#i need to be easy for the animators to draw okay

[crowfish-brainrot]

Love & Deepspace Men when you casually tell them you love them

These are just some silly lil headcannons I have as an overly-affectionate lovergirl. I'm always telling the people closest to me I love them, because I do! I am full of love and affection!!! So this is very self-indulgent and tooth-rotting fluff. No warnings, only adorable fluffy goodness.

Xavier

He brings you food, a blanket, and the bunny stuffed animal he won you straight to you after a particularly hard day. You look up at him, smile and say “gods, I love you. Thank you!”

Xavier stops. Stills. You don’t realize what you said. Your smile falters. “What?”

“You love me?”

“Well, yeah.” You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Easy and bright, like you couldn’t help yourself. “You’re a great partner and my friend. Of course I love you.”

He realizes you don’t mean it in the way h yearns for, but he smiles anyway. Even if it’s not the way he hopes for, you love him, and that’s enough. He sits down next to you and pulls you in for a tight hug. You laugh softly and he murmurs into your hair. “I love you, too.”

Zayne

He buys you your favorite treat at the desert shop after letting you drag him all around the arcade. The seat next to you is full of plushies. He smiles as he passes you your treat and takes the seat across from you. You take a bite, do a happy dance and smile brightly. “Zayne!!! You’re the best, I love you!”

He almost chokes on his macrons. Your brows draw together, and he realizes you didn’t realize what you said.

You ask, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he says. “I didn’t expect a declaration from handing you a treat.”

You giggle and roll your eyes. “It’s important to tell your friends you love them. You’re my best supporter when I gather plushies, you feed me treats, and you always have my back. Of course I love you.”

He stills, and something flickers in his eyes, but you barely catch it. You don’t love him the way he loves you, but he doesn’t think he deserve that kind of love from you. So, he just smiles. Even the friendliest form of your affection is more than he believes he’s worthy of. He offers you a glass of water. “Drink up, Miss Hunter.”

You know that’s his way of saying that he loves you, too.

Rafayel

He’s rambling on about colors, art, and the struggles of holding onto something as fleeting as a beautiful moment, even in art. He’s so passionate when he speaks as you two walk down the beach. He gets like this sometimes, lets you see what goes on inside his creative mind. It’s beautiful in an almost tragic way, the way he talks about it and your heart squeezes.

“I love you, you know that, right?” you say, your voice soft.

Rafayel turns away from the ocean, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “What?!”

“I love you. Your mind, the way you see the world, how you talk about beauty? Its beautiful. We’re friends, you know. If there’s anything else you need to talk about, I’m here.” You knew he dealt with emotional turbulence over the last few weeks, so you wanted to make sure he knew you were there for him.

“You love me?” Rafayel is still stuck on that, all other thoughts gone from his head the moment he heard you say the words.

“Of course I love you. You sometimes win me plushies, and give me an excuse to walk on the beach every night. You’re my friend.”

His mind catches up with what you mean. You don’t love him like he loves you, but you do love him. You’ve fallen in love with him three times before, would this become the fourth? His throat closed as he tried to hide the emotions building up inside him. He laughed to mask the pain and gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m pretty great, aren’t I?”

The blush on his face says it all. You know loves you, too.

Sylus

Sylus buys you a grumpy crow plushie that’s almost the same size you are. You mentioned in passing how much you wanted it, but you couldn’t justify spending the money. The price was nothing to him, though, so he ordered it. The next time you showed up at the base, he sat you down in the living room so you could open your gift.

You squeal when you see the enormous plushie. Your eyes glitter with pure happiness and you clutch it to your chest as you jump up and down. “Oh my gods, Sylus! I love you!! Thank you so much!!”

Sylus holds his breath. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but you don’t notice. You’re too enamored with your new plushie, grinning ear to ear.

“It’s nothing, sweetie.” he says. “You passed fifty levels of the Deepspace Trials, consider this my ‘congratulations’ gift.”

“You fought alongside me for most of those fifty levels,” you say. “What should I gift you in return?”

“You could say it again,” he says. “I didn’t hear you too well the first time.”

You tilt your head, and then it hits you. “You’re the best, Sylus. I’m so glad we’re friends, and I love you!”

He stills again when he realizes you don’t love him the way he loves you. Not yet. But, seeing you smile, especially over something so simple gives him more satisfaction than he ever thought possible. He ruffles your hair as you beam up at him. From pure disgust to trust and friendship? It wasn’t what he hoped for, but it was a step in the right direction. “Want to go for a joyride, kitten?”

