#but again that will be a whole other post

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[viaxslz]

⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. “I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It’s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR VI

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.7k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'm finally home!! For some reason tumblr was blocked on my laptop there, which was why I wasn't that active but I hope you all enjoyed the other scheduled posts. I wanted to get this one out to y'all as soon as I could, so I hope my jet lagged brain managed to proof read it fine...if not oops. Also, I think the last chapter of this was scheduled so people were missed on the taglist, i should've fixed that for this chapter but let me know if you were missed! I'm sorry about that! Also did anyone catch that supernatural reference?

MILO'S APARTMENT

You were fucking panicking.

The second you saw that text on your phone, you were out the door and en route to Milo and Anthony’s apartment like it was a goddamn emergency—and to you, it was. You didn’t even say hello. Just beelined straight for their wine rack and uncorked a bottle like your life depended on it.

Halfway through chugging it, Milo snatched it from your grip.

“Talk or no more wine,” he said flatly. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You groaned, dragging both hands down your face before collapsing onto the couch. “I fucked up.”

“Okay, well, you better start talking, because I swear to God—was it the match? You never told me how it went. Was he an asshole?”

“No,” you said, sitting up. “No. Dick was great.”

“Okay…” Milo said slowly.

“And so is Jason.”

He blinked. “Who the fuck is Jason?”

You explained. Everything. From the amazing date with Dick to the equally amazing time with Jason—each moment fresh in your mind and impossible to ignore—to the absolute mess you’d found yourself tangled in now.

“And now they both want to go out with me again,” you finished, looking like you might actually pass out from sheer stress. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Milo stared at you.

“I fail to see the problem here.”

You gawked at him. “I can’t date two guys at the same time!”

“Why the fuck not?” he demanded. “You’re hot. You’re single. And you’re exploring your romantic portfolio.”

You hesitated, then exhaled. “I feel bad.”

Milo narrowed his eyes at you like you’d just confessed to murdering someone’s puppy. “You feel bad?”

“Yes!” you groaned, collapsing against the couch cushions like the weight of your sins had finally taken you down. “I went out with Jason. After my date with Dick. Who, by the way, I also really like. And now I’m just… spiralling.”

Anthony, who’d been eavesdropping, finally emerged from the kitchen, casually sipping from his own glass of wine like this was better than anything Netflix could offer. He leaned against the doorway, perfectly at ease. 

“So let me get this straight,” he said, one brow raised. “You went on a date with one hot guy, then met another hot guy who you also went on a date with, and now both of them want more?”

You glared at him, deadpan. “Yes.”

He took another sip. “Girl, if that’s not the universe begging you to experiment, I don’t know what is.”

Milo jabbed a finger in your direction. “Exactly! You’re not cheating. You’re single. You’re exploring. Gathering data.”

“I’m not running a clinical trial,” you snapped, though a laugh escaped despite yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Anthony muttered into his wine. “You’re treating this like a double-blind study with ethical guidelines.”

You covered your face with both hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“No,” Milo corrected, setting down his glass. “A nightmare is getting ghosted by someone who still watches all your stories and likes your dog pics. This? This is a champagne problem.”

You peeked at Milo through your fingers. “So… what do I do?”

“Date both,” he said without missing a beat.

“No.”

“Date. Both,” he repeated, completely undeterred. “No commitment. No promises. Just casual. See who actually fits into your life. Who listens. Who remembers your coffee order. Who quotes Austen and doesn’t flinch when you spiral into a lecture about neurotoxins.”

“Dick could keep up when I went full brainiac mode,” you murmured. “And Jason… Jason quoted Austen. Unprompted.”

Milo clutched his chest like you’d personally wounded him. “Be still my heart.”

“And they’re both so… different and amazing in their own ways,” you added, softer now, more to yourself than to them. “Dick is light. Safe. He makes me feel seen. And Jason is—”

“A walking red flag with a Shakespeare soul and hidden depth,” Anthony chimed in, deadpan.

You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Milo gave you a pointed look. “Babe. You’re not choosing between a villain and a hero. You’re choosing between two men who see you. Who want to know you. If they’re both worth your time… then take the damn time to find out who you want and get to know them.”

You hesitated. “And if it blows up in my face?”

Milo didn’t blink. Just reached for the wine and refilled your glass. “Then we’ll be right here. With a playlist, ice cream, and a very detailed hit list.”

“Color-coded,” Anthony added with a sage nod. “Naturally.”

You exhaled, dragging a hand through your hair. “I hate how much sense you two make.”

“We’re gay. It’s our burden to carry,” Milo said solemnly, raising his glass. “To emotional clarity and romantic chaos.”

Anthony nodded, raising his own. “And may the best man win.”

You stared at them both like they’d sprouted wings or grown extra heads. “This is still ridiculous.”

“This,” Milo countered, pouring more wine into your glass, “is the golden age of options. You’re allowed to figure it out without pledging your undying love to the first man who makes you laugh.”

“I kissed Jason,” you muttered into your glass.

“And?” Anthony sipped. “Did you enjoy it?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Too much.”

“Exactly.” Milo held his glass up. “Right now, you just don’t know what you’re allowed to feel.”

You looked at them—these two chaotic bastards who somehow made emotional turmoil sound like a well-curated spa retreat—and let out a long breath.

“…I know I still feel bad.”

Milo rolled his eyes. “That’s because you’re a good person. You can feel bad and also let two hot guys take you out. Both things can be true.”

Anthony raised his glass. “To moral ambiguity and excellent taste in men.”

You clinked yours against theirs, muttering, “I’m going to hell.”

Milo grinned. “Then take both of them with you, babe.”

BATCAVE

Meanwhile, Jason was still riding the high from earlier. The night air was cool against his skin, the streets quiet beneath the hum of his bike. He was halfway to his apartment when the notification came through.

A case update.

He didn’t hesitate. One hard turn of the throttle, and he was veering off course, heading straight for the manor.

Inside the Batcave, the mood was noticeably different. Dick and Bruce were already suited up, arms crossed in near-identical stances, while Tim was anchored to the console, eyes scanning a rapid stream of data across multiple monitors.

“Took your time,” Dick said lightly, though the usual ease in his voice was dulled.

“I was busy,” Jason shot back, tugging off his gloves. “What’ve we got?”

Bruce turned toward the central screen, the glow casting shadows across his jaw. “We found a breakthrough.”

Jason’s easy mood evaporated.

Tim tapped a key, bringing up a profile. “To cut to the chase—we know who our ghost is.”

“Well, that’s great. Let’s track the son of a bitch down,” Jason said, his voice clipped with impatience as he stepped closer to the screen.

“It’s not that simple,” Tim replied, already typing something in. “There’s been no physical sightings in over four years. No residence, no digital footprint, no bank activity. Nothing directly traceable. We only got a name because of a flagged experiment—an old one that matches his signature. It was buried in an ethics report filed by his only known connection.”

Tim tapped another key.

“B/N L/N,” he said. “And the only person who might be able to help us find him—his younger sister.”

With a soft beep, the next slide loaded on screen.

A profile image appeared.

Jason froze. So did Dick.

“Dr. Y/N L/N,” Tim continued, unfazed. “Lecturer. Neuroscientist. Gotham University. She’s the one who blew the whistle on his unethical research, which caused the rift between them. Records show he’s made multiple attempts to contact her over the years. If he’s on the run from Joker… she might be the only person he trusts enough to go to. Or the only one who knows how he thinks.”

“She’s one of the youngest in her field,” he added, “with two PHDs—”

“Three,” Jason and Dick said at the same time before pausing.

Both men turned slowly, brows raised, staring at each other across the space between.

“How did you know that?” Dick asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jason’s gaze snapped to him. “How did you know that?”

Tim looked between them, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Okay… do I even want to know what’s happening here?”

Bruce didn’t so much as blink. “Where can we find her?”

Tim cleared his throat, grateful for the shift back to business. “She’s scheduled to appear at the Gotham Futures Gala this weekend. It’s a high-profile event at the Fairmont. She’s a guest speaker. The event’s raising funds for youth science education and mentorship programs—STEM access, early outreach, that kind of thing.”

Bruce nodded, calculating. “Alright. I can go and see if I can—”

“No!” The word rang out in unison. Both Jason and Dick spoke at once, their voices overlapping in sudden urgency.

Bruce’s gaze flicked between them, unimpressed. “No?”

“I’ll go,” Dick said, his voice smooth and easy—too easy. The kind of voice he usually used to charm the high society. “You’re stretched thin with the Joker situation. Let me take this one.”

“Or I can go.” Jason stated. 

“You don’t even like gala’s.” Dick scoffed. 

“And you do?” Jason raised a brow. “You spend half the night dodging donors and sneaking champagne behind the curtains.”

“At least I clean up well.”

Jason crossed his arms. “You need to get back to Blüdhaven.”

“I’m on leave.” Dick snipped back. 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already nursing a headache.

“Enough,” he said, tone edged with steel. “I don’t care which one of you goes. Just make contact with her. Find out what she knows.”

And with that, the ever-exhausted father of far too many turned on his heel and left the cave.

The second Bruce left the cave, the tension snapped like a rubber band. Both Jason and Dick turned in perfect sync, glaring at each other with the intensity of a pending brawl.

“I’m going,” they declared at the same time.

Jason scoffed, folding his arms. “How do you even know her?”

“She was my date!” Dick snapped, voice pitching upward as his patience immediately vanished.

Jason blinked. “Wait—the one from that dating app?”

“You signed up for a dating app?!” Tim choked, spinning around so fast in his chair he nearly tipped over. His eyes were wide, scandalized. “You?!”

Dick didn’t even spare him a glance. “Yes. And we hit it off.”  he said, sharp and pointed. “Now, how do you know her?”

“She’s the civilian I pulled out of that alley last week,” he said coolly, voice dipping into something just shy of smug. He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Should’ve walked her home, dickhead.”

Dick’s jaw clenched.

Jason smirked. “We grabbed coffee today.”

Dead silence.

And then—because he never knew when to shut up—Jason kept going. “She even kissed me.”

Dick’s expression shifted like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with something sharp and disbelieving.

“You’re lying.”

Jason raised a brow. “Am I? You really think I’d lie about something like that?”

“I think you’d do whatever it takes to piss me off.”

Jason shrugged, unbothered. “That too.”

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly wheeled himself back in his chair like he was watching a bomb about to go off.

Dick took a step forward. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Jason cut in. “Not that it’s any of your business now.”

“That’s exactly what makes it my business,” Dick snapped.

“Funny. She didn’t seem to think so.”

“Alright,” Tim said quickly, raising both hands. “Before someone gets thrown into a wall—can we maybe, I don’t know, not have a turf war over a girl who clearly doesn’t belong to either of you?”

Neither of them looked at him.

Dick’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s it. I’m going to the gala.”

“Like hell you are!”

Tim raised a hand like a kid in class. “How about… rock, paper, scissors?”

Two sets of eyes pinned him to his seat. He shrank back a little. Then, after a beat, both brothers turned to each other.

There was a long pause.

Then, without a word, they stepped forward, hands balling into fists, resting on their open palms.

“On shoot,” Jason muttered.

“Obviously,” Dick snapped.

And they went.

“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot.”

Scissors. Paper.

Jason cursed under his breath.

“Always with the scissors,” Dick said smugly, shaking his head like an older brother who’d won this game a hundred times before. “You never learn.”

Jason’s glare could’ve peeled paint. But Dick was already sauntering off, throwing over his shoulder, “Better luck next time, Little Wing.”

“Best two out of three!” Jason called, stepping after him.

Dick scoffed. “I won fair and square. No one likes a sore loser.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath—low, unintelligible—but Tim was pretty sure it included cheater, rigged, and next time I’m bringing a taser.

“Fine!” Jason snapped, crossing his arms with a tight huff. “But I want ground rules.”

Dick paused and turned around. He arched a curious brow, arms folded across his chest, then gave a slow nod, signalling Jason to continue. “Go on.”

“First—we don’t tell her we know each other.”

Dick nodded without hesitation. “Agreed.”

Jason took a step forward, the tension between them tightening like a wire. “We stay out of each other’s way. And I don’t think either of us should sleep with her—not until she makes her decision. Things’ll get messy.”

Behind them, Tim mock-gagged. “Ugh. Can we not?” he muttered. He didn’t even want to think about his brothers in that context. He didn’t care that they were adopted—they were still his brothers, and thinking about them doing that was just gross on every possible level.

Dick held Jason’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Fine.”

Jason’s tone shifted, quieter now—less about pride, more about principle. “And if this starts to mess with the case, or with us, we end it. Doesn’t matter where we’re at.”

Dick’s posture shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. But he nodded. “Done.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

“Whoever she chooses,” Dick said, calm and clear, “the other backs off. No hard feelings.”

Jason’s fingers curled at his sides. A long pause.

Then, he nodded. “May the best man win.”

Dick’s gaze didn’t waver. “For her. The best man for her.”

