doesn't want that! considering that they seemed to offer hospitality and are cordial with her (well, for the most part, most of them seem friendly. even if using the term friendly is a stretch on talking on some), she would feel awful if something bad happened to them at her expense.

in all honesty, i didn't want her to just be a self insert for dave tbh... i want her to have her own like background and story, and lore, and relationships with the other characters! i also like doing silly scenarios with the other characters with her! it's very fun ^_^

as well as that, some other information that may be crucial later: her handle is: poltergeistBlossom, her hex colour is #FF6DC6

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[burmese-culture-is]

Franco burmese anon here and I wanted to add this to the ask I just sent but it got too long so here: it's funny how my burmese relatives despite having kind of understandable reasons for not being supportive (because idk there's less awareness here and my burmese grand parents didn't have the best education), they're more supportive than my white French relatives could ever be 💀 I barely trust my French relatives with my sexuality while my whole burmese family knows I like women and men and my mom knows im trans (havent told the rest yet though) 😭 (I know I'm really lucky to have such a supportive environment around me and I know I'm an outlier but idk. I think we should share positive queer experiences too you know?)

When I say my burmese relatives are supportive, I mean, my mom's cousin is a trans guy. And before he came out as trans he identified as a cis lesbian and I distinctly remember being a kid and overhearing my great aunty yelling and cussing over the phone (IT WAS WILD TBH? SHE WAS CALLING THEM A DOG AND EVERYTHING 😭) and I later learned she was yelling at someone who was being homophobic to him. And when he did come out as trans, almost everyone's reaction was basically instant support and protection (like we kept making jokes about punching people who misgender him😭). Like it was a bit clumsy at first sure but I could tell they were trying and now we're all like "yeah that's your oo lay (IDK HOW TO WRITE IN MYANGLISH)" and honestly when my mom explained to me why she gendered him correctly, instead of using the "he was a man all along" argument, she said does it because she can clearly see it makes him happy and why would she go out of her way to make someone she loves unhappy and idk something about that simplistic view of queerness really resonated even if it's not the most like idk "correct" way to view it

Other funny instances of my burmese family being supportive is when we were having a family gathering and I was getting a bunch of noisey questions, one of my aunties basically said "Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? We don't judge ^-^" and I think the fact nosieness transcends bigotry is so funny to me. Or alternatively, my mom's just?? ACCEPTING?? OF POLYAMOROUS?? AND ASEXUAL PEOPLE?? WHICH IS??? ACTUALLY INSANE? I DIDNT EDUCATE HER I GOT SUCH A JUMPSCARE WHEN SHE EXPLAINED WHAT ASEXUALITY WAS TO ONE OF HER FRIENDS LIKE WHAT? Or like, my mom's friends with multiple trans women and accepted me when I told her I was trans and even took me to a small pride event this June.

My mom is a very religious Buddhist person who's the kind of person to pray every day and like go to pagodas several times a week (i know buddhists can be shitty though) and she's still supportive of me and basically tells of anyone who's kind of transphobic/homophobic that they're gonna get bad karma for being bigots. Meanwhile half of my French "progressive" "from a better country" relatives bitch about immigrants and muslims 24/7 and use their Christianity as an excuse to be homophobic and misogynistic and would rather die than self reflect 😭 my burmese family and especially my mom aren't flawless (my mom used to be homophobic) but like holy fuck do I respect their attempts to learn and get better so much more than my French relatives who keep white feminisiming into the sun and denying all claims that they're bigots 😭

i tend to leave my comments to the tags but this genuinely was such a delight to read, thank you so much for sharing!

[doodlingwren]

It's 2024 can we please stop saying it's normal to trace or copying an entire drawing and pretending it's 100% your work? Just bc you changed the character or added clothes on a base you found on pinterest it doesn't mean you created original art

[dragonbma]

More art and writings coming soon I swear. I’ve just had a lingering headache for the past three days and it won’t let me think straight. I will be back with a vengeance when it subsides.

Honestly, what if this is what mining fatigue feels like? Like, trying to mine a block just gives you a splitting headache that goes away once you stop. You don’t take damage, but it is incredibly painful nonetheless. Honestly might use this in the AU…

[13thpythagoras]

If you like Apollo 12 lore, here is a fun one, just to peek at some of the declassified scientific data that came out of that mission is possibly mind blowing and world shattering, you've been warned

...but the "fine print" of the results here are that the moon vibrated for over an hour after they merely dropped a 20 lb weight onto the surface from high up.

This result has been corroborated by further tests done later, but Al Bean was among the first to discover that the moon is just hollow, gut wrenchingly, world spinningly hollow, we have to put that in our soup and boil it, we have to put that in our pipe and smoke it, the goddamn moon is hollow shout out Al Bean and Apollo 12, great work

[arolesbianism]

Was going to do some oni file digging but got too distracted playing the actual video game. Anyways look at her <3

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ me & my husband ]❜

ft. moon ki-yong (the salesman) x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ you don’t need your husband to be perfect, you just want him to be honest┊3.3k words; part two (here)

contains: written before s2 came out!! probably ooc or inaccurate, angst with spots of fluff & a bittersweet ending? reader’s pov mostly, suspicions of cheating, lack of communication, mentioned age gap, random inaccurate lore for the salesman

➤ author's note: yeah, i saw the sudden uptick in notes on that gong yoo post i made and realized season 2 came out which i completely forgot about. i intend to watch it soon as possible and write fics for it as well as (probably) add new characters to my writing list, but for now, please be content with this!!

₊˚ʚ 💌₊˚✧ this fic was heavily inspired by “emotionally intoxicated” by aurasaurora!

moon ki-yong is the poster image for the ideal husband. he’s always been like that from the moment you met him, and you can’t help but feel like you’re the luckiest woman in the world when he calls himself yours. he’s tall and handsome, someone who catches everyone’s eye despite his only being focused on you. he’s wealthy and hard-working, able to call a luxurious mansion your home, and willing to buy you anything your heart desires as long as you ask for it. he spoils you rotten with that money, gifting you expensive things even if you didn’t ask if it reminded him of you. he’s doting, always sure to smother you in affection with kisses and cuddles whenever together to make it known how much he adores you. the sex is great too, he makes you feel wanted and desirable without ever leaving you unsatisfied. 

most importantly though, you love him, and he loves you. the last two years of marriage have been so blissful, and there isn’t a single thing you would change.

at least that’s what you believe most of the time.

you like to think you know a lot about him, and in a way, you do. you know his favorite color, how he likes his coffee, what he usually orders at restaurants, the type of wine he prefers over beer, the exaggerated shocked fasces he likes to make, how his favorite chore is folding the laundry, how his least favorite is doing the dishes because he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, the name of his childhood pet, what positions he likes to cuddle or fuck in, the names he’s thinking of giving to your child when they are finally born— there are so many little details you know about him, yet at times you feel like you don't know anything at all.

you don’t really know much about his childhood aside from a few random stories, he claims there’s nothing really notable and that it was as standard as can be. you don’t know who his parents were or what they were like because he said they died when he was young, but surely that’s an important loss which must have impacted him and made youth difficult in some way? you don’t know about his past partners if he even had any, but you doubt you were his first as he was yours with a face like his. you don’t know any of his secrets, like an embarrassing moment or something sinful he might have committed in the past. 

he knew all of these things about you and the little details of your life, so why don’t you know any of the most basic things regarding your own husband?

these periods of uncertainty are few and far, but once the icy tendrils of doubt creep in, it’s difficult to shake them off when you realize you only know these things through observations and not him actually telling you. it’s a miracle your stupidity allowed you to make it this far in falling head over heels for him, getting married, and carrying his child (not that you completely regret it, you still love him, but you wish you had given it more time).

they say there are no such things as stupid questions, yet the main question you have is exactly that as it’s something every wife should know even before the marriage. it would be impressive how long you’ve been clueless about this matter if it weren’t for how often and how skilled he is in managing to evade your curiosity and steer the conversation elsewhere. you didn’t want to press on it since he seems to shut it down every time the topic is brought up and you don’t want to fight over something you technically didn’t need to know, but it weighs on you and presses into your chest with the knowledge you were being kept in the dark. 

what did your husband do for a living, exactly?

his schedule is always unpredictably changing with little rhyme or reason and it confuses you. sometimes you’ll go an entire few days without seeing him, sensing him wake up in the morning before the sun is even up, feeling him kiss you on the cheek before getting ready, and not coming back until long after you fall asleep with no communication aside from a note on the table telling you he’ll be gone for the day along with a wad of cash for you to treat yourself while he’s gone. other times he’ll be chilling at home for an entire week, waking you up with aggressive cuddles (or morning sex), making you breakfast with the morning news on in the background, and taking you out to wherever you want to go on his card in his rare casual clothing and messy wavy hair rather than the typical fancy suits and hair styled with gel. 

as far as you’re concerned, he’s a businessman of sorts, although you don’t know what company he works for or what position he has in terms of hierarchy or how an occupation of that type allows such flexibility in hours or anything at all. 

“what if he’s having an affair?”

you paused for a second before continuing the motion of slicing the cheesecake with a fork and savoring the taste in your mouth. “that’s ridiculous,” you stated simply after swallowing. “he loves me very much, and it doesn’t explain his weird schedule either.”

today was spent with some friends you met back in high school, but honestly, you were only attending out of politeness and tradition since you honestly feel like you’ve disconnected from these girls long before the current. still, you treasure the memories shared in your more formative years and wouldn’t ever say no to them if they wanted to hang out like old times. ki-yong doesn’t bother to hide his distaste for them, calling them a miserable lot who try to drag you down at every opportunity out of jealousy for your happiness. you laugh it off, but you know deep down he’s right and yet you’re still sitting here at the cafe with them with bright smiles like their words don’t cut deep. 

“maybe he’s dating the boss— a sexy office siren type— she gives him plenty of days off and he stays with her at her beach house at jeju island or something to keep her company, and then she gives him lots of money in exchange.”

“oh my god, could you imagine?”

“can you be realistic? it sounds like you’re just writing a plot for a new drama,” you giggled, not allowing the feeling of a twisting blade in your abdomen to show on your face or the venom to drip from your words at the mere thought of the man you loved being stolen away a faceless woman who was everything you wished you were more of: more beautiful, more wealthy, more experienced, more intelligent—

“you don’t know because he’s your first love or whatever— and you’re so lucky to have been able to marry him— but men are dogs, and i don’t see why he would be the exception.”

“but he treats me so well—”

“maybe he only treats you well because you’re pregnant— he probably just feels guilty. i mean, when i was pregnant and had my first, my husband wasn’t attracted to me anymore and demanded a divorce unless i lost the baby weight.” she shrugged like it was so simple, so common, like the notion of marriage wasn’t something so deeply important and could be thrown away so easily.

“we aren’t suggesting you get a divorce, but we’re just saying you should keep an eye on him— you know? a handsome guy like him was always bound to get a lot of attention…” her laugh was shrill and high-pitched, making goosebumps erupt on your skin.

“right… thanks guys…”

that night, you couldn’t stop twisting and turning on the large sectional couch with thoughts rushing through your head of your husband with some other woman. the jealousy from these fictional scenarios without evidence of existence plagued you. it made you want to vomit up the negative feelings and go back to the person you were a few hours ago without the images of him cheating planted in your mind, which didn’t go unnoticed by him and caused him to ask what was bothering you as it wouldn't be good for the baby.

you hesitated for a moment, “could you tell me about your exes?”

“why are you suddenly curious about that?” he chuckled, knowing damn well that it was because of those stupid snakes masquerading as people (it truly takes one to know one) running their mouths again, but still feigning obliviousness for your sake. 

“just wondering,” you muttered. “i mean, you’re the first person i’ve fallen in love with, but you’re a bit older than me so…”

“and i hope to be the only one too,” he smirked confidently, making you laugh as he plopped down on the ground and rested his head on the cushion next to yours. 

it was such a casual setting in such a vast space, bringing you back to the days in your little apartment inviting him over for chicken and beer before you knew about your immense wealth and got embarrassed over your cheap dates when he was so used to expensive restaurants. he found it very endearing though, knowing you liked him for him and not his money.

