#gonna miss it for this reason and this reason only

[checkeredflagggs]

A Summer Dream

Pairing: charles leclerc x single mom!reader

summary: charles falls in love at first sight one summer day

a/n: ok we’re all gonna pretend that there’s a build a bear workshop in France if there isn’t!

a/n2: Mon bonheur means my happiness

Masterlist | Taglist

Private Messages, The Leclerc Brothers

Bluesky

user1: LEO!!!

↳user2: best puppy ever!

user3: live for the Leo mentions!

↳user4: same!

↳user5: following this page was the best decision ever

user6: Leo looks like a little trouble maker!

↳user7: he does doesn’t he?

↳user6: running away from Arthur like that…

user8: ok so I’m in Monaco right now and like I think Arthur Leclerc is running around all crazy like?

↳user9: what do you mean??

↳user8: bear in mind I didn’t get the greatest look at him but Arthur (maybe?) is running around the parks and streets yelling for leo??

↳user10: did Arthur lose leo???

↳user11: uh oh…

user12: ok it’s been a couple of hours I need an update??

↳user11: there’s missing flyers starting to appear so yes. Arthur did lose Leo

↳user13: NOT LEO?!?

Private Messages, BFF and y/n

Private Messages, The Leclerc Brothers

Bluesky

user14: oh thank god he’s alright

user15: it’s gonna be a good day!

user16: he’s so adorable! With his little ears all flopping about…

↳user17: I can understand Charles obsession now…

↳user18: obsession is such a strong word…

↳user19: ok there Charles’ secret account liked by user17

user20: ok but it was like a scene from a romance movie

↳user21: really??

↳user20: oh yeah! He slipped away from the woman who was carrying him and sprinted his little legs away

↳user20: the woman’s daughter cried out and followed then so did the woman. It ended up with everyone crashing into Charles…

↳user21: ok that’s cute af

Private Messages, the Leclerc Brothers

Private Messages, BFF and y/n

Bluesky

user22: what on earth is happening right now??

↳user23: I’m guessing we’re in a parallel universe??

↳user24: do they have dachshund bears??

↳user23: oh that’s gotta be it

user25: like are we sure it was Charles??

user26: ok so I was in the area and I swear I saw him go into multiple toy stores??

↳user27: does he have a new niece or nephew we don’t know about??

↳user28: could be possible…

user29: ok but regardless of the reasoning — like that’s such adorable and good behavior?? Like start waving the green flags ladies

↳user30: omg right???

Private Messages, BFF and y/n

Private Messages, The Leclercs

Bluesky

user31: I can bark?

↳user32: bark bark bark!!!

user33: ok so I see all the leclercs but who are the other 2 women??

↳user34: I spy with my little eye a child as well!

↳user33: wait really where?

↳user34: up on top with Charles!

user35: is this a safe space? can I theorize?

↳user36: idk but do it anyway

↳user35: I’m thinking it might be the woman who had Leo last week??

↳user36: omg what if??

↳user37: this could be the cutest love story meet cute ever!

↳user38: right?? She saves his dog and he falls in love??

user39: ok but am I the only one who thought Charles was wearing a bikini top??

↳user40: what??

↳user39: I don’t know ok??? But the stupid sun glare makes it look like he’s wearing a bikini top!

↳user41: no no no I can see it

↳user40: you’re both crazy

Private Messages, the Leclerc Brothers

Private Messages, Charles and y/n

charles_priv posted a story, y/n🔒 posted a story

[my date for the evening ♥️♥️][ohhh my heart 🩷🩷]

pierre_priv replied ummm??? Something you wanna tell me?

↳charles_priv my girlfriends daughter!

↳pierre_priv when did you get a girlfriend?!?

↳charles_priv last week!

↳pierre_priv and you’re already attached aren’t you?

↳charles_priv yes ☺️

↳charles_priv i'm thinking a winter wedding! So be sure to keep a week or 2 open in probably January

↳pierre_priv Charles you just met her!

y/n replied thank you for getting her!

↳charles_priv it really wasn’t a problem!

↳y/n you know she adores you right?

↳y/n she asks about you all the time

↳y/n race replays have become her new nightly routine

↳charles_priv really 🥺🥺🥺

↳y/n yes. not a day goes by where she doesn’t ask about the next time we’ll visit cha (and leo)

↳y/n picking her up and spending 1 on 1 time with her will make her day

↳charles_priv ☺️🥹☺️

↳charles_priv mon bonheur this is the best day of my life — I’ll take her out whenever she wants

aa_priv replied what??

arthur_priv replied wow already at the daddy daughter dates huh?

↳charles_priv yes ☺️☺️

↳arthur_priv …you know I was joking right??

↳arthur_priv please tell me your joking?

↳arthur_priv you’ve known her for only a week

↳arthur_priv you can’t seriously already be at that point!

↳charles_priv I’m telling you — y/n (and Jules) are it for me. I’m going to marry her one day! Soon!

maxv replied did i miss a step somewhere?

bff replied oh they’re so cute together

↳y/n they really are

↳y/n I think she loves him more than I do

↳y/n as impossible as I feel that is

↳bff not worried he’s gonna leave? break you’re hearts?

↳y/n honestly? no. I can see it in his eyes — how much he loves her, loves us

↳bff loves you?

↳y/n yes. how much he loves me

charles_priv replied we’re very cute together! but you should have joined us

↳y/n I will, next time

↳charles_priv next time huh?

↳y/n yes. next time.

Private Messages, Charles and y/n

charles_leclerc

liked by y/n, arthur_leclerc, oscarpiastri, and 1,822,813 others

tagged: y/n

charles_leclerc: happy to win in front of my daughter (my biggest fan) and the love of my life!

view all comments

user50: ummmmm what?

↳user51: right? Did I miss a step or something??

user52: since when has Charles been dating someone??

↳user53: forget that SINCE WHEN HAS HE HAD A DAUGHTER???

↳user54: Charles I’m going to need you give us just a little bit more of an explanation please!

oscarpiastri: …I have a niece?

↳charles_leclerc: yes! She’s adorable and loves racing and loves leo and loves me!

↳oscarpiastri: cool 👍🏻

↳user55: I don’t know why I expected him to have more of a reaction 😭 liked by oscarpiastri

y/n: oh congratulations my love! You did fantastic today

↳charles_leclerc: it was because you were here 😊

↳y/n: no no no it was because you’re a fantastic driver. today was all you!

↳charles_leclerc: ehehehe thank you ☺️

↳user56: oh he’s down bad, down bad

user57: who what where when????

↳user58: right?? We skipped a couple of chapters at this point

maxverstappen1: congrats on the fatherhood?

↳charles_leclerc: thank you ☺️😊☺️😊

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

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[hatethysinner]

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

[katsukilvr]

everyone else thought you and katsuki bakugo were dating except you guys ༄ fluff, oblivious bakugo and reader, swearing, slight angst, kinda corny lol

you were a staple in katsuki bakugo’s life.

your moms were bestfriends, and they had you both at relatively the same time so you were there before he built his walls, before his ego skyrocketed, before his quirk developed, and you became as natural as the hair on his head and the explosions from his hands.

he learnt to respect you. to treat you with kindness cause when he eventually did test you in middle school, he learned how it felt to not be in your presence for once.

safe to say it was hell.

he had yelled at you, he had a bad day, his friends bothering him, drowning in homework, and training for the entrance exam when he snapped at you and dismissed you away like he did with his usual friends that just followed him around like little puppies.

he quickly learned that you weren’t gonna beg for his forgiveness like the others.

you went distant after that. you didn’t reach out, didn’t say hello the sing-songy way you did every time you saw him, didn’t come over, and suddenly his heart ached. he didn’t know why. it was a strange and unknown feeling and all he knew was your absence was causing this emotion. this weird, yearning emotion, and he knew he’d do anything to get rid of it and get back the bubbly girl he knew.

he came to this realization at 8PM. it was raining. he didn’t care. you guys were neighbors anyway. he quickly threw on a jacket, putting on his hoodie and shoes, running over to your two story house. your bedroom was on the second story but it had a tree next to your window and he often scaled it to hang out or sneak you out, except this time he didn’t like the reason he was climbing it. he got cuts on his hands, almost slipping and falling two stories as he managed to reach your window, tapping on the glass lightly as he peered inside.

“cmon y/n. open up.” he called out, tapping a little harder before you came to the window, opening it up.

“what do you want?” you said, your once warm and gentle voice now cold and distant while you crossed your arms, a displeased and annoyed expression on your face.

“please.. just let me in.. and hear me out.” he said gruffly, already climbing inside, knowing you’d let him in anyway. “i was.. i was being an asshole. i’m sorry. you don’t have to forgive me, but—i miss you goddamnit and i don’t like not being with you everyday.” he muttered, the words feeling weird on his tongue. he’d never apologized to anybody else other than his mother and it was a rather foreign feeling, but he’d say and do anything to get you back.

you stayed silent, contemplating as you looked up at him. you knew how hard it was for him to apologize, let alone come here and speak to you instead of letting you crawl back to him. you just sighed, pulling him in for a hug, immediately getting wet from his soaked clothes.

he let out air he didn’t know he was holding, a sigh of relief, his hand immediately finding a place in your hair, his arms wrapped around you. god knows how good it felt to have you there, in his arms, with him like you should be.

after that day, he never disrespected you again.

he never realized what that feeling was, what love was, because yeah, he loved his mom, he loved his dad, but it was an entirely different feeling with you that he didn’t recognize.

additionally, he always thought romance were silly. he never understood romcoms, shipping in shows, soulmates, stories about ‘the one’, and so and so forth. it was always his one and only goal. being the number one hero. so he convinced himself, over and over again, that love wasn’t for him, that it was a distraction, an obstacle that would try to take him down. completely oblivious to his love in front of him all his life.

the years that followed, he’d grown more, emotionally, physically, and maturely too. he was still loud, rude, ill mannered, but he recognized how his words and actions affected others, partly due to you as well. you were the only one that could keep him in line while at UA.

of course, all you friends noticed that too. they noticed when he’d hold the door open for you without you asking. when you were the only person he’d walk to class with. when you’d always partner together during class projects. and when the dorms were enforced, he even requested to be next to you, like how your houses were next to each other. it was rare to see him in his own dorm, since he was always in yours, even if you weren’t in it, he just enjoyed being there.

so it was a shock when you told mina that no, you weren’t dating, and no, you hadn’t put him under a love spell like that girl from descendants.

“he is SO in love with you, y/n, how do you not see it?” she cried, giggling a bit as she laid down on your bed as you guys gossiped. it was a rainy night, katsuki was training in the gym, the one time he’s not glued to your hip. so you, mina, and jirou all had a girls night in. you guys talked, watched movies, and ate food. somehow you guys got to the topic of guys when mina asked you how long you and katsuki had been together.

you were immediately confused. “together? what do you mean?” you laughed, looking at the both of them look at each other. “how long have you been dating?” jirou repeated mina’s question.

“we’re not dating.”

they both gasped, “what do you mean your not dating? he’s SO nice to you.” mina exclaimed, giggling as she moved to lay on her stomach, her head resting on her hands. “yeah, he scowled at me and gave me a dirty look today just for laughing too loud and you tease and make fun of him and get nothing but a lil’ smile.” jirou said and laughed, rolling her eyes.

