#gonna miss it for this reason and this reason only

[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.”

[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

[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.

[princesevsnape]

Twist of Fate (James Potter x Reader)

Requested by anon

Summary: Your Potions Partner for a project, James Potter asks you to help him ask out Lily Evans. During the process he ends up falling for you.

Word count: 1.6k

A/N; Not gonna lie I quite enjoyed writing this one. I know in your request you mentioned writing headcanons for this but with how much detail you gave a one shot seemed more fitting. Please continue to send in requests. And I’m happy to continue writing for James Potter despite how much I hate what he did to Severus (and you all know how I feel about Severus).

Potions was your favourite class. It was one of the few classes that you were good at and actually enjoyed.

You had never had any problems in Potions class. That was until you had been partnered up with none other than James Potter for a project. Arrogant, immature, bully James Potter. The same James Potter that you had a stupid crush on even though you knew you shouldn’t. And you knew you’d probably end up having to do all the work. Or at least most of it.

You had arranged to meet in the library after classes that afternoon to start work on your Potions project.

“Hello little Miss Hufflepuff.” James said smirking as he sat down opposite you.

“Potter.” You said rolling your eyes at him.

“Ok what do we need to do?” He asked.

“You weren’t paying attention were you?” You teased.

“No. I’ve been kinda distracted.” He said and then you noticed how his gaze shifted to a certain red head.

Lily Evans. A very beautiful girl. You could see why James was distracted by her. But it made your heart sink. Of course you knew he’d never be interested in you. But it still sucked due to you having a crush on him.

“Potter pay attention.” You said snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry. So what do we have to do?” He asked again.

“We need to write about five different potions, list their ingredients, how to make them, and their uses. And then we have to make one of the potions at the end. Do you think you’re capable of doing this work?”

“Yes of course. You take the lead but I’ll help. You’re friends with Lily right?”

“I wouldn’t say friends, more like acquaintances. Why?”

“Could you help me ask her out? I really like her and I’ve tried asking her out before but she always turns me down. I want to sweep her off her feet but I need someone to help me, someone who knows the kind of things she likes.”

“And why should I help you? She’s turned you down for a reason surely you should take that as a sign that she’s not interested.”

“Oh she’s interested she just doesnt know it yet.” James said winking at you.

“You’re gross.” You said.

“Please Y/N. You’re a Hufflepuff. You’re caring. Please surely you care enough to help a friend in need.” He begged.

“We aren’t friends Potter.”

“Fine then your potions partner. Please I’m begging you.”

“Ok I’ll do it. Only if it gets you to actually help me do the work.”

“I promise I will help you.”

“Ok good. We work on this project for the next week. And then and only then will I help you get the girl.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much Y/N.” He smiled at you.

Over the next week you worked on your project with James. He actually surprisingly stuck to his word of helping you the entire time. You were glad you didn’t have to do all the work yourself. But then the day that you were dreading came. The day you had to start helping James to get Lily to agree to go out with him.

It was going to be a difficult time for you. But you promised you’d help him and you’re always true to your word. Even if it was going to hurt knowing he was so enamoured with Lily and not with you.

You spent the next two weeks helping him get ready to ask her out again. You did your research on Lily. Finding out what kind of things she liked and didn’t like, so you could give him the right advice.

You told James everything she liked. Gave him advice on not to come across as too pushy. That if he wants to kiss her on a date, that he shouldn’t force it on her, he should ask her if it’s ok for him to kiss her. You gave him every single piece of advice that you could think of.

“Thank you Y/N. Your advice is great. Tomorrow I’m going to ask her out and put your advice to good use.” He said hugging you.

The next day came. You watched from the sidelines as James approached Lily to ask her out. He wanted you close by for moral support in case it all went wrong. He had actually grown to like you since you were spending more time together. He considered you a friend.

He was stood face to face with Lily, in the courtyard. He saw you stood behind her leaning against a wall a few feet away, giving him the thumbs up. And then he saw an expression on your face that he couldn’t read. You had a slight smile on your face, but there was hurt in your eyes.

“James what do you want?” Lily asked causing him to turn his attention to her.

“I um. I was wondering if.” He started to say but then he turned his gaze back to you.

He saw you, now looking down at the floor a sad look on your face. It made his heart sink.

“Spit it out James.” Lily snapped clearly getting agitated with him.

“Actually forget it.” He said.

He walked over to you. You looked at him and put a fake smile on your face.

“How did it go?” You asked.

“Come with me.” He said grabbing your hand and leading you somewhere quiet so the two of you could talk.

“What’s wrong James?” You asked confused.

“I didn’t ask her out. Also that’s the first time you’ve ever called me James.” He said.

“Why didn’t you? And well you’re starting to grow on me a bit. You used to annoy the hell out of me hence why I always called you Potter.”

“I just it didn’t feel right to ask her. And does that mean we are friends now?” He asked.