“well, if you’re so curious…” he trailed off, but you weren’t quite sure if it was because of hesitation or because he simply didn’t know where to start. you can’t remember the last time a conversation like this was held to learn more about him since it was usually about you, maybe back when you first started dating and briefly discussed his late parents.

he started with his crush when he was in middle school since that was his earliest recollection of feeling love, who didn’t really count as a girlfriend or love because nothing was established and because of their age, but she was his first kiss that he ran away from right after because of how nervous he was, and it was never addressed again. apparently it was his second girlfriend who taught him everything he knew before he met you, saying she basically “trained him like a dog” to create a gentleman out of an inexperienced boy who still wasn’t quite sure how to treat a woman like a queen. she was a bit mean though, and he didn’t realize he dodged a bullet until later after realizing she was unnecessarily cruel to him for no reason multiple times if he didn’t do things exactly her way.

you suppose you always knew your husband wasn’t always the suave charmer you know him to be, but the image of younger him being clueless on matters of romance made you burst out laughing because of how you could hardly picture it.

he reached over to pinch your cheek affectionately, “are you of all people really making fun of me when you were too scared to hold my hand for me to escort you out of my car?”

“oh my god, that was on our first date, i can’t be blamed! i was shaking like crazy on that day— you had to tell me that you didn’t bite.”

“i was actually thinking about calling off our date last minute because of an emergency at work,” he confessed, “but i’m glad i didn’t and met the love of my life instead.”

“aw, you flirt.” the memory made you smile and feel all giggly inside, all the fears you had about him possibly having an affair falling away, yet there were still some lingering at the back of your mind with the mention of his job. “what happened at work?”

“nothing that important,” he said instantly like clockwork. “just some boring business things.”

you didn’t push it, not wanting to ruin the mood, but once again, your curiosity was just itching to ask more questions about his work life even if it was truly as boring as he says. you wanted to know every mundane detail whether it was what his office looked like or what the annoying co-worker did on a daily basis, anything to satiate your need to know more about this mysterious man you had made life-long vows with.

it all came to a head one night while you were cooking dinner, you heard the doorbell ring a dozen times in quick succession and answered it to find an older man with fiery red hair that seemed to match his temper. when he addressed your husband by name and verified your relationship with him, he began spewing all kinds of insults about the blood he had on his hands by luring innocent people to their deaths and you felt your heart drop. you tried to reason with him that there must have been some sort of mistake, barely able to get your words out in a fit of confusion and surprise at the absurd accusation, but he wouldn’t hear you out and pointed a finger in your face, asking if you had any idea what moon ki-yong was doing behind your back. 

at that very moment, he was suddenly seized by two anonymous men in all black, causing him to yell out in panic as they dragged him away and stuffed him in the back of a car before quickly driving off into the night without a trace. it all happened so fast, you just stood there with your mouth open in shock, wondering if you should call the police on what looked like an abduction. 

then your husband comes running up the steps with his locked briefcase in hand, shouting out your name, asking you if you’re okay, pulling you back inside the comfort of your shared home, and checking you all over to make sure you aren’t harmed in any way. when you ask about who that man was and what he was talking about, he simply told you he was some crazy customer who was dissatisfied with the company, was looking for someone to blame, and promised to tell you the details later. 

you didn’t tell him that you didn’t believe him, just pursed your lips and furrowed your brow for a second then let go of the topic like you always do, taking his coat off his shoulders with a peck on the lips asking how his day was. he reciprocated the kiss, said it was fine without anything special, and that he would shower before having dinner, something he didn’t really need to say since you already knew but stated anyway as per evening routine. 

as he headed up the stairs and disappeared from sight, you stared at the locked briefcase resting crookedly on the little entryway table and paused for a moment. if you did this, it would be a breach of privacy and a sign of growing distrust in your husband, but it could also answer all of the questions that never cease. 

your hands wouldn’t stop shaking involuntarily as you felt the cold black metal underneath your fingertips, marveling at the smooth material clean of any scratches or dents. fidgeting with the built-in combination lock, six number sequences started rushing through your mind as you started to hastily run through your options with a focus on dates. you were determined to only do this three times since you had no idea if an alarm would be set off or if it would close off permanently.

his birthday?

an electronic beep went off indicating you were incorrect, making you nervous.

your birthday?

wrong again, you only had one attempt left. you swallowed, shaking the accumulating sweat off your hands.

the date of your wedding?

you gasped as the locks suddenly flipped open and lightly knocked against the briefcase. it was undone, you could open it at any moment now and see it all.

and yet you still hesitated during this golden opportunity. was it the fact that the passcode to his most secret possession was the day you got married? was it guilt for going behind your husband’s back for answers instead of directly asking him? was it because you were afraid of what you would find if you discovered the red-haired man was telling the truth?

whatever it was, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and locked it again, leaving it looking untouched and went back to playing dinner.

there was a heavy tension present at the dinner table that night, the only conversation present being him interrogating you about what the red-haired man talked about word-for-word. not really interrogating since his tone of voice was still calm and gentle as he asked questions, but you could see him fidgeting with his fork and not leaving much room for any other topic until he was sure you told him everything. he then sighed and claimed the man was insane, a gambling addict who was too deep in debt to afford treatment and was trying to drag him into his misery after meeting at the subway station. 

“ki-yong?”

he froze for a second, not used to hearing you use his real name rather than a pet name. “yes?”

“what do you do for a living, exactly?”

a pause, you watched him fidget with his chopsticks and shift the grains of rice around. “you know, business stuff— nothing you need to concern yourself about—“

“but i don’t know! that’s the thing!” you felt tears starting to well up behind your eyes, letting two years of frustration trickle through. “i know it doesn’t seem that important for me to know, but is it really so important that you leave me in the dark about it for the three years we’ve been lovers? and now some guy comes to our doorstep and tells me about how your job is playing games with people at the subway station to make them participate in death games?!” you took a deep breath, calming yourself down, “please, be honest with me, that’s all i want…”

“i-i…” that was the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter, and if the situation wasn’t so tense, you would be proud you finally got one-up on him. “i can’t say… it’s for your own safety and mine.”

“so he was right?”

he remained silent, trying to think of some way to counter what seong gi-hun had told you, but if you didn’t believe the elaborate lie he already told you and wanted to learn more, then he knew this was the end of the road. 

“i-i need some time to think…” you looked defeated and it broke his heart. “i’m going to my mom’s house tonight, i’ll be back tomorrow—“ you got up, not bothering to pack anything aside from your phone and your wallet.

he had prepared for you to start screaming and crying (not that he would blame you, i mean, who would willingly stay with a man who was complicit in mass murder), demanding a divorce and packing your things to shut the door for him never to be seen again with your unborn child. the strangely calm reaction was both a relief and extremely unsettling to him.

“i won’t be mad if you decide not to come back” he stated plainly, defeated in a state you’ve never seen him in before. “whatever choice you make, i’ll support you, just know i love you— more than anything else in this world.”

you stared at him blankly through the open doorway. perhaps your husband isn’t the perfect man you believed him to be, but he was as honest as he possibly could have been with you regarding the matter, and that’s enough. 

“i love you too, i’ll be back in the morning.” that’s how you feel at the moment, but you don’t know if you’ll feel the same way tomorrow morning when it sinks in.

[cherry-lala]

The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick 

Genre: Southern Gothic, Angst, Supernatural Thriller, Romance Word Count: 15.7k+ Summary: In a sweltering Mississippi town, a woman's nights are divided between a juke joint's soulful music and the intoxicating presence of a mysterious man named Remmick. As her heart wrestles with fear and desire, shadows lengthen, revealing truths darker than the forgotten woods. In the heart of the Deep South, whispers of love dance with danger, leaving a trail of secrets that curl like smoke in the night.

Content Warnings: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied violence, betrayal, character death, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, brief sexual content, references to alcoholism and domestic conflict. Let me know if I missed any! A/N: My first story on here! Also I’m not from the 1930’s so don’t beat me up for not knowing too much about life in that time.I couldn’t stop thinking about this gorgeous man since I watched the movie. Wanted to jump through the screen to get to him anywayssss likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated. 

The heat clings to my skin like a second husband, just as unwanted as the first. Even with the sun long gone, the air hangs thick enough to drown in, pressing against my lungs as I ease the screen door open. The hinges whine—traitors announcing my escape attempt—and before I can slip out, his voice lashes at my back, mean as a belt strap. "I ain't done talkin' to you, girl." His fingers dig into my arm, yanking me back inside. The dim yellow light from our single lamp casts his face in a shadow, but I don’t need to see his expression. I've memorized every twist his mouth makes when he's like this—cruel at the corners, loose in the middle.

"You been done," I whisper, the words scraping my throat like gravel. My tears stay locked behind my eyes, prisoners I refuse to release. "Said all you needed to say half a bottle ago." Frank's breath hits my face, sour with corn liquor and hate. His pupils are wide, unfocused—black holes pulling at the edges of his irises. The hand not gripping my arm rises slow and wavering, a promise of pain that has become as routine as sunrise. But tonight, the whiskey’s got him too good. His arm drops mid-swing, its weight too much. For the first time in three years of marriage, I don't flinch. He notices. Even drunk, he notices. "The hell's gotten into you?" His words slur together, a muddy river of accusation. "Think you better'n me now? That it?" "Just tired, Frank." My voice stays steady as still water. "That's all." The truth is, I stopped being afraid a month ago. Fear requires hope—the desperate belief that things might change if you're just careful enough, quiet enough, good enough. I buried my hope the last time he put my head through the wall, right next to where the plaster still shows the shape of my skull. I look around our little house—a wedding gift from his daddy that's become my prison. Two rooms of misery, decorated in things Frank broke and I tried to fix. The table with three good legs and one made from an old fence post. The chair with stuffing coming out like dirty snow. The wallpaper peels in long strips, curling away from the walls like they're trying to escape too.

My reflection catches in the cracked mirror above the wash basin—a woman I barely recognize anymore. My eyes have gone flat, my cheekbones sharp beneath skin that used to glow. Twenty-five years old and fading like a dress left too long in the sun. Frank stumbles backward, catching himself on the edge of our bed. The springs screech under his weight. "Where you think you're goin' anyhow?" "Just for some air." I keep my voice gentle, like you'd talk to a spooked horse. "Be back before you know it." His eyes narrow, suspicion fighting through the drunken haze. "You meetin' somebody?" I shake my head, moving slowly around the room, gathering my shawl, and checking my hair. Every movement measured, nothing to trigger him. "Just need to breathe, Frank. That's all." "You breathe right here," he mutters, but his words are losing their fight, drowning in whiskey and fatigue. "Right here where I can see you." I don't answer. Instead, I watch him struggle against sleep, his body betraying him in small surrenders—head nodding, shoulders slumping, breath deepening. Five minutes pass, then ten. His chin drops to his chest. I slip my dancing shoes from their hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under our bed. Frank hates them—says they make me look loose, wanton. What he means is they make me look like someone who might leave him.

He's not wrong.

The shoes feel like rebellion in my hands. I've polished them in secret, mended the scuffs, kept them alive like hope. Can't put them on yet—the sound would wake him—but soon. Soon they'll carry me where I need to go. Frank snores suddenly, a thunderclap of noise that makes me freeze. But he doesn't stir, just slumps further onto the bed, one arm dangling toward the floor. I move toward the door again; shoes clutched to my chest like something precious. The night outside calls to me with cricket songs and possibilities. Through the dirty window, I can see the path that leads toward the woods, toward Smoke and Stack's place where the music will already be starting. Where for a few hours, I can remember what it feels like to be something other than Frank's wife, Frank's disappointment, Frank's punching bag. The screen door sighs as I ease it open. The night air touches my face like a blessing. Behind me, Frank sleeps the sleep of the wicked and the drunk. Ahead of me, there's music waiting. And tonight, just tonight, that music is stronger than my fear.