“well that’s just how he usually acts” you murmured, thinking back to the years before, “do you think he likes me?” you gasp, furrowing your eyebrows.

mina and jirou face palm, “girl.. yes.” they laughed and shook their head.

that’s when they all heard keys jangling and the lock unlocking (yeah he has a key to your dorm, and you have a key to his). “y/n, where’s my copy of—..” he said before being met with the stares of the three girls. he furrowed his brows, a strange look on his face, giving them only a nod as a hello as he moved to search through her drawers for a copy of NANA that he let you borrow.

the girls giggled behind him, mouthing “speak of the devil” and wiggling their eyebrows. you just rolled your eyes, dismissing them.

they both left quickly after with their own excuses, leaving you and katsuki alone. he finally found his copy, moving to your bed and plopping down next to you. “what was that about?” he said, opening up the manga. you rested your legs on his, and he started to trace his fingers up and down them as he read. “oh.. uh nothing. just a girls day.” you said, picking up your phone. you didn’t know why, but you’d gotten goosebumps. you never got goosebumps when katsuki touched you. or got close to you. damnit mina, why’d you get in my head? did katsuki like you? or was this normal between the two of you?

thoughts like that raced through your mind for the next few days.

you saw him in a new light, a beautiful.. handsome, kind of light.

every gruff “this reminded me of you”, everytime he came over, every time you guys went out to eat, or when he’d buy you those shoes you wanted in an instant, had your heart fluttering more often and he sensed this change, while he didn’t know it was you slowly catching feelings for him, he thought he did something wrong, and he went to his best friend (besides you).

he was pacing around in kirishimas room, running a hand through his hair as he ran through the reasons he could have pissed you off. it’s not like you’ve been distant but everytime he’d do something nice, you acted different and had him overthinking. A LOT.

“shit. i don’t know what i could’ve done to tick her off man, i dunno.” he grumbled, sitting down on the edge of kirishimas bed. “why don’t you just talk to her, man?” kirishima said, furrowing his brow as he organized stuff in his room. “it shouldn’t be hard to talk to your girlfriend, man, me n mina talk about our feelings all the time.” he explained further, glancing at his distressed friend when he suddenly looked up at kirishima. “girlfriend? she’s not my girlfriend idiot.” he grumbled, his head still in his hands. kirishimas eyes widened quickly, before returning to normal. he paused his task, sitting next to katsuki.

“she’s not?”

“no.” katsuki mumbled, his distress turning into confusion. “what makes you think that?” he said, scowling at kirishima.

“you treat her like royalty, man, you look at her like she hung the moon.” kirishima laughed, shaking his head, “you treat her better than most guys treat their wives.” he said, looking at the floor.

“well.. that’s just.. i don’t know. i’m used to it. she deserves it, yknow?” bakugo muttered out, sort of speechless. “i’ve treated her like that since we were in diapers, kiri.” he scoffed, running his hands through his hair. “well why?” his friend said, looking at bakugo. “well this one time, we got into a fight, a while back, and she didn’t talk to me for a fucking week.” he said gruffly, almost paining him to even think about that event. “it was horrible, i would’ve done anything for her back.. that’s when i knew i couldn’t lose her again.” he said, shaking his head, meeting his friends eyes.

“is it possible you like her?”

bakugo furrowed his eyebrows, slowly connecting the dots. like her? he scoffed, thinking about it for a second.

“i mean.. i love mina. i’d do anything for her, genuinely. she’s my world. it was love at first sight, bro. i think she’s the one.” kirishima said and laughed softly, shaking his head, “like my safe space. i wanna be with her all the time, yknow?” he explained further, “do you feel that way about y/n?” he asked, glancing towards bakugo.

oh.

he was silent. putting together the dots, connecting the puzzle pieces. he considered himself smart. he always did. but how could he be this dumb? this oblivious? he always felt that way towards you.

he nodded, sighing as he stood up. “i gotta go.” he grumbled, grabbing his bag and waving bye to his friend. he practically ran to his dorm, needing space. needing time to think.

should he push this feeling away? would it affect his career? many pro heroes have wives.. but all might didn’t, and he was the greatest. what would he even do about this? he didn’t know jack about romance. and did you even like him back?

that question stilled his spiraling mind.

did you like him back?

how could he know? your bubbly with everyone, too fucking chatty with icy-hot. you give that stupid beautiful smile to every stranger that passes and you ramble to anybody that would listen… was he as special to you as you were to him?

this had him faltering in classes, in training. he could not take his mind off it. off you. he over analyzed everything. every smile, every touch, every word that hung off your lips had captivated him.

he was tired of this. he didn’t wanna keep worrying. he didn’t wanna overthink for days. he was gonna ask you out. he was katsuki bakugo, goddamnit. he already knew what you liked, what flowers were your favorite, your favorite color, places that’d take your breath away, etc. he had planned the dream date, so why was he so nervous?

he ended up coming over, asking to hangout. you guys normally did, but he was extra jittery, extra sweaty, more than he usually was, which is a lot coming from him since his quirk was basically sweating. he stuttered more, was silent more which made you confused, suspicious even. mina had told you to get pretty today, have your nails done, your hair done, so you were already on edge.

either way, you had a great time, you laughed a lot, fleeting touches made you flustered, and butterflies stirred in your stomach. by the end of the night, he took you by a lake next to the school and you squinted at something you saw in the distance.

were those candles? a picnic blanket? a basket?

“kats? what’s that? do you see it?” you laughed, wondering why you guys were walking there. until it clicked, it was for you. you blushed lightly, looking around at what he set up. he had your favorite flowers, chocolates, new shoes, and food.

he was behind you when he spoke up, clearing his throat. “i.. uh.. this is for you.” he grumbled lowly. “i’ve liked you for a while, y/n.” he said, laughing nervously. “your fuckin’ beautiful, and funny, and i’d do anything for you.” he said, taking a step closer, looking down at you.

butterflies swarmed in your stomach, you were suddenly nervous and laughing, you couldn’t stop smiling.

“will you be my girlfriend?” he murmured, cupping your face in his hand. this was out of character for him. he didn’t know what he was doing, he hoped his hand wasn’t too sweaty, he hoped you didn’t notice his hand shaking, or his heart pounding in his chest.

you nodded, “yes.” you smiled softly, stepping closer and when you said yes, it felt like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. he leaned in closer, not wanting to make you uncomfortable he spoke up, “can i kiss you?” he said, letting out a small chuckle. you nodded and he leaned in, his other hand coming up to cup your face as well as you kissed. you both were inexperienced, but you didn’t care because it felt right. it felt right to hold him closer, to rake your hand through his hair, to kiss until you ran out of breath and when you did, he whispered something against your lips.

“i cant believe i waited this long to make you mine.”

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟖]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, mentions of blood and injury, heavy angst

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. i know it's been forever, but welcome to the update lol. ik you're all gonna hate me for this one. have fun. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨'𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗠𝗘 (𝗜 𝗖𝗔𝗡'𝗧 𝗕𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗘)

Malipo Kinich.

He whispers it to himself that morning, face to face with himself in the mirror. Each syllable of the name drifts off his tongue, slow and sour and unfamiliar. It doesn’t make his chest warm, not like when you call his name, soft and adoring.

Though, that is a sound he hasn’t heard in a few days now.

After discovering his deal with Ajaw, you had practically disappeared, curling in on yourself in bed without so much as a word. Kinich tries not to take it personally, chalking it up to your surprise—he sleeps on the couch, trying to give you space.

He leaves food at your door, and he finds the clean plate next to the sink after he comes back from his commissions. At least you’re eating, he thinks regretfully, trying to remember the sight of your face. 

Most days, he sends Ajaw away for hours, hoping the lack of his presence will coax you out of your room.

It doesn’t.

The Ancient Name starts to feel more like a curse than a blessing.

A week later, the village holds a ceremony in his honor, a celebration of the name that he has inherited. The will of his ancestors is behind him, or so it is said. He wonders what they would think if they saw him now—his hesitation, his regret.

Kinich is brave. He knows this to be a fact, based on years of experience; not many things can scare him off.

And yet, with his fist raised to your bedroom door, invitation on his tongue, he just can’t bring himself to knock. A paralyzing fear grasps at his limbs, freezing him in place.

We…we were happy, Kinich. Wasn’t that enough?

Your voice echoes in his mind, heartache and betrayal lacing each syllable. He’s never heard you sound so destroyed before. And he had been the cause.

You’ve never been so angry with him before. Sure, as children, you’d had your spats, but you were usually back to speaking like normal by the next day. Things always, always returned to normal.

It tended to be that way when you were all he had.

He hisses in a breath when his mouth floods with the taste of iron—he’d been biting at his lip without realizing. He swipes at his lip, grimacing at the stain of red on the back of his hand.

His fault again, he thinks bitterly.

It stings.

With a final, longing look toward your bedroom door, Kinich sighs, gathers his things, and leaves.

(From behind the thin wood, your eyes shut painfully as you hear the front door swing closed.)

/

You’re not there.

The tribe gathers around, and as Chief Wayna drones on about the history of the Malipo name and the Turnfire, all Kinich can do is scan the crowd for your face.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting—he hadn’t told you about the ceremony, and he hasn’t even seen you in days. There’s no logical reason why you would be here right now.

And yet, his heart pangs with every unrecognizable face that falls within his gaze.

His heart is gnawing, starved. It’s a craving that rests sharp in his chest, the urge to see you. 

Despite the cheers erupting in his ears, he misses the melodic sound of your voice.

It ends as quickly as it begins, and people pat his back and shake his hand as he moves to leave—some he recognizes, and some he doesn’t. Still, the one person who has always thought the world of him isn’t here.

Chief Wayna seems to be the only one to notice, a pitying light in his eyes as he grasps Kinich by the shoulders.

“An Ancient Name is an honor,” he says with a chuckle. Then, he leans in closer, voice lowered. “But you don’t look happy.”

And really, it isn’t that he’s unhappy. He really does understand the importance of an Ancient Name, and he can understand why the Wayob chose him. 

But something about it all feels wrong. It feels wrong to celebrate when you aren’t here, it feels wrong that you aren’t beside him, it feels wrong to smile without you. A puzzle missing a piece.

Kinich realizes Wayna is still staring at him expectantly, so he coughs, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” Kinich replies firmly. His hands tighten to fists at his side, a detail that does not go unnoticed by the older man. “I’m happy to be recognized by the Wayob. It’s a great legacy.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth, either. Wayna seems to understand nonetheless; he nods thoughtfully, carefully selecting his next words.

“Any concerns?”

For a moment, Kinich wants to tell him everything. Wayna has always been good to him, the closest thing he had to a father in this world. But he can’t seem to make the words come out; it’s shame that keeps them held tight in his throat.

So he merely shakes his head, looking down at his feet.

Wayna sighs.

“You’re a good man, Kinich. You’ll grow into this name and become a great one.”

The chief’s tone is so specific, so targeted that Kinich thinks he must know what happened. After all, the tribe’s leader seems to have a way of knowing everything around here. It makes everything feel overwhelmingly vulnerable.

Taking a step back, Kinich frowns.

“What’s the difference between a good man and a great one?”

Chief Wayna smiles, genuine and knowing. He takes Kinich’s hand and shakes it firmly.

His grip is warm.

“It takes a good man to hold on. It takes a great man to know when to let go.”

/

When Kinich returns to your home, there’s a scrap of paper sitting on the kitchen table.