“Yes we are friends now James. But why didn’t it feel right to ask her?” You asked confused.

“I realised I don’t like her anymore.” He admitted.

“What why? All that work we did was for nothing.” You said getting annoyed with him.

“Go over there and ask her out.” You added.

“I told you I don’t like her anymore.”

“You seemed to like her up until the point that you were stood right in front of her.” You snapped getting angry with him for wasting your time helping him out.

“Don’t get mad at me sweetheart.” He said causing you to roll your eyes.

“If you carry on I’ll start calling you Potter again.”

“I’m sorry if you think I wasted your time, but I don’t think you did.”

“So why do you suddenly not like Lily?” You asked.

“Because I saw your face.”

“What?” You asked him extremely confused.

“You looked sad when I was talking to Lily.”

“What? No I wasn’t.” You lied.

“Don’t lie to me. I saw it. In your eyes. And then you looked down at the ground with a frown on your face.”

“So what my face put you off asking the girl you like out. Thanks for that. My face puts people off. Noted.” You said before trying to walk away.

James grabbed you by the wrist before you could leave.

“I don’t mean it like that. You really aren’t understanding what I’m trying to say are you?” He asked.

“Well that’s because you aren’t exactly saying much James.”

“Hey you didn’t call me Potter even though you’re getting annoyed by me. That’s progress.”

“James just spit out what you’re trying to say. Otherwise just let me go.”

“Ok. Ok. Look I’m sorry. I’m usually good at this kind of thing but apparently for some reason I’m not right now. When I saw your face. When I saw how sad you looked it made my heart sink. I realised that I no longer like Lily because I’ve started liking you.” He admitted.

“What?” You asked even more confused.

“I like you. I’ve developed some sort of crush on you.”

“What? How?” You asked.

“Because you’ve been spending time with me. Paying attention to me. Helping me. You’ve done everything that Lily has never done. You actually care. She just gets annoyed with me all the time.”

“You annoy me too.” You said.

“Yeah but not as much as I used to. Otherwise you’d still call me Potter all the time.”

“Ok but I just don’t understand why you suddenly like me.”

“I told you the reasons why. You pay attention to me. You helped me so much. You even cared enough to try and help me get another girl to go out with me, despite the fact that you liked me yourself. “

“What how do you know that?” You asked.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are. I have seen the way you look at me. I can’t blame you by the way.” He winked.

“And there’s that cocky side that makes everyone hate you James.” You said rolling your eyes.

“It’s true though. And when I saw how sad you were it confirmed everything. And it made me realise that yeah I’ve developed feelings for you. I wish I had seen it sooner and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise to me.”

“Of course I do. Can I kiss you yet?” He asked.

“What?” You asked. Not quite believing your ears.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and then caressed your cheek.

“I said can I kiss you yet?” He asked looking into your eyes and smiling.

You couldn’t get any words out so you just nodded your head.

Slowly James leant in and placed a soft kiss on your lips. He went to pull away until you pulled him back in by holding the back of his neck and deepening the kiss.

This wasn’t the way you expected things to go, but you definitely weren’t complaining.

[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.

[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.

[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

[lotus-pear]

it actually pisses me off sm when there is a scene where an aggressor shoots at dazai and chuuya takes the bullet and dies trying to save him and has an elaborate death scene where he's bleeding out in dazai's arms and choking out his last words because we all fucking know man would just step in front of dazai and kick the bullets back to the shooter using gravity manipulation before saying smth snarky like "you can kys when we get back from the job."

[florshedworf]

i’m gonna attempt to sound cohesive be we all know mephone likes to keep the game under his control (or. well. used to)

(don’t have any images atm but also marshmallow’s disappearance)

but god . dude it runs so deep . like fucking obviously it’s because of cobs we fucking KNOW it’s cause of the damn corn !!

but what i mean by it “runs deep” is that it isn’t that he wants complete control of the game as in control of his contestants— but also maintain control of the perception of himself as the head, the host.

whenever he feels as if he’s not listened to, or told anything that he perceives is threatening his role as “host,” he lashes out (or makes a snarky comment)

obviously not all of it is necessarily malicious, doesn’t make it right for the contestant’s sake but you can still tell this clearly is a defense mechanism out of fear of things getting out of his control

in this scene (when he fires toilet AUGHH) there are gaps in his memory he cannot see, a vulnerability. and unfortunately connected the dots wrong and fired toilet in a fit of fear and anger.

i also think this fear of a lack of control is also why he left to make season 3 (and i mean. no shit) he realized that cobs had been in control of everything he’d done up to that point and then ran away to make something truly his. (“…an escape from an escape…” — walkie talkie)

and of course i have to mention the finale. i can’t not— it doesn’t completely tie the whole arc into a bow, there’s still healing needed

but it is a HUGE step to take this escape, this rebellion, something you fought so hard to keep control over and give it up. let it go

“and i don’t think it ever truly was.” <AUGHHHHHHH OTZ truly so normal about the guy 👍

[rachelazegler]

WAITTT i hope bobby and athena's storyline of building their new house has some crossover with eddie's storyline of buck helping him pick a house in el paso. buck or eddie's talking to bobby about this process and compares it to him and athena asking him questions like how did you guys decide this how did you compromise on that and bobby's like. well it's not exactly the same thing. there's no need to compromise. you're not gonna be living in that house together.