Meanwhile, Tim watched the entire exchange unfold like a tennis match—head swivelling between brothers, eyes wide. He looked personally offended that no one had handed him popcorn.

“I’ve got to tell the others,” he muttered under his breath, already planning the group chat text.

Dick left for patrol not long after, slipping his domino mask into place with the smug confidence of a man who thought he’d just secured a win.

Jason, who didn’t need to suit up for another hour, turned to Tim with a groan and a scowl. “Alright, nerd. How did you even know where to look for that flagged experiment?”

Tim blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Uh—it was actually Damian.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

“He said the doctor might be a potential lead. Once we ran her name, we found the connection to her brother and his research. Looked solid.”

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course it was Damian. The demon spawn never let anything go. And this was exactly what he got for digging into her file on Batcave servers of all places. He might as well have slapped a neon sign across the screen that read I’m hiding something, please investigate. The one girl he was actually interested in—and she was tangled up in one of their ugliest cases to date.

Jason turned to Tim, narrowing his eyes like a man about to drag someone else into his personal war.

“You’re gonna help me.”

Tim blinked. “With… what exactly?”

“Reconning Dick.”

Tim frowned. “Didn’t you two literally just agree not to interfere?”

“I’m not interfering,” Jason said, far too quickly. “I’m making sure he sticks to the rules.”

Tim gave him a long, deadpan look. “Uh-huh.”

Jason just stared.

Tim sighed, resigned. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope.”

Another sigh. Tim rolled his chair back from the console like it was a death march. “I need a vacation. Or a therapist.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a real one, Replacement.”

“Don’t call me that.”

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02, @oooof-ifellforyou, @neogogori, @thatoneloser8371, @rtyuy1346, @nkryuki, @tinybrie, @smithieandy, @yuhhh03, @kazuuhali

[rrysbabydoll]

A God On Stage

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Explicit sexual content, public setting intimacy, dominance/submission dynamics, fingering, penetrative sex.

Synopsis: After Harry’s steamy Barcelona performance, Y/N can't contain her need. Backstage, he takes care of her, first with his fingers, then with his body.

The lights dipped low, the air thick with heat and anticipation. Barcelona pulsed under Harry’s voice, the stadium alive with the screams and chants of thousands. Y/N stood just off-stage, her fingertips clutching the edge of the curtain like it could keep her grounded.

And then he walked out.

Harry. In that outfit.

The vest. Electric blue, beaded fringe swinging like it was flirting with gravity. Open. His chest glistened under the stage lights, a sheen of sweat outlining the tattoos she’d only just begun memorizing in real life. Leather pants hugging his hips with reckless precision. His arms stretched wide like he was claiming the whole city.

She nearly moaned.

Her knees actually buckled.

They’d only been officially together for a couple of weeks, still in that dizzy stage of soft touches and shy smiles, but this? Watching him like this, knowing he was hers now? It was too much. The heat wasn’t just from the Spanish summer anymore, it bloomed low in her belly, sparked something aching and raw inside her.

Her body leaned closer before her mind could catch up.

“You good?” Glenne, ever-casual, asked from beside her, sipping something sparkling.

Y/N nodded far too quickly. “Yep. Just watching.”

Dying.

Harry strutted to the mic, chest heaving. His fingers ran through his hair, tossing it back. The crowd exploded. And she knew, she knew, he did that on purpose. He caught her eye for a second, and that smug tilt of his lips was proof.

The bastard.

Every time he sang a certain line with extra rasp, every hip thrust, every spin, it all compounded. Her thighs pressed together, helpless.

She tried to focus on the music. She really did. But her mind was lost somewhere between the sharp line of his collarbone and the tattooed ferns disappearing beneath leather.

He was glowing. Drenched in the moment, in confidence, in sweat. He moved like he owned the stage, and maybe he did. He definitely owned her thoughts.

By the third song, she was desperate.

Not for anything graphic, yet. Just for him. His mouth on hers, his voice in her ear, his fingers wrapped tight around her wrist. She ached for it. For that closeness only he could give, the kind he offered in quiet hotel rooms and long, slow kisses after midnight.

But she wasn’t bold. She was quiet. Soft. That was what he liked about her. So she stood there in her white dress and matching sneakers.

He caught her eyes again. This time, it lingered.

His smirk deepened.

And then, he winked.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to survive this concert.

Backstage was chaos and color and champagne. The post-show energy buzzed through the dressing room like electricity. Everyone was glowing with sweat and laughter, congratulating each other, hugging.

Harry wasn’t in yet.

Y/N sat on the little couch in the corner, sipping cold water and trying to not squirm. The second he came offstage, she knew she’d crumble. How could she not? She’d just spent two hours watching the man she was dating—barely dating—command the attention of tens of thousands. Half-naked.

And now, she was supposed to…what? Greet him like everything was normal?

Please.

The door burst open.

His presence hit first, hot, confident, heavy. He was still glowing, hair damp, rings glinting as he peeled off the vest and threw it aside. The leather pants remained.

Her thighs clenched again. Harder.

“Hi, lovie,” he said, voice low, lazy.

Jesus.

“Hi,” she whispered, eyes wide.

He strode straight to her. Didn’t stop. Just leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep, like they were alone. Her fingers curled into the sides of his arms. She melted instantly, her body responding with all the desperation she’d held in.

“You alright?” he murmured against her cheek. “You looked a bit flushed earlier.”

She stared at him, blinking. Her whole body screamed I need you.

Harry’s eyes darkened, like he heard it.

“C’mere,” he said softly, tugging her to her feet.

They slipped out of the room without anyone noticing.

The dressing room down the hall was smaller. Private. It smelled like his cologne and something clean, expensive. The second the door shut, the tension snapped.

She gasped as he pressed her back against the wall, lips hot on hers, hands firm on her waist. It was a kiss that made time blur. One of those kisses where she lost herself, her thoughts, her name.

“You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said, voice husky, breath against her cheek.

She whimpered. “You looked so— Harry, I—”

“You gettin’ all worked up, bunny?” he teased gently, dragging his nose down the side of her neck.

That nickname. It made her knees wobble.

“I couldn’t focus,” she confessed, eyes glassy. “You—your chest, the pants, and the way you—”

“Shh.” He kissed her again. “S’okay. I know. I felt it. Saw those little thighs of yours pressin’ together.”

She buried her face in his neck.

“You’re not very subtle, sweetheart.”

She was dying. Absolutely dissolving. She couldn’t speak. Just clung to him like he was the only thing tethering her to Earth.

“I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be so worked up, watchin’ me.”

“I am,” she managed, voice trembling. “I need you.”

Harry groaned.

That shy confession flipped a switch in him.

His hands slid under the hem of her dress. “Let me help you, yeah?”

She nodded frantically. “Please.”

“Look at me when you beg,” he whispered.

She met his eyes, wide and glassy. “Please, Harry. I need you so bad.”

That did it.

He spun her gently and pressed her front to the wall. His hands lifted her dress, exposing soft thighs and pink panties. He groaned low.

“God, you’re cute,” he muttered. “Drippin’ through these.”

She gasped as his fingers slid over the damp fabric, teasing.

“I barely touched you,” he said, a note of awe in his voice. “You’re just this needy from watchin’ me?”

She nodded helplessly, whimpering.

He kissed her shoulder, slow and tender. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers slid beneath the fabric, finally touching her. She cried out softly, forehead pressed to the cool wall.

“Quiet, baby,” he murmured, curling his fingers inside her. “Don’t want anyone hearin’, yeah?”

She bit her lip, hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“Such a sweet girl,” he praised, moving faster. “Knew you’d come undone so easily.”

She whimpered. “Harry—gonna—”

He didn’t stop. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

She shattered.

His name fell from her lips in a broken whisper as her body trembled. He held her through it, kissed the back of her neck, whispered sweet things against her skin.

But he didn’t stop.

She was still catching her breath, lashes fluttering, when she felt the firm press of him against her backside.

Her breath hitched.

“Want more, bunny?” he murmured, lips warm on her shoulder. “Still feelin’ needy, huh?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “Knew you would.”

Her panties were peeled down slowly, carelessly tossed aside. She was already squirming when he pulled the leather waistband of his pants down just enough to free himself. Her eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his zipper, her entire body aching.

“Turn around for me.”

She did. Her back against the wall again, dress bunched around her waist, chest heaving.

“Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss her, “but I need you. Been hard since the second I saw you standin’ side stage in that little dress.”

“Harry…” she whimpered.

“I’ve got you.”

He hooked her leg over his hip and slid in all at once.

Her gasp echoed through the room, fingers digging into his biceps.

He paused, pressed his forehead to hers.

“So tight,” he groaned. “Fuck.”

She clung to him, overwhelmed. She was still sensitive, every nerve raw, stretched perfectly around him. Her eyes welled up from the intensity.

“Too much?” he asked, instantly soft.

She shook her head, voice barely a whisper. “Feels good. So good.”

He kissed her hard, a filthy, desperate thing.

Then he started moving.

Slow, deep strokes. Her back thudded lightly against the wall with each thrust. Her fingers clutched his shoulders, his curls, anything she could reach. He grunted low with each movement, gripping her hips like he couldn’t get enough.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, “takin’ me so well.”

Her head fell back, a soft cry escaping as he hit just the right spot.

“That’s the one, huh?” he smirked.

She nodded, helpless, needy.

He angled his hips, driving into her just like that again and again, watching her fall apart. She was barely holding on, and he knew it.

Her thighs trembled around his waist, lips parted as little gasps escaped.

“You gonna come again for me, bunny?” he whispered. “Need you to.”

“Harry—please—” she breathed.

“I know, I know.” He kissed her again, sweet and deep. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

And she did. Her second orgasm hit harder, sudden and intense, her whole body pulsing around him. Her moan cracked in the middle as she came, legs shaking, back arching.

“Fuck,” Harry growled, losing control.

He didn’t last long after that. Just a few more thrusts before he stilled, groaning deep into her neck as he came hard, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

They stayed there for a moment, sweaty, tangled, breathless.

When he finally pulled out and lowered her leg, she nearly collapsed.

He caught her with both arms. “Got you, sweetheart.”

She blinked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, skin glowing.

He smiled.

“Think Barcelona’s my new favorite city.”

She giggled, hiding her face in his chest.

He kissed her hair. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[within-your-eyes-if]

Personal Update #2

Hey again!

So, I'm still doing okay, but I found out stuff that makes a lot of sense for what I've been experiencing over the last year. I wanted to talk about it a little, because... damn. This update will be a bit personal, and for that I apologize. I try to keep these matters out, but since it directly affects my writing and some choices I made, I thought it would be important to talk about.

My official diagnosis won't come until later this month, but it's heavily pointing toward neurological (the neurologists in my area are all booked out, so this is how my doctor explained it in the meantime). I had something diagnosed a couple years ago by former doctors, but it was never explained what it meant nor looked into further. Apparently, it only appears in neurological disorders like Multiple Sclerosis or similar.

Some time last year, I started struggling with comprehending what I was writing. I could not make sense of it. I started spiraling because suddenly, "Oh no, it sounds awful. It doesn't make sense!" And ugh, the anxiety. I had such overwhelming anxiety all the time even for no reason, and I would spiral into things, my writing most suspect. Eventually, it spread to physical stuff, like these migraine like headaches on one side of my head where half of my face would go partially numb, and a whole slew of other things — a few that hit hard in February and on. I blamed it on stress and a different medical condition I have, but those are unrelated or just another piece in the puzzle.

I'm doing a little better now that I've been given tools to handle stress, and I'm trying to write because I genuinely want to. I never disclosed these struggles because it felt silly, "how can I not understand what I'm writing?" And honestly, now that I'm more calm, I'm a bit embarrassed when I look back at some of my older posts. I jumped the gun on changes more than once, mostly because my thoughts were all over the place, and anxiety made everything feel worse than it probably was. T.T

I'm okay with whatever diagnosis I get, I just want solid answers. I know I'm sharing this a bit early, and I'm sorry if it's premature, I just needed to say something because I'm very relieved there's a potential name for what's happening. That I'm not actually broken, regressing, or even failing.

Anyways, thank you so much for sticking with me, and I apologize for the long post and if it's a bit scattered. I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!

[no-144444]

Omg I need more of cherry kisses

canada- faking it au

꩜summary: you come to montreal

꩜pairing: fakeboyfriend! lando norris x fem! fakegirlfriend! actress! reader

Canada. Your management thought it would be good to be spotted at the race since the whole hard-launch happened in Miami. You didn’t really want to come, but… you had contractual obligations to fulfil. You dragged David and Isabel with you, for moral support. They didn't know you and Lando weren’t real, but you did plan on telling them, depending on how today went. Alien: Romulus was going well, you’d just finished up filming in LA, and you were off to Hungary next week. 

“Why do you have to do this again?” David asked, slotting into the seat beside you in the car. He was reading something on his phone, but he’d listened to enough of your bitching last night to realise you didn’t want to watch cars go around and around in oddly-shaped circles from the garage of the guy you hated. 