Down at the river, the note says, in your neat scrawl. 

It’s the first real communication you’ve had in a while. He feels embarrassed by the mere thought bringing a pink tinge to his cheeks. But it’s a chance to reconcile with you, so he would take it no matter where you are.

So he shoves his shoes back on without hesitation, sprinting down to the riverbank. 

The air is fresh, and the leaves are already starting to turn—golds and reds pass in a blur before his eyes. His chest is aching, and he chooses to believe it’s out of exertion. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so desperate in his life.

The riverbank comes into view, clear water bubbling, and a familiar form sits on a log nearby. Above, a flock of birds whizzes through the treetops, foliage rustling as they pass.

Rushed footsteps wind down to a slow, and then a stop, just a few feet behind you.

He calls your name so softly that the sound nearly dissipates with the breeze. 

You turn, almost in slow-motion, and Kinich’s heart feels like it just might burst.

For a moment, you look just like the day he met you.

A look of surprise flashes across your face, but your expression smooths back to contentment just as quickly.

“Hi.”

Your greeting is a mere murmur, and it’s a bit awkward—an unfamiliar atmosphere for the two of you. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, shaking his bangs out of his eyes.

“Hi,” he breathes. 

You smile weakly, patting the spot next to you. He walks over, almost tiptoeing, as if he’s afraid to scare you away. He sits gently, finally exhaling.

A few beats pass. Kinich watches the river as it rushes by, slicing through the forest and the rocks that attempt to impede it. The brush across from you rustles, a young squirrel peeking from the leaves.

It’s peaceful.

“I’m sorry.”

He says it almost to no one; he’s said it to you a million times, and you’ve heard it just as much. But he can’t help saying it when he’s finally in front of you. 

You don’t reply. But you don't seem angry either, so he holds that hope close to his chest.

He can feel your warmth emanating from his side, and it’s comforting. Everything feels real when you’re next to him.

“Kinich, do you ever think of me?”

He flinches. It’s a heavy question; he lets the words weigh him down as he settles next to you, bark rough under his legs.

“Do you think I don’t?” he asks in reply. Leaning down, he plucks a flower from the grass—a small red hibiscus. He inspects it for a moment, searching for any impurities, before handing it to you. You accept it wordlessly.

“I don’t know,” you admit after a pause, rolling the stem between your fingers, letting the petals spin like a small sun under your gaze. “I never seem to know what you’re thinking.”

Truthfully, sometimes he doesn’t really understand what he’s thinking either. He’s always seen the world in values and trades, but you’re the one thing he just can’t put a price on. Even for all the Mora and worth in the world, he wouldn’t consider giving you up.

All he can seem to think about is you.

“I think about you,” he says firmly. His eyes find the azure sky, wispy clouds soaring high above. “All the time. I’m always thinking of you.”

A feeling he could never surrender, a person he could never sacrifice. In the grand scales of life, he’s never been willing to place you within the balance. 

Your voice comes out in a murmur, accepting.

“I see.”

Despite the peaceful setting of the forest, somehow, everything feels like it will crack at any second. Like the precipice of disaster.

Your pinkies touch. He chases the feeling, grasping for your hand. 

You let him, fingers lacing with his.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough. 

The words aren’t, the flower isn’t, maybe his feelings aren’t. But the tightness in his chest cannot be misunderstood, so he steels himself, gathering years of memories and moments in his words. 

“I’m always thinking of you,” he repeats, and you raise a brow. Your quiet giggle is like music to his ears.

“I know, Kin,” you chuckle. “You just said that—”

“Since the day we met, I’ve always been thinking of you.”

Your voice dies in your throat at his interruption, eyes widening. Your expression leaves him feeling vulnerable, stripped bare for the world to see—he chokes. A mere shift in your expression has this much effect on him, he thinks harshly.

Grounding himself, he tries to focus on his other senses—the scent of wood in the air, the feeling of your hand in his. Your palm is rougher than he expected. It makes his heart feel like it’s being crushed.

All this time, you’ve both been working your hands raw for the sake of the other. 

He wonders how many long hours you’ve worked when he wasn’t looking.

The thought gives him the strength to continue.

“And when you smile, and when you cry, and always,” he hisses, teeth clenched, staring down at the single flower resting delicately between your fingers, “I always want to protect you.”

It’s the undeniable truth that has decided your entire lives until now—your mutual enduring desire to protect each other. After everything you’ve been through, he finds it hard to imagine himself having any other purpose.

You swallow audibly. The river seems to gurgle in answer.

“I’m leaving, Kin.”

The forest exhales, leaves rustling, and Kinich’s breath goes with it. Everything seems to stop.

He looks to you in shock.

“What?”

He can’t find the words. He’s never been the most verbose, but for some reason, every rational thought seems to leave his mind at that moment. 

Out of every single thing you could’ve said, this was the last thing he expected.

Seemingly expecting his shock, you squeeze his hand apologetically.

“We’ve been together almost every day of our lives since we were children,” you sigh, a smile steeped in nostalgia appearing on your lips. You’re turning over the petals, absentmindedly feeling over their ridges. “And it was some of the happiest moments of my life.”

Your stare turns faraway, looking somewhere beyond the treeline.

“But I don’t think we can grow like this anymore.”

Kinich can’t reply, can’t think, can’t breathe.

Sensing his hesitation, you continue.

“You’re too busy protecting me to chase anything else. And you have an Ancient Name now—”

Kinich frowns. “It doesn’t mean anything—”

“But it does, Kin. And I’m sure you can sense that,” you interrupt, strained. You take a moment, gathering yourself. “But you’re too afraid to leave me behind to face it. You’re running away.”

And deep down, he does know. The Ancient Name thrums against his skin, and he feels it—something calling out to him. The heat of Natlan resting within his chest, a dragon to its trove.

There’s a purpose there.

He knows, and yet he just can’t contend with the thought of you not being by his side.

But you’re smiling, even despite the pained look in your eyes, and Kinich finally realizes the one thing he would trade for you, the one thing that’s more valuable than anything else in the world.

Your happiness.

“I want to see you grow, Kin,” you whisper, placing the flower down gently. You grab his hand in both of yours, bringing his fingers to your cheek. “But I want you to grow for your sake. Not for mine.”

Kinich can only watch, letting his fingertips melt into your warmth. 

He’s holding on for your sake, and you’re letting go for his. He knows this, yet somehow, he’s not ready to accept it.

You press a soft kiss to his palm, lips quivering. It sparks something deep in his chest.

You’re putting on a brave face, but he can sense the sadness in your every movement. You’ve always had more courage than he ever did. Maybe it’s time that he returns the favor.

He takes a deep breath, fixing you with a serious stare.

“Don’t go out alone at night, the monsters are much more frenzied when there’s less light. The Yumkasaurs too, but there’s a certain poison that I can show you that helps sedate them. Even certain flowers act as a mask to their senses, so it’s much easier for you to sneak past them.”

Your eyes are wide as you absorb everything he’s telling you.

He’s rambling, clinging to anything he can yet teach you, anything that may yet link you to him. He grasps blindly at the air and finds nothing. The thought makes him panic, his heart racing in his chest. He should beg you to stay. He should find some way—

Chief Wayna’s voice echoes.

It takes a good man to hold on. It takes a great man to let go.

And then, you slip right between his fingers.

“And if something happens,” he murmurs, sucking in a breath. The air tastes like dew and regret on his tongue. “Come find me. Please.”

He leaves the most painful part unsaid, letting it rest sharp in his chest instead, a knife to his heart.

But for now, I’m letting you go.

It sits for a moment, a soft undercurrent in the passing breeze. Your throat bobs as you swallow down the bitterness of his words, letting it soak into your skin and pass through your warmed veins. The implications of it all lie heavy on your shoulders.

It’s quiet.

A small sob escapes you then, and you press the heels of your palms to your eyes in an attempt to stem the tears. It hurts, unbelievably so, for Kinich to watch.

“Thanks,” you finally choke out, tears running crystalline rivers down your cheeks. “I’ll remember that.”

He wants to wipe your tears. His fingers twitch in your direction, but you’re already wiping them yourself.

“I’ll become strong, Kin,” you whisper, watching the river. He shakes his head.

“You always have been.”

He knows it better than anyone. The lone light of his life, the core of his being—it’s always been you. You have a way of making him remember the things he’s forgotten.

Warmth, and the absence of it. His mother’s footprints in the snow, and his father’s screams echoing down the cliff. Your eyes reflecting firelight. The good that fuels him and the bad that drives him forward. Faith, and his definition of love.

All of it has been you.

“Don’t let Ajaw take you, okay?” you beg, eyes watery. “I want you to be the Kinich I’ve always known.”

He would be anything, anyone you wanted him to be. If you asked, he would toss this Ancient Name away and leave it all behind. But he knows that you would never want that for him, or for anyone. It’s that kindness that he’s always envied about you.

His heart just won’t stand still.

Hopeless, Kinich grasps at your wrist, pulling you in and pressing his lips to yours. You return the kiss instantly, grip curling into his sleeve, responding with the same desperation.

It’s not the soft, warm type of kiss that he thinks you might’ve liked. The kind that you said you read in a romance book when you were kids. The kind that most girls would want for their first kiss.

It tastes like despair.

The raw pain of your imminent separation drives him closer to you, cradling your face gently. 

Despite it all, you’re so, so warm.

The salt of your tears stings at his split lip. The feeling only makes him hold you tighter.

He kisses you until his lungs give out, begging for air, until his head is dizzy with the scent of you. Even then, he kisses you for a few seconds more, trying to drown out this wretched feeling.

He just can’t let go.

But he finally does, chest heaving and breath mixing with yours. Sweat sticks to the back of his neck, cooling with the passing breeze. 

His lip stings. He thumbs at it, letting the pain sink in.

His fault again.

Kinich can’t seem to manage a single word, chest heaving. He presses closer to you, trying to remind himself that you’re still here.

Everything hurts. Too many moments pass.

Then, forehead pressed to his, you laugh. He lets his eyes flutter shut, relishing in the sound for a moment. Maybe for the last time.

“Thank you for everything. I’ll do my best every single day, and I’ll catch up to you.”

His heart lurches despite the smile on your lips.

“And one day, I’ll find you again,” you murmur, twisting the flower’s stem between your fingertips, “Malipo Kinich.”

[chronicsyd]

I’m sorry but the statement I think I Hate the Most is “I miss S1 Caitlyn!” “I miss silly Caitlyn!” “What happened to S1 Caitlyn?”

Cuz it’s like I’m sitting here like:

OH

GEE

I

WONDER

WHAT

HAPPENED

And not Only will there be Jinx glazers who deem there was Nothing Wrong with this, but they’ll deem that Caitlyn Deserved it. And Look, I Get that Jinx’s your fav and all, but Nothing about what Jinx did to Caitlyn here was Remotely ok.

“But she didn’t know her mom was there!”

And that doesn’t excuse the Entirety of the tea party scene.