[leo-regulus]

Yeah, the spreadsheet that lists both canon characters we modified heavily and OCs is just shy of eight hundred. By the time we actually fill out all armies (we're GETTING THERE, we're slowly establishing Khronos Ivy's Timekeepers!) we'll have cleared a good thousand. Honestly, we the Garden wouldn't be able to do this without our partner system - we collaborate and co-write and constantly come up with ideas together. If something isn't fleshed out yet, give us a few months. :p

Jesse, Macrantha, and Viermer are very good OCs!! Viermer we actually wrote about earlier alongside Vanessa here!

Macrantha's story is a bit older, I'd have to double check with our partner system to make sure I've still got all the details correct. This is another advantage to cowriting, if I don't remember something they will, and vice versa. He is a couple years younger than Lugonis and Luco: they found him on a mission! He had supposedly drowned in a river, but there were mysterious deaths around the family manor. The twins investigated and found Macrantha, who had discovered the Nix Surplice in the river, and who was fully being a fish and refusing to leave the river and also drowning and eating people.

So naturally they brought him to the Meikai, cleaned him up, and started training him as a Spectre. He stands as Luco's apprentice (and later, coworker) through the TLC and Classic Holy Wars, and also the primary defender of the healer's wing of the Meikai. He drives a motorcycle and doesn't often leave the Meikai, but he's very German and very sharp and one hell of a Griffon. (He also plays the role of uncle to most of the Griffon division, including Minos.)

(There are more details here, but I gotta double check with my fiance, I cannot remember and I know like half the story is missing here. Augh. I'm gonna feel like a giant idiot tomorrow when I am reminded of everything I'm missing.)

.

Jesse's story has been reworked multiple times, and quite recently too! They're Greek-Chinese, their parents own a restaurant, and since they were a smart kid they were constantly pushed to be the Best and Most Academic. This backfired so they ran away to become a wizard (via a university certificate) in another world, and gained five PhDs. (Their six fellow frat members at wizard university are also developed OCs.)

They settled down in the main city we write our fic in, a Greek town in Thessaly known as Iliopolis, in about 1984, and took up work as a professor of necrobotany at St. Shion's University, alongside a childhood friend. Not too long into that, one of their students - a young woman with white hair and glasses who they were reasonably sure was like 16 - started following them around. She would sit in the front corner of their lectures and embroider the plants from their slides, and was always very insistent on helping by carrying their bags and specimens, and was also pretty clearly in love with them. She was also very mysterious, definitely did not understand personal space, and was also very clearly dealing with major grief because she also tended to have breakdowns in the cafeteria and after their class.

Most of their colleagues thought this was Fucking Weird, most of Team Khronos (at that point their housemates) thought this was Bad News, Jesse mostly felt bad for her, and eventually she was forced by the university to stop taking their classes because her behaviour was going majorly into stalking territory. Not long after, they took a research position at Graad. Her last words to them were to tell them only that their home - both hers and theirs - could be found in the roses, and to trust in that no matter what. So they went to Graad, and that was fine for a few months. Then they discovered that their research was being used to experiment on a naiad that Graad had captured, and proceeded to help the naiad escape and then torch the whole facility.

Team Khronos came to Jesse's rescue, but they were badly burned and Dying. Ivy, in her panic, cast an Eternity Gate... and sent them all two hundred and forty years into the past. Jesse, still badly burned and now not in Sam's van, wakes up surrounded by roses, in an impossible garden. They mutter to themself, "I know, now," and pass tf out.

Albafica, who was having an otherwise quiet morning until Some Sort Of Fucked Up Carriage crashed into the mountain and dropped a dying person wearing Weird Ass Clothes in his garden, notes that this person is 1) dying and 2) not because of his roses and so 3) he should probably do something about that.

I'll skim the year or so that those two had of basically seeing no one but each other and occasionally the other Golds, but know that Albafica did his whole best to help them Not Die of their injuries with the knowledge he learned from Luco, this Only Sorta Worked; and because they're the only person he's ever met who's immune to his poison and not through secret nefarious means, they quickly grow attached to each other. The fact Jesse is a hot scientist who can invent a microscope and has 240 years' of extra plant knowledge plays a major factor too, because as we all know the way to any Pisces' heart is to also be a giant nerd about plants.

And then Albafica is called to a mission in France. Jesse naturally goes with him. And then they are at a formal ball undercover. And then they get split up, and Jesse finds themself dancing with a short but smooth-spoken young man with eerily familiar white hair. (Albafica almost starts a brawl but let's ignore him for now.) And Jesse realizes that anyone who might still be alive two hundred and forty years from now, who might have seen them at St. Shion's, would be meeting them for the first time now.