“Because I like Lando,” you answered plainly, ignoring how lackluster of a performance it was. 

“How much?” he mused. You gave him a look, and he held his hands up in surrender. “A lot, then.”

You chuckled. David was great. He was quickly becoming your best mate on set, second to Isabel, of course. Speaking of her, she slotted right in next to him, then closed the door. “Wow,” she sighed. “I am still exhausted.” 

“I know, right?” you turned your attention to her. “Training has been brutal.” 

The three of you ended up in a very animated conversation about how you were being beaten and bruised by your stunt coordinators, and how exhausted preparation had been for the past few months. 

Lando was full of nervous energy. He paced the papaya-coloured motorhome, waiting for his PA to tell him you’d arrived. He hated this. He hated the awkward hugs and pretend kisses, he hated watching the facade fall the second the camera was down, and he hated dragging you all the way to a track just to snap some photos. Most of all, he hated the way his fans were treating you already. He’d seen  posts upon posts dissecting every single moment between the two of you, all the comments full of nasty comments and down-right abuse. 

“The car has arrived,” Harry (his PA) called from the other side of his driver’s room door. “Do you want-”

“Bring me, please,” he flung the door open and followed behind Harry. This was stupid. The way his heart was practically palpitating was stupid. The amount of anxiety and nerves in his system was stupid. Harry gave him a look, just a subtle smile, and Lando rolled his eyes. “Just… don’t want to be a dick, yeah?” 

Harry nodded, a knowing smile on his face. “I get what you mean,” he chuckled. “Just that you’re putting a lot of effort into that.”

He knew Harry was right, and he genuinely tried not to give a shit, but it wasn’t easy. You were just so… you. And he was so… him. He didn’t know how to explain it, but he wanted to impress, and he wanted you to care like he cared. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a you thing,” Harry shrugged. “Maybe just… calm it a little. Don’t scare her off.” 

“I’m not going to- oh shit,” Lando slammed the door closed when he saw the first glimpse of you and your friends. God, that was a little pathetic, wasn’t it? Harry burst out laughing and Lando freezed, thinking about what he had done. “I’m so pathetic-”

“Are you actually in love with her or something?” Harry chuckled. He stopped when Lando didn’t answer. “Holy shit you are,” he gasped. “Lando, it’s part of the contract-” 

“It’s not. And I’m not, alright? Just… let me get ready for the race on my own, alright?” Lando chewed on his cheek as Harry left with a giggle. 

“I’ll send her in,” he smirked and Lando’s face dropped when the door opened and he saw you waiting there. 

“Hey,” you smiled with a wave of your hand. “Can we come in or…?” 

“Yeah baby, course,” what was he saying? When in the world had he ever called you baby before? He swallowed, hard, and smiled at your friends behind you. “Hey,” he smiled at them, shaking their hands. “I’m Lando.”

“Lando, these are my friends David,” you explained as he shook David’s hand. “And Isabel.” “Thanks so much for having us,” Isabel smiled. “I love F1so this is super cool!” 

Lando smiled. If he could talk anything, he could talk cars. “That’s great, have a favourite team?” he mused, a cheeky grin on his face. “Doesn’t have to be McLaren.” 

She laughed. “Well yeah, sadly I’m tifosi, so a lot of depression there,” she admitted, and you all laughed. “But I can appreciate the rocketship you guys are building.”

Lando giggled. “Thank you.”

“We’d better head out for the photo op,” David reminded you, a hand on your lower back. Lando stiffened beside you and took your hand in his. “We were behind time getting here.” 

“Oh yeah, course-” you started to pull away from behind Lando, but he pulled you back, your front against his, his hands on your waist, all his attention on you. 

“Mind if I steal you for a few minutes?” he pleaded, his voice low. “Missed you.” 

Your cheeks heated at the attention and you gulped. “A few minutes, yeah sure,” you nodded, then turned your attention to David and Isabel. “You two go ahead, I’ll follow.”

They nodded and left, though Isabel had a smirk on her face and David was clenching his jaw. 

“What’s up?” you questioned, dropping from his grasp. 

“We need photo ops too,” he sighed, his voice low. He held up his phone and you rolled your eyes. 

“We have all the time in the world to-”

“I don’t,” he reminded you. “In 4 minutes Jon is coming in here and I literally won’t get to talk to you for the rest of the day.” 

“Make it quick then,” you rolled your eyes, nodding. He hid the flash of a smirk on his lips quite well. Not well enough though. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

“Whatever you say, pretty girl,” again, what was he saying? “Ready?” 

You fixed your hair a little, and nodded. He leaned in and kissed you, your hands holding either side of his face as you both relaxed into it. He forgot about the picture and focused more on kissing you, but he felt the way you hit his leg to remind him. He did actually have to post something about you, it was just a bonus that it got you away from David. He lifted his phone to take a picture of the two of you in the mirror, full-on snogging. He snapped a few and pulled back. You snatched the phone out of his hand and looked through them. 

“Theses are… fine,” you nodded. “Post them.”

He snaked a hand around your waist. “Not so fast, pretty girl. I post photo dumps, not singular pictures,” he reminded you with a smirk and you rolled your eyes again. He positioned you in front of him in the mirror, and turned you to face him.

“What is this?” you questioned. He placed your arms around his neck and smiled down at you. 

“Shows off the height difference,” he shrugged cheekily and you let out a genuine sigh. “People love it.” 

You, again, sighed (quite loudly) and he giggled again. “Come on, pose.”  “Tell me if they can see my ass,” you added. He felt that same burn in his chest- indigestion, right? You were wearing a pretty short dress (which obviously didn't bother him) and jacket you had discarded at the door when you walked in. 

“No one else sees that-”

“You don’t see that Lando,” you scoffed. “Act accordingly.” 

He laughed against your neck and snapped another few photos. You disconnected from each other and he watched your every move. “Anything else Mr. Photographer?” you asked. 

“Don’t you need some pictures?” he smirked. 

“I need to go get my photo op with my castmates,” you reminded him, but didn’t budge. “David has already texted me one.” 

Lando’s jaw clenched. “Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll walk you there, just so we can be seen together and all.” 

You shook your head, a practically sadistic smile on your face. “Oh, that’s alright, thanks though.” 

The way he stalked your instagram should’ve been studied. You’d ignored his request for you to join him at dinner, only to find out on your insta story that you had gone out sight-seeing with David, Isabel too tired to join you. He felt something twist in his stomach as he scrolled through the pictures. He knew where you were, and a very large part of him wanted to go out just to ‘accidentally’ meet up with you. But he couldn’t. Team dinner and drinks with Zak, checking in on his mental state. 

“You’re frowning,” Zak pointed out over their dinner. “What’s up?” The restaurant was one of those nice, up-market places Zak always loved, they served the same food as some of the hidden gems Lando usually favoured, just with a bigger number beside the menu items. Lando had noticed that Zak was one of those rich men that liked to show they were rich in subtle ways. Expensive dinners every night, expensive watches, expensive suits, etc. Lando shook his head, turned off his phone, and sighed. “Nothing. Y/n’s just being a bit… hard to pin down.”

“How so?” Zak mused. 

“She’s out with her castmate even though we had dinner plans tonight.,” he admitted, taking another bite of his food.

“Complain to her lawyers, that’ll get you to the top of the priority list,” Zak offered. “And either way, all you need is a photo together.”

Lando nodded, but that bile in his throat burned pretty badly. 

Despite your aversion to it, you were standing in Lando’s garage as he got ready for quali. You were holding his gloves for him, helmet to your left, and you felt the cameras on you. It was a bit… awkward. Anyone in their right mind could tell this was a pr move, but still, they lapped it up, for better or for worse. He flashed you a smirk and a wink as he walked over, his lips immediately finding yours when he got to you. “Looking beautiful,” he whispered as he pulled back. “Have something for me, pretty girl?” he smirked. 

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes and smiled back at him, handing him his helmet (which he quickly pulled on) and then his gloves. You leaned over the barrier and pressed a kiss to the side of the helmet, your lipstick leaving a mark. You knew people would lose their minds. 

So did he. 

“Who’re you texting?” he asked, his leg bouncing up and down under the table. He'd been waiting to ask that for a good 20 minutes.

You shook your head and turned off your phone. “Just David. Explaining how F1 works.”

Lando’s entire body stiffened. “So what’s up with you two?” 

You stared at him, mid bite. “What?” 

“He’s clearly in love with you, you brush it off… what’s going on there?” he sniffled, every single pore oozing insecurity, though he hoped you wouldn’t notice. 

You scoffed. “Ha-ha,” you deadpanned. “Hilarious Lando, good one.” 

“I’m not laughing,” he scoffed. “Tell him to back off.” 

“Tell him yourself,” you dismissed. “He’s my mate, am I not allowed mates?”

“Not mates who put the contract in danger,” he shook his head. Your jaw dropped open at his audacity. 

“Do you get off on pulling up the contract every four minutes?” you sneered. “Seriously, do you have a hard-on right now because you get to hold it over my head?”

“It’s not like a forced you into the contract Y/n, you chose-”

“I know exactly what I signed,” your tone was demanding, and he shut up immediately. “And I didn’t sign up for an insecure boyfriend. I signed up for a boyfriend who got posted on my account, and in return, I’m posted on his account. I go to a few races and you come to set. We’re not together. Not for real. Right?”

He nodded. “I just don’t want him getting the wrong idea.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you gritted out. “Now butt-out of my relationships, thanks.”

He bit his tongue and continued on with the meal, but he felt that deep unease in his stomach. This wasn't easy, and you seriously weren't making it any easier.

landonorris

liked by pierregasly, davidjonsson, yourusername and 1,209 others

landonorris Will keep on pushing tomorrow, starting second row always feels good :)

comments

pierregasly bro thinks he's slick -> lanodnorris bro thinks he's not getting blocked!

user423 NO NOT THE SLUT PLEASE NO LANDO ->user53 what is your problem?

user99 gold digger

yourusername :) ->liked by landonorris ->user412 ewwww she's in the comments now

user88 who tf is this guy and why does he have his hands all ove rmy princess y/n?

user4231 coming in to spread hate!

user21 am I the only one who thinks they're adorable...?

user243 ew

user8290 hope you crash :)

landonorris's story, 11:09am, 8 of June 2024

[caption: missed this one]

yourusername

liked by davidjonsson, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 3,924,942 others

yourusername montreal so far :)

comments are limited for this post

isabelamerced walking him like a dog? -> liked by yourusername

landonorris who's that cutie in the middle picture? -> yourusername I wonder...

navigation for my blog :)

mclaren masterlist

faking it au masterlist

taglist: (just comment to be added!)

@n3versatisfied @quinquinquincy @paucubarsisimp @htpssgavi @sarx164 @freyathehuntress @martygraciesversion381 @wolflover384 @gnarlycore

[daryltwdixon]

𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥

Bitch!!! I ain’t even a series girl and there’s multiple in here!!! Who is she!!! And look at me tagging a fluff fic!! Turning a new leaf round here. If you see something you like please let these wonderful authors know by showing them some much deserved love Sorry this is late! I was traveling and literally haven’t touched my laptop in days

Bicep biting by @tinysunshine

Daryl Dixon x you one shot summary: you kiss daryl’s arms and have to explain what cuteness aggression is after you bite his bicep ♡ my thoughts: I feel like woodchuck todd from easy a when he’s gobblin’ on that wood log LET ME GET A BITE OF THAT BEEFY ARM, DIXON

literally anything by @cavillscurls

(bitch I’m such a fan we got a whole damn list to get thru)

daddy next door

joel miller x you ongoing series summary: It’s summer in Texas, and when the dashing Joel Miller moves in next door, your less than favorable life gets completely turned around. my thoughts: ohhhhh my heart. such a different version of joel than im used to (rich & fancy) but it really hits the spot. cute romance and I see you in so much of this!!!

ass man

joel miller x you drabble summary: joel miller is an ass man my thoughts: what I wouldn’t do for this man to put his hands all over my best ass(et). Mya showed me this after I went off about joel in fact being an ass man and I was eternally horny grateful

Inescapable 🕊️

clint (freaky tales) x you one shot summary: Clint always gets what he wants—this time, you’re going to give it to him. my thoughts: YES SIR YES SIRRRYYYYYYYY mya has already heard all my praise but we’re gonna say it again holy SHIT Clint smiling into my neck as he puts a baby in me?!?! SIR MAAM YES PLEASEEEEE this has been a fave trope of mine lately. Captive reader who used to scream and beg for him not to touch now loving every second of it sorry bit dark it’s giving “run” vibes which was rec’d on last month’s list!!! And that shit is one of my faves so I knew this would tickle my pickle in the same way. I wish I could be eloquent about this shit but my GOD it’s so good trust.