“But Jinx has abandonment issues!” Yea so do I, not Quite on the same level as Jinx does but I’m not about to go Kidnapping and Threatening the person I thought was “responsible” cuz that’s just Fucked Up (also highly illegal)

And No, I’m Not “letting my Caitlyn bias get in the way” of having a discussion with this because I at the very least have the mental capacity to say “it’s not okay that ____ did that”

And it’s to the point where I’m seeing videos like “How it feels to be an Arcane fan with media literacy in 2025” and I open the comments to see that the OP is a Notorious Jinx glazer that treats Caitlyn like the devil like babes if your a glazer for Anyone in this show I’m gonna say that you probably lack media literacy all together because that wasn’t the Point of the Character 🤦‍♀️

“But you’re a Caitlyn defender”

Exactly. I’m Not a Caitlyn glazer because I’m spending most of my time Defending Caitlyn from Jinx glazers because there’s a difference between the “defenders” and the “glazers” of the Arcane fandom. And I don’t sit here saying “oh Caitlyn was in the right for x, y and z” when she’s clearly Not.

And Most of the time when we’re having a discussion about Caitlyn not only will fans Completely Ignore characters like Ambessa and Salo; they’ll deem you “racist” if you bring up the fact that Ambessa’s the one that’s the dictator/manipulator as if that wasn’t the whole reason she came to Piltover in the First Place. (While Also making “jokes” that compare Caitlyn to two of the most Heinous moments in history. “But Caitlyn stans were racist towards Reed when he made the jokes!” Yea and that was wrong as well! Two things can be wrong at the same time people! It’s not rocket science)

Yea sorry for the rant it’s just that I see the “what happened to Caitlyn?” On So Many TikTok posts that I’m getting mad about it

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Motivation by Normani

➥ J. MacTavish: Johnny was given explicit instructions to not get wrapped up with the pretty lass dressed up in booty shorts and the air brush t-shirt.

CW: suggestive. oral sex fem receiving. 18+ mdni

Block Party master list

Johnny couldn't understand how Kyle dealt with the northeastern heat. He also didn't understand why Kyle didn't want to get to the party early until he was actually helping to set up the party they were invited to. It was supposed to start at 1 pm and at 1:30 tables were being set up and he heard someone talk about running to the store for more ice.

“And you wanted to be on time and now we have to be part of the set up crew.” Kyle grumbled as he helped Johnny carry out another table.

“It was Cap who kept saying it would be rude to show up late!” Johnny was sweating up a storm and had to strip off his shirt down to his undershirt.

Kyle could only roll his eyes, “And it's tragic that he's being put on kitchen duty. Fucking lucky Aunty Ruth likes him.”

Just as they were setting up another table Johnny could hear squeals and shouts. It was quick but before he knew it his friend was being tackled by a woman. She was full of energy, loud noise and dressed in as few clothes as she could get away with. Tiny blue jean shorts and a white t-shirt that was spray painted. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Was it rude to look? He hoped not.

“Kyle! Uncle Kirk told me you were coming! But I didn't think you'd be here helping with setting up!” She pulled away from him and grinned brightly. “And look at you! You're not a twig anymore!”

“Ugh, thanks cuz. The military will do that to you.” Kyle laughed, “I only made the trip because Dad said Nana was going into a home after this summer.”

“You should visit more often. I know your mom won't step foot in this neighborhood after the car bomb incident, but you're always welcome.” She smiles and laughs as Kyle shouts “allegedly!”

Johnny is still staring at her and finally she turns to look at him. Her bright gaze is outlined with bright makeup, and her lips are shiny and sparkling from the way the sun hits the gloss. Her shirt is not really a shirt, more like a suggestion of a shirt and he gets a good glimpse of her midriff.

Kyle glances at him and sighs, “Sugah, this is my teammate Soap-” he starts but is cut off.

“Johnny. You can call me Johnny.” His hands feel clammy for some reason. He wipes them on his shorts before he reaches his hand and she takes it. She gives her name but says that he can call her Sugah like everyone else, and he doesn't miss how her eyes roam over him. He only hopes he looks decent because he's been working and sweating.

“Cute accent!” She sideeyes her cousin and teases “You should hide him, he won't last the day with a face like that and voice like that.”

“Sugah!” Her name is called from the house and an angry older woman is standing there, hand on her hip, “Did you bring back anything I asked you for!?”

“Aunty Ruth is gonna kill you.” Kyle shoos her away.

“Chile, when is she not? Not like she can whoop us anymore.” She clicks her tongue with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Say that to her face.”

“I will not!” She punches Kyle in the arm and makes her way to the house, “Oh by the way!” She calls over her shoulder “Your girl is gonna be here this weekend so be nice and Johnny nice to meet you!”

Johnny felt like he was stuck and tongue tied. He wasn't really paying attention. How could he? His eyes watched her like a hawk and the only thing he could think of coherently was ‘How am I gonna get her in my bed?’

He's brought out of his trance by Kyle snapping his fingers in front of his face. “No Soap. Bad Soap. Do not and I mean do not try to sleep with my little cousin.”

“Ah wasn't gonna do tha!” Johnny deflects.

“You have that look on your face.” He deadpans him. “I know how you are, you can not think of her as a conquest.” His warning seems to be a bit much.

Johnny nudges him in the side as they head back to get more tables and chairs, “Nobody is thinking that. Am I not allowed to look?”

Johnny is a bit put out when Kyle doesn't smile, “Do not Soap...”

“Ye say it like it's a warning.” He doesn't see why Kyle is acting that way.

“Her shirt says Baby Girl in pink airbrush. Please ah beg.” Kyle doesn't say anything else.

You had just gotten back from doing the last minute shopping. Ice hadn't been bought and Aunt Ruth wanted more sodas and juice. When you had gotten to the house and seen your big cousin Kyle, you forgot all about your party chores. His people came from England after some hijinks that your Uncle Kirk often says ‘Most of that story is classified.’ Everyone got the impression it was a work thing that went left.

“Sugah,” Aunt Ruth frowned, “You not messing with them boys? They have work to do.” Aunt Ruth wasn't really your aunt, that you think. Maybe she was but the family lines were blurred. According to her, she watched after most of the kids on the block for as long as she could remember. Your father being one of them and Uncle Kirk being the other.

“Does it matter?” A low voice came from the dining room, “The party was supposed to start almost forty minutes ago, and the grill just got turned on and that poor English man doesn't know anything about a seafood boil but they're making him help with that.”

“Nita!” You shout and hug the older person sitting at the table, they were busy piping up deviled eggs to fry.

“Hey baby, don't be rude, this here is Simon.” They turn and smile at the quiet hulk of a man who is wearing a full on shiesty in the heat of the kitchen. “He came home with Kyle.”

Simon is quiet as he efficiently pipes the yolk back into the eggs. He glances up once and nods before going back to his designated task.

“Nita and Aunty, they are guests.” You manage to control the laugh you want to let out.

“Okay and?” Aunt Ruth is sharp in her words, no movement ever wasted. “Simon, you not hot under all those clothes?” She doesn't bother looking from her pot of whatever she's cooking.

“No ma'am.” He says and his voice is soft and quiet like he's too afraid of being too loud or seen.

“Actually Sugah, I need you to run back out and pick up two more watermelons and those hot dogs that Mini's chilren like.”

“Really, do you think gas just flies into my car for free?” You suck your teeth and stomp your foot before you even realize who you're talking to.

“Girl if you don't-” Aunt Ruth chucks a towel at you. You manage to duck only for it to hit Johnny as he comes into the house.

“Ack!” The sound of the wet smack of the towel hitting skin causes everyone to pause.

Simon looks up and watches quietly, but you see in his face that he is assessing his friend for damage.

“I can only imagine why Aunty was throwing a wet rag to begin with.” Kyle takes the rag and hands it back to Aunty Ruth. He looks at you and the only thing you offer him is a grin.

In a sing-song voice you skidaddle around Kyle, to avoid another towel, “I'm going Aunty, I was just playing. Ky come on-”

“No, Kyle needs to go out and help set up the grill and the pot and make sure Ernest isn't setting anything on fire.” Nita intervenes, “And if you two go anywhere, we'll see you both on the news in half an hour.”

The deep heavy sigh that leaves Kyle is comical, “That was years ago.”

Without missing a beat Nita continues, “If Kiersten wasn't able to get you all out of that, in fact, Mrs. Brown's tree had to be cut down because you five crashed your daddy's car into it. Poor thing could never rebound.”

“Sugah, take him” She waves her hand at Johnny, “With you if you want company so bad. Now get.”

You miss how Kyle is shooting Johnny a look as you grab his hand and pull him along, “Won't be long Aunty!” You shout and head right to your car.

The moment your altima pulls out the driveway you look at your new adventure buddy. “So how long have you and Ky known each other?” you take note that he's got a pretty blush to his skin from working in the heat. His hair is a bit damp from sweating the heat. Johnny gives you a dazzling smile, but it holds something more to it.

“I’ve known him for a few years, same team and all that.”

“He's such a killjoy and a smart ass. Not sure how you three put up with him to be honest.”

“He's not so bad.”

“I guess your version of him is different.”

“He said you're his little cousin?” Johnny probes slightly.

“Yeah, but he's only got me by like a month though. Why? Did he say something stupid?”

“Nae, not really…just curious about how you're related.”

“Well, me and Kyle, our dads are brothers, fraternal twins. Aunt Ruth who is hosting the party is like their Aunt or something, she raised them when their mom dropped them off and just didn't come back.” You shrug.

“So blood related.” He hums.

“Yeah?” You give him a side eye, “What's with playing connect the dots?”

“I'll be honest, bonnie, he told me not to have sex with you.” He has such a boyish and sheepish look about him when he says that. It's cute in a mischievous way.

“Ooh, I see. Trying to see how many times he's gonna hit you for hitting on me?” You like his honesty and return the same smile. “I won't tell if you won't tell, I mean you're not that bad looking.”

He makes a squawk of a noise, “Lassie I'll have you know I'm a ten!”

“To whom? The mohawk is like your solid five point that takes you to a solid eight out of ten.”

“I bet I could get the two extra points by using my mouth alone.” The wink he sends you makes you laugh.

“You wanna test that theory?”

“I feel like I should.”

“How about this?” You drive right past the grocery store, “If you make me nut with just like oral, I'll ruin you for every girl after me.”

“If you wanna just have a quick shag say so bonnie.” The cockiness is certainly something else.

“Nah.” You glanced at him, “Just motivation for you to put your best skills forward. I don't fuck dudes that can't make me cum on their fingers and tongue alone.”

The look he gives you should have told you everything you needed to know. It was heated, smug, and a little unhinged.

You had parked your car behind one of the abandoned strip malls. Both if your front car seats pushed up the way to give you both enough room in the back seat. Your legs were thrown open and over Johnny's shoulders, body bent at an odd angle. He's got two of his fingers pressed deep into you, curling them to graze just against your sweet spot. His m,outh is sealed over your clit while his tongue flicks rapidly over it. You had talked a big game not even fifteen minutes ago about how you don't cum easily from oral.

Oh how wrong you were.

Your hips bucked up against him as you try your best to wriggle away from him. “Johnny fuck, oh shit-” you gasp. He only groans and lets go of your clit and those pretty blue eyes stare up at you. He continues to pump his fingers in and out of you.

0“None of that sweet lassie.” He kisses your inner thigh. Johnny seems different from between your legs. He isn't as giggly and charming, and is more like a fucking demon who won't let you go. “Come on sweet girl, you can do it.”

“I- I can't Johnny.” You're breathless as the pleasure swirls in your body. It twists throughout your veins, and pools at the base of your gut. A deep pressure as he pulls you apart bit by bit.

“You can sweet lass, you can. Fuck your cunt certainly says she can.” He looks down at where his fingers dip into you, curls against your g-spot and pulls out just enough. “She's begging for another orgasm, cryin’ for it.”