And then they promptly realize that there was a goddamn reason Miss Minos des Veilliers was stalking them, and how she knew about the roses, and Albafica told them to keep an eye out for Spectre presence at this ball but here they are ANYWAY and Minos is willing to admit to Jesse even now that she's playing the role of a man only to placate the duchy, which belongs to her now that her father's dead, and isn't it funny how easy it can be to confuse everyone with just a little mysteriousness?

I'm gonna skim this part also because I need to rework how the actual romance of Albafica/Jesse/Minos goes down - it's been several years since we last got into the nitty-gritty of it - but know that it involves them adopting Minos' apprentice Anna (she's CANON!) as their daughter more or less because she's clearly family and also an orphan, Albafica getting over himself enough to reconnect with Minos properly, and Jesse not explaining themself to Team Khronos until Libra Dohko ends up with a surplice more or less by accident.

What I will note is that just before the Holy War really kicks off, Albafica and Regulus both die, in an attempt to return to the Meikai. Regulus died trying to cover for Albafica and Jesse escaping, and Albafica stood down multiple Golds to buy Jesse some time because it was him they were after. (It's been a minute but Albafica's original toyhouse bio still covers the broad strokes pretty well - accept the warning and tap the history tab.)

So Jesse makes it to the Meikai alone to return to Minos, without their boyfriend and both traumatized and injured. They make it as far as the Styx, and then fall in. They come out bearing the Fracture surplice, in rage and in grief, and it is at this point Jesse 100% forgets that the people Minos was mourning two hundred years in the future - now a few years in their past - were Jesse and Albafica.

Jesse's Spectre arc can mostly be summed up as "okay yeah they and Minos are a match made in hell" because they cut through the ranks of the Saints like butter. They and Regulus ended up both collapsing the Clocktower and killing Asmita. (You may ask how Regulus did that given he died. I recommend sending us an ask. His story is long and messy and very, very divergent from canon. And also far more complicated than Jesse's.)

Jesse ended up being known as the Executioner of Griffon for their carnage, which fully 100% ruined their relationships with most of Team Khronos, especially Sam, who took the mantle of the Sagittarius Saint during Sisyphus' fun little months-long-Alone-caused coma. They fought each other multiple times: Sam trying desperately to convince Jesse to calm the fuck down, Jesse trying to make Sam see that Sisyphus killed Albafica and Should Also Die About It.

But, like all fun things in a Holy War, it came to a head when Jesse and Minos were tailing Degel, trying to take him out. Degel didn't want to kill Jesse, because he'd known them before they went Spectre and out of respect for Albafica didn't want to up and kill his late friend's lover, but you know, he really did need to kill Minos about it. The battle was against him, and he survived via a cheap shot at Jesse aimed to disarm (heh) them but not to kill them, and then ran like hell.

Jesse died of their injuries before they made it back to Luco. With both of her lovers gone, Minos went off the deep end: able to hold it together for their daughter and absolutely nothing else. Blaming her for Degel's death (even though it was Rhadamanthys who killed him in the end), Kardia took her out also. She resurrected not long after the Holy War concluded, but her sanity didn't return.

Two hundred and forty years later, when she heard that Jesse - a version of them from before Khronos Ivy's Eternity Gate sent them to her - took up a teaching position in a local university... the same university Anna was teaching arcanophysics at. Minos herself was a part of a slam poetry club there, at Lune's insistence in hopes it would sort of work as group therapy for her. So she braided up her hair, put on her best definitely-not-crazy-with-grief smile, and joined St. Shion's necrobotany program, so she could see Jesse one last time, and maybe come to terms with their death.

(She said, fully aware this was going to make her worse.)

And then through the power of Friendship and Accidental Spectre Dads (you think I'm joking but I'm not), Hades wins the Classic-era Holy War, a few Spectres break into Sanctuary, the local god from another pantheon who powers the entirety of Iliopolis' magic by himself throws in a few favours, and Spectres from the last two Holy Wars who didn't come back start doing so.

Including Albafica and Jesse. Albafica learns he enjoys Dark Souls but not kitchen technology like the Microwave and the Fridge. Jesse immediately turns half of Ptolomea into a botany lab. They reconnect with their now-adult daughter, get to settle down and have a few more kids, and then piss off every single one of Jesse's coworkers by 1) asking for their job at St. Shion's back and 2) announcing their wedding to the crazy stalker girl that everyone else disliked.

So that's the broad strokes of Jesse's story! Just as a fun bonus, their kids after Anna can be sufficiently described as "cult leader", "cult leader's twin sister and helpful assassin", "the MOST princess to ever princess", and "8yo taking an uncomfortable amount of notes when his adventurous uncle shows up for Sunday dinner talking about revolutions six realms away". (Lucius, Lucille, Viola, and Rue respectively!)