The juke joint grows from the Mississippi dirt like something half-remembered, half-dreamed. Even from the edge of the trees, I can feel its heartbeat—the thump of feet on wooden boards, the wail of Sammie's guitar cutting through the night air, voices rising and falling in waves of joy so thick you could swim in them. My shoes dangle from my fingers, still clean. No point in dirtying them on the path. What matters is what happens inside, where the real world stops at the door and something else begins. Light spills from the cracks between weathered boards, turning the surrounding pine trees into sentinels guarding this secret. I slip my shoes on, leaning on the passenger side of one of the few vehicles in-front of the juke-joint, already swaying to the rhythm bleeding through the walls. Smoke and Stack bought this place with money from God knows where coming back from Chicago. Made it sturdy enough to hold our dreams, hidden enough to keep them safe. White folks pretend not to know it exists, and we pretend to believe them. That mutual fiction buys us this—one place where we don't have to fold ourselves small. I push open the door and step into liquid heat. Bodies press and sway, dark skin gleaming with sweat under the glow of kerosene lamps hung from rough-hewn rafters. The floor bears witness to many nights of stomping feet, marked with scuffs that tell stories words never could. The air tastes like freedom—sharp with moonshine, sweet with perfume, salty with honest work washed away in honest pleasure. At the far end, Sammie hunches over his guitar, eyes closed, fingers dancing across strings worn smooth from years of playing. He doesn't need to see what he's doing; the music lives in his hands. Each note tears something loose inside anyone who hears it—something we keep chained up during daylight hours.

Annie throws her head back in laughter, her full hips wrapped in a dress the color of plums. She grabs Pearline's slender wrist, pulling her into the heart of the dancing crowd. Pearline resists for only a second before surrendering, her graceful movements a perfect counterpoint to Annie's rare wild abandon. "Come on now," Annie shouts over the music. "Your husband ain't here to see you, and the Lord ain't lookin' tonight!" Pearline's lips curve into that secret smile she saves for these moments when she can set aside the proper church woman and become something truer. In the corner, Delta Slim nurses a bottle like it contains memories instead of liquor. His eyes, bloodshot but sharp, track everything without seeming to. His fingers tap against the bottleneck, keeping time with Sammie's playing. An old soul who's seen too much to be fooled by anything. "Slim!" Cornbread's deep voice booms as he passes, carrying drinks that overflow slightly with each step. "You gonna play tonight or just drink the profits?" "Might do both if you keep askin'," Slim drawls, but there's no heat in it. Just the familiar rhythm of old friends. I step fully into the room and something shifts. Not everyone notices—most keep dancing, talking, drinking—but enough heads turn my way that I feel it. A ripple through the crowd, making space. Recognition.

Smoke spots me from behind the rough-plank bar. His nod is almost imperceptible, but I catch it—permission, welcome, understanding. His forearms glisten with sweat as he pours another drink, muscles tensed like he's always ready for trouble. Because he is. Stack appears beside him, leaning in to say something in his twin's ear. Unlike Smoke, whose energy coils tight, Stack moves with a gambler's grace, all smooth edges, and calculated risks. His eyes find me in the crowd, lingering a beat too long, concern flashing before he masks it with a lazy smile. My feet carry me to the center of the floor without conscious thought. The wooden boards warm beneath my soles, greeting me like an old friend. I close my eyes, letting Sammie's guitar and voice pull me under, drowning in sound. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget—how to move without fear, how to speak without words. My hips sway, shoulders rolling in time with the stomps. Each stomp of my feet sends the day's hurt into the ground. Each twist of my wrist unravels another knot of rage. My dress—faded cotton sewn and resewn until it's more memory than fabric—clings to me as I spin, catching sweat and starlight.

"She needs this," Smoke mutters to Stack, thinking I can't hear over the music. He takes a long pull from his bottle, eyes never leaving me. "Let her be." But Stack keeps watching, the way he watched when we were kids, and I climbed too high in the cypress trees. Like he's waiting to catch me if I fall. I don't plan to fall. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm rising, lifting, breaking free from gravity itself. Mary appears beside me, her red dress a flame against the darkness. She moves with the confidence of youth and beauty, all long limbs and laughter. "Girl, you gonna burn a hole in the floor!" she shouts, spinning close enough that her breath warms my ear. I don't answer. Can't answer. Words belong to the day world, the world of men like Frank who use them as weapons. Here, my body speaks a better truth. The music climbs higher, faster. Sammie's fingers blur across the strings, coaxing sounds that shouldn't be possible from wood and wire. The crowd claps in rhythm, feet stomping, voices joining in wordless chorus. The walls of the juke joint seem to expand with our joy, swelling to contain what can't be contained. My head tilts back, eyes finding the rough ceiling without seeing it. My spirit has already soared through those boards, up past the pines, into a night sky scattered with stars that know my real name. Sweat tracks down my spine, between my breasts, and along my temples. My heartbeat syncs with the drums until I can't tell which is which. At this moment, Frank doesn't exist. The bruises hidden beneath my clothes don't exist. All that exists is movement, music, and the miraculous feeling of being fully, completely alive in a body that, for these few precious hours, belongs only.

The music fades behind me, each step into the woods stealing another note until all that's left is memory. My body still hums with the ghost of rhythm, but the air around me has changed—gone still in a way that doesn't feel right. Mississippi nights are never quiet, not really. There are always cicadas arguing with crickets, frogs calling from hidden places, leaves whispering to each other. But tonight, the woods swallow sound like they're holding their breath. Waiting for something. My fingers tighten around my shawl, pulling it closer though the heat hasn't broken. It's not cold I'm feeling. It's something else. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in silver blades, slicing the path into sections of light and dark. I step carefully, avoiding roots that curl up from the earth like arthritic fingers. The juke-joint has disappeared behind me; its warmth and noise sealed away by the wall of pines. Ahead lies home—Frank snoring in a drunken stupor, walls pressing in, air thick with resentment. Between here and there is only this stretch of woods, this moment of in-between. My dancing shoes pinch now, reminding me they weren't made for walking. But I don't take them off. They're the last piece of the night I'm clinging to, proof that for a few hours, I was someone else. Someone free.

A twig snaps.

I freeze every muscle tense as piano wire. That sound came from behind me, off to the left where the trees grow thicker. Not an animal—too deliberate, too singular. My heart drums against my ribs, no longer keeping Sammie's rhythm but a faster, frightened beat of its own. "Who's there?" My voice sounds thin in the unnatural quiet. For a moment, nothing. Then movement—not a crashing through underbrush, but a careful parting, like the darkness itself is opening up. He steps onto the path, and everything in me goes still. White man. Tall. Nothing unusual about that. But everything else about him rings false. His clothes seem to match the dust of the woods—dusty white shirt, suspenders that catch the moonlight like they're made of something finer than ordinary cloth. Dust clings to his shoes but sweat darkens his collar despite the heat. His skin is pale in a way that seems to glow faintly, untouched by the sun. But it's his eyes that stop my breath. They don't blink enough. And they're fixed on me with a hunger that has nothing to do with what men usually want.

"You move like you don't belong to this world," he says, voice smooth as molasses but cold like stones at the bottom of a well. There's a drawl to his words. He sounds like nowhere and everywhere. "I've watched you dance. On nights like this. It's… spellwork, what you do." My spine straightens of its own accord. I should run. Every instinct screams it. But something else—pride, maybe, or foolishness—keeps me rooted. "I ain't got nothin' for you," I say, keeping my voice steady. My hand tightens on my shawl, though it's poor protection against whatever this man is. "And white men seekin’ me out here alone usually bring trouble." His lips curve upward, but the smile doesn't touch those unblinking eyes. They remain fixed, assessing, and patient in a way that makes my skin prickle. "You think I came to bring you trouble?" The question hangs between us, delicate as spiderweb. I don't trust it. Don't trust him. "I think you should go," I say, taking half a step backward. He matches with a step forward but maintains the distance between us—precise, controlled.

"I'm called Remmick."

"I didn't ask." My voice sharpens with fear disguised as attitude.

"No," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "But something in you will remember."

The certainty in his voice raises the hair on my arms. I study him more carefully—the unnatural stillness with which he holds himself. Something is wrong with this man, something beyond the obvious danger of a man approaching a woman alone in the woods at night. The trees around him seem to bend away slightly, as if reluctant to touch him. Even the persistent mosquitoes that plague these woods avoid the air around him. The night itself recoils from his presence, creating a bubble of emptiness with him at the center. I take another step back, putting more distance between us. My heel catches on a root, but I recover without falling. His eyes track the movement with unsettling precision.

"You can go on now," I say, my voice harder now. "Ain't nobody invited you."

Something changes in his expression at that—a flicker of satisfaction, like I've confirmed something he suspected. His head tilts slightly, almost pleased. "That's true," he murmurs, the words barely disturbing the air. "Not yet."

The way he says it—like a promise, like a threat—makes my breath catch. The moonlight catches his profile as he turns slightly. For a moment, just a moment, I think I see something move beneath that worn shirt—not muscle or bone, but something else, something that shifts like shadow-given substance. Then it's gone, and he's just a man again. A strange, terrifying man standing too still in the woods who wants nothing to do with him. I don't say goodbye. Don't acknowledge him further. Just back away, keeping my eyes on him until I can turn safely until the path curves and trees separate us. Even then, I feel his gaze on my back like a physical weight, pressing against my spine, leaving an imprint that won't wash off.

I don't run—running attracts predators—but I walk faster, my dancing shoes striking the dirt in a rhythm that sounds like warning, warning, warning with each step. The trees seem to whisper now, breaking their unnatural silence to murmur secrets to each other. Behind me, the woods remain still. I don't hear him following. Somehow, that's worse. As if he doesn't need to follow to find me again. As I near the edge of the tree line, the familiar sounds of night gradually return—cicadas start up their sawing, and an owl calls from somewhere deep in the darkness. The world exhales, releasing the breath it had been holding. But something has changed. The night that once offered escape now feels like another kind of trap. And somewhere in the darkness behind me waits a man named Remmick, with eyes that don't blink enough and a voice that speaks of "not yet" like it's already written.

Two day passed but The rooster still don’t holler like he used to. He creaks out a noise ‘round mid-morning now, long after the sun’s already sitting heavy on the tin roof. Maybe the heat got to him. Maybe he’s just tired of callin’ out a world that don’t change. I know the feel. But night comes again, faster than mornin’ these days. Probably cause’ I’m expectin’ more from the night. Frank’s out cold on the mattress, one leg hanging off like it gave up trying. His breath comes in grunts, open-mouthed and ugly. A fly dances lazy across his upper lip, lands, takes off again. I step over his boots; past the broken chair he swore he’d fix last fall. Ain’t nothin’ changed but the dust. Kitchen smells like rusted iron and whatever crawled up into the walls to die. I fill the kettle slow, careful with the water pump handle so it don’t squeal. Ain’t trying to wake a bear before it’s time. My fingers press against the wallpaper, where it peeled back like bark. The spot stays warm. Heat trapped from yesterday. I don’t talk to myself. Don’t say a word. But my thoughts speak his name without asking.

Remmick.

It don’t belong in this house. It don’t belong in my mouth, either. But there it is, curling behind my teeth. I never told a soul about him. Not ‘cause I was scared. Not yet. Just didn’t know how to explain a man who don’t blink enough. Who moves like the ground ain’t quite got a grip on him. Who steps out of the woods like he heard you call, even when you didn’t. A man who hangs ‘round a place with no intention of going in.