And you know that he loves you, too.

Caleb

He makes you your favorite dinner as you dance your way out of the bathroom. Freshly showered from a rough day of work, you feel so much better now that you’re clean. Your favorite music from your teens plays on the speakers, and you two fall into a perfect harmony on the song you’ve sang together a thousand times.

You see what he’s making and you hug him tightly. “How did you know I was craving this?”

“I know you, pips. I can always tell what you want to eat.”

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. “Gods, I love you.”

He smiles. You’ve said the words to him countless times over your life, and he to you, but never in the way he wanted. it was alright, though. As long as you loved him, in any way that you could, he’d take it. “I love you too, pips. Can you hand me that seasoning?”

You nod and do as he asked, and he hopes that one day, you won’t just see him as your best friend, your protector, or brother, but as him. Until then, he’ll love you in every way you allow.

Have some fluff as we wait for the new banner to drop! I put this on TikTok first but I need to cross post more soooooo here's to me trying to do that. I have so many brain worm ideas, so I'm going to dump them when I can. 🥰

[asurrogateblog]

wardrobe tour!

ask and you shall receive @pansy-out-of-the-wardrobe! here are some of my very favorite vintage pieces:

all of them except the last two are real vintage. I've honestly been so much happier since I stopped pretending like I'm not trying to dress like the music I listen to. my current favorite is middle left <3

bonus! I have matching bandanas for almost all of these, and I tend to wear bell-bottoms every day too, so usually this is what I usually end up looking like all styled-up:

[doodlingwren]

Every now and then I always find myself wondering. What if I made a Saint Seiya fan character. And I always end up realizing I don't really want to bother. I'll keep drawing my usual bunch of idiots that already exist in the franchise and bye bye

[keeps-ache]

i have Thoughts

[majorshatterandhare]

I started a piece of art today which is based on some plant species* that I think would be good to colonize Tim in @gunpowder-tim’s headcanon of the Persephone Tim headcanon; so it’s art based on a headcanon of a headcanon of a headcanon 😅 [sweat simle emoji].

It’s gonna take a long time I think, but I am planning on posting it here even though it’s just gonna be plants and no Tim (because I am much better at drawing these little doodle plants than drawing people).

*so the art is basically of real species we have on Earth, but I maintain that they wouldn’t have the same plants on the City, so in my brain his plants are just similar to these ones.

[kingdom-carer]

How to regress when you’ve literally never done it and you have no idea what to expect (or it’s been a while)

*turns around in chair like Captain America* so ……. you wanna be tiny.

Awesome! :D

Voluntary regression, when done intentionally, can be immensely fun and healing. Let’s get you set up for success.

Step 1: Set Your Goals

Your goal should never be “to regress” - it may not happen. You may spend all of your time just age dreaming (acting small with your big brain still in). You need to be okay with that.

The reason you’re regressing isn’t the same as your goal. “Because I’m traumatized,” “for fun,” and “for chronic pain” are all valid reasons, but they don’t provide you with the framework for healing that we’re looking for.

Here are some specific, achievable goals:

“I want to relax and have uninterrupted fun after a long day.”

“I want to reparent my inner child through affirmation work, gentle parenting, and rules for self-care.”

“I want to work through trauma I’ve experienced through play so I can experiment with new outcomes for tough situations.”

“I want to complete easy tasks/assignments to give myself a sense of pride and accomplishment.”

“I want to allow myself to trust and be cared for in a way that I am usually resistant to.”

“I want to allow Jesus to speak to me when I feel most vulnerable and receptive to His kindness.”

“I want to improve my self/care habits by making them fun and digestible.”

“I want to revisit childhood/deep-rooted fears so I can work through them with effective coping mechanisms, like journaling.”

Step 2: Selecting Your Tools

Here, you might have seen lists of things that people like to use when they’re little, but rarely do they explain why they like to use them. These lists also may not resonate with older or alternative regressors.

So instead, I will give you categories of things that I believe are relevant to regression, and you fill decide what satisfies it best for you.

Something to wear: do you have clothing that is easy and comfortable to move around in, makes you feel good to wear, and/or gives you sensory input you crave?

Something to watch: do you know of a show, movie, or YouTube channel that holds good memories for you? Is there one out there that piques your interest? It doesn’t have to be “kid-friendly,” but its effect should be comfort and peace, not intellectual or emotional strain. We are not looking for challenge - that is for developing your grownup brain. Many regressors prefer kids media for this reason.