And the way he talks! The other guys on your roster would never and you're certain that you're gonna cry when he leaves with Kyle at the end of the visit. The sounds that he's pulling from you are anything but modest. You groan and moan, and you feel embarrassed at how wet your pussy sounds. You've already had two orgasms, maybe in hindsight you should have sucked him off first. Save yourself the embarrassment of this whole ordeal, but he said ‘ladies first’ and bullied you onto your back. You don't even notice that your orgasm is cresting through you until it happens.

“Fuck!” Your body feels like it's floating and falling all at once. He isn't even using his dick and it's just been his fingers and mouth. He sucks on your clit and prolongs your heightened pleasure. You twist and turn against his hold and the bastard holds you down with his arm across your stomach. “Johnny! Please!”

He yanks his fingers out of you and pulls his lips off of your clit with a wet pop. The devilish grin on his face and his lust blown eyes make your entire being throb for more.

“How-” you pant trying to come down from your high. “How long are you in town for?”

“The block party and a few days after. Why?” He teases you by nipping at your thigh again.

“You know damn well, you aren't staying with Kyle for the rest of your visit here. I'm kidnapping you and you're blowing out my back.”

The party was just starting at four when you had come back with the extra items that Aunty Ruth had sent you out for. Music drifted through the air. Your legs are wobbly and Johnny trails behind with the world's largest grin on his face. He looks like the cat that caught the bird. You both had to hastily put yourselves back together and if anyone was keeping track of the time, they would have noticed that you took Ingersoll than needed.

The kitchen is at capacity with pots and pans to be served out of, Aunty Ruth can be heard in the backyard yelling. “How did his beard almost get set on fire Ernest!”

Kyle is hurrying back into the kitchen to grab the med kit. He looks absolutely mortified but he stops when he sees you and Johnny and the state you are both in. He isn't impressed and looks disappointed.

“Soap…you didn't.” He glares.

“Didn't what?” Johnny plays dumb.

“What's going on?” You ask about the med kit.

“Cap called himself ‘grilling’ and Uncle Ernest egged him on and the grill went up in flames. His mutton chops are okay, but half an eyebrow is gone and some arm hair too.” But his glare hasn't left his friend. You awkwardly shuffle between the two of them.

“Kyle, now before you blow your top-”

“Gaz.” A slightly older man pops up behind Kyle. He looks like he was put through the wringer. Just like your cousin said, he was missing some hair and his facial hair was a bit singed. “We still do need the med kit for the Bluey bandaids.” He doesn't seem angry or annoyed, ���Andre is insisting on it.”

You look down to find your friend's son suckered to the man's leg. “Hey Andre, what's up?” You ask the toddler.

“Big man on fire and he needs Bluey hugs and mommy kisses.” Andre answers, he hugs onto his leg and looks up. “Mommy will help and kiss it all better!”

Kyle couldn't decide on what he wanted to run interference on first. His boss and his older cousin, his friend and his little cousin, or the fact that Simon left with the family crash outs thirty minutes ago for a walk and he still isn't back. “I can't deal with this.” He handed the med kit over to the man, “Cap I need a smoke, be back in second. Don't let my uncle Ernest put you back on the grill.” He didn't say anything else as he left out the kitchen door in a hurry.

“What's wrong with him, Captain?” Johnny asked.

“Not sure, he spoke with some young woman earlier right before the grill went up in flames and he hasn't been in a good mood since.” He looks down at Andre, “Come on, let's get you back to your mum.”

You let out a sigh of relief as this meant you successfully avoided getting chewed out. “We probably shouldn't screw with each other.”

“Why not?” Johnny says, “Don't tell me you're gonna renege on your deal.”

“I'm not, it's just that you're only here for like three days, and I don't want you to accidentally like more than usual.” The laugh you give is sorta nervous.

“We'll worry about that when we get there bonnie.” He kisses you on the cheek.

Just as a side note. These shorts all take place at the same time. So we will see more of what the other guys are up to cause I promise I will show you all how he lost half his eyebrow, lol.

[chxseversion]

THE TEXT MESSAGE VIDEO|| kimi Antonelli x fem!reader

summary: A Mercedes video where they expose the text messages between Kimi and his girlfriend.

Warnings: flirty comments, potential flirting, pore translation of Italian things (my bad),

————

“Hi Kimi” one of the admin team said from behind the camera as another walked over and handed him a stack of upside down poster boards while he set in-front of the camera.

He smiled at the camera “Hi. can i be told what were doing today?” He asks, his accent slightly softer as the Admin nods behind the camera and starts explaining to him.

“today we you are going to be showing, flipping an individual card, around to show the camera and explain the meaning to reason behind the text messages between you and your girlfriend” They explain with a small smile as he nods to the explanation.

He flips the first card around to reveal the text and smiles a little at it;

His smiles breaks into something bigger when he reads the texts and nods along, remembering the exact moment that had happened “yes, this when i was away on a triple header weekend and she got sick. She was trying to act okay and we had this very little conversation before going on call for about 13 hours.”

He explains with a look of love in his eye as he talks to the camera and then gently places the board down and winks at the camera before the screen goes black.

⇢༒⇠

The next clip is of him holding the next board and reading over it before letting out a little laugh before moving to show the camera:

“she was angry caused i missed her call…” he starts explaining and laughed a little “my mum told me to never be rude to people i love so i refused to call her anything eles and immediately after she read the message she facetimed me and continued to talk about it for about an hour” His words were soft but still filled with love while his eyes twinkled at the memory.

The admin gave a little laugh and Kimi joined in before placing the board down on the same point as the other “am i allowed to just keep going? or do i need to say anything eles?” he asked while looking at the camera “you can keep going. your good” An admin answers him and he nods.

⇢༒⇠

the screen cutting him holding the next card and smiling at it, a common thing he does when reading the card:

Kimi showed the card and a few admin gave a little giggle behind the camera “she was questioning everything cause i had sent her an email of plane tickets to my race” He smiled and looked at the text again “it worked and she stayed with me for a whole week while catching up on school work while away. i finally had my favourite math tutor back” He laughed and an engineer behind the camera let out a small ‘hey’ causing everyone, including Kimi, to laugh at it.

⇢༒⇠

The scene cut again to him already holding the next one with a small little smile on his face:

“this…” he pointed with his other hand “is something i still bring up to this day” he tilts his head a little and looks at the card before back to the camera “she wasn’t happy cause Toto had canceled my flight before i could go back to see her and she had sent me a giant paragraph. kind of glad that wasn’t included” He says and smiles a little at the thought before placing the card down.

⇢༒⇠

The scene cuts to the next one as a few laughs are still coming from behind the camera from admin while Kimi has a small smirk on his face for only a second:

“she had a bad day. that’s the only explanation i can give” he grins to the camera and points the emojis “she uses them a lot. i don’t really but it’s cute” He says and taps the board for a deeper meaning to what he’s saying.

Someone behind the camera laughs and the mic picks up them saying ‘the amount of scenes we’re gonna have to cut’ causing Kimi to smile and wink at the camera yet again.

⇢༒⇠

Kimi had a mad smile on his face as the camera focus on him and his eyes are wide before he turns to grab another card:

“i was about to head onto the podium and i knew she hadn’t watched my race as she had an important meeting and i hadn’t told her i had won but had to act all innocent and decided to ask her on a date night” his eyes glance between the camera and the texts

An admin lets out a little laugh “do you ever act like your achievements aren’t as big as they actually are?” they ask before Kimi lets out a little laugh “my girlfriend would say the same thing” he smiles even more at him getting to continue talking about her.

⇢༒⇠

As the camera focuses again Kimi seems to be walking back into frame and sits down “sorry” he mumbles as he adjusts so he’s comfy as he reaches for the next one;

Kimi let his head drop and smiled before looking up at the camera “i just had to tell her. i’ll gladly admit this any day” He spoke calmly “are you obsessed with her?” An admin speaks from behind the camera and he nods “most definitely. i’m so obsessed with her that i follow her high school instagram from before she got her new one”.

Someone from behind the camera laughs while a few also giggle “now someone’s gonna find that account” one speaks up before Kimi shakes his head “it’s a private account. she logged in just to follow me back and then logged out” He explains before placing the board down to grab the next one.

⇢༒⇠

Kimi is leaning forward and almost falling off his chair before George speaks up “i never wanna hear that again” he yells before the sound of loud feet exists the room and Kimi relaxes his face to grab the next one:

Kimi smile softly and places the board on his lap “this one… i need someone to grab my wallet” he point and someone’s hand reaches across the camera to pass him his wallet “for clarification this is the card that goes with it” he says and pulls out a little pink and white card that says ‘official girlfriend validation’ and then places it back in his wallet.

“now… the actual message” he says while showing it and smiling while his other hand is covering his face and laughing slightly before looking back at the camera and going to place down the card on the ground “if the message isn’t clarification to what goes on isn’t how i act daily then i don’t think anything i’ve said makes any sense in life”.

Kimi laughs before picking up the next and giggling a little after reading it:

“this one was from when i knew she was sleeping and we were on call while i messaged this to her” He explains as he shows it and looked up “it was when we were half way across the country away from eachother” he looks back and nods before moving to place it down with the rest of the boards.

⇢༒⇠

“okay. this is the last one in the pile” He says while turning it to face him and letting his head drop as he smiles and a small layer of blush coats his face:

He turns it to show the camera while resting his forehead behind the board and letting out a little giggle “i’m sorry” he mutters and looks up to face the camera and look past it at the giggling admin “i have no explanation” he claims and laughs again.

“this is really cute and like true… one day” Kimi admits while moving to be able to look at the board “i’ve said it before to her. it’ll happen one day” a few admin let out a small ‘awe’ and he smile.

He places the board down and looks at the camera “am i doing to outro or is someone?” he asks while looking at someone behind the camera “you can if you want” someone answers as a few chairs shuffle along the floor “okay. by guys, thank you for watching me explain texts between my girlfriend and i… im pretty sure on instagram only is gonna be the ones we aren’t allowed to show on here”

Kimi speaks while standing and putting his wallet in his back pocket and crouching down to have his face close to the camera “i’m gonna go and flirt with my girlfriend now…” he mutters to someone behind the camera before putting his face close to fill the whole screen “thanks for staying”

⇢༒⇠

A/N: an actual part will be posted for clips that aren’t fluff like this so if you want that it’s gonna HERE!! when it’s out.

[nartml]

"You lot refuse to see the real complexity in him"

Uh, I actually think that his repressed gayness is exactly the complexity you're talking about.

You could be making a good point about the infantilization of grown men, but you've got the wires crossed.

His being gay wouldn't justify his actions, but it sure as hell would explain them a lot better than anything else could.

Either he's horribly written, or he's stone cold gay, because his behaviour (read: assholery) towards the women he dates doesn't make any particular sense otherwise.

Call me crazy, but when the one consistent aspect of this man's characterization is that he represses every single goddamn emotion known to man, it's not far-fetched to suggest that he's repressed his homosexuality too.

We know that his parents definitely weren't the nurturing, supporting kind, regardless of wanting the best for their kid.

He married the only woman he ever dated when he was barely an adult, because he got her pregnant and they both felt pressured to create some sort of family.

Automatically being robbed of the time and space to explore himself, he had to officially "man up" and provide for his family.