I tug the hem of my dress higher to look at the bruise. Purple, with a ring of green creeping in around the edges. I press two fingers to it, just to feel it. A reminder. Frank don’t always hit where people can see. But he don’t always miss, either. I wrap it in cloth, tug the fabric of my dress just right, and move on. I don’t plan to dance tonight. But I’ll sit. Maybe smile. Maybe drink something that don’t taste like survival. Maybe Stack’ll run his mouth and pull a laugh out of me without trying. And maybe, when it’s time to go, I’ll take the long way home. Not because I’m expectin’ anything. But because I want to. The juke joint buzzes before I even see it. The trees carry the sound first—the thump of feet, the thrum of piano spilling through the wood like sap. By the time I reach the clearing, it’s already breathing, already alive. Cornbread’s at the door, arms folded. When I pass, he gives me that look like he sees more than I want him to. “You look lighter tonight,” he says. I give a half-smile. “Probably just ain’t carryin’ any expectations.” He lets out a low laugh, the kind that rolls up from his gut and sits heavy in the room. “Or maybe ‘cause you left somethin’ behind last night.” That makes me pause, just for a beat. But I don’t show it. Just raise my brow like he’s talkin’ nonsense and keep walkin’.

He don’t mean nothin’ by it. But it sticks to me anyway.

Delta Slim’s at the keys, tapping them like they owe him money. The notes bounce off the walls, dusty and full of teeth. No Sammie tonight—Stack said he’s somewhere wrasslin’ a busted guitar into obedience. Pearline’s off in the corner, close to Sammie’s usual seat. She’s leaned in real low to a man I seen from time to time here, voice like honey drippin’ too slow to trust. Her laugh breaks in soft bursts, careful not to wake whatever she’s tryin’ to keep asleep. Stack’s behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, but he ain’t workin.’ Not really. He’s leanin’ on the wood, jaw flexing as he smirks at some girl with freckles down her arms like spilled salt. I find a seat near the back, close enough to the fan to catch a breath of cool, far enough to keep my bruise out of the light.

Inside, the joint don’t just sing—it exhales. Walls groan with sweat and joy, floorboards shimmy under stompin’ feet. The air’s thick with heat, perfume, and fried something that’s long since stopped smellin’ like food. There’s a rhythm to the place—one that don’t care what your name is, just how you move. Smoke’s behind the bar too, back bent over a bottle, jaw set tight like always. But when he sees me, his mouth softens. Not a smile—he don’t give those away easy. Just a nod. Like he sees me, really sees me. “Frank dead yet?” he mutters without looking up. “Not that lucky,” I say, voice dry as dust. He pours without askin.’ Corn punch. Still too sweet. But it sits right on the tongue after a long day of silence.

“You limpin’?” he asks, low, like maybe it’s just for me.

I shake my head. “Just don’t feel like shakin’.” He grunts understanding. “You don’t gotta explain, Y/N. Just glad you showed.” A warmth rolls behind my ribs. I don’t show it. But I feel it.

I don’t dance, but I play. Cards smack against the wood table like drumbeats—sharp, mean, familiar. The men at the table glance up, but none complain when I sit. I win too often for them to pretend they ain’t interested. Stack leans over my shoulder after the second hand. I smell rum and tobacco before he speaks. “You cheat,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You slow,” I fire back, slapping a queen on the pile. He whistles. “You always talk this much when you feelin’ good?” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Oh, I ain’t. Just sayin,’ looks Like you been kissed by somethin’ holy—or dangerous.” “I’ll let you decide which.” He laughs, pulls up a chair without askin’. His knee brushes mine. He don’t apologize. I don’t move.

I leave before Slim plays his last note. The night wraps itself around me the moment I step out, damp and sweet, the kind of air that clings to your skin like memory. One more laugh from inside rings out sharp before the door shuts and the trees hush it. My feet take the path without me thinking. I don’t look for shadows. Don’t linger. Just want the stillness. The cool hush after heat. The part of night that feels like confession. But halfway down the clearing, I see him again. Not leaning. Not hiding. Just there. Standing like the woods parted just to place him in my way. White shirt. Sleeves rolled. Suspenders loose against dusty pants. Hat in hand like he means to be respectful, like he was taught his mama’s manners. I stop. “You followin’ me?” I ask, but it don’t come out sharp.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Didn’t know a man needed a permit to take a walk under the stars.” “You keep walkin’ where I already am.”

He looks down the path, then back at me. “Maybe that means you and I got the same sense of direction.” “Or maybe you been steppin’ where you know I’ll be.” He doesn’t deny it. Just shrugs, eyes steady. I don’t move closer. Don’t move back either.

“You always turn up like this?” I ask. “Like a page I forgot to read?” He chuckles. “No. Just figured you were the kind of story worth rereadin’.” The silence after that ain’t heavy. Just… close. The kind that makes your ears ring with what you ain’t said. “You always this smooth?” I say, voice low. “I been known to stumble,” he replies. “Just not when it counts.” I shift. Let my eyes roam past him, toward the tree line. “Small talk doesn’t suit you.” “I don’t do small.” His eyes meet mine again. “Especially not with you.” It’s too much. It should be too much. But my hands don’t tremble. My breath don’t catch.

Not yet.

“You always walk the same road as a woman leavin’ the juke joint alone?” “I didn’t follow you,” he repeats. “I just happen to be where you are.” He steps forward, slow. I don’t retreat. “You expect me to believe that?” I ask. “No,” he says softly. “But I think you want to.” That lands between us like something too honest. He runs a hand through his hair before putting his hat on. A simple gesture. A human one. Like he’s just another man with nowhere to be and too much time to spend not being there. He watches me, real still—like a man waitin’ to see if I’ll spook or bite. “Figured I might’ve come off wrong last time,” he says finally, voice soft, but it don’t bend easy. “Didn’t mean to.” “You did,” I say, but my arms stay loose at my sides. A flick of something passes over his face. Not shame, not pride—just a small, ghosted look, like he’s used to bein’ misunderstood. “Well,” he says, thumb brushing the brim of his hat, “thought maybe I’d try again. Slower this time.” That pulls at somethin’ behind my ribs, makes the air stretch thinner between us. “You act like this some kinda game.” He shakes his head once. “Not a game. Just…timing. Some things got to take the long way ‘round.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to make out where he’s hidin’ the trick in all this.

“The way you talk is like running in circles.” He laughs—low and rough at the edges, like it ain’t used to bein’ let out. “I won’t waste time running in circles around a darlin’ like you.” I cross my arms, squinting at the space between his words. “That supposed to charm me?” He shrugs, one shoulder easy like he don’t expect much. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Just thought I’d give you something truer than a lie.” His voice ain’t sweet—it’s too honest for that. But it moves like water that knows where it’s goin’. I shift my weight, let the breeze slide between us.

“You ain’t said why you’re here. Not really.” He watches me a long moment, like he’s weighing how much I’ll let in. “Maybe I’m drawn to your energy,” he says finally. I scoff. “My energy? I don’t move too much to emit energy.” That gets him smilin’. Slow. Not too sure of itself, but not shy either. “You don’t have to move,” he says, “to be seen.” The words hit like a drop of cold water between the shoulder blades—sharp, sudden, and too real. I take a step forward just to ground myself, heel pressing into the dirt like I mean it. “You a preacher?” I ask, voice sharper than before. He chuckles, deep and close-lipped. “Ain’t nothin’ holy about me.” “Then don’t talk to me like you got a sermon stitched in your throat.” He bows his head just a hair, hands still at his sides. “Fair enough.”

A pause stretches long enough for the night sounds to creep back in—cicadas winding up, wind sifting through the trees. “I’m Remmick,” he says, like it matters more now. “I know.” “And you?” “You don’t need my name.” His mouth quirks like he wants to press, but he don’t. “You sure about that?” “Yes.” The silence that follows feels cleaner. Like everything’s been set on the table and neither one of us reaching for it. He nods, slow. “Alright. Just thought I’d say hello this time without makin’ the trees nervous.” I don’t smile. Don’t give him more than I want to. But I don’t turn away either. And when he steps back—slow, like he respects the space between us—I let him. This time, I watch him go. Down the path, ‘til the woods decide they’ve had enough of him.

I don’t look back once my hand’s on the porch rail. The key trembles once in the lock before it catches. Inside, it’s the same. Frank dead to the world, laid out like sin forgiven. I pass him without a glance, like I’m the ghost and not him. At the washbasin, I scrub my face until the cold water stings. Peel off the dress slow, like unwrapping something tender. The bruises bloom up my side, but I don’t touch ‘em. I slide into a cotton nightgown soft enough not to fight me. Climb into bed without expecting sleep. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling like maybe tonight it might speak.

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

I whisper it once, barely enough sound to stir the dark. Three days pass. The sun’s just fallen, but the air still clings like breath held too long. I’m on the back stoop with my foot sunk in a basin of cool water, ankle puffed up mean from Frank’s latest mood. Shawl drawn close, dress hem hiked above the bruising. The house behind me creaks like it’s thinking about falling apart. Crickets chirp with something to prove. A whip-poor-will calls once, then hushes like it said too much. And then—

“Evenin’.”

My hand jerks, sloshing water up my calf. I don’t scream, but I don’t hide the startle either. He’s by the fence post. Just leanin’. Arms folded over the top like he been there long enough to take root. Hat low, sleeves rolled, collar open at the throat. Shirt clings faint in the heat, pants dusted up from honest walking—or the kind that don’t leave footprints. I say nothing. He tips his head like he’s waiting for permission that won’t come. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You always arrive like breath behind a neck.” “I try not to,” he says, quiet. “Don’t always manage it.” That smile he wears—it don’t shine. It settles. Soft. A little sorry. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again,” he says.

“I don’t.”

He nods like he expected that too. I don’t blink. Don’t drop my gaze. “Why you keep comin’ here, Remmick?”

His name tastes different now. Sharper. He blinks once, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t think you remembered it.” “I remember what sticks wrong.” He watches me a beat longer than comfort allows. Then—calm, measured—he says, “Just figured you might not mind the company.” “That ain’t company,” I snap. “That’s trespassin’.” My voice cuts colder than I meant it to, but it don’t feel like a lie. “You know where I live. You know when I’m out here. That ain’t coincidence. That’s intent.” He don’t flinch. “I asked.”

That stops me. “Asked who?”

He lifts his hand, palm out like he ain’t holdin’ anything worth hiding. “Lady outside the feed store. Said you were the one with the porch full of peeled paint and a garden that used to be tended. Said you got a husband who drinks too early and hits too late.” My mouth goes dry.

“You spyin’ on me?” “No,” he says. “I don’t need to spy to see what’s plain.” “And what’s plain to you, exactly?” My tone is flint now. Sparked. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” He leans in, just enough. “You think that bruise on your ankle don’t show ‘cause your dress covers it? You think folks ain’t noticed how you don’t laugh no more unless you hidin’ it behind a stiff smile?” Silence folds in between us. Thick. Unwelcoming. He doesn’t press. Just keeps looking, like he’s listening for something I ain’t said yet.

“I don’t need savin’,” I murmur. “I didn’t come to save you,” he says, and his voice is different now low, but not slick. Heavy, like a weight he’s carried too far. “I just came to see if you’d talk back. That’s all.” I pull my foot from the water, slow. Wrap it in a rag. Keep my gaze steady. “You show up again unasked,” I say, “I’ll have Frank walk you home.” He chuckles. Real soft. Like he don’t think I’d do it, but he don’t plan to test me either. “I’d deserve it,” he says. Then he tips his hat after putting it back on and steps back into the night. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back. But even after he’s gone, I can feel the place he left behind—like a fingerprint on glass. ——— Inside, Frank’s already mutterin’ in his sleep. The sound of a man who ain’t never done enough to earn rest, but claims it like birthright. I move around him like I ain’t there. Later, in bed, the ceiling don’t offer peace. Just shadows that shift like breath. I lay quiet, hands folded over my stomach, heart beatin’ steady where it shouldn’t. I don’t say his name. But I think it. And it stays.