Joel in glasses by @mushgloomz

peepaw!joel x you drabble summary: what the title says my thoughts: I’ll just put this here and you tell ME you don’t feel some type of way: “ain’t i old enough to be your daddy, darlin’?”

of rage and ruin 🕊️ by @corazondebeskar-reads

werewolf/alpha!joel x you ongoing series summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though. my thoughts: no no no you don’t understand. You don’t GET IT. Is this omegaverse? Yep. I’ve been dabbling. And the others just don’t do it like you do baby 😭 I read this way too fast and now I just wait for the updates but holy shit. No one puts my baby in a shock collar 😭😭😭😭

Idle Threats by @pearlessance

jackson!joel x you series summary: Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for. my thoughts: I’m so glad I didn’t post this fic rec on time because holy mother of god. I blew through this so quickly because of how fucking beautiful the writing is. Joel Miller feeling dirty about liking a younger woman? Check. Religious themes denouncing god for his one and only girl? Check. I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t usually add this but some of this dialogue is 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 “Because if anyone but me ever called you a slut an’ I heard about it?” He presses your clit harder, grinning when you start panting. “I’d have to kill ‘em, baby.” .....Like W H A A A A A a a a aaaa 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[jonquilandlace]

I just want to pop in to say: the first thing I was taught in my master's programme was how to read early modern handwriting. And we had to do it twice, technically! I'm not looking at my notes and my memory is a bit foggy so pardon me if I use the wrong words, but they had both an italic and a secretary hand. Now, italic is probably the style you recognize in name. But that said, you are going to hate me for what I'm about to reveal about how it looked (all images I'm about to use are straight off google images, sorry for mediocre sourcing):

Look me in the eye and tell me you could read this without having to stop to think about it. I mean, it's definitely in Latin (and russian I think?), so I don't blame you for not knowing what I means, but if you give it a chance, other than a few bits and pieces, you could parse some of the letters, at least. If I told you the "uncrossed-f" shape meant "s" (which it does), you can pretty clearly make out the phrase "platonem scripsere quod plotum dixit" in the first line, for instance.

This is an admittedly bit unfriendly of an example, but you see what I mean—it's clearly similar to how our handwriting is shaped today, but even then, it's tricky. I will admit I was surprised by italic hand—largely because, once we started learning it, I discovered a lot of the little "I write this letter 'wrong' but it feels better to me" things I've done since learning handwriting actually were common in italic hand, but that's neither here nor there for this commentary, just a fun fact about me.

Now secretary hand, on the other hand—

She is the It Girl of early modern handwriting. She is mean to read, fun to write, absolutely gorgeous on paper—and looks quite a bit like cursive.

Secretary hand died out in favor of italic by the end of the period, and you can admittedly kind of see why—the letter forms of some of these letters were far too similar for easy reading; people literally had to be trained to write in this handwriting style, where italic looked more like the printed text people tended to learn to read off of with the increasing popularity of the printing press, and—like modern manuscript—was quicker to write.

In other words: secretary hand is the equivalent of our modern cursive.

So why am I saying this all? Good question! I'm not 100% sure myself; just following a gut instinct! But I think there's two main points to be seen here:

First: sometimes ways of writing are devalued and die out. Sometimes it's a slow thing—like how the "uncrossed-f = s" I was talking about has just been straight up replaced by the normal "s" shape. Other times, it is institutional. There were no need for scribes with the printing press, so the scribal profession died out, and the secretary hand with it. There's no need for cursive with the computer, so cursive dies out. It's a tragedy, sure; a whole art form is lost in the pursuit of efficiency—but it's cyclical. It has happened before. It's probably going to happen again. On that note, however— Second: Even if it dies from common usage, and this is the important part: people will still figure out how to read them, and there will always be people who want to learn. The knowledge becomes more precious, more scarce, sure. There are still pieces of early modern literature no one has translated; none of my professors or peers know what it's supposed to say. But the physical media has outlived the mechanism itself, the people who wrote it! It still exists, and it can still be discovered again! On this note, I want to talk about something I don't have enough authority not to cite—the marui-ji handwriting of Japanese girls in the 1970s.

I wouldn't be terribly surprised if you've seen this picture before, actually. This has gone viral before, in a post about how that handwriting style got "so excessively cute that schools had to ban it" (that's not a direct quote but to that point).

But that's exactly the point I want to make here—handwriting trends will always change, and it will always be possible to have fun with your writing.

As Zui in the article linked above describes, this is "[a]n example of cute handwriting in 1985, documented by Yamane Kazuma. Note the heavily stylised characters and exaggerated rounding of some strokes, and the abnormal placement of the dakuten for the character で in the bottom-right corner."

Some link the advent of this writing style to the advent of mechanical pencils, allowing for thinner lines. Others (my own opinion among them) link it to Japan's "kawaii" movement, or the reclamation of "cute" culture by young girls seeking freedom from traditional patriarchal roles in the same way the West embraced punk culture. But the point remains: from a standard beginning point, an entire new paeleographical style was born.

So on the topic of cursive again, and coming back to my second point: change is inevitable, but it doesn't have to be permanent. It may die out now, sure, only to be rediscovered like secretary hand before it.

But just like art itself won't die, even if techniques change, art in handwriting won't be gone forever, either.

So keep a record, for the historians who want to read cursive. Tutorial the hell out of it, even. But even if cursive dies—keep having fun when you write. Make your handwriting your own, and just enjoy yourself. Losing access to one thing doesn't mean you can't make something else in its place. Also writing in secretary hand is fun, too, send tweet, okay byeeee

On one hand I understand not teaching cursive in school anymore, because it actually is slower than regular handwriting and almost everything is typed on a keyboard now anyways.

On the other hand, so much of our (even recent!) history was written in cursive, and having a whole generation of kids who can't read letters written by their grandparents, momentos saved by their great-grandparents, or even photo albums from theur immediate family seems like a dangerously quick way to detach us from previous generations.

And on the third, related but slightly malformed hand, I feel bad that yet another form of small, everyday art that brings joy in the middle of mundane tasks, which celebrates personality and individual style and self-expression, is about to fade into obscurity because it wasn't efficient enough for today's world to put up with.

Like... if we continue to whittle away the small arts out of every day life, what's going to be left except stark, ruthless pragmatism?

Maybe writing a grocery list is less mundane when you get to feel elegant for a moment. Maybe you're a little more proud of what you write when you see it flow together like a painting

[rosenclaws]

More headcanons for all the Logans please? Your previous ones were so perfect. 1. How does he apologize/make it up to your after an argument when he was in the wrong and knows it but is too stubborn to admit it and ends up hurting your heart. 2. How does he handle (you're totally oblivious and innocent when this other man comes on to you, Logan's your one and only) other men flirting with you and his jealousy? 3. How does he approach you or ask you for comfort when he's upset, in pain - physical or emotional?

OO YES more prompts lfggg. Once again I'm gonna split this into three posts! I got pretty carried away ngl...but thats okay lmao

How does he apologize/make it up to your after an argument

Origins Logan -

Okay so, here's the thing all the Logan's are very stubborn and aren't really the best at apologies but they all go at it in slightly different ways. For origins Logan I could see you two arguing about his nightmares and how he refuses to let you in. Maybe he hurts you and he's refusing to forgive himself and it spirals into a big argument. You still drive him to work the next day and give him lunch but the two of you don't speak to each other. The other guys even rib him asking if there's trouble in paradise which makes Logan really angry. As he's eating lunch he sees that despite your argument you still write him a note and he knows he's fucked up. I think he comes home that day with flowers he's picked and mumbles of an apology. It's hard for him to when he sees the bandage on your arm but he's trying and you'll take that for now. But he will be making dinner from now until the foreseeable future.

Trilogy Logan -

Getting an apology out of Logan is like taking food from a hungry bear. It's just not happening. Logan can be reckless and his the whole not really know his past can really get to him so i think if you guys do get into a fight he def lashes out and says things he doesn't mean just to hurt you. He feels awful but he won't apologize. It's just pure silent treatment between the two of you. Tension builds and everyone can feel it. You refuse to break and Logan is fighting with himself to figure out how to fix things. A part of him wonders if he even should because it could be better for both of you this way. He can't hurt you anymore. But he misses you. He hates waking up to a cold bed, hates seeing you leave the room when he enters. Hates hates hates it.

I think he goes to 'Ro and asks how to fix it and she says, Logan you gotta apologize but he doesn't know how to do that. She def slaps him on the back of his head and just says. Stop being stupid and save your damn relationship. He gets flowers he plucked right out of the yard and steals one of Scotts cars to take you on a nice date. It's a little awkward at first but he's trying. He tells you he was stupid and you agree with that. That he didn't mean what he said and he only said it because he was angry. You don't forgive him right away but on the ride home you hold his hand and Logan takes that as a good sign.

DOFP Logan -

See arguing with this Logan is interesting because I think of all the Logan's he's the best at apologizing. Which isn't saying much but hey he's trying. This argument stems from Logan throwing himself into his work and forgetting your anniversary. Oh you were pissed and Logan was mad at himself but ended up taking it out on you saying it wasn't that big of a deal to him. You gave him the silent treatment and it killsss him. He knows he's an idiot and he didn't mean to imply that you didn't mean anything to him but he really hurt you. He knows he can't just say he's sorry and it all goes away so he plans a whole anniversary date, dresses up in a suit and you know he hates suites, and even takes you to that show you wanted to see. He sits through the whole thing and doesn't complain once. It's sweet seeing him try and make it up to you so you do break the silent treatment with a kiss on his cheek.

Old Man Logan -

He is the hardest to get an apology out of. Honestly...Its hard to be in love with him because he just hates himself so much it makes loving him harder. You don't want to give up on him but he's already given up on himself. Logan knows you are without a doubt the best thing that has ever happened to him. You are the shining light in his dark life. He's constantly in this battle of wanting to push you away because he thinks he's protecting you and keeping you in his life because he's selfish and loves you. The argument is born from this dynamic and you're this close to walking out on him again and he tells you to go.

When he comes back later that night and sees your things gone he goes into a rage. He's angry at himself and he knows this is all his fault. He doesn't see you for a little bit. Drowning himself in alcohol and guilt. He's accepted that he's a mess and that you left and it's his fault. Somehow you find each other again. He stumbles into a bar and you happen to be working there. After you left you needed money and this was the only job you could find. It hurt to see him like this. Typical Logan gets himself into a fight after someone tries to touch you. He's not as strong as he used to be though and it ends with you cleaning him up again. Its quiet and he just watches you fix him up. In the quiet whispers he asks you to come home. That he knows he's a mess but he needs you. The words I'm sorry never leave his lips, it's only unspoken which makes it hard for you to accept it. He practically gets on his knees and you can see the pain in his eyes and fuck...you love him more than you should. So you forgive him and he thanks you over and over again.

Worst Logan -

I know this can get kind of repetitive but Logan isn't great at apologies no matter what universe he's from. Same this worst Logan. But he's a lot sadder than he is angrier. This argument is stupid and he knows it is but he can't stop the words that come out of his mouth. You storm out of the apartment and Logan knows the moment the door slams that he's fucked up. I think he tries to basically drown himself in alcohol but Wade won't let him because liver failure is so not cool. He's too afraid to go and apologize so he puts up his walls and pretends he's fine. He's more reckless in his fights and it doesn't matter bc he heals but somehow it helps him.

Eventually Wade gets sick of his ass and just goes off on him. Telling him to get his head out of his ass and that emotionally constipated assholes like him don't get people like you in their lives so he better put his big boy pants on and apologize. So he does. Its cute really he gets flowers and even finds a nice shirt at the goodwill and he's got these big eyes as he apologizes. It's choppy and he fucks up his words a little bit but he does say im sorry and does his best.

[legrzybek]

finished ts shit finally omg. um. im nervous

AZURETIME HURT/COMFORT FLUFF FIC THING ^_^

in case you're not familiar with my prior posts, it's abt my own post-forsaken au versions of them :D soo theres a bunch of my hcs involved here,,,, most notably two time being referred to as breeze instead

tw for a brief mention of s/h !! but other than that it's mainly silly soft tickles and cuddles bc i need them to be happy ong

mb if it sounds kinda off and repetitive i tried my best 💔 i suck ass at wording LMFAO this is just smth i wrote for fun & comfort anyways soo it's not meant to be smth super amazing but i hope its enjoyable regardless bleeh

quick random bonus doodle to get ur attention bc im nefarious like that

okaY read it under the cut if u want fire emoji

What did they feel?

Nothing?

Everything?

They could not tell at this point. They could not grasp it. All they knew is that it did not feel good. Not at all.

Why? Just why? The same question kept rotating in their mind. Earlier, they were fine. Content. So why are they like this now? Why?

Everything feels wrong. So wrong. They hated this. Hated this strange uneasiness that came to them out of the blue. Subtle enough to feel like they're just faking, just imagining it... yet prominent enough to crave for it to stop. It only caused their mind to spiral all over again. To sink deeper and deeper into things they'd rather not remember. The things they've done. Maybe this was their punishment? They deserved this.

They would never stop blaming themselves.

Because they hated themselves more than anything.

They didn't even register someone had entered. Not until they heard that familiar, echoing voice.

"...Breeze?"