He was enlisted in the army, having to endure the horrors of war, knowing he had to come back home.

And, while I don't doubt he loves Shannon, I also don't think that a man desperately in love with his woman would enlist to return to active war zones, behind her back, in an attempt to run away from the weight of the responsibilities awaiting for him if he were to stay with her and have her back, like she wanted.

He was a shitty husband, which is understandable considering the circumstances, but still. Shitty.

He comes back, and he's barely touched Texan soil, before Shannon was the one leaving, but with no concrete intentions to return.

When Shannon did come back, instead of their relationship being rekindled, she was gonna divorce him because she recognized that they were so young back then, that they had to grow up too fast and missed out on, you guessed it, exploring their identities outside of the responsibilities they had to take care of.

This, of course, freaked Eddie out because, he interpreted that as her leaving again, which was not something he wanted Chris or himself to go through again.

But they barely had time to actually address any of this, because Shannon died then.

After that, he repressed all of his grief and anger once more, which blew up in his face. Again.

And this vicious cycle kept on going.

He represses everything he feels like it's his full-time occupation, and the bills are due and Chris is starving.

We, the audience, barely know Eddie's true nature as a person, because Eddie himself has no damn clue either.

Christopher is his number one priority, and he's an undeniably great father, but we've seen him repeatedly making decisions for Christopher's sake, never his own, especially when it comes to his love life.

But even his immense devotion to his kid can't outweigh his instinctive aversion to dating women. His inability to imagine a future with them? His attempts at dating, in order to give Chris a mother figure because he thinks it's what's best for him, but his ultimate inability to commit to an actual partnership with them or let them all the way in?

"Reservoirs of catholic guilt, ready to consume me"? "Dating feels like performing"?? Man had a goddamn panic attack so severe he thought he was dying when he imagined a future with his long-time girlfriend???

Come on now. It's not batshit to suggest that this guy doesn't like women like that.

And even if it turns out we're gaslighting ourselves, it still doesn't erase all the queercoded aspects of him.

We think Eddie is gay, because the alternative is that the writers actually did a horrible job writing him.

Yeah, maybe he's just an emotionally immature dickbag for no reason when it comes to relationships (bad writing+boring+lacks depth), or it's simply a symptom of the fact that I went to the land of homo, and all the sexuals knew him.

I'll be honest, as a queer mexican man the way y'all talk about Eddie Diaz really pisses me off. You lot refuse to the see real complexity in him and admit he has done a lot of shitty things.

I think you've created this story of what you want him to be in your head where he is an eternal victim despite being a grown man and it doesn't do the character any favors.

I think you love the surfice level exploration of "latino culture" (whatever the fuck that means) he represents because he is the epitomy of "the good latino" propagandist figure. The USA army veteran hero, the one who isn't misogynist because he grew up in the US, the one who is brave enough to detach from his overbearing parents, the skeptic who rejects and even mocks the esoteric parts of his family's culture. The one with aspirations to be a model citizen and a "hero" to his son. Throws a couple of spanish words here and there, looks kind of brown but white enough for most demographics to find him hot.

He is comfortable to you.

I think y'all cling until your last breath to the posibility of him being secretly gay because you think if he had internalized homophobia this whole time then you can justify everything.

[contamination-zone]

So, your last post made me think (crazy…/s).

Idk if it’s implied or not/ said previously and I missed it, so I’m just gonna ask.

In the context where Nightmare keeps Fresh, would Fresh start to get uncomfortable with being restrained (you mentioned in a previous post how Fresh would prob enjoy the feeling) because he now associates it with Nightmare?

Kinda old ask haha, sorry for taking so long. short answer: yes

long answer undercut

The reason I think Fresh is fine with Nightmare restraining it in most of my art depicting them as allies is that Nightmare is only restraining it... physically? If Fresh expressed any desire to be let go, Nightmare would comply.

Nightmare needs Fresh to trust them. In my 'canon complaint' depictions, I don't think NM has the technology to dampen Fresh's magic to the point it couldn't just teleport away, so if he wants it around, he'd need to be a gracious ally who doesn't do anything Too shitty. Restraining Fresh and refusing to let it go would definitly freak Fresh out to the point that a lot of the trust the two had built up would crumble, and Nightmare would have to either rebuild the relationship and put in a lot more effort to get Fresh back, or give up on the partnership.

So Fresh is never truly restrained restrained-- it is always free to leave. In Straydog AU, Fresh is not free to leave, and thus acts that would have been enjoyable or neutral are seen as threatening and scary. Like I think Fresh could wear a cute collar in my allys interpretation as a gag gift by Nightmare and it'd be chill HAHA but straydog au Fresh is very very uncomfortable wearing the collar Nightmare forced it to wear.

In the future... I think Fresh would still feel safe in confined, small spaces, but would get panicked it held down by another person. It would be all about if Fresh was choosing the situation or not. Pressure and hugs would probably be fine as long as it Knows it can leave the situation; IE. after it really trusts someone, he'd prolly still be down to be restrained if there was like... a safeword, or the understanding that if it started showing distress it could be let go.

Its also that Fresh is very tactile, both in my interpretation and also supported by a good bit of canon. He likes to touch, be touched, hugs and cuddles and all that shit. So I don't think he'd just swear off all physical contact, just get... very very stringy about who he lets touch him.

[sweetbunpura]

Filled with Static Pt. 8

Summary: Yuu was already fed up before coming to Playful Land and now that it's over... She has some very choice words for she has reached her boiling point...

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

What should’ve been a restful day quickly evaporated as the news of Yuu’s departure began to circulate through the school. Now, the student body became aware of what had transpired the day certain students skipped and NRC had begun to morph into a war zone. All eyes were firmly locked on the ones who caused it.

“No words?”

Currently, Jade and Floyd were standing in Azul’s office in the Mostro Lounge. Azul had his back turned to them as he sat in his chair, completely quiet. The only sound in the room was coming from the lights above them as they droned in almost a mocking silence.

“Well?” Floyd grumbled. “Parasite got your tongue or somethin?”

“Getting yourselves into trouble is a normal day for the two of you.” Azul spoke but his voice was devoid of any familiarity. “But you managed to get Yuu-san roped into it and hurt in the process.”

“I will admit. Our judgment was not... the best.” Jade began to speak. “We underestimated Honest’s Unique Magic.”

Azul turned in his chair. “‘Underestimated’ Hmm?” His eyes narrowed. “Do you two not realize who you drove away? Yuu-san is literally the only way this school can function.”

Floyd huffed. “We already got chewed out by Professor Beakfish and Red Squid-”

“And you’re upset by it? Floyd, you’re the one who goes on about Yuu-san being your best friend.” Azul reminded him, causing the eel to freeze up. “This is not something you can just laugh away or ignore until it gets better.”

“Why are you goin’ after me?” Floyd growled. “Jade was there too!”

“Jade is not immune to this either!” Azul slammed his hands on the desk. “You both....The reason I have no words for you two is that I KNOW my words won’t matter to you. But my actions will.”

“What do you mean?” Jade asked.

“You heard me, Jade. You two thrive off of people’s reactions to what you do. So, I’m not giving it to you. In fact,” Azul sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and placed his elbows on his desk, and pointed towards the door. “Leave my office. I don’t wish to see either of you for the remainder of the day.”

“You kickin’ us out of the Lounge?”

“No, just my office.” He waved his hand. “Shoo, Leechs.”

Jade and Floyd looked at each other and then back at Azul, who waved his hand again. After a few moments, the twins hesitantly left the room and closed the door behind them. They walked into the dining hall to see the members ignoring them as they went about getting everything ready to open the Lounge.

“The fuck.”

“...It seems this doesn’t just include Azul.”

“I’m just gonna march over to Professor Beakfish and get him to tell us where Shrimpy is.”

“Oh, because that will go over so well, Floyd.” Jade watched as Floyd turned to glare at him. “Miss Yuu clearly has no desire to see you or any of us for that matter. Forcing him to tell you where she is is never going to happen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because if she wanted to speak to you.” Jade pulled out his phone and opened the messages. “She wouldn’t have left all the chats.”

Floyd glanced at the text messages before shoving the phone away.“...She’ll be back.”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do know that!” Jade nearly hisses but manages to catch himself in time. “You saw how she reacted at the pier.”

“That was just towards Crabby!”

“It was directed at all of us!”

“Shrimpy wouldn’t just up and leave!”

“Well she has! Grow up and accept it, Floyd. Your ‘best friend’ is gone!”

A few seconds passed before Floyd grabbed Jade and punched him. With a hiss, Jade shrugged off the hit and slammed Floyd into the ground. It wasn’t long before the brothers were fighting, using their fists and whatever was nearby as weapons. Employees moved out of the way as they tousled and rolled across the floor. Floyd pinned Jade to the ground and grabbed one of the nearby bar stools before a blast of magic sent him tumbling off his brother.

“What.” The sharp voice of Azul came as he lowered his cane. “In the Seven’s name are you two doing.”

 Floyd pointed his finger at Jade. “He-”

“I don’t care WHO started it.” He glared hard at the twins. “Both of you get out of here. Until further notice, you’re both relieved of your duties here in the Lounge.”

“But-” Jade tried speaking.

“Did. I. Stutter?”

“....No, Azul.”

“...Nah.”

“Then get the hell out.”

The twins quietly left the lounge, neither one of them flinching as the door slammed shut behind them. They glared at each other before going their separate ways.

Tagged: @twistedcece

[mattyriddlesbitch]

Hi pookie...more blaise fluff please or I'll actually die PLEASE

I got you. I have a story I wanna write, so I'll write it for him

Fool

Blaise Zabini x F!Reader

Warnings: Cussing, a lot of stuttering

Every time you heard it, it always surprised you. Blaise Zabini at the top of the class? Literally right behind Hermione? He was that smart?

And that's no insult to him. You liked him, thought he was cute.

But whenever he'd talk to you, he would stumble over his words, say the wrong words, practically stuttering. Now, this definitely didn't mean he was dumb, but it didn't exactly give you the impression he was top of the class.

Because how was the man who would pull the dumbest shit you have ever seen be top of the class?

The same guy you've seen walk into the same exact pillar at least once a week. The same guy who nearly fell off one of the moving staircases because he didn't see it move until the last second. The same guy who you've seen get hit dozens of times while in practice for quidditch. The same guy who totally messes up the words during karaoke consistently at their parties. You can keep going on and on.

Blaise's defense, at least in his head since he'll never say it out loud, was that you were too distracting. You were just too damn pretty and hot and smelled good. And everytime he saw you, he would do something dumb. Like running into something because he was too busy looking at you. Or messing up words because he couldn't keep his thoughts straight around you. He swears the only reason he isn't ahead of Hermione is because you messed him up during his presentation by looking straight at him and he mixed up his words, leading to him getting docked a few points.

So, yes, it always surprises you when someone mentions he's top of the class or being told he acted perfectly normally and not embarrassing.

Hearing about him charming girls from how smooth he is? Impossible. Missing a quidditch match of his and hearing how perfect he did? That's unheard of for you.

So when you're in the girl's restroom, overhearing Pansy and Astoria talk about how Blaise has a crush on you and it's super cute and funny, it all started making sense. They teased him about not being able to speak or act normal around you because of the crush and it made everything click. You waited them out in the stall while they finished their makeup at the sink while the information proccessed.

He has a crush on you.