Mornings don’t change much. Not in this house. Frank’s boots hit the floor before I even open my eyes. He don’t speak—just shuffles around, clearing his throat like it’s my fault it ain’t clear yet. He spits into the sink, loud and wet, then starts lookin’ for somethin’ to curse. Today it’s the biscuits. Yesterday, it was the fact I bought the wrong tobacco. Tomorrow? Could be the way I breathe. I don’t talk back. Just pack his lunch quiet, hands moving like they’ve learned how to vanish. When the door finally slams shut behind him, the silence feels less like peace and more like a pause in the storm. The floor don’t sigh. I do.

He’ll be back by sundown. Drunk by nine. Dead asleep by ten.

And I’ll be somewhere else—at least for a little while. The juke joint’s sweating by the time I get there. Delta Slim’s on keys again, playing like his fingers been dipped in honey and sorrow. Voices ride the walls, thick and rising, the kind that ain’t tryin’ to be pretty—just loud enough to out-sing the pain. Pearline’s got Sammie backed in a corner again, her laugh syrupy and slow. She always did know how to linger in a man’s space like perfume. Cornbread’s hollering near the door, trading jokes for coin. And Annie’s on a stool, head tilted like she’s heard too much and not enough. I don’t dance tonight. Still too tender. So, I post up at the end of the bar with something sharp in my glass. Smoke sees me, gives that chin lift he reserves for bad days and bruised ribs. Stack sidles up before the ice even melts. “Quiet day today,” he asks, cracking a peanut with his teeth. I don’t look at him. Just stir my drink slow. “Talkin’ ain’t always safe.” His brows go up. He glances around like he’s checking for shadows, then leans in a bit. “Frank still being Frank?” I lift one shoulder. Stack don’t push. Just keeps on with his drink, knuckles tapping the bar like a slow metronome.

Then, quiet: “You got somethin’ heavy to let go of.” That stops me. Just a second. But he catches it. “Huh?” He shrugs, doesn’t look at me this time. “You ever seen a rabbit freeze in tall grass? That’s the look. Ears up. Heart runnin’. But it ain’t moved yet.” I run a fingertip down the side of my glass, watching the sweat bead up. “There’s been a man.” Now Stack looks. “He don’t say much. Just… shows up. Walks the same road I’m on, like we both happened there. Then he started talkin’. Knew things he shouldn’t. Last time, he was near my house. Didn’t come in. Just… lingered.” “White?” I nod.

Stack’s whole posture changes—draws tight at the shoulders, jaw working. “You want me to handle it?” I shake my head. “No.” “Y/N—” “No,” I say again, firmer. “I don’t want more fire when the house is already half burnt. He ain’t done nothin.’ Not really.” Yet. He lets it settle. Don’t agree. But he don’t argue either. Behind us, Annie’s refilling her glass. She don’t speak, but her eyes cut over to Mary. Mary catches it. Lips press together. She looks at me the way you look at something you’ve seen before but can’t stop from happening again. And then, like it’s all normal, Mary chirps out, “You hear Pearline bet Sammie he couldn’t outdrink Cornbread?” Annie scoffs. “She just tryin’ to sit on his lap before midnight.” Stack grins but don’t fully let go of his watchful look. The mood shifts easy, like it rehearsed for this. Like they all know how to laugh loud enough to cover a crack in the wall.

But I ain’t laughing.

I nurse my drink, fingers cold and wet around the glass. My eyes flick toward the door, then away. Remmick. That name’s been clingin’ to my mind like smoke in closed curtains. Thick. Quiet. Still there long after the fire’s gone out. I think about how he looked at me—not like a man looks at a woman, but like he’s listening to something inside her. I think about the way his voice wrapped around the air, soft but steady, like it belonged even when it didn’t. I think about how I told Stack I didn’t want to see him again.

And I wonder why I lied.

Frank’s truck wheezes up the road like it’s draggin’ its bones. Brakes cry once. Gravel shifts like it don’t want to hold him. Inside, the pot’s still warm on the stove. Not hot. He hates hot. Says it means I was tryin’ too hard, or not tryin’ enough. With Frank, it don’t matter which—he’ll find the fault either way. The screen door creaks and slams. That sound still startles me, even now. Boots hit wood, heavy and careless. His scent rolls in before he speaks—sweat, sun, grease, and the liquor I know he popped open three miles back. I don’t turn. Just keep spoonin’ grits into the bowl, hand steady. “You hear they cut my hours?” he says. His voice’s wound tight, all string and no tune. “No,” I say. He drops his lunch pail hard on the table. The tin rattles. A sound I hate.

“They kept Carter,” he mutters. “You know why?” I stay quiet. He answers himself anyway. “’Cause Carter got a wife who stays in her place. Don’t get folks talkin’. Don’t strut around like she’s single.” The grit spoon taps the bowl once. Then again. I let it. “You callin’ me loud?” “I’m sayin’ you don’t make it easy. Every damn week, somebody got somethin’ to say. ‘Saw her smilin’. Heard her laughin’. Like you forgot what house you live in.” I press my palm flat to the counter, slow. “Maybe if you kept your hands to yourself, folks’d have less to talk about.” It slips out too fast. But I don’t take it back. The room goes still.

Chair legs scrape. He rises like a storm cloud built slow. “You forget who you’re speakin’ to?” I feel him move before he does. Feel the air shift. “I remember,” I say. My voice don’t rise. Just settles. He comes close—closer than he needs to be. His breath touches the back of my neck before his hand does. The shove ain’t hard. But it’s meant to echo.

“You think I won’t?” I breathe once, deep. “I think you already have.” He stands there, hand still half-raised like he’s weighing what it’d cost him. Like maybe the thrill’s dulled over time. His breath’s ragged. But he backs off. Steps away. Chair squeals across the floor as he drops into it, muttering something I don’t catch. I move quiet to the sink, rinse the spoon. My back still to him. Eyes locked on the faucet. Somewhere behind me, the bowl clinks against the table. He eats in silence. And all I can think about the man who ain’t never set foot in my house but got me leavin’ the porch light on for him. —— Two weeks slip past like smoke through floorboards. Maybe more. I stopped countin’. Time don’t move the same without him in it. The nights stretch longer, duller. No shape to ‘em. Just quiet. At first, that quiet feels like mercy. Like I snuffed out something that could’ve swallowed me whole. I sleep harder. Wake lighter. For a little while. But mercy don’t last. Not when it’s pretending to be peace. Because soon, the quiet stops feeling like rest. And starts feeling like a missing tooth You keep tonguing the space, even when it hurts. At the juke joint, I start to dance again. Not wild, not free—just enough to remember how my body used to move when it wasn’t afraid of being seen. Slim plays slower that night, coaxing soft fire from the keys. The kind of song that settles deep, don’t need to shout to be felt. Pearline leans in, breath warm on my cheek. “You got your hips back,” she says, low and slick. “Don’t call it a comeback,” I grin, though it don’t sit right in my mouth.

Mary laughs when I sit back down, breath hitchin’ from the floor. “Somebody’s been puttin’ sugar in your coffee.” “Maybe I just stirred it myself,” I say. But even as I say it, my eyes go to the door. To the dark. Stack catches the look. He always does. Doesn’t press. Just watches me longer than usual, mouth tight like he wants to say somethin’ and knows he won’t.

Frank’s been… duller. Still drinks. Still stinks. Still mean in that slow, creepin’ way that feels more like rot than fire. But the heat’s gone out of it. Like he’s noticed I ain’t afraid no more and don’t know how to fight a ghost. He don’t yell as loud now. Doesn’t hit as hard. But it ain’t softness. It’s confusion. He don’t like not bein’ feared.

And maybe worse—I don’t like that he don’t try. Some nights, I sit on the back step long after the world’s gone to bed. Shawl loose around my shoulders, feet bare against the grain. The well water in the basin’s gone warm by then. Even the wind feels tired. Crickets rasp. A cicada drones. I listen like I used to—for the shift in the dark. The weight of a gaze. The way the air used to still when he was near. But there’s nothin’. Just me. Just the quiet. I catch myself one night—talkin’ out loud to the trees. “You was real brave when I didn’t want you here,” I say, voice rough from disuse. “Now I’m sittin’ like a fool hopin’ the dark says somethin’ back.”

It don’t.

The leaves stay still. No footfall. No voice. Not even a breeze. Just me. And that ache I can’t name. But he’s there. Further back than before. At the edge of the trees, where the moonlight don’t reach. Where the shadows thicken like syrup.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits. Because Remmick ain’t the kind to come knockin’. He waits ‘til the door opens itself. And I don’t know it yet, but mine already has.

The road to town don’t carry much breath after sundown. Shutters drawn, porch lights dimmed, the kind of quiet that feels agreed upon. Most folks long gone to sleep or drunk enough to mistake the stars for halos. The storefronts sit heavy with silence, save for McFadden’s—one crooked bulb humming above the porch, casting shadows that don’t move unless they got to. A dog barks once, far off. Then nothing. I keep my pace even, bag pressed close to my side, shawl wrapped too tight for the heat. Sweat pools along my spine, but I don’t loosen it. A woman wrapped in fabric is less of a story than one without. Frank went to bed with a dry tongue and a bitter mouth. Said he’d wake mean if the bottle stayed empty. Called it my duty—said the word slow, like it should weigh more than me.

So I go.

Buying quiet the only way I know how. The bell above McFadden’s door rings tired when I slip inside. The air smells like dust and vinegar and old rubber soles. The clerk doesn’t look up. Just mutters a greeting and scribbles into a pad like the world don’t exist past his pencil tip. I move quick to the back, fingers brushing the necks of bottles lined up like soldiers who already lost. I grab the one that looks the least like mercy and pay without fuss. His change is greasy. I don’t count it. The bottle’s cold against my hip through the bag, sweat bleeding through cheap paper. I step out onto the porch and down the wooden steps, gravel crunching soft beneath my heels. The lamps flicker every few feet, moths stumbling in circles like they’ve forgotten what drew them here in the first place. The dark folds in tight once I leave the storefront behind. I don’t rush. Not ‘cause I feel safe. Just learned it looks worse when you do. Then—

“You keep odd hours.” His voice don’t cut—it folds. Like it belonged to the dark and just decided to speak. I stop. Not startled. Not calm either. He’s leaned just inside the alley by the post office, one boot pressed to brick, arms loose at his sides. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, suspenders hanging slack. His collar’s open, skin pale in the low light, like he don’t sweat the same as the rest of us. He looks like he fits here. That’s what makes it strange. Ain’t no reason a man like that should belong. But he does. Like he was built from the dirt and just stood up one day. I keep one foot planted on the sidewalk.

“You don’t give up, do you,” I say. He shifts just enough for the light to catch his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite. “You make it hard.” “You looked like you didn’t wanna be spoken to in that store,” he says, voice low and even. “So I waited out here.” The streetlamp hums above us. My grip on the bottle shifts, tighter now. “You could’ve kept walkin’.” “I was hopin’ you might,” he says.

Not hopin’ I’d stop. Not hopin’ I’d talk. Hopin’ I might.

There’s a difference. And I feel it. I glance down at the bottle. The glass slick with sweat. “Frank drinks this when he’s feelin’ good. That’s the only reason I’m out this late.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. “Is that what you want?” he asks after a beat. “Frank in a good mood?” I don’t answer. I just start walking. But his voice follows, smooth as shadow. “I was married once.” I pause. Not outta interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. “She was kind,” he says. “Too kind. Tried to fix things that weren’t broke. Just wrong.” He says it like it’s already been said a thousand times. Like the taste of it’s worn out. I look back. He hasn’t taken a single step closer. Just stands there, hands tucked in his pockets, jaw set loose like he’s tired of carryin’ that story. “How do you always end up in my path?” I ask. Not curious. Just tired of not sayin’ it. He lifts a shoulder, lazy. “Some people chase fate. Some just stand where it’s bound to pass.”