But, in the fond hopes that you read all of that, I believe you asked for image references...? (Viermer and Macrantha refs in the morning, because Jesse's are what we called 'organized' and I am missing surplice refs for Viermer and Macrantha. Gah.)

Anyone who has saint seiya OCs! Give me a brief description and a picture of them if you can!

I wanna do smth :]

[darkdragon768]

Looking up the different routes on the deltarune wiki and... yeeaa I would have never discovered the snowgrave route on my own.

[flaming-thing]

I saw the most recent one, read the first line, and thought 'huh. I've missed something' only to scroll back and see that this chapter came out like 3 WEEKS AGO!! I have notifications turned on for you for this exact reason!! Tumblr your notification system has let me down. I'm dissapointed

Anyway

Ok so everytime someone says that a plan is straightforward, my mind immediately goes 'right everything is about to go to shit'. I dont know why

Villads is approaching I can feel it in my bones

Damn, im suprised it isn't skor doing the spell. I know he disent like magic, but considering the whole... yk *gestures* I would've though he would do it for them

Didn't Ram literally take a course in what is basically magic for like 3 years?? I know he's a lot younger then runaan and skor but I wouldn't say he's inexperienced

I WAS GONNA SAY. Maybe he's not as experienced just because of his age, but ram definitely still has experience

Off topic but I wonder what they *would've* done if they hadn't found villads? Human rayla would just have to stay for a while I guess?

...she? Callisto?

'I didn't do that' ram. Ram be honest did you make her look like a woman

RAM YOU *DID* MAKE HER LOOK LIKE A WOMAN. I MEAN YOU DIDNT ITS JUST HOW THE SPELL WORKS BUT STILL

Runaan stop laughing you're meant to be serious

WHELP rip to callum and ezran they're probably so confused rn. Do they actually know that callistos genderfluid or do the think she's just Like That?

Aaa i actually kind of love that, that the spell uses what's on the 'inside' rather than the 'outside' to determine what the disguise looks like (apologies for the questionable terminology I have no clue how to word thag but hopefully you get what i mean)

I love me a genderfluid icon

Was gonna comment something along the lines of 'girl how do you not realise something like that' before remembering that it took me a good 7 years to figure out im trans soo.... callisto that's so real

Oh my god I never thought about how odd it would feel to suddenly just get boobs. Like you'd have so much more weight on your chest. Same with the reverse as well. And I know (think?) That she can't actually feel them, but like. Even just seeing something more there would probably be enough to throw you off

ANOTHER THOUGHT (I'm going on so many tangents today I apologise) would people with and without boobs have to train differently for stuff like martial arts? I'm guessing it's not so much of a difference that there's noticeable changes, but maybe more subtle stuff?

Pft why is everyone so amused at this, this is great

Ezran and callum have yet to be mentioned and i like to imagine they're just staring with a mix of complete confusion (partly because of the sudden change, partly just because if the magic) and admiration. Why? They just are

Skor just know these things. It's because he's in love with you

AWWWWWW he cares!

Yk what I have missed these two being sappy around each other

'An only overwhelming feeling' it's called love callisto, glad to help

Wait skor what are you recognising. Would you be so kind as to share because I don't know what it is

Urgh ye humans suck I agree skor

'You know how I handle men like that' I love her for that honestly

OH MY GOD CORVUS I FORGOT ABOUT HIM. If this concussion that he definitely has dosnet male him even more confused than he already is i will riot (all jokes corvus please don't have brain damage)

VILLADS!! HES HERE!! And berto, can't forget berto

Berto is the smartest character in the whole show fight me

Yk what villads with his whole 'I don't know, they came from my left thing reminds me of gobber and his 'he must've spread the word that I was delicious' thing. I think they'd get along i can't lie

'That one from far away' yep well that's one way to put it. Unless villads knows and just dosent care

Oh that is a great line I'm ginna be stealing that but the other way around

Ye katolis does seem like the most accepting, and ik that's almost definitely because we just don't knkw enough about the other kingdoms, but they dont seem as open as katolis is (especially Neolandia, kasef you have ruined your peoples reputation)(and except duren, they seem pretty accepting)

I will admit, I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out why 'sisters' was plural before I remembered rayla exists. Literally one of the main characters of the show. Rayla I'm sorry

I mean zym gets turned into a dog in s4 sooo.... she's not *exactly* wrong? Just wrong time

Nah these guys are close enough to be family at this point, even if it's only family in the sense if close friends

It ALSO took an embarrassingly long time to figure out that the 'six- five' was callisto correcting herself and not her saying there were six total and then elaborating on who those six are

The second one. Definitely the second

I agree villads it's all very confusing

Do they even have any money? Did they bring some with them or do callum or ezran have some?