Something to do (with your hands): Stimulating senses other than sight is vital for grounding, especially in today’s online world … and, considering the nature of the work we are doing, you may need it. Painting, sensory sand, going to the beach, swimming, making music, woodworking, crocheting, polymer clay, diamond painting, puzzles, coloring books, and more can all bring out your inner child. Again, we are looking for joy, not challenge; perhaps your local dollar store has a craft kit!

Something to read: are you a scientist who loves learning about animals? A horror fan who loves spooky tales? Do you remember a series from your childhood that brought you joy? Reading is a great way to escape into a simpler world and evade screens, especially if it’s crafted without profanity or triggering subjects. Children’s books may also minister to you in ways that adults failed, such as teaching emotional regulation, socialization, and how to fight common fears.

Something to hold: plushies have been proven to be beneficial for mental health, but a companion doesn’t have to be stuffed! Action figures, dolls, and other friends can be thrifted, bought, or dug up from closets. They provide sounding boards for scary thoughts that get less scary when said aloud, companionship during play, travel, or sleep, and serve as willing recipients of your creative outputs (bracelets, clothing, drawings, etc). And, when you need a hug, your favorite toy can be right there with you in the absence of a human friend.

Something to nibble: food is fuel for the body, but it is also love. Choose foods that are nutritious and fun, just like you’d give a child. My personal faves are Slim Jim’s, pepperoni, berries, nuts, dairy, and veggies with dip. Treats are great too, but spend your tummy bank on nutritionally valuable food first! Regressors also find fun in experimenting with different vessels for food and drinks, like crazy straws, bottles, ZooPals plates, or character dining sets.

Something to play with: ‘play’ has many definitions and types. Below is a short list of types of play. No matter if you like toys or not, gather objects or activities that encourage play.

Symbolic play - using one object to represent another (i.e. a flower becomes a wand - try blocks or play scarves)

Locomotor play - moving play (try roller skates, online exercises/dance classes, or small exercise trampolines)

Creative play - invoking a desired or experimental outcome (try Legos and art supplies)

Deep play and rough-and-tumble play - play that involves bodily risk and movement (try hiking, rock climbing, or swimming)

Dramatic play - orchestrating play without personal involvement (“setting up” elaborate scenes with toys was a big part of my childhood play! Try small toys and accessories like Calico Critters, stuffed animals, or dolls)

Exploratory play - play to gain information (try boxed or homemade science experiments, or simply asking, “I wonder what happens if I …?”)

Fantasy and imaginative play - playing in a way that is unlikely to occur in real life and/or the rules have changed (try dressing up to be a superhero, royalty, animal, etc)

Mastery play - bringing a task to completion (build a campfire, dig holes in sand to fill with water, complete a video game level, etc)

Object play - manipulating objects to learn more about them (common in developing babies and autistic stimming; try fidget toys)

Socio-dramatic play - taking on a role that involves social interaction (I.e. playing house or doctor)

Somewhere to go: novelty can be hugely effective in delighting your inner child. Try hanging out in the backyard, going to a park/museum/aquarium, taking yourself on a “little” shopping spree with a set budget, going to a theme park/state fair, or checking out kids media from your local library. Since you are exiting your safe space, you must be mindful of those around you. This is why I usually recommend this to those who know they will only be age dreaming, unless they are completely alone. For your safety, please do not involve anyone who has not consented in your regression.

Something to see: if you can, decorate your safe space or a portion of your safe space in a way that makes your inner child happy. Try changing your phone wallpaper, collecting figures, displaying stuffies on your bed, putting up wall stickers or drawings you’ve made, or changing your bed sheets.

A note on pacifiers: pacis made for adults are a great way to abate thumb-sucking and unhealthy oral stims. They will shift your teeth only if you use them excessively; try limiting use to an hour at a time, and always wear your retainer if you have one. If you feel pain, stop. Disassemble and clean immediately after use.

A note on diapers: I personally do not use diapers because I don’t want or need them, but should you choose differently, there are lots of creators who have more information on them. Most importantly, they are not shameful.

Step 3: Meeting Your Inner Child

How do you know when you’ve regressed?

When play takes over.

When you find yourself fully engaged in what’s in front of you, finding captivation in the simplest things, you are regressed. It isn’t some magical transformation - you’re just revising a part of you that has always been there, latent. It is an unlocking of childhood whimsy … a state of being easily awed.