I snort, soft. “Sounds like somethin’ you read in a cheap novel.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes flicking toward mine, “but some lies got a little truth buried in ‘em.” The quiet after settles deep. Not awkward. Not empty. Just close. “You shouldn’t be waitin’ on me,” I say, voice rougher now. “Ain’t nothin’ here worth the trouble.” He studies me. Not like a man tryin’ to see a woman. More like he’s lookin’ through fog, tryin’ to remember a place he used to live in. “I’ve had worse things,” he murmurs. “Worse things that never made me feel half as alive.” For a breath, the light catches his eyes. Not wrong. Not glowing. Just sharp. Like flint about to spark. Then he tips his head. “Goodnight, Y/N.” Soft. Like a promise. And just like always, he disappears without hurry. Without sound. Back into the dark like it opened for him. And maybe, just maybe, I hate how much I already expect it to do the same tomorrow.

The next day dawns heavy, the sun a reluctant guest peeking through gray clouds. I find myself trapped in that same tired rhythm, the kind of day that stretches before me like an old road—the kind you know too well to feel any excitement for. Frank’s got work today, though I can’t say I’m sure what he’ll be cursing by sundown.

As I move around the kitchen, pouring coffee and buttering bread, the silence feels thicker than usual. It clings to me, wraps around my thoughts like a vine, and I can’t shake the feeling that something's shifted. Maybe it’s just the weight of waiting for Remmick to show again, or maybe it’s that quiet ache gnawing at my insides—the kind that reminds you what hope felt like even if you’re scared to name it.

Frank shuffles in with those heavy boots of his, barely brushing past me as he grabs a mug without looking my way. He doesn’t say a word about the food or even acknowledge me standing there. Just pours himself another cup with a grimace. “How long’ve you been up?” he mutters, not really asking.

“Early enough,” I reply, holding back the urge to ask if he slept well.

He slams his mug down on the table hard enough for a ripple of coffee to splash over the edge. “What’s wrong with the damn biscuits?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoves one aside before storming out, leaving behind his bitterness hanging in the air like smoke.

I breathe deeply through my nose and keep packing his lunch—tuna salad this time; at least that’s something he won’t moan about too much. Still, every sound feels exaggerated, each scrape against porcelain echoing louder than it ought to.

Outside, I stand at the porch railing for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the sunlight warm my skin but unable to let its brightness seep into my heart. Birds are flitting from one tree branch to another—free from this heavy house—or so it seems.

I want to run after them. Escape to where everything isn’t tainted by liquor and regrets. But instead, I stay rooted in place until Frank’s truck roars down the road like some angry beast.

Once he's gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and pull on my shoes. A decent day to grab some much-needed groceries.

The heat wraps around me as I stroll through town—a gentle reminder that summer still holds sway despite all else changing. I walk through town, grabbing groceries on the way as I enjoy the weather. I run by grace’s store to grab some buttered pickles frank likes. The bell jingled above me as I entered the store, and grace comes from the back carrying an empty glass jar. She paused when she looked at me before smiling. “Hey gurl, haven’t seen ya in here for a while. Frank noticed he ate up all them buttered pickles? That damn animal.” I chuckled at her words as she set the glass jar down on the front counter. Grace moves behind the counter with that same easy rhythm she always has—like her bones already know where everything sits. The store smells like dust and sun-warmed glass, sweet tobacco, and something faintly metallic. Familiar.

“He Still workin’ over at the field?” she asks, pulling a new jar from beneath the counter. “Heard the boss cut hours again. Seems like everyone’s gettin’ squeezed ‘cept the ones doin’ the squeezin’.” “Yeah,” I mutter, glancing toward the shelf lined with dusty cans and glass jars. “He’s been stewin’ about it all week. Like it’s my fault time’s movin’ forward.” Grace snorts, capping the pickle jar and sliding it across the counter. “Girl, if Frank had his way, we’d all be wearin’ aprons and smilin’ through broken teeth.” I pick up the jar, running my fingers absently along the cold glass. “Some days it’s easier to pretend I’m deaf than fight him.” Grace leans forward, voice dropping low like she don’t want the pickles to hear. “You need somewhere to run, you come knock on my back door. Don’t matter what time.” That almost cracks me. Not enough to cry, but enough to blink slow and hold the jar tighter. “I appreciate it,” I say. She doesn’t press, just gives me a knowing nod and starts wrapping the jar in brown paper. “Also grabbed you a couple of those lemon drops you like,” she says with a wink. “Tell Frank the sugar’s for his sour ass.” That gets a real laugh outta me. Just a little one, but it lives in my chest longer than it should. Outside, the air’s heavy again. Thunder maybe, or just the kind of heat that makes everything feel like it’s about to break open. I tuck the paper bag under my arm and make my way down the street slow, dragging my fingers along the iron railings where ivy used to grow. Everything’s changing. And I don’t know if I’m running from it, or toward it. But I walk a little slower past the edge of town. Past the grove of trees that hum low when the wind slips through them. And I wonder—not for the first time—if he’ll be waiting there. And if he ain’t, why I keep hoping he will.

——

I don't light a lamp when I slip out the back door.

The house creaks behind me, drunk with silence and sour breath. Frank's dead asleep like always, belly full of cheap whiskey and whatever anger he couldn't throw at me before sleep took him.

The air outside ain't much cooler, but it's cleaner. Clear. Smells like pine and soil and something just beginning to bloom.

I walk slow. Like I'm just stretching my legs.

Like I'm not wearing the dress with the small blue flowers I ain't touched in over a year.

Like I'm not heading down the narrow path through the tall grass, the one that don't lead nowhere useful unless you're hoping to see someone who don't belong anywhere at all.

The night hums soft. Cicadas. Distant frogs. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you've stepped into a dream—or out of one.

I settle on the old stump by the split rail, hands folded, back straight, pretending I ain't waiting.

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

His voice folds in gentle behind me. Amused. Unbothered.

I don't turn right away. Just glance sideways like I hadn't noticed him there.

"Wasn't expectin' company," I say.

He steps into view, lazy as twilight, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled and collar loose. Looks like the evening shaped itself just to dress him in it.

"No," he says. "But you brought that perfume out again. Figured that was the invitation."

I shift on the stump, eyes narrowed. "You pay a lotta attention for someone who don't plan on talkin'."

"Only to the things that matter."

He stays a little ways off, respectful of the space I haven't offered but he knows he owns just the same.

"You just out here wanderin' again?" I ask, trying not to sound like I care.

"Nah," he says, grinning a little. "I came out to see if that tree finally bloomed. The one you like to lean on when you think no one's watchin'."

I feel heat crawl up my neck. I smooth my skirt like that'll hide it.

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

I shake my head, but I don't tell him to leave. Don't even ask why he's here.

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

He moves slow toward me and sits—not close enough to touch, but close enough I can feel it if I lean a little.

We sit in it a while. That hush. That weightless kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, "You laugh different at the juke joint than you do anywhere else."

I blink. "What?"

He doesn't look at me. Just watches the dark ahead, like he's reading the night for meaning.

"It's looser," he says. "Like your ribs don't hurt when you do it."

I don't answer. Can't. I ignored the question rising in my head about how he knows what’s goes on in the juke joint when I’ve never seen him in there or heard his name on peoples' lips there.

But somehow, he's right, and I hate that he knows that. Hate more that I like that he noticed.

"You got a way of sayin' too much without sayin' a damn thing," I mutter.

He huffs a laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment."

We go quiet again. But it ain't tense. It's like we're settlin' into something neither one of us has had in too long.

Eventually, I say, "Frank don' like it when I'm gon’ too long."

"You wan’ me to walk you back?" he asks, like it's the easiest offer in the world.

"No," I say, but it comes out too soft. "Not yet."

He nods once. Doesn't press. Just leans back on one elbow, eyes half-lidded like the night's pullin' him under same as me or so I thought.

"You got stories?" I ask.

He raises a brow. "You askin' me to talk?"

"Don't make a big thing outta it."

He grins slow. "Alright then."

And he does. Tells me some nonsense about stealing peaches off a preacher's tree when he was too young to know better, how he and his cousin swore the preacher had the Devil chained under his porch to guard it. His voice wraps around the words easy, like molasses and wind. Whether it was true or not, I don’t seem to care at the moment.

I don't laugh out loud, but my smile finds its way out anyway.

When he glances at me, I see it in his eyes—that same look from the last time. Not hunger. Not charm.

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

I've been lookin' forward to the night often these days, not because of him, of course… The night breathes warm against my skin. I'm on the porch, knees drawn up, pickin' absently at blades of grass growin' between the cracked boards like they're trespassin' and don't know it. I pluck them one by one, not really thinkin', not really waitin'—but not exactly doin' anything else either. I'm wearing the baby blue dress, The one with the lace at the collar, mended too many times to count but still hangin' right. I don't light the porch lamp. The dark feels easier to sit in. And then I hear him. Not footsteps. Not a branch snapping. Just… the way quiet shifts when something enters it. He steps from the tree line, slow like he don't want to spook the night. This time, he's carryin' something. A small bundle of wildflowers—purple ironweed, white clover, queen anne's lace—loosely knotted with a bit of twine. He stops at the porch steps and looks at me. Then, without a word, he sets the flowers down between us and lowers himself to sit at the edge of the stoop. Close. Not too close.

"I didn't bring 'em for a reason," he says after a while. "Just passed 'em and thought of you." My fingers drift toward the flowers, not quite touchin' them, but close enough to feel the velvet edge of a petal against my skin. The warmth of his nearness makes my breath catch somewhere between my throat and chest. "They're weeds," I murmur, though the word comes out gentle, almost like a caress. "They're what grows without bein' asked," he replies, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that way that makes my stomach drop like I'm fallin'. That quiet comes back. But it's a different kind now. Softer. Like the world's hushin' itself to hear what we might say next. I look at him then. Really look. Not at his mouth or his clothes ,that easy lean of his shoulders or those pouty eyebrows —but his hands. They're calloused, dirt beneath the nails. Not soft like the rest of him sometimes pretends to be. My fingers twitch with the sudden, foolish urge to trace those rough lines, to learn their map.

"You work?" I ask, the question slippin' out before I can catch it, betrayin' a curiosity I wasn't ready to admit. "I do what needs doin'." The words rumble low in his chest. "That's not an answer." I tilt my head, and the night air kisses the exposed curve of my neck. He turns his head, slow. "That's 'cause you ain't ready for the truth." The words wash over me like Mississippi heat—dangerous, thrillin'. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I go back to pickin' the grass, my fingertips brushin' wildflower stems now instead of weeds. Each touch feels deliberate in a way that makes my pulse flutter at my wrist, at my throat. He doesn't push. Doesn't move. Just sits with me 'til the moon's hangin' heavy over the trees, his presence beside me more intoxicatin' than any whiskey from Smoke's bar. The space between us hums with possibilities—with all the things we ain't sayin'. When he leaves, I don't stop him but my body leans forward like it's got its own will, wantin' to follow the trail of his shadow into the dark. But I take the flowers inside. Put 'em in the jelly jar Frank left on the windowsill.

——

The wildflowers sit in that jelly jar like they belong there—like they’ve always belonged. Their colors are faded but stubborn, standing tall in the quiet corner of the kitchen, drinking in the slant of light that filters through the window. I find myself glancing at them too often, like they might tell me something I don’t already know. I tell myself not to read into it, not to hope. But hope’s a quiet thing, and it’s been whispering to me since I first set foot in this place. By dusk, I’m already outside, wrapped in the blanket I keep tucked in the closet, knees drawn up tight. The dusty brown dress I wear is softer with wear, almost like a second skin. I clutch the two tin cups—corn liquor, waiting in the dark, like a held breath. It’s a ritual I don’t question anymore. He comes out the trees just after the steam from the day’s heat begins to fade, silent as always. No rustle of leaves, no announcement. Just that subtle shift in the hush, like the woods are holding their breath. I see him leaning on the porch post, eyes flickering to the cup beside me, like it’s calling him home. “Always know when to show up,” I say, voice low but steady, trying to sound like I don’t care if he’s late or not. Like I’m used to waiting. He tosses back, smooth as dusk, “Always pour for two?” I can’t help the smile that sneaks up—soft and slow. “Only for good company.” He steps closer, slower tonight, like he’s weighing each movement. Sits beside me, leaving just enough space between us for the night air to stretch its arms. I hold out the second cup, the one I poured just for him.