Skor that would be because you now actually care about him. You're friends

Ahaaa skors going through the 'why do we do this' crisis but in a different way everyone else is! This is amazing

They're so gross I love them

You're honour he is madly in love

AHA yes please share what you noticed earlier

Oh that us VERY telling. Either this is all a massive coincidence or callisto needs to have a very deep think about herself

I am too ace to know what this means. Skor what type of thoughts are you having about your friends this could mean so many different things

Reading about people realising they're in love is the best. Yes you do want to hug her. This is because you love her

Damn. I forgot about corvus AGAIN

Something is most definitely going in and the need to have a conversation about it. I can almost garuntee they won't, but they need to

Pfft that's great. Skor why are you annoyed at them

Corvus had better be alive still >:( even though I keep forgetting about him

Different Path Taken Ch35

this one's a little short but I think it's also just done at this point? I could go into more of Callisto reporting in, but since we all went with them to find passage across the bay it would just be redundant to read. Next chapter, they're on the Ruthless!

The plan was fairly straightforward.  Everyone’s legs were burning from the long run, and while Runaan and Skor were hiding their full-body aches from the children well enough, anyone who had trained with them for years could tell.  Most of the party would wait hidden near the port town while Callisto ventured in alone, under an illusory disguise - cast by Ram, not Runaan, which was as much of a testament to how their leader was feeling as anything else.  Normally he would never delegate something like this to someone who was decidedly inexperienced with magic.

Not, Callisto conceded, as inexperienced as anyone else aside from Runaan and Skor, admittedly.  None of the rest of them had ever spent much time studying magic, but it had been part of Ram’s Keeper training for years before he became an assassin.

It was a fairly simple spell anyway.  Callisto had been entirely too distracted thinking about worrying if Villads was even in port, what would they all do if he wasn’t, to think about the illusion overmuch given someone else would be the one casting it.  It was only after it was cast and Ram cleared his throat awkwardly that she looked down and noticed.

Ah.

“I didn’t do that,” Ram said delicately.

Runaan looked dangerously close to snickering, teal eyes sparkling as Callisto levelled him with an unimpressed look.  Their leader cleared his throat as the children’s eyes went wide with surprise, and replied carefully. “That spell changes nothing but appearance; it relies somewhat on the original identity of the subject to fill out the illusion.  My apologies, Callisto, I didn’t realize it was one of these days for you.”

She narrowed her eyes further at him, unsure why she was even annoyed.  Probably at his general amusement.  Was it really that funny?

Mainly she was embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed until the literal image of herself changed to match that she felt like a woman today.  It wasn’t something that happened very often - had happened more in the last few years as she got older.

Especially in the spring, but she wasn’t going to examine that thought too closely when Skor was looking at her so intensely she could feel it without even looking back at him.  She cleared her throat delicately and reached up to touch her hair, scratching idly at the base of her hidden horns. “To be honest with you I hadn’t been paying attention this morning and hadn’t noticed,” She admitted, and eyed what she could see of the illusion that surrounded her. “I feel like my center of balance should be different, what with . . . the obvious.  So that’s a tad disconcerting.”

“It should be,” Andromeda said dryly, sounding just as amused as Runaan at her startled state. 

Callisto wrinkled her nose at her friend. “Never mind,” She dismissed it. “I’ll be avoiding fights at all costs anyway, so it should be of no real consequence.” She rolled her shoulders to settle into the new appearance, and nodded to the group. “I’ll be back in a few hours - or, if we’re very lucky, even less than that - oh, I hear it now.” She nearly cut herself off as she noticed that even her speech patterns and voice changed in response to this.  She had noticed her own posture change as soon as she realized, but this wasn’t something she usually . . . bothered with telling people on the rare occasion it happened. 

Skor had noticed a few times before, but he seemed to have an odd prescience about her gender anyway.  It was part of his incredible knack for interpreting body language.  

Her comment prompted the snickers it was meant to from the others, including the children, and she winked at Ezran to reassure him as she turned to leave their hiding place in the little hollow filled with trees.  Skor stopped her just before she left the circle, his brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Are you all right?” He rasped, too softly for the others to hear.

Callisto blinked at him, their chest tight with an oddly overwhelming feeling, and swallowed to smile at him. “I’m fine, Skor,” She said honestly, clasping his forearm as he held hers. “It was . . . a little disconcerting to notice like that, and I’m not . . . especially used to this, but it’s nothing new.  It happens more in the spring anyway.” Some recognition flickered in his pale yellow eyes but he didn’t call her out for it, for which she was grateful.

“Just . . . be careful.” He said firmly, and let his voice go back to normal to remind her, “I’ve heard . . . stories about what humans can be like towards their women, especially in port towns.”

At this, knowing the same stories, Callisto couldn’t help but smile back at him with a bit of fond amusement. “And you know how I handle men like that,” She reminded him very dryly.

While Andromeda and Runaan laughed and Ram rolled his eyes, Skor’s mouth twitched a little bit, but he reminded anyway, “There’s no backup here.”