He recieved no response. They sat hunched over on their shared bed, arms tightly crossed, nails digging into their skin... Eyes unfocused, staring blankly at nothing. Their whole body completely unmoving. Frozen in place.

Immediately alarmed by the sight, he hastily approached closer. He sat down directly in front of them, resting his body on the mattress. The four vine-tentacles which protruded from his back drooped down around him, highly alert, just in case he had to stop them from any dangerous behavior...

"Breeze... Hey... Look at me."

His worried tone had a slight hint of demand to it. He was very familiar with situations like this by now, but... it always pained him the same to see them in a state like this. He had to get through to them.

"Talk to me, please... Are you not feeling well? Did anything happen?"

Their mind raced. It's him. Why did he even care at this point? They're nothing but a burden that he would be better off without. Not deserving of the care he insists on providing them with. Not after what they've done to him. It's all their fault. He should just leave them alone.

"No... nothing...I don't- urgh...no...I don't know...I-I don't-I don't know- okay?!"

Frustrated, they snapped back at him. That... seemed to pull them back into reality. They immediately felt horrible. He's only trying to help, and they start talking to him like this...? They did not deserve him. Not one bit. They couldn't look at him, pulling their legs closer to their chest, burying their head further in-between. They wanted nothing more than to disappear altogether...

But... Azure didn't take any offense to their tone or mannerisms, no... it only made him even more determined. He knew they didn't mean for it to come out so aggressively... they were simply not in the right state of mind.

"Nonono...shh, shh...It's okay... Don't agitate yourself further..."

He moved one of his flower-covered vines closer to them, making it carefully pet their back, trying to see if they're fine with being touched right now. Their anxious breathing slowed down a bit... They seemed content with it... good. He already had an idea in mind as to what could help with their current state. They really needed a distraction, something for their mind to focus on instead... Something that yielded a great result everytime he'd previously done it. He swiftly rearranged a few pillows, before trying to console them, get them to sit up again...

"Breezy... my nightshade... I'm not mad at you, not at all...shh... I understand your frustration, you're evidently not feeling well... I'd like to help you with that, okay?"

He patiently coaxed them to reveal themselves again. They avoided any eye contact, staring down at their knees.

"...I-I'm...No...I'm...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

The weak, hushed voice they spoke in... How shaky they were, how they felt guilt for even such a small thing... It made his heart ache so bad.

"Sweetie, no... Hush now, it's okay... it's okay... don't apologize. There's no sorries needed. Just follow me now, alright?"

He guided them to lay down on their back - to his relief, they obliged without issue, even if he noticed their hesitation. He adjusted the cushions a bit further to ensure the environment was as cozy as it could be. Next, he wrapped a tentacle around their legs, gently binding them together to prevent any accidental harm that might come from their usual, happy kicks. He loved seeing them, it's just... they were quite strong. And sudden. He scooted closer, his much taller frame carefully sitting down on their snuggled up legs, facing them directly.

They could already guess what he'll do, feeling their heart beat even faster, seemingly getting a bit nervous just thinking about it... Why did he still want to do this? Even after they acted awful like that...?

"Ah, I... think you know what's coming already, hehe...

You need this right now. It's okay."

Azure kept reassuring them, knowing how much self-doubt and hatred plagued them in moments like these - exactly why he was dead-set on his goal right now. He gave them a loving headpat before speaking up once more.

"I won't prolong this then. Is it alright to start now? All comfy?"

He tilted his head to the side while asking, softly smiling at them with his zipped mouth. His gentle, purple eyes looked at them with immense care. Even his hat had a fond, yet slightly saddened expression on it... Following a brief moment of waiting, he recieved a quick, shy nod in response. They couldn't stop their tail from swishing around impatiently... That told him everything he needs to know.

"Got it, sweetheart... Just relax now... It'll do you good, I promise.

As always, if it becomes overwhelming or unpleasant at any point, just say the word, okay?"

As he finished speaking, the tip of the vine that hugged their legs, along with another free one, started softly brushing against their soles, occasionally shifting to a more scratching motion. It felt...nice... He knew they liked the unique feel and texture of his extra 'arms', often clinging onto or idly playing around with them whenever they were near him. And they seemed to like it now, too...

"Aah...h-hm... he...hehe..."

Along with a tiny gasp, some stifled giggles were already earned by that first move. At the same time, he carefully lifted their shirt up, just enough to place his claws on their stomach. Despite how they may look at first glance, they were not very sharp, making them essentially perfect for this... His fingers glided over their skin like a serene breeze... a familiar, soothing feeling. They really tried to hold back, but...

"Pfft...aaw...eheh- h-hahah- o-oh my...aaahahaha- oh my Spaaawn- nuuh-heehehe...!!!"

They just... couldn't help it anymore. Even if they still had their doubt on whether they really deserve this affection, those thoughts were starting to slip away. They already broke into a soft, quiet laughter that warmed Azure's heart... He felt their body tense up involuntarily to even the lightest touch, before relaxing and giving into it over and over again. Any of their involuntary kicks were negated by the vine that kept their legs wrapped up, along with his own weight.

"That's a lot better..."

He spoke warmly, relief washing over him upon observing their reactions. He knew this would work like a charm, help them let go of the stress they felt... Continuing the motions, he kept a watchful eye on them - their eyes were closed akin to a content kitty's, their free arms placed over their chest, fidgeting around, not even trying to pry his away... and most importantly, that growing, genuine smile...

"Gosh, hehe... do you even know how adorable you are...?"

With awe, he uttered that sweet phrase that ran through his mind everytime he managed to put them in this state. It was a sight he'd never get tired of. And he only just started...

"Nooooo- I'm-ah-hehehe- noo-nohohohot..."

Lightheartedly, they tried to dismiss his comment. It made them even more flustered than they already were... And yet, he was quick to make his point clear again.

"Nono, hush now... you absolutely are, my nightshade."

Almost as if he wanted to prove it, he proceeded to ramp up the 'attack', now tickling gently at their sides as well. To keep them engaged, he constantly alternated between different movements - sometimes slowly running his fingers up and down, sometimes scribbling around in a more unpredictable way... even softly squeezing them. He could feel how much healthier in shape they've become when he did that. How they gained more weight compared to early days... it made him proud. He moved up a bit, trying to feel their ribs... less prominent, too. Their tail kept excitedly moving from side to side, a lot less stiff than how it used to be.

"Nuuuuhuuuuh- hehee...nooohohoooo...!!!!! Azuu-uehehee-Azuureeeheheh- aahaha-"

"Awh, shh... don't you hide that pretty smile now. No need to be ashamed, sunshine..."

They were enjoying this a lot, having fully given in... he was having lots of fun, too. He found it so sweet how even amidst their silly laugh, they still wanted to call out his name. He himself couldn't keep a sincere smile off of his face right now... Breeze tried to cover theirs up, though, making him shake his head in playful disapproval. He took ahold of their hands, effortlessly pulling their arms off to the side, holding them up in the air, before speaking up in order to reassure them.

The pause in the affection on their waist gave them some room to breathe, yet it left them a little disappointed... that didn't last long, however. Two more of Azure's tentacles hovered closer, beginning to run along their underarms, back and forth... Still holding their smaller hands in his, he felt how their grip on them tightened in response to the tickles...

"You're doing so well, hehe..."

He chuckled, gently rubbing their hands with his thumbs, observing intently... He couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness whenever he saw those scars which littered their arms, even if majority of them were healed by now. They still inflicted that upon themselves. And... he never wanted that. Heavy regret washed over him... Wishing he could've been there for them sooner. Or even... prevented everything altogether... If only he pried further, learned the truth about their 'ascension'... he could've saved both of them. But why? Why didn't he...?

"Awwh- awwhahaha- ehehe- Ahahazuu- Azuuureeehehe-!!!!"

...Their laughter snapped him out of that train of thought. No... he needs to focus on the present. On them. They're here now, safe and sound with him. That's what matters.

"...Yes, dear? Is something wrong?"

Perhaps influenced by his previous thoughts, a sudden bit of concern grew in him, wondering why they were calling his name again... Did they want to tell him something? Was this too much...?

"Nooohoho- aaahehe- I...I lo-ooho- I loove yooou...!!! Ehehee-"

...Quickly enough, those words lifted that weight off his chest, soothing his slight worry. It was a pleasant surprise to hear, filling his heart with so much pride and joy... He leaned down to give them a little kiss on the forehead, making them let out another giggle.

"Awwh, Breezy... I love you lots, too... More than anything in the world, hehe..."

He decided to let their arms down and move onto the next spot. The two tendrils now made their way towards their neck area, wiggling gently against their skin, trying to get to all the nooks and crannies... Breeze hugged onto them while being taken care of, feeling their slight squishiness that they liked so much. They instinctively tensed up their shoulders, as if trying to protect themselves... even if they didn't actually want this to stop. The soft nightshade petals that coated his vines provided an additional, light sensation to the mix...albeit unintentional.

By now, all their previous horrible thoughts turned to mush, washed far, far away by the waves of comfort that their partner's affection brought upon them. Exactly what he intended from the start. They trusted him so much in order to allow him to even do this, caress them all over like that... they would not react well if anyone else tried. Being a heavily touch-repulsed person, contact always caused them mild annoyance at best, intense discomfort at worst. He was well aware of that fact, but... he was a major exception to it. His physical closeness brought them much needed relief from their troubled mind. Even if they sometimes struggled accepting it, believing themselves not worthy... they really do crave it. They craved it all this time, missed his presence beyond measure... Azure felt the same way about them, unbelievably grateful he could hold them again... Help them heal after everything they had to endure.

He cupped their cheeks in his hands, his thumbs repeatedly brushing over them, knowing they were ticklish even here... Feeling them lean into the touch, he continued to poke around.

"You're beautiful, sweetheart..."

He uttered that with honest adoration, wholeheartedly taking in the sight of their features, their delighted expression... he can't get enough of it. When he placed another soft kiss on their nose, they only responded with more endearing giggles.

Soon, Azure deemed the job done for this side. He aided them with turning over, their body now entirely flipped around, laying on their stomach instead. Their arms held onto the pillow they rested their head on, reflexively hugging it tighter once he resumed his tender loving care...

The open-back shirt they were currently wearing undeniably gave easy access to that area... a canvas for him to paint on. He began lightly scratching all over it, drawing various patterns and shapes with his clawed fingertips. One vine slowly slid up and down their spine... from the back of their neck, all the way to the base of their bony tail. They momentarily flinched upon feeling the touch there, though not out of pain - it was simply extremely sensitive, along with the spots where their spawn wings sprouted from. He always made sure to be extra careful with those places, as too much force applied could feel unpleasant for them... However, if done just right, it proved to be very beneficial and soothing instead. Taking care of them was important due to the chronic ache and itchiness they still felt there... having your flesh and bone contort into new appendages isn't something the body gets used to easily. The countless times he had to witness their transformation back in that hellhole... not a pleasant sight at all to remember. But he shook off that thought. Again, he had to focus on the present.

He shifted his attention to their shoulders, relieving the tension they still held in their muscles by providing a gentle massage, occasionally catching them off guard by switching to a more ticklish motion for a brief moment. Proceeding to move further down, he finally reached the wings. Very lightly and methodically, he started rubbing the areas with just the right amount of pressure, tracing slow, lazy circles on them... With the tentacle, he did the same for their tail, which ceased its prior wagging, now resting off to the side in relaxation.

"Aaaw...hm... mmmhm... h...hehe...aawww..."

Their laugh shifted into a bunch of sweet, content hums. It felt incredible... If they could purr, they'd be whirring like a car engine right now. It's as if he was pouring out his love for them through every move, every touch... and they could feel it.

He thought his heart was about to burst from the overwhelming fondness he felt for them. They were just too adorable, too precious... He couldn't help himself anymore, deciding to deliver one final 'attack'. He took his hat off, thus losing his ability to speak, patting her as he settled her down. He shifted his position, practically laying down on top of Breeze - holding himself up a bit using his tentacles, though... in order to not crush them with his full weight. With his claws, he reached for their sides and gently scribbled on them again, simultaneously peppering little kisses all over their back... The zipper attached to his mouth unintentionally tapped against their skin with each quick peck. The long braids and hair made of vines did the same, shifting everytime he moved his head around.

"Aaweeheheee- Azuu...ueheheee- Azuuure- whaahaha- whaaahahat are yooou- uuahah- dooohohoing...!!! Daawww... aawwhahah...hehe..."

They burst out into another stream of happy giggles and coos... Azure only hummed and chuckled quietly in response. He nuzzled his head against them, his hands now changing their method to soft kneading. They melted into a little puddle of pure joy in his arms, barely even able to form a coherent thought anymore... He repeated the motions for a little while longer, before deciding to finally let them get some rest, feeling them grow a bit tired now. After all, cuddles are in order after such a thorough session of affection...

He made a change in his position again, resting on his side... Breeze was soon pulled close to him, encircled by his arms. They locked eyes with him - those slow blinks signaling how comfortable they felt right now - before curling up, snuggling their head against his chest. Once they settled in, his tentacles closed in, gently cocooning them... the feeling akin to being wrapped up in a living, weighted blanket. They disappeared near entirely in their beloved's embrace, only their head poking out... it was unbelievably cozy. He was well aware how much they loved this, how therapeutic this - and everything prior - was for them.