He wraps his fingers around it but doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Don’t drink?” I ask, voice gentle but curious, like I might catch a lie if I ask too loud. His thumb taps the rim, slow and deliberate. “Used to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Too much, maybe. Doesn’t sit right with me these days.” I nod, like that makes sense. Maybe it does. Maybe I don’t want to look too close at the parts that don’t fit. The parts that hurt, that choke down the hope I’m trying to keep buried. Instead, I take a sip, letting the liquor burn a warm trail down my throat. It’s a small comfort, a fleeting warmth. I watch the dark swallow the road that disappears into nothingness, and I say, “Used to think I’d leave this place. Run off somewhere—Memphis, maybe. Open a little store. Serve pies and good coffee. Wear shoes that click when I walk.”

He hums, low and distant, like a train far away. “What stopped you?” My gaze drops to my hand, to the dull gold band that’s thin and worn. I trace the edge with my thumb, feeling the cold metal. “This,” I say. “And maybe I didn’t think I deserved more.” He doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t say I do. Just looks at me like he’s already seen the ending, like he’s read the last page and ain’t gonna spoil it.

“I worked an orchard once,” he says softly, voice almost lost in the night. “Peaches big as your fist. Skin like velvet. The kind of place that smells like August even in February.” “Sounds made up,” I murmur, feeling the weight of the quiet between us. He leans in closer, eyes steady. “So do dreams. Don’t mean they ain’t real.” A laugh escapes me—sharp and surprised, like I’ve been caught off guard. I slap at his arm before I can think better of it. “You talk like a man who’s read too many books.” “I talk like a man who listens,” he says, quiet but sure. That hush falls again, but it’s different this time—full, like the moment just before a kiss that never quite happens. I feel it—the space between us thickening, heavy with unspoken words and things I can’t say out loud.

— Days passed, he shows up again, bringing blackberries wrapped in a white cloth, stained deep purple-blue. The scent hits me before I see them—sweet, wild, tempting. “Bribery?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide the way my heart quickens. “A peace offering,” he replies, with that quiet smile. “In case the last story bored you.” I reach in without asking, pop a berry into my mouth. Juicy and sharp, bursting with sweetness that makes me forget everything else—forgot the weight of my ring, forgot the man inside my house, forgot the world outside this moment. He watches me, a softness behind his eyes I don’t trust but can’t look away from. I hand him the other cup again. He takes it, polite as always, but doesn’t sip. We settle into stories—nothing big, just small things. The town’s latest gossip, a cow wandering into the churchyard last Sunday, the way summer makes the woods smell like wild mint if you walk far enough in. I tell him things I didn’t know I remembered—about my mama’s hands, about the time I got stung trying to kiss a bumblebee, about the blue ribbon pie I made for the fair when I was fifteen, thinking winning meant freedom. He listens like it matters, like these stories are something he’s been waiting to hear. And for the first time in a long while, I laugh with my whole mouth, not caring who hears or what they think. The sound spills out, unfiltered and free, filling the night with something real. I forget the ring on my finger. Forget the man inside the house. Forget everything but this—the night, the berries, and him. The man who doesn’t drink but still knows how to make me feel full.

——

The jelly jar’s gone cloudy from dust and sunlight, but the wildflowers still stand like they’re stubborn enough to outlast the world. A few petals have fallen on the sill, curled and dry, and I haven’t moved them. Let ’em stay. They feel like proof—proof that life’s still fighting, even when everything else is fading. A week’s passed. Seven nights of quiet—hushed conversations I kept to myself, shoulders pressed close under a sky that don’t judge, don’t say a word. Seven nights where my bruises softened in bloom and bloom again, where Frank came home drunk and left early, angry—always angry. Not once did I go to the juke joint—not because I wasn’t welcome, but because I didn’t want to miss a single echo from the woods, a single step that might carry me out.

Remmick never knocks. Never calls out. He just appears—like something old and patient, shaped out of shadow and moonlight, settling beside me without question. Sometimes he brings nothing, and I wonder if he’s even real. Other nights, it’s blackberries, or a story, or just silence, and I let it fill the space between us. And I do. God, I do. I tell him things I never even told Frank. About how I used to pretend the porch was a stage, singin’ blues into a wooden spoon. How my mama braided my hair so tight it made my scalp sting, said pain was the price of lookin’ kept. How I almost ran—bags packed, bus ticket clenched tight—then sat on the curb ‘til dawn, too scared to move, then crawled back inside like a coward. He never judges. Never interrupts. Just watches me, like I’m music he’s heard a thousand times, trying to memorize the lyrics. Tonight, I don’t wait on the porch.

I’m already walkin’. The night’s thick and heavy, like the land’s holdin’ its breath. I slip through the back gate, shawl loose around my shoulders, dress flutterin’ just above my knees. The clearing’s ahead—the path I’ve grown used to walking. He’s already there. Leaning against a tree, like he belongs to it. His white shirt glows faint under the moon, suspenders hanging loose, like he forgot to do up the buttons. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees me—like he’s been waitin’ for me to come, even if he don’t say it. “You’re early,” he says, low. “I couldn’t sit still,” I whisper back, voice soft but steady. His eyes trace me—like he’s drawing a map he’s known a thousand times but still finds new roads. I step toward him slow, the grass cool beneath my feet, and when I’m close enough to feel the pull of him, I stop. “I been thinkin’,” I say, real quiet. “Dangerous thing,” he murmurs, lips twitching just enough to make my heart kick.

“I ain’t been to the joint all week,” I continue, voice thick as summer air. “Ain’t danced. Ain’t played. Ain’t needed to.” He waits—patient, silent. Like always. “I’d rather be here,” I whisper, and something inside me cracks open. “With you.” The silence that follows ain’t cold. It’s heavy—warm, even. Like a breath held tight in the chest before a storm breaks loose, like the whole earth hums with what’s coming. “I know,” he says. Just that. Two words that make me feel seen and bare and weightless all at once. I don’t think. I just move. Step into him, hands pressed to the buttons of his shirt. My eyes stay fixed on his mouth, not lookin’ anywhere else. And when he doesn’t pull back—when he leans just enough to meet me—I kiss him. It starts soft. Lips barely grazin’, testing, waiting for something to happen. But then he exhales—like he’s been holdin’ somethin’ in for a century—and the second kiss isn’t soft anymore. It’s heat. It’s need. My fingers clutch his shirt like I’m drownin’, and he’s oxygen. His hands find my waist, firm but gentle, like he’s afraid of breakin’ me even as he pulls me closer. I swear the whole forest leans in to watch, silent and still.

He don’t push. Don’t take more than I give. But what I give? It’s everything.

He don’t say nothin’ when I pull back. Just watches me, tongue slow across his bottom lip, like he’s already tasted me in a dream. “C’mere,” he says low, voice rough as gravel soaked in honey. “You smell sweet as sin.” I step into him again without thinkin’, heart rattlin’ around like it’s tryin’ to climb outta my chest. His palm presses to the back of my neck, warm and heavy, pulling me into a kiss that don’t feel like a kiss. It’s a deal, made in shadows, older than us all—something that’s been waitin’ to happen. The second our mouths meet, he moans deep in his chest—like he’s relieved, like he’s been holdin’ back for years. Then he spins me—fast—hands already under my dress. “Ain’t no point bein’ shy now, baby. Not after all them nights sittin’ close, like you wasn’t drippin’ for me.” My knees almost buckle. He bends me over a log, and I don’t resist. I can’t. My hands grip the bark tight, dress shoved up, panties dragged down with a yank that’s impatient and sure. I hear him spit into his palm. Hear the slick sound of him strokin’ himself once, twice. Then he sinks into me—slow, too slow—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath I take. My mouth opens, no words, just a gasp that’s all I can manage. “Goddamn,” he mutters behind me. “Look at you takin’ me. Tight like you was built for it.” He starts movin’, deep and filthy, grindin’ into me with purpose. I arch back into it, already lost in the feel of him. And then I see it. His face—just behind my shoulder. His jaw clenched tight. His pupils blown wide—no, glowing. A flicker of red embers in each eye, like fire trapped inside. I blink, and it’s gone. I tell myself it’s the moonlight, the heat, how mushy my brain is from what he’s doin’, like he owns me. He don’t give me a second to think. “Feel that?” he growls. “Feel how your pussy’s huggin’ my cock like she knows me?” I whimper—pathetic, high-pitched—but I can’t stop it. “Remmick—fuck—” He yanks my hair, just enough, til I tilt my head back. “You was waitin’ for this,” he says, voice low and rough. “I seen it. Seen the way you look at me like I’m the last bad thing you’ll ever let hurt you.” Leaning into my neck, lips brushing skin, breath cold now—too cold. “But I ain’t gone hurt you, darlin.’ I’m gone ruin you.” He bites—just a little, not sharp—enough to make me gasp, my whole body tensing on him. He laughs—soft, wicked. “Oh yeah,” he says, rutting harder. “You gone come for me like this. Face in the moss, legs shakin’. All these pretty little sounds spillin’ out your mouth like you need it.” I can barely keep up. Dizziness hits hard, slick runnin’ down my thighs, his cock hittin’ that spot over and over. “Say you’re mine,” he growls, hips slammin’ in so deep I cry out. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Remmick—” His voice drops—dark, velvet, dirtied—like he’s talkin’ from a place even he don’t fully understand. “Good girl,” he mutters. “Ain’t nobody gone fuck you like me. Ain’t nobody got the hunger I do.” And I feel his hand—big and rough—wrap around my throat from behind, just enough to remind me he’s still in control. Then he starts pumpin’ into me—fast, mean, nasty. My back arches. My moans break into sobs. “You gone give it to me?” he pants, barely human anymore. “Come all over this cock?” I want to answer. I try. But I can’t—my body’s already gone, trembling on the edge of something wild and white and all-consuming. And the second I come—everything breaks loose. He buries himself deep and roars—low and wrong, not a man’s sound at all. I feel him twitch, feel the flood of heat spill inside me, and his face presses into my neck, mouth open like he’s fightin’ the urge to bite down.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there. Still. Breathin’ like he ain’t breathed in years. ——

The morning creeps in slow, afraid to wake me, like it knows I’ve crossed a line I can’t come back from. I roll over, the sheet sticky against my skin, last night’s heat still clingin’. For a second—just a second—I forget where I am. Forget the weight of the house, the stale scent of bourbon and sweat baked into the walls. All I feel is the ghost of him—Remmick—still there in the ache between my thighs, in the buzz that lingers low in my belly. Remembered the way remmick carried me back to my porch and kissed me goodnight before walking away becoming one with the night. My fingers drift without thought, pressing just above my hip where a dull throb pulses. I wince, then pull the blanket back. And there it is. A dark, new bruise—shaped like a handprint—only it ain’t right. Too long. The fingers are too slim, curved strange, like something trying too hard to be human. My breath catches. I press again—harder this time—hoping pain might wash the shape away, or that pressure might flatten whatever’s twisted inside me.

But it doesn’t.

So I pull the blanket up, wrap it tight around me, and lie still, staring at the ceiling—waiting for some sign, some answer, some permission to feel what I shouldn’t. Because the truth is—I should be scared. I should be askin’ questions. Should be second-guessin’ everything last night meant.

But I’m not.

Instead, I replay how he looked at me—how his hands, too warm, too sure, moved like they’d known my body in another life. How he said my name like it was already his. I press my legs together under the sheet, close my eyes, and breathe deep. A girl gets used to silence. Gets used to fear. But nobody warns you how dangerous it is to be wanted that way. Touched like you’re somethin’ rare. Somethin’ sacred. Somethin’ wanted.

And I—I liked it. More than that—I craved it now. Even with the bruises. Even with the shadows twisting in my gut. Even with the memory of those eyes—burnin’ too bright in the dark. Don’t know if it’s love. But it sure as hell felt like it.