“Never is.” She softened a bit, remembering Corvus, and how fresh that worry must be for Skor, who had not only had to leave Corvus behind but had to watch him be captured, and she squeezed his arm reassuringly. “I won’t need it.” She promised him, softer, and only when he nodded did she let go.  He released her too, his fingers trailing down her arm, and she took comfort in his closeness as she set off.

Now to find that pirate.

As it turned out, while she had joked about it, it seemed they were in fact very lucky.  It only took a few probing questions before she was directed to the appropriate pier, with derisive commentary about ‘the crazy old man and the bird’, if she ‘really wanted to risk her pretty head sailing with that kook’.  She’d rolled her eyes at the attitude and followed the directions to find the Ruthless.

It was a small vessel, but it would do for their purposes.  They wouldn’t need to be on it for more than a day or two to cross the Bay, at least.  There was no sign of the captain when she first approached, but after a few minutes she spotted the telltale bright red feathers of Berto on the deck of the ship and called a greeting.

“Good day to you, Berto,” She called, keeping her tone jovial - easy enough with her relief at having found them at all, and grinned.

The parrot fluttered over to the side of the ship and squawked, tilting his head.  She’d never been quite sure how smart the bird was, and how much he really understood spoken language, or how well he recognized people other than his master.  He seemed to recognize her though, because his next squawk was a more friendly “Hello!” and a flap of his wings, which brought the attention of his human master.

Villads’ head popped into view first, quickly followed by the rest of his springy form, and he turned his head from side to side listening for a voice. “What?” He squawked almost as much as his bird. “Now who goes there?”

“It’s good to see you in the same number of pieces as last time, Captain Villads,” Callisto teased, grinning, knowing he’d hear it  in her voice even though he couldn’t see it on her face.

Villads tilted his head again and frowned deeply, leaning further towards the sound. “I’m mighty glad to hear it,” he said easily. “But that doesn’t be tellin’ me who ye are!”

“My name is Callisto.  You ferried me across the bay twice a few years ago,” Callisto said honestly, though she skated past the delicate reasons why she had been in Katolis a few years ago - it had just been a stepping stone on the way to Neolandia but no one else needed to know that.

Villads’ face smoothed and he grinned, letting down his boarding plank.  He sprang down it with the same amount of energy she’d expect from an elf of his age and beamed in her general direction. “I do believe I remember that voice,” He said brightly. “Though ye do sound a bit different than I think I remember, lad.  You were that one from far away, yes?  In a rush - enough of a rush to pay a pirate a good sum of gold for a round trip.”

He was sharp.  It was part of why Callisto liked him, for a human, and she nodded before remembering he couldn’t see her. “That’s right.  Though the difference might be because ‘lass’ might be a bit more accurate than it was last time.”

Thankfully, the pirate didn’t miss a beat.  Callisto was privately relieved.  Some human kingdoms were less tolerant of such things, but thankfully, Katolis seemed to be less newly stiff than some of the others. “Oh, right then, lass,” Villads said. “What can I do for ye this time, then?  Lookin’ for another trip across the bay?”

“I am,” Callisto agreed. “Though I’m afraid I’m not alone.  I haven’t got them with me, they stayed in camp to rest up, but I’m traveling with my . . . brothers and sisters, two children, and a . . .” how to explain a baby dragon? “A dog.” 

What?  He couldn’t exactly see the creature, so as long as they kept him from touching Azymondias, they’d be fine.

As for the others . . . they were her brothers and sisters in arms, at least.  Though it felt a bit odd to say it like that.  And if Villads could see, doubtless there would be a few questions about the lack of resemblance between most of them. 

“How many people is that?” Villads asked.

“Six - five adults, a child, two teenagers.” Callisto corrected herself midsentence, wincing internally at the shift.  It was still . . . awkward to go back to referring to Rayla as a teenager, though she knew it was more accurate. 

Though, she had her own thoughts about that situation.  Was Rayla really not ready for adulthood, the heavily supported version of young adulthood that most young elves received?  Or was she just not cut out to be an assassin?

She’d never had the hardness that the rest of them did.  Ethari had been right about that from the beginning.

“I’m sorry for yer loss,” Villads was saying, and she blinked at him in confusion until she realized how she’d sounded describing their group.

“Oh!” She huffed a rueful chuckle. “No, nothing like that, Villads.  It was just - one of our teenagers was . . . well.  She’s an apprentice who was meant to leave her apprenticeship as a master on this trip, and she . . . didn’t.  So it was meant to be six adults, two children, but we still have only five with three children.”

Villads looked skeptical but he shrugged. “If ye say so.  I can do that!  But uh, make sure ye clean up after your own dog.  Can’t see to do it myself, ye see.”

“Fair,” Callisto agreed with relief. “And while I’m not the holder of the purse for this trip, I’m certain Runaan will be sure to repay you for your time and effort.  And Andromeda, Ram, and I will all be ready hands should you need or desire physical assistance.”