The room was quiet and peaceful... One of Azure's vines repeatedly pet their head, idly playing around with their fluffy, messy locks. Without words, the silent lullaby hummed by him communicated that it's okay - even encouraged - to take a nap right now, if they so desire. And so they obliged, shutting their eyes... It didn't take long for weariness to start taking over... The conditions were ideal for it. Their beloved's coziness that enveloped them was lulling them into a state of full relaxation, their breath turning slower and steadier, slowly drifting off into their well-deserved rest... In this moment, their tortured soul was at complete peace. Something they once thought they would never get to experience again... yet here they are, proven wrong.

Even as everything became hazy... one final thought still echoed in their mind.

Maybe, just maybe...

This was the true blessing they were meant to recieve.

♡

i die of death now. bye

also info ion thinj i have revealed on this blog yet. azure's hat has a name in this au, peony 🔥 it/she pronouns because why the fuck not

[nenoname]

always kinda unhinged about tbob causing ford to regress back into his paranoia and isolation, along with the fact that he's kinda aware about it and that his family was there to witness it this time

i really wish we got a bit more of a pov from the rest of the family where they just see ford becoming increasingly reclusive and lashing out during that week (and it being during a visit from the mystery twins!! so they just have their grunkle avoiding them that whole time!!!! what the heck!!!) but also them doing a heist and managing to steal the book from right under ford's nose

+ also since ford said he saw bill's mind shatter, it makes me wonder if stan showed ford his memory defeating bill (which means they both didn't notice the backwards dying message...)

[wheeloffortune-design]

I guess you're unlucky because I just happened to glance at the comments on this post a year and a half after posting it. And your comment was near the top. So, graciously,

fuck you.

Telling someone that the way they reacted to empty platitudes the day their father died is 'kind of being a dick' is more than being rude, it's being cruel.

The whole post was about how, for one day, I decided to not entertain someone else's fantasy. For one day, I did not smile, placate, kept silent. That day was not about them, it was about me, my siblings, my step mother. That day, no one else's feelings mattered to me. I gave myself the right to be unpleasant while my father was dying down the hall.

It's incredibly hard to find something to say to someone when they're grieving. I've been on that side too. You can appreciate the thoughts and prayers, but nothing forces you to play along.

So I told my aunts that they could stop telling me about heaven, about how I would see him again someday, because I didn't believe that. I told that other family friend she could stop trying to give me her crystals because I didn't believe in that either.

The post I wrote a year and a half ago is about how they reacted badly to me rejecting their words. It was never about me, I don't regret what I said. It was about their reaction.

And here you call me a dick, for refusing to placate them on the worst day of my life.

I'm replying to this message not for you, but for the same reason I wrote the original post in the first place. Not knowing it would resonate with so many people, I just wanted to share my experience because I'd never heard anyone else speak of it. Maybe it could help someone, or make them feel less alone in this horrible feeling. I am lucky, it seemed to have helped several people.

If you are grieving, or when you will grieve, because we're all doomed to know grief, here are the things I learned, from that worst day of my life, and the 879 days since:

there is no good or bad way to live this pain. there is no correct way. you do whatever you can, however you want, to deal with this.

there is nothing good about this situation. don't look for the silver lining. accept that it's horrible. don't try to change this feeling into something it isn't because you feel like there should be a good side to this. there isn't. you loved them, and they're gone. it hurts.

it will get better, slowly, very slowly. you just need to make it through. but it will always hurt, at the strangest moments. the tears, years later, will be as true as the tears from the first day. this will be a relief.

and this is the whole point of the original post: if and when you lose someone close to you, you need to focus on your own pain, and not placate the other people, the ones who don't hurt as much as you do. it's not about them, it's about you. when the funeral comes, don't spend your energy in niceties, in small talk. don't make it a show for other people. take that time to get your closure. protect jealously your grief. it's your time, it's not a presentation.

The day of the funeral, a cousin talked to me about ancient Egypt, trying to cheer me up with a subject he knows I love. He started telling me about how the pyramids were built by ancient aliens, he'd seen something on youtube about it. I stopped him, told him I didn't believe in that. He was disappointed, but his disappointed was not my problem.

Tell me, should I have changed myself and nodded at his ludicrous conspiracy theory? Should I have accepted my aunt's crystal beads because they were supposed to give me strength? Then why should I have accepted something that, for me, is as completely false as ancient aliens and crystal beads?

Every other day, you need to meet people halfway. The day your father died, then his funeral? fuck that. their feelings are not your problem. don't let them make their feelings your problem.

grief fucking sucks, and this is me giving you permission to not make yourself smaller for other people when your loved ones die.

it's been a year so i feel more comfortable talking about it..

when you're atheist and you lose someone, religious people don't really know how to interact with you. it's fine, we have different worldviews.

'He's in a better place, now.'

Sorry auntie, but I don't believe that. I believe that his brain stopped working at 5h55pm on december 11th 2022, and that's it. Nothing after that.

It makes grief very difficult, because not believing in god or the afterlife also means accepting that you will never, ever see that person again. That's it. The end. Nada mas.

But, back to the aunties and other faceless people gravitating in the grey blurry waters of your awareness.

They tell you 'He's with god now' and you tell them 'Yeah I don't believe that' and.

they. get. annoyed.

Here I am, gutted open, the worst day of my life, barely holding myself together, and they! Get annoyed that I won't smile and entertain their point of view!

Another faceless person tried to heal me with cristals. She also got annoyed when I told her I didn't believe in that.

I usually don't really mind religious people. It's fine, we have different worldviews. I think I'm right but so do they. As long as they're good people, I don't judge them for their faith.

I'll even be grateful for them trying to console me. I get that you're trying to give me strength and love. Thank you.

But I'm going to be true to myself, yes even when I'm mad with shock and grief. And I still can't believe they got annoyed that I didn't play along to placate them, on the worst day of my life.

(I wanted to share because I've never heard anyone talk about atheism and grief, and the loneliness that comes out of it.)

[yetrop]

Good Omens is autistic—here’s why!

First off, there’s the angelic/demonic nature of the protagonists

They’re trying to blend in with humanity, but have to pick things up as they go along

Because of this, the way they interact with and view people is different from the expected norm

Which also means they're often confused by human customs and find it difficult to read social cues (think Aziraphale asking Maggie if she actually thinks she isn’t crying later on in this scene)

Crowley has to hide his eyes, a part of his identity, from everyone except Aziraphale and the other demons for fear of seeming different/threatening/not human (masking in the most literal sense of the word)

Muriel is concerned with acting and speaking “correctly” to be seen as human

Even though both main characters don’t fit in with humanity because of their angelic/demonic nature, they also don’t fit in with their respective sides, who view them both as strange and don’t understand them. The only place they find acceptance/belonging is with each other. If that isn’t a neurodivergent (and very queer) storyline, I don’t know what is.

Next up, there’s Aziraphale as a whole

The way he stims

Loves routine, dislikes change

Gets uncomfortable when he has to break rules/disrupt order

Taking things literally— “You can’t drive my Bentley.” “I can— I have a license!” (also, this scene is another example of his insistence on order and rules— he insisted on getting a license before they were even legally required)

Paces back and forth talking to himself, planning out what he’s going to say before a conversation (scripting)

The way he suppresses stimming around Heaven by clasping hands behind back, feels uncomfortable and overstimulated there

Bookshop is super cluttered, he has an organizational system that is comprehensible to basically exclusively him

Clumsy, often sucks at motor coordination

Easily startled

He loves alone time, especially when he’s in his own space— he does everything he can to keep customers away from his bookshop

Attaches a lot of sentimental value to inanimate objects (“I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years!”)

Incredibly passionate about his interests, especially magic and books

Black and white thinking and rigid morality— He loves and trusts Crowley more than the other angels, but still has tendency to categorize Heaven, Hell, angels and demons as exclusively good or bad (“of course you didn’t go back to Hell— you’re the bad guys!”)

Crowley’s definitely got something neurodivergent going on too (leaning towards ADHD, but potentially AuDHD)

The way he sits in chairs

Hell, (…or Heaven, whatever…) even just the “ducks!” moment alone is enough to show that that his mind jumps around a lot to unexpected loose threads rather than focusing on the subject at hand

Impulsivity

Creative and has a vivid inner world. As pointed out by God Herself, he has what the other demons don’t— an imagination

Craves novelty, frequently changes appearance

Stimming starmaker

This one is from the book, but it’s too good not to point out: the way he idolizes characters like Bond and copies his behaviors off of what he thinks a cool human would do. He has a new computer because it’s “the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have” (pg 239)

His understanding of how humans fall in love is based on a Richard Curtis film he’s seen

His insistence on asking questions when things don’t make sense to him, knowing why things are the way they are rather than blindly accepting them

And of course, there’s the themes of the story

Black and white thinking vs shades of grey

Breaking away from a world that doesn’t accept you to find love, belonging, and safety

And, as demonstrated time and time again by our two protagonists: intelligence isn’t synonymous with interpersonal skills (…or common sense.)

Thanks for reading all of that! This isn’t the kind of post I normally make, but I have so many thoughts about this that have been on my mind for almost two years now, so I decided to share them.

While there are of course a lot of plot-related reasons for why they behave the way that they do and many of the traits I brushed on could be explained by other factors, I still find it interesting to explore it through a neurodivergent lens. I also think the existence of angels with physical disabilities (like Saraqueal) adds credibility to the idea that other types of disabilities or neurodivergence is at the very least possible for angels and demons in this universe.

Feel free to point out anything I forgot to include (which I have no doubt is a lot) and let me know your own thoughts in the comments or tags— I’d love to hear them!

[scoobydoodean]

What’s your opinion on dean saying “there is nothing past or present that i would put in front of you” in 8.23 because I often see people use it to not only downplay dean’s other relationships but also claim dean would choose sam over anything as if it’s an obsessive thing, when I feel like the series has time and time again, shown us that dean cares about doing the right thing while trying to keep his brother alive at the same time, I don’t get why it’s always an either/or with them. Because I guarantee if dean had to choose to kill either sam or any innocent person, he would either kill himself or find another way

Bronlies don't believe in love—just obsession and possessiveness. To them this is all a zero sum game and they're always jealous of anyone Dean pays attention to because they don't even get that Dean is theee endless wellspring of love to which everyone is drawn and around which the world orbits and that love is not a limited resource.

People get a lot of ideas in their heads about Dean choosing Sam over the greater good of the world, but then when you start trying to think of examples, you realize that Dean chose the safety of humanity more broadly over Sam plenty of times, and that Sam has killed innocent people (or gotten them killed pretty directly) to protect Dean many times. See: This post and this post for some examples. And also this post. And my whole #sam and human sacrifice tag.

I think it's kind of a weird flex to try and gloat over a scene where Sam threatens to kill himself over Dean having friends, resulting in a situation where Dean has to say whatever Sam wants to hear if he doesn't want his brother to kill himself. A scene that has a two-season long fall out that includes Dean getting The Brother Murderer Curse that symbolizes his many many resentments toward Sam. But regardless, I think there's a conversation about love and trust in that scene, and about Dean's very tenuous love for Sam as a friend but enduring love for Sam as a son and brother. The whole scene is heavily muddled with Dean's parentification, which makes it even less of a zero-sum game as far as Dean's other relationships.

Related posts on Dean's parentification (or see my whole #parentification tag):

This post with examples of Sam wanting Dean to be a brother and a parent in turns, and how the narrative perpetuates Dean's parentification

This post about season 8 Sam, including how Sam's behavior toward Dean reflects the parentification dynamic

This one about how parentification gives the illusion of authority and power without actual authority and power and this one

A part of Dean isn't forced to perceive Cas or Benny as his children, and that's a good thing. It makes his friendships with them less complicated, confusing, and muddled. Sam and Dean's relationship doesn't have that sort of clarity. There are times when Sam wants Dean to treat him as a respected and trusted friend, brother, and hunting partner, and there are times he wants Dean to be proud of him in a way he thinks John never was, and that's an experience that's confusing and distressing and unfair, but no less a reality born from their childhood experiences.

In the 8.23 scene, Sam talks about having let Dean down, and Dean trusting other people (read: Cas and Benny) to have his back more than he trusts Sam. It's a muddying of Sam's desire for Dean to trust him as an equal, friend, brother, and hunting partner with his desire for Dean to be proud of him like a dad, and results in a confused and jealous outburst about Dean having friends. At that particular point in time, Dean does trust Cas and Benny more than Sam. That's just the damn reality of things, and Dean isn't wrong for it. Sam isn't entitled to Dean's trust in 8.23. He just isn't. The lack of trust is brought about by the consequences of Sam's own repeated actions toward Dean. When Dean says that there's nothing past or present that he'd put in front of Sam, he isn't talking about trust. He's talking about the messed up pseudo momdad role he plays in Sam's life due to parentification in a scene where Sam most definitely casts himself as a child whose momdad is disappointed in him, who is about to kill himself over it. So Dean does what a parent would, and tells Sam that he'll always put his needs first—that a lack of trust isn't a lack of love. Dean even includes an example: Dean trusted Benny more (see: Southern Comfort), but when Sam was in danger, Dean begged Benny to risk his neck and return to Purgatory to help Sam get out. You put your kid first because that's your job and it's an ingrained need.