——

I move slow through the kitchen that morning, feet bare against cool linoleum. The coffee’s already gone bitter in the pot. Frank’s still in bed, his snores rasping through the cracked door like dull saw blades. I lean against the sink, sip from a chipped mug, and glance out the window. The jelly jar’s still there. Wildflowers wiltin’ now, but proud in their dying. I touch the bruise again through my dress. And I smile. Just a little. Because maybe something ain’t quite right. But for the first time in a long while—I’m happy, or well I thought…

——

The nights kept rollin’ like they belonged to us. Me and Remmick, sittin’ under stars that blinked like they was tryin’ to stay quiet. Sometimes we talked a lot. Sometimes we didn’t too much. But even the silence with him had weight, like it was filled with words we weren’t ready to say yet.

I’d tell him stories from before Frank, when my laughter hadn’t yet learned to flinch. He’d listen with that look he had—chin dipped low, eyes tilted up, mouth soft like he was drinkin’ me in, slow. He never interrupted. Never tried to solve anything. Just sat with it all. That kind of listenin’ can make a woman feel holy.

And I guess I got used to that rhythm. I got too used to it.

Because on the twelfth night, maybe the thirteenth—don’t really matter—he said something that pulled the thread straight from the hem. We were sittin’ close again. My shawl slippin’ off one shoulder, the moonlight makin’ silver out of the bruises on my thigh. He had that look on him again, like he wanted to ask somethin’ he’d already decided to regret. “You know Sammie?” he asked, real casual. Like it was just another name. I blinked. The name hit strange. “Sammie who?” He shrugged like he didn’t know the last name. “That boy. Plays that guitar like it talks back. You said he played with Pearline sometimes.” I sat up straighter.

I never said that.

I’d never mentioned Sammie at all. I swallowed. My smile faded before I could think to save it. “I don’t remember bringin’ up Sammie.” The pause that followed was heavy. And not in the good way. Remmick shifted beside me, slow. His jaw ticked once. “You sure?” I nodded, eyes never leaving him. “I’d remember talkin’ ‘bout Sammie.” He looked out at the trees, the edge of his mouth tight. “Huh.” And just like that, the air changed. It got thinner. Like breath didn’t want to come easy no more. I pulled the shawl closer. Suddenly real aware of the fact that I didn’t know where he slept. Didn’t know if he ever blinked when I wasn’t lookin’. “You alright?” he asked, too quick. “You askin’ me that, or yourself?” He turned to me then—real sharp. Real focused. “Why you gettin’ quiet?”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

“Just surprised, is all,” I finally said, trying to smooth it over like I hadn’t just tripped on somethin’ sharp in his words. “Didn’t think you knew anybody round here.” “I don’t,” he said, fast. “You’re the only one I talk to.” “Then how you know Sammie plays guitar? I’ve never seen you at the juke joint nor heard word about you from anyone there.” His stare was too still now. Too fixed. Like a dog watchin’ a rabbit it ain’t sure it’s allowed to chase. “Maybe I heard it through the wind,” he said, not responding to the other part. But there was no smile behind it. Just the shadow of a man used to bein’ questioned. A man who didn’t like the feel of it. I stood, brushing grass off my legs. “I should head in.” He stood too, slower. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe the night just made him bigger.

“You mad at me?” he asked, quiet now. “No,” I said. “Just thinkin’. That alright with you?” He nodded. But it didn’t look like agreement. It looked like calculation. I didn’t turn my back on him till I hit the porch. And even then, I felt his eyes stick to my spine like syrup. Inside, I sat by the window, hands still wrapped around the cup I didn’t finish. The wildflowers were dry now. Curlin’ in on themselves. And I thought to myself—real quiet, so it wouldn’t wake the rest of me: How the hell did he know Sammie and what business he wan’ with him?

——— The days slipped back into that gray stretch of sameness after I started avoidin’ him. I filled my hours with chores, with silence, with tryin’ to forget the way Remmick used to sit so still beside me you’d think the night made room for him. But the nights weren’t mine anymore. I stopped goin’ to the porch. Stopped lingerin’ in the dark. The quiet didn’t soothe me—it stalked me. I felt it behind me on the walk home. At the edge of the trees. In the walls. I knew he was there.

Watchin’. Waitin’.

But I didn’t let him in again. Not even with my thoughts. That night, the juke joint buzzed with life. Hot bodies pressed close, laughter thick with drink, music ridin’ high on the air. I hadn’t been back in weeks, but I needed noise. Needed people. Needed not to feel alone. I sipped liquor like it might drown the nerves rattlin’ under my ribs. Played cards with a few men, some women. Slammed down a queen and grinned as I scooped the pot. That’s when Annie approached me.

“Y/N,” she whispered, voice tight. I looked up. “Frank’s here.” The name hit like a slap. I blinked. “What?” “He’s outside. Ask’n for you.” Annie’s face was pale, serious. Not the usual mischief in her eyes—just worry. I rose slow. “He’s never come here before.” Annie just nodded. We moved together, my heart poundin’. Smoke, Stack, and Cornbread were already standin’ at the open door, muscles tense, words clipped and low. When Frank saw me, he smiled. That wide, too-big smile I’d never seen on him. Not even on our wedding day. “Hey baby,” he drawled, too casual. “Wonderin’ when you’d come out here and let me in. These folks actin’ like I done somethin’ wrong.”

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

“Frank, why’re you here?” My voice was calm, but confusion lined every word. He laughed—soft, amused. “Can’t a man come see his wife? Thought maybe I’d finally check out what keeps you out so late.” Something was off. Everything was off. “You hate loud music,” I said, heart poundin’. “You said this place was full of nothin’ but whores and heathens.” He looked… wrong. Eyes too glassy. Skin too pale under the porch light. “Can’t we all change?” he said, teeth flashin’. “Now can I come in and enjoy my night like you folks?”

I looked at Smoke. He gave me that look—the one that said “you don’t gotta say yes.” But I opened my mouth anyway. Paused. Frank’s smile dropped just a little. “Y/N,” he said, his voice darker now. Familiar in its danger. “Can I come in or not?” My hand flew up before Stack could step forward. I swallowed hard.

“Come in, Frank.”

The words fell like stones. And just like that, the door to hell opened. The moment he crossed that threshold, the temperature dropped. I swear it did.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t drink. Just sat at the bar, stiff and still, like a wolf wearin’ man’s skin. Annie leaned into Smoke’s shoulder. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” she muttered. Mary nodded, arms folded. “He looks hollow.” Thirty minutes passed. Then Frank stood. Didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked into the crowd like a man on a mission. Headin’ straight for the stage.

Straight for Sammie.

Smoke pushed off the wall, followin’ fast. But before anyone could act, Frank lunged—grabbed a man near the front and tackled him to the floor. Screamin’ erupted as Frank sank his teeth into the man’s neck. Bit down. Tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards, across people’s shoes. The scream that left my throat didn’t sound like mine. Smoke pulled his pistol and fired. The sound cracked through the joint like lightning. The man jerked, then stilled. Frank’s body fell limp over him, gore soakin’ his shirt. Then suddenly Frank stood back up like he wasn’t just shot in the head, the man he bitten standing up besides him the same eerie smile on both their blood stained mouths.

I stood frozen in place.

People screamed, chairs overturned, glass shattered. Stack wrestled another body that started lurchin’ with glowing -white eyes. Mary grabbed Pearline, draggin’ her through the back exit. Annie grabbed me. “Y/N—we gotta GO!” We burst through the back, runnin’. I took the lead, feet slammin’ down the path I used to walk like a lullaby. Not now. Not anymore. Now it felt like runnin’ through a grave. Behind me, I heard chaos—growls, screams, more gunshots. I looked back once. Bodies jumpin’ on each other, teeth sinkin’ into flesh. All Their eyes— White. Glowing like candle flames in a dead house. Annie was right behind me.

Then she wasn’t.

I turned. They were all gone. Sammie. Pearline. Mary. Annie. Gone.

I kept runnin’. The clearing opened up like a mouth, and I stumbled into it, chest heaving. And that’s when I saw him. Same silhouette. Same calm. But he wasn’t the man I knew. Remmick stood just beyond the tree line, Same shirt. Same pants. But now soaked through with blood. But his face— That smile wasn’t his smile. Those eyes weren’t human. Red. Glowing like coals. Just like I thought I saw that night I gave him everything. I froze. My legs locked. My throat closed up. Remmick tilted his head, playful. Mocking.

“Oh darlin’,” he cooed, stepping forward, arms out like a man offerin’ salvation. “Where you think you runnin’ off to? You’re gonna miss the party.” I stumbled back, tears burnin’ in my eyes. “What are you?” He stepped forward, arms open like he meant to cradle me, like he hadn’t just let blood dry on his chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, like it was me betrayin’ him. “You knew. Somewhere in that smart little head of yours, you knew. The eyes, the voice, the way I don’t come out durin’ daytime—”

“You lied,” I whispered. “Only when I needed too,” he said. I shook my head. “I thought you loved me.” Remmick stopped, cocking his head. Everything soft in him was gone. Only sharp edges now. “You thought it was love?” he asked, teeth glintin’ between blood. “You thought I wanted you?” I flinched.

“All I needed was a way in. You—” he stepped closer, “—were just a door. But you kept it shut. Had to break you open. Took longer than I liked.” “I trusted you,” I said, voice crumblin’. “And you broke so pretty,” he said. “I almost didn’t wanna finish the job. But then you ran. Made it… inconvenient.” He hissed softly, a grin curling up like a scar.

“I didn’t want you, Y/N. I wanted Sammie. That boy’s voice carries somethin’ old in it. Ancient. And that joint?” He gestured back toward the chaos. “It’s sacred ground.” “You used me,” I whispered, tears burnin’ now. “I let you in. I trusted you.”

“You believed me,” he corrected. “And that’s all I ever needed.” My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and spine, all my blood screamin’ for me to run. But I couldn’t move—just stared at Remmick, my chest heavy with grief, with betrayal, with rage. He tilted his head again, eyes burning like iron pulled from a forge. “I didn’t want you,” he said again, voice soft as a lullaby. “I wanted the key. And girl, you were it.”

My throat worked around a sob. My legs, finally rememberin’ they was mine, shifted. I turned to bolt— And stopped.

There they stood.

A wall of them.

Faces I knew too well. Cornbread. Mary. Stack. Even Annie—lips pulled in a wide, wrong smile. Their skin was pale, waxy. Their eyes—oh God, their eyes—glowin’ white like candles lit from the inside. They didn’t speak at first. Just smiled. Stared.

And then—slow and soft—they started to hum. That same song Sammie used to play on slow nights. The one that never had words, just a melody made of aching and memory. But now it had words. And they all sang ‘em. “Sleep, little darlin’, the dark’s gone sweet, The blood runs warm, the circle’s complete, its freedom you seek…”

I backed away, breath shiverin’ in and out of my lungs. The chorus kept swellin’. Their voices overlappin’, mouths stretchin’ too wide, white eyes never blinkin’. Like they weren’t people anymore. Just shells. Just echoes.

I turned back to Remmick— And he was right in front of me. So close I could see the dried blood on his collar, the gleam of teeth too long to belong in any man’s mouth. He lifted his hand—calm, steady. Like he was invitin’ me to dance. “Come on, Y/N,” he whispered, smile almost tender now. “Ain’t you tired of runnin’?” I didn’t know if I was breathin’. Didn’t know if I wanted to be. Everything hurt. Everything I’d carried—love, hope, grief, rage—it all sat in my mouth like copper.

I looked at his hand again. And maybe, for just a moment, I thought about takin’ it. But maybe I didn’t. Maybe I turned and ran straight into the woods. Maybe I screamed. Maybe I smiled. Maybe I never left that clearin’. Maybe I did. Maybe the darkness that took over me, was just my eyes closed wishing to wake from this nightmare.