“Only three of ye?” Villads grinned at her. “I’m just kiddin’ with ye!  I wouldn’t let any of ye landlubbers touch my ship anyway.  Of course!  Just bring them up when you’re ready to leave!”

“Thank you.” Callisto said with a little bow. “You can’t see it but I’m bowing.  I’ll bring them back and make our introductions next.”

“We’ll be here,” Berto squawked, and Villads nodded his agreement, and she darted off with purpose. 

Skor was sulking and he was fully aware of it but it didn’t help much.  Leaving Corvus behind bothered him more than he had really anticipated.  He knew exactly why, obviously.  The man had come back for him, risked his life, and he had refused to return the favor.  For all it had been what Corvus wanted - for all their mission was more important than any individual life - 

It had been something no one else had ever done for him, so it bothered him that a human had been the one to break the pattern.  It bothered him that he hadn’t been able to help.  And it bothered him that it was even bothering him, given he and Corvus had both agreed that the mission was more important.  That was the whole point.  He had been necessary to that step in the plan, and Corvus had not been.  

And then, of course, there were the two days of carrying Ezran while running for the coast as quickly as possible.  It was nothing he couldn’t handle but Moon above, it was tiring.  It ached in his bones and his muscles burned.  The pressure on his horns from Ezran’s grip even had his head pounding, not that he’d ever admit it to the child.  He imagined Runaan was in even worse of a state, with the more awkward positioning of Callum around his back. 

And then!  As if he weren’t dealing with enough!  Callisto had woken up today with a delicate little gasp, and he’d just had to wake up to her little nuzzle under his chin before she woke up enough to realize what she was doing.  He hadn’t commented on the faint blush on her largely unmarked cheeks, or the way the light slashes at her cheekbones highlighted them.  He had been able to tell within minutes of waking up, by the way she moved her hips as she rolled away from him to get up, the way she ran her fingers through her hair, that she was feeling more feminine than usual. 

Something about how startled she had been about it hit him in his core, and he couldn’t quite ignore it.  He’d been worried, at first, about her, if she wasn’t comfortable with them knowing this part of her - or if he’d been wrong, if the spell was wrong about her - but she’d reassured him before she left.  She really just hadn’t noticed until she was confronted with it. 

It happened more in the spring, she’d said.

His traitorous mind wouldn’t stop whispering about that particular little detail.

He hadn’t really taken much note of it before, it wasn’t as if he kept track of the trends in his friend’s mind.  He just tried to observe well enough to keep her comfortable - or him, or them, as the day required.  But to hear that she felt like this the most during the spring - the season that tended to highlight an elf’s preferences the most - was  . . . telling. 

It wasn’t as though he made a secret of his own preferences, either.  Or as though he’d never had . . . thoughts about his friends, on occasion.  It still felt awkward, though, with how delicate Callisto still seemed to be with this for herself.  He had no qualms having thoughts about Runaan, as his friend was well-established within himself and his relationship and they both knew that wouldn’t change.  Callisto was so much less sure of this aspect of herself. 

It was adorable.  He wanted to hug her, and that was the more startling urge, frankly.  

Callisto was always attractive, after all, and his mind had wandered their way on more than one occasion, especially since he had a long day to think over how he felt about them. 

But wanting to offer her his cloak, give her a hug and have her just sink into his arms the way she did when she slept?

That ached sharper in his chest than a dirty fantasy ever could. 

Especially as he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be the type to accept it, at least not about this, not until she was more confident herself. 

This all, of course, was only a distraction to keep himself from thinking about the more difficult emotional tangle of what had happened with Corvus.

Didn’t stop him though.

He was lying down in his tent pretending to sleep, relaxing at least his body though his mind simply would not slow down enough to let him properly rest.  Runaan was allegedly sleeping in the only other tent they had bothered to erect, to give them enough darkness to potentially sleep while Callisto was seeking out her pirate contact.  Skor suspected Runaan was struggling just as much as he was.

Something was going on with Runaan and Rayla again; some of the tension from before he had claimed her had seeped back into their dynamic.  If he had any mental energy to spare to worry about his friend’s relationships around his own right now, he’d be annoyed with them.  As it was, all he could summon was vague exasperation and a wandering thought as he cast around for something to stop himself from worrying about Corvus.

There was no point in worrying, was the thing.  Either Corvus had lived and would live, or he hadn’t and wouldn’t.  There was nothing he could do about it at this point, and this was a situation that Corvus had not only agreed to but demanded.  He had been the one shouting at Skor to leave before he was struck.

Skor rolled over in his bedroll again and tucked his face into both folded arms to block out more of the damnable light from the sun shining through his tent walls.  He needed rest.

The sounds from the rest of the camp that announced Callisto’s return could not have come at a better time.  He rose with a soft groan of frustration and ran his fingers through his loose hair, over the braid that adorned the side of his head - placed there by Callisto’s careful fingers before they left - and went to hear what she’d found in the port.