Dean has a long list of problems with Sam. He's had his own parentification used as a battering ram by Sam on tons of occasions. He's been lied to, condescended to, scapegoated, looked down upon, accused of everything in the book by Sam at one time or another. He's been abandoned, he's been betrayed, he's been strangled to near unconsciousness, he's had Sam put a gun to his head and pull the trigger multiple times in a row while telling Dean how useless and stupid he is. He's had his worst traumas thrown in his face and mocked. And all of those things put a strain on Dean's feelings toward Sam as a friend and as a hunting partner and make him doubt that Sam gives a damn about him, but the mix of brotherly (nature) and parental (nurture/neglect) love Dean feels for Sam is actually pretty unshakeable. So Dean leans into that in 8.23, at a time where his relationship with Sam is increasingly strained and they both know it, and Sam is breaking down about it.

It isn't about who Dean loves more. It's about different types of love, brotherly love mixed up with parental feelings Dean has toward Sam and that Sam has toward him, versus friendships built on battle-tested trust that Sam (in a very misguided way) sees as a threat because they represent relationships Dean chose instead of relationships that were thrust upon him and that are wrought with parentification in a tragic childhood. Your love for your kid isn't in competition with your love for your friends or a spouse it's a different kind of love and one does not diminish the other. At the same time, experience shows that Dean is actually willing to let Sam make the sacrifice play when needed—the biggest example being Swan Song. The Trials just weren't that sort of life or death situation. Not completing them meant maintaining the status quo, not an apocalypse.

[missduskdawn]

im not mad at all, honestly this whole discussion is very pointless, because you people are putting words into my mouth i never said or implied

i never said any of the things i gave examples for were constant and unchanging for the duration of time they existed

i never said that the xia dynasty was ousted instead of the qing dynasty (i honestly have no idea at all where you even got that from, because the source i cited i cited to show that chinese imperial rule ended in 1912, which it did, and that's what i originally said as well)

i said myself i was purposefully over simplifying op's point at the very start of my previous reply to you for the sake of being cheeky, and i kept being cheeky afterward as well about the wording, so i don't see what kind of gotcha you think this is when i myself purposefully dumbed down the original post for the sake of teasing you and making a joke out of it

all i did, in this entire discussion, was say

X thing existed from Y year to Z year

and then i provided sources for those claims, which again to my knowledge are reputable sources, and i believe the information is correct

if all of the sources i provided are incorrect, i also said in my previous reply to you that the joke is on me and i will look stupid, but as far as i know they're not incorrect

and the reason i pointed out several different things from human history that have spanned either close to a thousand years, or more than a thousand years, or in the cases of ancient egypt and china multiple thousands of years, and provided sources only and exclusively for their beginning and end dates, is to illustrate my belief that op's point that it's unrealistic to create a fictional empire or a fictional dynasty that spans thousands of years in a fictional setting is silly and pointlessly restrictive because it's not like it's unheard for something to exist that long even in real life, so why not in fiction?

i made only one point, and only ever cited beginning and ending years for the examples i gave

i never once got into the politics of those times, the circumstances under which things rose/fell, or how these various things changed throughout the duration of their existences in various ways, because none of that is relevant to the point i made

i will reiterate my point one final time:

X existed for Y amount of years, which is true, and i cited examples of things that lasted thousands of years, or at least one thousand if not more, so if that can exist in real life, you can also make it in fiction too, and calling doing so in fiction unrealistic unless you're a professional historian is silly (this is how the wording of the post reads to me)

this is my opinion on worldbuilding

i don't actually disagree with pretty much anyone here about anything except that one point, which was at the core of everything

i made no other historical claims except for X thing began in Y year, and ended in Z year

i agree that ancient china didn't have one single empire that lasted 4000 years, it in fact had 4000 years of imperial rule, under many dynasties and many changes, but it was all china throughout, so as a central concept of being china, it has existed 4000 years, and what's more, china was in fact officially considered one empire from the start of the qin dynasty in 221 bce, to the end of the qing dynasty in 1912, which spans 2200 years, so either way my point stands that there have been empires that have existed for multiple millennia (2 millenia is a multiple)

i agree that ancient egypt wasn't just one unbroken continuous empire for all of its existence, it was ruled by dozens of pharaohs and had major transformations throughout, but again, it was all still egypt throughout all of it, it retained the unity of that concept of being egypt, and existed from the year i wrote and gave a source for, and ended at the year i wrote and gave a source for

it was never relevant to my point to discuss exactly what historical changes happened between the years X started to exist and stopped existing

i wasn't fighting anyone on anything really

i was rude to multiple people on this post because i just get snappy sometimes but im not actually angry or anything, if i hurt someone's feelings im sorry

i honestly find it a lot of fun to debate with people online even if i often do come on really strong and sometimes get hostile with my wording

none of this is personal

i can see that OP studies history and knows a lot about it like i do, i just feel like this got so out of hand because people tacked on so many things i didnt say onto my post and started arguments out of it

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[that-smallinjured-bowylamb]

National Showdown!

Summary: In which, the students of RSA had caught a rumor of a magicless prefect from another world staying in... NRC!?!?!?? Now you, reader are about to experience a whole ass Rollercoaster with these guys. So much chaos running around, declarations of love being thrown around, and unspoken yearning from their hidden heart almost boils over and accidentally spills over. Which, you almost caught them. (But, you didn't. Since you're too busy holding in your sanity from being thrown into an RSA boy and another so forth.) [💋VERSION1]

A/n: Okay, so idk what I'm doing. My writing is ass. Please forgive me, my angels. 🙏🙏🙏 like this is prolly my second post abt Twst (the other posts are just me talking random sht) and although, it isn't as good as the other writers I look up too, please note this is my first time writing and that expectations make me nervous 🙏 Again, forgive me for my dumbass that may get lost in this fic.

💋⚠️⁉️(Warnings!): Too much love and jealousy in the air, OOC (maybe), some bad Grammer (I just KNOW that ima write smth wrong here), Vil probably internally losing his shit bc the reader got kidnapped, Floyd is abt to fcking implode Royal Swords Academy, Jade is prolly thinking of hiring hitmans (but ultimately decides not to, bc he maybe one himself), everyone at NRC is plotting assassinations for the RSA students (excluding scarabia, Kalim might get ptsd from this, mb gang), ima add my own RSA characters bc I don't wanna use other people's RSA OCs without permission (but if you don't mind, I want to add the princesses' and princes' and other side characters that ppl had already taken as inspiration if you don't mind), this sht is getting long so, LOTS OF CUSSING BC I DONT HAVE A CLEAN MOUTH (or I just can't go without it), lots of fluff, no suggestive sht allowed in this account (Maybe in other accs if I'm up for it), good luck, reader. (USE OF [NAME] ‼️‼️)

🪷Angel of the beginning (your here) Angel of Journey 🪽-> (upcoming, maybe.)

Okay so maybe it wasn't a good idea to take a selfie with Cater and let him post it in Magicam. Why? One (if you haven't read this then I'm pretty sure you should! Or not, and you can ignore this, bby🫶), you decided to remove your mask and take ONE selfie with him, ONE. Second, you didn't know he'd send this in PUBLIC, with so many pretty photos of women and men alike in that God-forsaken social media platform. Third, you already had Night-motherfucking-Raven COLLAGE to deal with. Like college boys who r still immature (exception for a few [maybe] and we'll be good), dealing with their bullshyte, while dealing with a headmage that refuses to take the big ass responsibility called "Overblot prevention", 5 missing essays, assignments, homework, paperwork that clearly should be dealt with by an adult, and having friends that acts weirdly around you whenever you do something nice for them.

But, in the end. You still cared, sure, you may not love them (or do you?), but you don't need to love them in order to care for them. Maybe, that's why they all (love) like you so much, so protective, and so caring in the end. (I'd like the twst characters to give the same treatment as the MC treated them yknow? A sweet treat for the Ramshackle Prefect) And on the other hand, they all loved and cared for you! I mean, who wouldn't? They want you to step out of your shell every once in a while, even if it's just for a breather. Your beautiful, inside and out. You don't need to appeal them physically, just your company is enough for them. But, oh, that photo that Cater posted on magicam? Yeah, everyone saw it, the entirety of NRC. Even Vil Scheonheit himself liked the post. It can't get crazier from then on, right?

...

WRONG.

You checked your old ass phone (and let's say you're mutual with Cater in Magicam, besides Ace and Deuce), to, not only to see your face ONLINE IN PUBLIC, but also seeing the amount of likes that specific photo of you, received. THAT IS A SHIT TON OF VIEWS OH SWEET *Mentions of your religion or a random ass word*. WHY? Okay, it can't be that bad! Like, at least your in a school, where no one from outside of it will get you, but you doubt that someone will kidnap you. Cause' like, for what? Ransom or smth? So, for funsies, you decided to check the comments that has like... 23.7k comments... holy gates that's a lot...

In the comments there were:

isukballz: Yoo, who's that pretty GAL/LAD/PERSON???

WifeyC0ll€cter: Wifey material, SPOTTED. ima kidnap this hot stuff, what's their @???

Fiendriding: Honey wake up!! Cay-cay just posted!!... WHO'S THAT PRETTY MAIDEN? (Ik it's suppose to be kept as gender neutral, but just pretend their calling you a Maiden despite your gender)

Snipping-Mens-banana: YO CAY-CAY HOW'D YOU PULL THIS BADDIE? MOVE ASIDE ITS MY TURN.

And so on with the topic being you and cater in this post only. And a shit ton of conspiracies and possibilities that maybe you and Cater might be dating. And speaking of Cater...

Someone just barged into your dorm.

"Heyy!~ [Name]-chan! Look at the amount of likes you got! See?? I told you that you'd get popular within seconds! And look! Your face is trending as well! Doubling your luck in social media, eh?~" a singy-songy voice comes scraping your ears like cheese cheddar. It was Cater. So of course, like the 'good' friend you are you greeted Cater (Maybe in a panic or not, you just need to make sure who liked that post containing your face with it prolly) and asked if he could show you the people that had liked the post (but I'm not letting 'you' say anything since I want YOU to imagine how YOU say it), so Cater showed you the likes from different user names. And most of them seemed terrifyingly familiar...

For example...

[Ace's username]

[Deuce's username]

Is that mf TREY? (Let's say Cater pestered him into getting the app in his phone so they can talk all the time. Oh, and yes Trey rlly did see the post and smiled. 🤫)

...And maybe when Cater snuck in Riddle's phone to get him an account as well... IS THAT RIDDLE'S ACCOUNT?

Leo0onak1ngsch00lar... (TF IS HE DOING HERE?)

__Howl_ [<- just pretend he places his last name in there along with random usernames]

Bucch1__shishi (I'm not good with these names bro, HELP)

Monstro_lounge-Official (Azul, wrong acc bro)

MushroomLoversClub🍄(Insert Jade's username bc I can't find anything creative)

I-will-dunkyouintothe-basketball-hoopLeech (Floyd what fucking name is that.)

[Imagine the rest of the main casts usernames, bro. I need to waste my energy on writing the rest of this fic.]

What the fuck. You really thought, that you wouldn't be that popular in just, JUST a few fucking minutes. But, I mean a logical part of you thinks that since this is a post from Cater, of course, everyone would be nice to you as well. Being his friend and all. And, just maybe, your friends liking this post because they wanted to show you some support (but Malleus can't use Magicam and was only shown that photo by Lilia) so, I guess it's not that bad that your quite popular online? (Atp your starting to believe your pretty by some chances since the comments was just boosting your [if non-existent] ego, so you were slightly happy from this) And actually? Maybe you liked the attention (or nah, your choice).

And, maybe. People do think you're pretty, in a romantic- platonic way(?).

Meanwhile, at Heartslabyul...

So maybe as soon as Cater had left (after a few chats and hangouts with you, just imagine bonding off-screen) he's just scrolling through the comments of the recently popular post he sent, with you in it. Of course, you can attract people online! Who even said you were ugly in the first place? You're not! It's okay not to be humble every once in a while. And maybe if he jussstt stare at your face a littlee longer...

...Is that an RSA student in HIS comment section?

Oh no. Oh, nononnonononononononono-

Breath. Calm down Cater. Maybe, they just liked it for coincidence?

EinEnchanté: Why, is that a fair maiden I see? Why are they in a villain's school? If I may ask, what made you think you could take a photo of their glorious figure? I knew you, nefarious villains, were terrible. How could you hide something from the world!?