As soon as they left, you washed your hands and left as well, looking for Blaise. You didn't even know what you were going to say. You were still kinda in shock.

Luckily, you caught him just before he went into the library, called his name as you tried catching up. He stopped and looked over to you when he heard his name.

Oh, shit. He's gonna make a fool of himself again.

"Hey, (Y/N). Hi. What's-What's up?" He asked, trying to casually lean on the wall by the library door, but the awkward movement showed you he was trying too hard.

You paused in front of him, unsure of what to say now. You found him. Now, what? Fuck it. "You have a crush on me." It was definitely more of a statement than a question.

His face fell as he straightened back up. "What? I-What? Where-Where did you hear that?" He tried laughing it off, like it was a lie.

"I overheard it. They didn't know I was there, but I just overheard them say it and...you have a crush on me. Right?" Now you were feeling awkward. What if it was a lie? Maybe they didn't have the right information? Now you were making this worse.

"I-No, yeah-I mean, I-come on. You overheard it and thought it was true?" Any outsider could tell just from his body language he was lying, but you were now so unsure because of his response.

"It was Pansy and Astoria who said it, I thought you guys were close. They didn't know I was there, so I don't know why they would lie. Unless they were just mistaken." You shifted on your feet. Maybe you shouldn't have confronted him.

"They just-They like making up things. For their own entertainment. I mean, I never would've told them if I did have a crush on you or anyone, so, you know, they're just-they're guessing. Those two." He shook his head and chuckled awkwardly.

"I don't get it then." You frowned, your shoulders slumping a little.

"Get what?"

"You. You like, always act perfectly normal around everyone else, but you act like...like an idiot, around me. So clumsy and awkward and you can barely talk to me. But everyone else tells me you act normal. I don't get it. Unless, you do have a crush on me. Then it makes sense. I thought I finally it figured out." You sighed, unsure of everything now.

"I-I do not act like an idiot. I-" He stopped himself with a scoff, but it was the kind like he just got caught and was playing it off. "I-You're just-" Another scoff. Merlin, he was being so awkward, but he couldn't stop.

"So, then, you don't like me?" You asked to clarify, and the tone in your voice had him feeling guilty. It was almost like you were disappointed?

"I mean, I-I never exactly said that." He shook his head, the words coming out without a second thought.

"So you do?" Instead of looking disappointed now, you looked confused.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out this time.

"Blaise?"

He scoffed again, looking away. "I mean, yeah, I suppose I kinda do."

"Really?" He really hoped he wasn't imagining the hope in your voice.

"Do-Do-Do you, you know, like me?" He asked, looking down to avoid looking at you.

"I suppose I kinda do." You said, mimicking him, biting your lip out of nerves now to his reaction.

He looked back up at you. "I, um...Are you free right now?" He asked, trying not to think too much about how awkward he still sounds.

"I am." You nodding, giving him a small smile.

"Would you maybe wanna go, like...hang out?"

"Yeah. I would." You nodded again, smile growing a little.

"Okay, awesome. Um, I-I don't, um. What do you wanna do?"

Taglist:

@jeannie-beannie @mixvchelle @helendeath @evaslytherpuff @leandre2006

@yours-truly-5 @hpnsfwaddict @mayamonroem @brittney-121 @jannie-belaerys

@dracoslovergirl @littlemadamred @acornacreacure @opheliamalfoy236

@delulugirl2000 @akira1246 @queenshu @prettypinkprincess15

@jolly4holly @st0n3dbarbi3 @kurumbukaari @whydoireadanymore @sweet-afternoon

@ilovehpb0ys @satosugu4-ever @mattiesgirl @ur-local-wizard

@alwayslatetothefandoms @satosugu4-ever @whydoireadanymore @dustie-faerie

@shaquilles-0atmeal @gillyweeds @pluto-9456

@hereticdance @cindyss @saint-marvel

@simpforromance @yours-truly-5 @kenjikishimotoswifey @fallingblackveils

@strxwberri-s @nickirae @esmerai-artemis @blu3b3rrymuff1ns @yootvi

@roseofsharron438 @abeoavita @rafesba @ter-luer @cminoko

[clancycatears]

∂яαgση яι∂єя нєα∂¢αησηѕ — WITH TASK FORCE 141

AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi. i rewatched the original how to train your dragon, and recently saw the new live-action film adaption. just went on a whim and thought of what the boys' dragons would be if they were dragon riders in the series! gonna stick to four each, because there's like... 150-ish different species of dragons out there. this is all coming from a loyal school of dragons player, so i hope i deliver! do i make a bonus post with everyone else? perhaps…

Dragons with the color orange are what I believe to be the character's primary companion! All links are to the dragon's page on the How to Train Your Dragon Wiki if you're interested! [1.2k words]

JOHN PRICE

John definitely specializes in dragons that display great stoicism and leadership! He and his dragon could make the perfect authoritative pair, while also being soft and collected when they want to be! So yes, I gave him both Hiccup's mom and dad's dragons. Like c'mon, they suit him! You can't tell me he isn't giving Stoic, can you??? Both the leader of Task Force 141, and the island of Berk! But I can also see him blacksmithing with Johnny and dabbling in armoring! Taking inspiration from one of the dragons here definitely gets the gears turning for him.

CRIMSON GOREGUTTER. That thing is BEEFY. Like comparable to John’s strength. The two would make a crazy, powerful, bulky duo. And those horns (antlers)? Clear show of authority and a perfect bulletproof shield for its handler.

RAZORWHIP. Not only a bulletproof shield, but a living, breathing, double-edged sword. Weapons and hazards literally ricochet off of this thing’s scales. John studies the Razorwhip especially for that reason! Wants to keep his boys safe and make them armor that resembles it!

RUMBLEHORN. Stoic’s dragon. Enough said there, but this thing’s rough and tough like John, too! Not quite as defensive and reliable as the Crimson Goregutter, but just imagine getting stepped on or rammed by this thing??? And those HORNS? Better keep your distance, or you’re going straight to the infirmary.

STORMCUTTER. Valka’s dragon, and my personal favorite species of all time! It’s as beautiful as it is dangerous. Like, c’mon, can’t say no to those eyes! Just as satisfying as a sight as John’s silly little bear smile. But be careful. The thing’s saliva is flammable, like John’s sharp tongue. The perfect pair for sure.

SIMON RILEY

I think all of these options speak for themselves. Dangerous, deadly, and most are a legend among Berk in the series! They display power and strength equal to that of their handler, and undying loyalty to match Simon's! So no, not all of these are because they have "bone" or "death" in their names, but because they're powerful and perseverant. (But the names were definitely an inspiration. LMAO.) Totally the type of guy to be a nurse towards the dragons! Caring for them when they're injured or sick, further strengthening his bond with his (not-so-little) friends.

BONEKNAPPER. This thing’s made the bones of the dragons they’ve killed into its own armor, while Simon’s dug himself out from the grave. They’re meant for each other because of that alone. And they have matching skulls! Cute. Hehe.

NIGHT FURY. “[…] Never shows itself. Never misses.” DIRECT MOVIE QUOTE. DIRECT. QUOTE. That thing is literally a living sniper, fits The Ghost™ perfectly. Dark, foreboding, yet agile when it fights. I imagine Simon sporting a full black set of armor to blend into the night with it, too.

SILVER PHANTOM. One of the fastest dragons alive. Like borderline comparable to the Night Fury—maybe even swift cartridges. Perfect to camouflage through white or gray groups of clouds because of its colors, too! Perfect high ground for Simon to take advantage of (since he uses a bow and arrow for sure). And c’mon, does that thing not also look like a ghost?

WHISPERING DEATH. Do you see that thing? I think if I were to ever face a Whispering Death, I’d faint and probably die. That thing looks SCARY. But in all honesty, they’d be the softest out of the bunch. Like some would watch Simon give the thing chin scratches with their jaws on the floor.

JOHN MACTAVISH

Johnny definitely handles the more chaotic dragons out of the bunch. Like I swear, if I were doing two-headed (or more) dragons, he'd absolutely pair up with Kyle on a Hideous Zippleback or with Simon on a Snaptrapper, but we're sticking to individuals right now. Like personally, Johnny is LITERALLY the embodiment of Snotlout, so that's why the dude's very own dragon is in this list! Out of the group, he'd be the blacksmith. I imagine he makes the crazy big axes and maces for the lot. (He personally uses a huuuge battle axe.)

MONSTROUS NIGHTMARE. Pairing Johnny up with a dragon that can light itself on fire is a dangerous combo. Lethal duo indeed. And John, being the overprotective father figure that he is, will be making his boy a fireproof set of armor to keep him safe! Johnny and his dragon would definitely fuck around with fire 24/7, too.

SCAULDRON. Quite the opposite compared to the Monstrous Nightmare. The thing shoots boiling hot water from its maw, it can fly, and it can swim. This is why we should fear the ocean, and Johnny, because he and his Scauldron absolutely dominate a fight from the water. And I just think the two of them look silly together. LMAO.

SKRILL. Okay, I guess I have a thing with Johnny handling dragons that control nature's elements. The Skrill doesn't breathe fire or boil water in its mouth, it spits fucking lightning. And it literally rides on thunderstorms to accelerate? Are you kidding? Johnny would have a ball with this one. But in all seriousness, he and Simon are using the darkness of storm clouds to their advantage.

THORNRIDGE. Much like Johnny, the Thornridge has the most stamina out of the other dragons on this list, and lots of endurance! Sure, its abilities are a bit basic (straying from using the elements to its advantage), but it's a very reliable species. Able to fly great distances and handle excessive damage without breaking a sweat. The two would make a great match!

KYLE GARRICK

Kyle "Pretty Boy" Garrick™ handles the beautiful, majestic, graceful dragons 100%. If I liked the Light Fury just a little more, she'd be on this list, but I didn't want to get too basic on dragons from the main franchise, considering the handful I have here already. Kyle would definitely be the saddlemaker of the bunch! Making pretty saddles for every one of his teammates, while putting extra care into the ones he makes for his dragons to display his skills in the art of matching colors and shapes into his handiwork. Biggest fashion icon in Berk.

DEADLY NADDER. Kyle is literally an Astrid encarnate (diva status and fashion statements and all), so of course I had to include her dragon here! Sporting all sorts of pretty colors and deadly tactics (projectile tail spikes? hello?), Kyle would definitely put its abilities to good use!

DEATH SONG. Okay, besides the Stormcutter, the Death Song is like—my second favorite species in the franchise (and my go-to dragon when I played School of Dragons, lmao), so I had to give it to Kyle! Literally a siren in dragon form, with the ability to shoot an amber-like substance to trap opponents in place. Perfect for luring the baddies in without a tussle. (And it's just a pretty species. Like. Look at it.)

SAND WRAITH. Probably the least known species out of every single one I've covered here (it's in School of Dragons more than the actual franchise). Yes, I picked it because it's pretty, but also because of its use of camouflage! Similar build to the Night Fury, too, so it's incredibly agile and steadfast in battle.

TIMBERJACK. This thing literally cuts down trees with a single swipe of its wings, so you definitely do not want to go up against one in battle. While its wings look fragile, they're actually quite the opposite! They're huge and make the perfect shield when used for it. I can imagine Kyle dolling it up with more protective gear, though, just to be sure.

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 47

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- I can’t believe we’re so close to the end of this book! 😭 I’m jumping screaming and rolling on the floor all at once for y’all to read this chapter 🥴 enjoy!