... I think Cater fucked up. This wasn't supposed to happen, like, at all! That photo was meant for NRC. And NRC only. Not with these prissy do-gooders, No! Oms, he can feel the headache plummeting into his head like a needle being stabbed at the side of his skull already! Prefect was already popular as they were, now he made them extra popular by sending it to the whole world! No point in deleting this photo, because tons of people had already saved it and sent it to the others! Spreading quick... and soon, it might reach... those guys.

Cater barges into the heartslabyul kitchen, in a panic, since the RSA comments are on the rise. They need to do something! "Cater!- what in the great sevens are you doing?" Sighed Trey, slightly startled. "It's an emergency! Okay, so I may or may not have-" "CATER! NO RUNNING IN THE HALLS!" Shouted Riddle, interrupting Cater's panic rambling, "What made you think it was a good idea to run in the hallways!? Do you know you might slip-" "Not the point rn, Riddle! RSA students had commented on my posts with one of the prefects in them and now they're assuming we kidnapped them or something!" Cater quickly retorts with haste.

... both of the dorm head and vice had gone silent.

...Cater stared back.

Trey's face was unreadable, blank. Riddle was dead silent.

"....Just, check the comments, again." Cater breathed out, the tension thick. Both the vice and head took out their phones to check.

... there's more comments from RSA now.

...Shit.

"Guys? What's up with you all? Why are you so silent -" Ace paused, feeling the tension thickening the moment he stepped in, alongside Deuce, "Housewarden...?" Deuce said in a hushed tone. The red-haired leader and green-haired vice looked up from their phones to turn to the two freshmen, with Cater looking slightly panic and pale.

Wtf happened here? Is some war about to go on? "Uhhh, guys? Are you alright? What even happened in here, like, seriously? You guys look like something died in here-" "Yes, Cater is brain-dead for posting that photo." Riddle sighed, exasperated. "Photo? What photo? You mean, the prefect and him? What about it?" Deuce questioned, confused since he just looked at the new post a few hours ago, now taking out his phone to take a peak on what had happened, even Ace.

What could've possibly happened in that post? Did someone hate on them? Cyber-bullied? Doxxed? Or something else entirely worse?

...

It is something worse.

There were so, so, so many RSA comments and other schools from different districts. Ace was silently reading every comment that belonged to an RSA student, even Deuce.

All five of them were in complete silence.

Riddle Rosehearts

Was just in complete silence. Like, he just heard his execution date. The moment he saw the last name "Wondre" in the comments, he knew this person. That untidy boy from the other school.

xXAllieeeeWndresonXx: woahhh who's that person? They're so pretty! Riddle-San won't mind if I hung out with them, right? :D

....

This little shit- who does he think he is!?

Trey didn't hold back a sigh, knowing that this was going to cause trouble. Ace is already complaining about people stealing his crush- best friend away. Deuce is muttering incoherent shit to himself like he's having a crisis. Cater was just stunned to see these guys care so much (like he is), but on the other hand, maybe he shouldn't have sent that selfie at all. But, mistakes can happen and Cater sure did learn a lesson.

And all this just started because of a photo on Magicam.

...

.... what the fuc-

Meanwhile, in Savannaclaw...

Leona is just sleeping in his bedroom, Ruggie doing chores and making extra money from part-time jobs, and Jack is doing his regular laps around the dorm. Everything was going great. Until-

"Hey, are those RSA students commenting on Cater's new post?" A stupid fucking Savannaclaw NPC said.

...Cater's latest post was with the prefect..

Huh?

Leona checked his phone, Ruggie wanted to do it too but was absent (and missed the convo), and Jack stopped mid-jog. Taking out his phone (from wherever he placed it in), and checking the comments. Said nothing. And sent it to Ruggie. Safe to say, none of them (or the entirety of NRC - Scarabia) are happy to hear abt RSA's delusional comments.

Leona Kingscholar

Man's look like he just witnessed his wife getting killed (spoiler alert!!: u r the wife/hj) just sayin', herbivore. Wtf made you think it was a good idea to show your face in public like that? Not that he cared, but the fact those personified heroic-syndrome disorders came to a fake-ass conclusion that they kidnapped you because of this school's reputation. What the fuck.

...And the fact he saw a familiar but annoying name in that comment section did not make it any better. This guy had the full-on audacity to even set his eyes on HIS herbivore.

No. He doesn't need more competition. He already has more than enough in this entire fucking school with these lil' shits. Do NOT make this worse for him.

...

What if you'll be better off without him? They are sooo much better, right? Surely, there's no use in keeping you here when all he and everyone else here made you suffer. So, why should he stop you? But, then again, you DID stay here and have yet to go home... Why should he let them take you?

.... What if they find your home quicker? Then what he'll do? What is the point if they can treat you so much better? What is the point if they can do it better? What is the point because they are so much more recognized and appreciated than him? What is the point-

...Do you like those RSA princes? Thinking about it, you haven't even met them. And, some of their personalities might rub you off the wrong way (Maybe, or it's just the fact that you told [<-if you did] Leona that you had a bad relationship with men in general and needed space whenever you get uncomfortable, so he's secretly and indirectly protecting you by placing rules to respect you and your boundaries), some might disturb you in a way since SOME *Looks at prince Wintergreen.* are... persistent with their catch.

Nonetheless, he's going to bury all these feelings underground (like his dream) and just look out for you as usual.

Ruggie's phone vibrated with a notification, he checks it. Only to be met with Jack's name with a photo attachment, it's the same post Ruggie liked recently, but Jack texted:

"Check the comments."

... Why the fuck is he so ominous about it? Nvm, Ruggie goes to check-

...aaannddd- he knows somewhere deep into his heart, the prefect's ass is gonna get into some uninvited trouble.

Sigh... wait. Is that- ZAPHY RETRO? HIS CHILDHOOD RIVAL? [And the one who keeps taking his donuts for the "fun" of it]...

...

No.

Ruggie shuts his phone off with an [???] Expression, he's not saying a word. But he's doing his job a bit faster now and it's scarily efficient.

What is he planning?

Jack is probably the most normal one here (besides Silver), and is still contemplating on what the fuck is happening with his dormmates? Suddenly, they're all about plotting murder against RSA??? He thought they were talking abt the recent photo- oh, nvm he's a dumbass. He just remembered the comments.

Yeah, your going to really need that protection. Like man's people from other schools had spotted you.

...

...this is going to be a big mess...

At Octavinelle, in the Monstro Lounge...

The Lounge was busy as usual, with customers talking about the recent post an upperclassman from Heartslabyul posted. Jade was taking orders from table 3, Floyd wanted to ditch but was reluctantly serving table 10, next to table 8.

In Table 8 the group of Heartslabyul students gathered in a gossip talk, "And like, it was crazy! Riddle-senpai was just dead silent! After checking the recent photo that Cater-senpai posted. He was like- ten times scarier with that expression! And, ngl if I were in his heels, I'd also react that way after seeing those comments of those goody-two shoes!"

Eh...? What did this guppy say? Kingyo-chan's silent expression instead of bursting red? Whaaaat??? And, it's all about a recent post from Hanadai-kun. Hmm, but the recent post was with Koebi-chan...

Floyd places the tray down on table 10, puts his hand in his pocket, taking out his phone to check what all this is about, in the middle of his work. Checking the comments, he saw... Florence?

Fl0underf1sh: Wahhh! They are so beautiful! Who are they? I wanna see them in real life! Too bad they are at NRC... :( Oh well! I can always take a visit with Rielle and Sabasty [<- Sébastien] !!!

Hell nawh.

*Cue to Floyd leaving the Monstro Lounge, running straight towards Ramshackle. [And add some discord sound effects like leaving the chat]*

Jade just watches in amused silence as Floyd bolts out of the Lounge.

Azul, doing his usual work with the papers and students he had recently made deals with for the past few weeks, had his phone kept on while he stared at it from time to time. A post about you and Cater. But besides Cater, you.

...And he can see the odd growing numbers in the comment section.

But there was no time to rest so-

*Knock knock knock* a familiar rhythm tapped gently on his office door, "Come in, Jade." Azul permitted. Jade enters with an amused smile, "Where's Floyd?" Azul questioned before Jade could say anything. "Fufu~ Floyd ran outside the Monstro Lounge," Jade said with amusement, eyes gleaming with intentional mischief. "Sighh, for what?" "I do not exactly know. But, if I could guess, it could be the topic the.. customers were talking about recently, about the Prefect and Cater-senpai's post. From what I know, they were mainly talking about the Prefect before Floyd took out his phone and went outside in haste." Jade explained, putting his hand on where his heart should be.

...What..? Azul takes his phone out of curiosity, not before "Go and get Floyd back here, he has unfinished tasks to do." "As you wish." Jade leaves to fetch Floyd.

Azul Ashengrotto

The moment he checked the comments, his brain was instantly thinking of a plan. No hessy (<-Jay reference).

He looked through the comments like he's peaking through government files.

Then that comment hits him.

RielleAtlantic!!!: woahhh! They're such a fairytale! Are they human? They look super pretty like a princess, maybe Florence should take me to NRC sometime!

......

NOT HIM AGAIN-

*Cue to an internally panicking and screaming Azul*

Meanwhile, with Jade, he had gone out to look for his brother, suspecting he might be in Ramshackle's since that is where the dear prefect is usually located (or probably chilling in there since you could be an introvert and prefer to stay at home rather than going out all the time), while Jade is strolling down the rocky pathway (to other students: jogging, mf is THAT tall) he checked his phone to see what chaos you had started (unintentionally or not) and was met with a ton of chaos in the comments specifically. Some RSA students are basically declaring war, while NRC students had commented to defend themselves and prevent the RSA lads get any closer to the prefect, and what's this? Other schools have also taken notice of this post you. My~ you really do attract trouble anywhere, even in media's where you can socialize from far distances by using these cellular devices. But he sees-

Forward reply to RielleAtlantic!!! <- Sébastien_Warford: Rielle, you've just met them online, there is no need for you to write poems about them now unless you want us to take a small visit to Night Raven. But I must say, they do look stunning. A shame that they are still single. Maybe we'd get a chance with them if they'd get to know us first.

...ah. Well, that was quite an... unpleasant surprise. But it's not surprising when you can attract even the most prominent figures in some other countries and sea.

At Ramshackle...

Jade arrives and enters the gate to Ramshackle's. It was already opened, Jade noted. Floyd had definitely gone in here.

And the front door of the Ramshackle's is opened as well, with no damages either, hm.

"KOEBI-CHAN????" yelled out a confused eel inside the dilapidated house, Jade mused.

He explored a little in the house, it looked quite habitable despite its poor appearance. So he went upstairs to where his brother is, since it was just Floyd looking for dear prefect and would probably skip his shift again, "Floyd, it's time to go back to the Lounge, Azul is looking for you, let us not bother the prefect-"

As he walked in he only saw his brother, no sign of the dear prefect. Huh...?

"Koebi-chan isn't here... you didn't find them either, Jade?" Floyd said, still looking around at for the said absence of prefect.

Oya?~ Well, this is quite the predicament. Very amusing if the... Royal Swords Academy students just foolishly decide to kidnap the beloved prefect in this school, without knowing the consequences afterwards.

Floyd looked irritated, first he heard those guppies yappin' about Koebi-chan about that dumb (but pretty) post and now Koebi-chan is gone!? Where tf did they go?? Unless...

"They were taken by those little shits were they..?" Floyd said calmly with a blank face, a sudden 180 turn from his previous mood, he couldn't find his Koebi-chan in the house nor the school, he couldn't even smell their cologne, except...

Except for this annoying flowery scent that does not belong to Koebi-chan, more likely, its smell is intertwined with Koebi-chan's scent, and it irritates him.

Jade smells it, too. And so, he sighs, "Let us go inform the others, shall we?" Jade said ominously, with a big, fat, shit-eating grin.

Floyd looks like he's about to commit homicide with that frown and glare painting his darkened face.

He did not enjoy this one bit. Taking what's not theirs.

Meanwhile, with Vil...

After a photoshoot session, he received a notification, from Rook.

Hunt: Mon dieu! Monsieur Prémédite had informed the Vices- that mon Trickster/Étoile went missing!

Vil Scheonheit

... WHAT.

Just RIGHT AFTER his PHOTOSHOOT? Seriously! Can't sweet potato catch a break already?

Wtf happened anyway?

Wasn't it a FEW HOURS ago they were with Cater?

... well WAS before they just vanished!

...Rook sent an attachment. And it's the recent post everyone saw today.

Why the fuck are there RSA students in there?

Until he sees that ONE username.

NeigeLeblanc: Oms! It's the VDC manager I saw before in the event! Can I get their @?

NeigeLeblanc Replied to NeigeLeblanc: Nvm! They're here now! Omss! They look like they came straight out of a fairytale! Stay tuned for our selfies later!

... DAMN SEVENS NEIGE-

Vil then returns to his dorm, calling out for a housewarden meeting tomorrow.

To be continued... (it took too much energy outta me but I'll make a part two for the rest of the main cast!)💋

Until then. Prefect.