Billie’s POV

A gasp escapes Remy’s mouth, backing away from me.

Everything in my stomach displayed all over the balcony, on my clothes, my shoes, on the railing, on the side of the beach house, probably even in the ocean.

“Oh, God. I’m so—“ More vomit spews out, barely missing her.

“Ooh, okay—“ She rushes behind me, grabbing all of my hair and holding it back for me. “Let it out…” She becomes my babysitter once again. The way she always does when I drink way too much.

“I think I—“

More vomit.

She pats my back with one hand, gripping my hair into a ponytail with the other. “It’s my fault, I should’ve cut you off after three drinks.” She murmurs.

I stand up straight, after emptying out my entire body, trying to act like I didn’t just ruin the moment.

“Come on, let’s get you into something comfy.” She looks at me with outmost concern, her voice slightly slurring, although it could be my hindered processing.

“N-Noo!” I slide over and back up into the bedroom.

“But, Billie I think you should—“

“NO, I don’t want to ruin the night, we were having so much fun!” I start hopping up and down, mimicking our dancing.

She laughs slightly, shaking her head, “Billie, really, you’re gonna black out any minute now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She steps over my vomit on the floor, guiding me into the master bathroom.

“I ruined everything about tonight.” I begin to think out loud, letting my inner voice come out in a way it never has. I can’t stop anything I do before it happens, and I fear I may not remember anything about it tomorrow.

“No, you didn’t.” Remy soothes me as she kneels on the floor, carefully untying my shoes and taking them off, allowing me to lean on her as I step out of them.

“You hate me.” I pout, paranoid about sounding annoying. I feel like the biggest loser.

“Noo, I love you!” She says, without giving it a second thought. For some reason, her words mean a lot more to me than they should.

I sit back on autopilot, taking deep breaths in between each pout, hoping I don’t throw up again. The room is wavy, and the walls are stretching, as I try to focus my eyes on one thing only, to keep me from falling on the floor.

“Let’s get you out of these nasty clothes.” She winces, raising my arms so she can pull my top over my head, careful not to get any puke on my face. She throws the shirt into the sink, moving onto my pants. “Step out, careful, don’t fall!” She holds me up, making sure I don’t lose my balance.

“I’m sorry.” I whine, feeling like I messed everything up. I should’ve just listened to Finneas. I should have never drank this much, I should have never been so in my head, and I shouldn’t have ruined tonight.

I ruined tonight.

The words parade through my mind over and over, torturing me. I don’t even notice how but suddenly, I’m in the shower, naked and cold, shivering under the stream.

“I’m really s-sorry, I j-just wanted to— I just wanted to be as fun as y-you, and then I—“ I mumble, holding my finger up in the air, jumping from sentence to sentence before I can even finish the first.

“Billie, it’s okay! You just had a little too much fun.” She hands me a loofah with body wash on it, sudsing it up first. “Here, wash up.” She ignores my drunk rambling.

I sigh, doing as told, as she begins to shampoo my head for me. She gently turns me around, so she can wash the length of my hair. I stare at the marble tile on the wall, trying my best to scrub my numb body clean.

I whip my body around, a little too fast, a little too eager.“We can still go downstairs, I can put on some new clothes, and we can keep dancing—“ I lose my balance, slipping on the soapy tile, falling on my right hip.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bills.” Remy stifles a laugh, helping me up again. “I think it’s bed time.”

“Nooo!” I whine, not feeling an ounce of pain. Tomorrow might be different.

“Yesss, now rinse off, I’m gonna get everything cleaned up, okay?” She shuts the glass shower door. “Try to stand still, okay?”

I sigh, standing under the water. I’m not sure if it’s too hot or too cold, as I don’t have much feeling on my skin.

I sigh, watching as she rummages through my bathroom, rinsing off my shirt and cleaning off my shoes in the sink. She leaves the bathroom and comes back in with a change of clothes in her hand. She moves so gracefully, despite having almost as many drinks as I had. Everything she does is calculated and careful. I wish I could be the same.

“Ready?” Her voice is sweet and patient as she opens the shower door to shut the water off. She opens her arms with a towel in her hands, wrapping it around my wet body. She helps me step out of the shower, as the room spins. Suddenly, I feel dizzier than ever.

“Uh oh…” I murmur. Quickly, she pulls a cushiony stool out from under the vanity, catching my fall.

“You okay?” She bends down, meeting me at eye level, examining my complexion. “You don’t look so good.” She tilts her head.

“I’m fine, I just—“

She cuts me off, grabbing a small facial rag, and soaking it in cold water for me. “It’s okay, let’s get you to bed.”

She softly dabs my face with the cold rag, then placing it behind my neck to cool me down. I’m enamored by her presence so close to my face. Immediately I’m silenced due to embarrassment. My mouth must reek of vomit and alcohol.

I look over at the toothpaste next to the sink and as if by telepathic communication, she reaches over for it.

“Do you have a toothbrush here?” She asks. I look down at the cabinet under the sink and she immediately opens it, looking for a new toothbrush.

“Fuck if I know.” I shrug, speaking out loud before even thinking of which words to use.

She searches through everything, successfully retrieving a new toothbrush for me. She rinses it off and puts toothpaste on it for me.

“Thank you.” I mumble with the toothbrush already in my mouth.

She starts to do my skin care routine, from beginning to end, without skipping a beat. She’s seen me do it countless times, and today was her time to shine. She pauses in the middle to let me spit minty foam down the drain, then resumes.

“I’m really sorry I ruined everything, Rem.” I stutter.

“You didn’t ruin anything at all-“

I cover her mouth with my hand. “I’m sorry you have to clean me up and take care of me.”

She takes my hand off her mouth and holds onto it, letting a slight laugh escape her lips. “This is what I’m here for, I’m supposed to take care of you.”

I begin to smile, my heart confused and afraid that it’s hearing what it wants to hear.

“You’re my best friend.” She finishes her thought.

There it is.

A wave of anger and sadness fills my heart and my stomach, upsetting me into complete silence. I close my eyes so the floor can stop spinning, so I can focus on how much I want to end it all.

Okay maybe that’s a bit dramatic. But I truly can’t believe I was this close to confessing my feelings for her, and now I’m drenched, wrapped in a towel, still her best friend.

Now, she stands behind me, towel drying my hair, running some leave-in conditioner through it gently. I stare at her reflection in the mirror, wishing she could see right through me.

She finishes brushing my hair and helps me into a pair of sweatpants. I put on a fresh shirt, and she guides me over to the bed. I feel like a giant baby as I mumble nothing important while I climb into bed.

“You’re gonna hate me tomorrow.” I groan.

“Why would you say that?” Her voice is slightly groggy.

“Because I ruined the fun. And threw up all over the place.” I sigh.

“Trust me, I’m so drunk, I won’t even remember any of this.” She laughs. Oddly enough this gives me courage I didn’t have before.

She opens up the bed for me, covering me in 3 different layers as I lay my wobbly head down on the soft, plushy pillow. She sits at my side, tucking me in after putting a small trashcan next to me, just in case.

“Drink some water, okay?” She bypasses my mopey pouts and gets me to take a few sips.

“This is just like when I was at the hospital.” She smiles down at me.

Before I can even say anything, she brushes the hair behind my ears, slowly, reminding me of when she was at the hospital, after her car accident.

I remember the way I brushed back some hair that messily covered her eyes. The way I spread some of my Aquafor on her dry lips, attempting to bring them back to life. I remember the way I leaned down and kissed her, without her knowledge.

I begin to panic internally. She knows.

“Are you feeling alright?” Her forehead crinkles in worry.

I stare blankly, frozen in place.

“I’ll go get Finneas, I’ll be right back.” She goes to get up, but I grab a hold of her wrist, stopping her from standing.

“No! No— Stay. Please.” I pull her back down. “I’m okay. Just don’t leave me… Please?” Urgency in my voice.

“Okay, okay. I won’t.” She agrees, “Let me just change, okay?”

I nod, letting go of her wrist. I watch as she grabs her overnight bag and pulls out a change of clothes. She locks the bedroom door and changes quickly. My eyes begin to close on me as I doze off into a drunken mess. I fight my sleep off, not wanting the night to end this way.

Disrupting my thoughts, Remy turns off all the lights and jumps into my bed. “Woah.” She says, slurring a bit, situating herself right beside me.

I try to ignore the movement of the bed, trying not think about the fact that it feels like we’re on a giant blow up mattress in the middle of the ocean.

We sit in the dark, in silence, as I fight to stay awake. Parts of the night seem like illusions now, and nothing feels real at all.

“Remy?” I disturb the quiet.

“You need the trashcan?” She turns on her side quickly, looking up over at me.

“No, no…” I shake my head, knowing I probably sound like a blabbering idiot. “I was wondering… Do you remember everything from the hospital?”

She looks at me for a moment, thinking about her answer thoroughly.

“Well, not everything—“

I cut her off, in attempt to refresh her memory. “What do you remember?”

“Um—“ She diverts her eyes from my pitiful attempt to find out if she realizes. “I know that… That you were there…”

[bedazzled-applesauce]

went into the last three episodes expecting to end the series and yap on tumblr and be generally crushed and then i got slaughtered and they put my dead remains through a wood chipper.

let’s get started. end spoilers under the cut.

cas died an episode before i expected him to, and i had my hands over my mouth the entire time freaking the fuck out. that was the only scene in the entire show i kept far far away from spoiling for myself, so i was reasonably unprepared for the absolutely devastating scene that played out before me. i’m gonna need to reanalyze that and read a whole bunch of fix-it’s before i can re-convince myself that dean actually loved him back. evil

FUCKING LUCIFER PRETENDING TO BE CAS AND CALLING DEAN TO LET HIM IN?? DESPICABLY EVIL

we are completely void of topics regarding cas, jack seems like the only one affected until they figure out god and he heads off to better brighter things never to be seen again. evil

the last episode, everyone seems fine, but the entire vibe was just so so off, for which i will cast the blame onto jared and jensen and all the others, because i mean it’s the last episode on a 15 year project. the end. no more. so it’s completely reasonable they’re out of wack. but why is dean so uppity? this is not entirely credited to a secretly very sad jensen, as dean is just making corny ass jokes left and right, which usually i love him for, love myself a silly man, but why can’t they grieve? sam brings it up and dean just absolutely shuts him down. which technically i know could be attributed to dean shoving it down into his “do not open” repressed trauma box, but still, at least some struggle would be nice. evil

heaven, actively grieving the loss of the roadhouse, and honestly the ending just felt hopeless for me. like it’s all over and there’s nothing we can change. mainly just because it was kinda boring. it felt like we were avoiding something, with dean just driving along and sam growing old. i felt like there was some key component missing. but hey we hinted at cas somehow not being in super mega hell so 1 point for the cas likers ig, light shining through the dark and all. still evil

the “supernatural was made possible through viewers like you” speech, panning into the everyone ever, that was really unfortunate. heartbreaking. evil

all and all, i’m a hater. because it’s two in the morning and i’m done with a series i’ve been consistently watching with my parents since october. and it ended with everyone dead and seperated. screw this. i’ll be reading fix-its until i cry myself to sleep tonight. love yall ☹️

[crabboytahomaru]

hey so who wants to subscribe to my au where nicewreck debut as a red-blue hero duo?

[thefishywizard]

Rouge-like tendencies, courtesy of grandpa