Thoughts may simplify; adult reasoning for comfort objects may reduce to a petulant mine. Anxious spirals may be replaced by a simple mama, I’m scared. Thoughtful analyses of character arcs and subplots may sound more like yay, ponies!

If you have an internal monologue, it may disappear, replaced with more primal emotions like “angry” or “scared” or “happy” or “calm.” There have been many times that my husband has asked little me what’s wrong, but instead of words, only sobs make it out of my mouth. Then, when he holds me, a warmth I can’t name fills my chest and makes me sleepy.

What is your inner child like? Are they more or less …

Sensitive?

Chatty?

Energetic?

Creative?

Impulsive?

Experimental?

Outspoken?

Stubborn?

Relaxed?

Giggly?

Curious?

Focused?

Defiant?

Angry?

Expressive?

Your inner child, like all children, is subject to fits and flights of fancy. This is normal! Love them as you would love a normal child.

Step Four: Caring For The Bunchkin

Since our goal is not to regress, we have the freedom to take a third-person point of view while we are in our safe space, check in on ourselves, and see how we are doing.

If your goal is to heal, take things slow. Choose one activity at a time that allows you to explore your deeper thoughts, and allow ample room for fun and relaxation.

Instead of focusing on your trauma and hurt, start by asking yourself - “what are my deepest desires? What am I lacking? What is important to me? What can I give myself that I did not receive?”

Kids’ “About Me” worksheets are a great place to start, since there are no wrong answers. As you get more comfortable being small, try making or completing worksheets that ask the weightier questions.

Caring for with your inner child can be as simple as imagining them like another person. For example:

If you are shameful of your desire to connect with an old fandom, ask yourself why that might be. Did someone tell you that it was shameful? Did you have a bad experience in that fandom? Were you at a turbulent point of your life? What might you say to a child experiencing these emotions now?

If you are reluctant to make noise or take up space, ask yourself why. Did someone tell you that you were ‘too much?’ Were you afraid to be judged? Did someone punish you for getting in their way? What would you say to a child afraid to take up space in your presence?

If you are distressed at the idea of stimming openly while small, ask yourself why. Did someone - or life experience - teach you to mask? Are you afraid of being judged as a “faker?” Are you afraid of looking or feeling incapable in some way? What would you say to a child who is afraid to stim?

If you are upset with yourself for reacting to a trigger, ask yourself why. Do you feel like you should be more healed, or more in control of yourself? Are you afraid of slipping back towards a state you used to be in? Are you afraid of re-experiencing trauma?

What would you say and do for a child who struggles with a trigger?

Showing your little self compassion and modeling joy from an adult headspace is vital. Don’t say anything to your inner child that you wouldn’t say to an actual child.

You may not be quite ready to believe the healing truths you have learned when you are big, but putting them into practice when you are small is a great way to soothe yourself from the inside out.

(I filled up my star chart by making my bed each day! Good job, me! I worked so hard, and now I get a treat!)

(I did a drawing all by myself! I can put it on my fridge now. Wow, I’m so glad I made something today.)

(I went outside, and there are so many cool things to see! What an awesome world I live in.)

Healing can be tough, but it’s so fantastic. It all starts with being kind to yourself. You can do it!

Step 5 - Putting Out Fires

Oh dear, something went wrong, and now a tantrum is afoot. Or a meltdown. Or a flashback. What do we do?

Hold up your fingers like birthday candles and blow them out to encourage deep breathing.

Play a song that makes you feel good, and dance if you can. Physical movement is your best antidote.

Name 5 things you can see, 4 you can touch, 3 you can hear, 2 you can smell, and 1 you can taste.

Repeat your affirmations aloud. There is power in hearing something that isn’t your own mental hurricane. “I am loved, I am safe, I am going to be okay.”

Assign the trigger to a stuffie (don’t worry, they are willing participants!). Say, “hey, wait a minute, why should you be in charge? These are MY thoughts! Take that! And that! And that!” Toss your stuffie around and get those crazy thoughts away from both of you!

Assign the trigger to a stuffie, and pretend they are you. What would you say to calm them down and tell them you are here for them?

Get a change of scenery. Go outside, go somewhere else, take a shower or bubble bath.

Scribble your feelings on paper. No, really, go ham. Break some crayons. Then crumple them, tear them, and throw them away.

Most importantly - don’t be mad at yourself.

The debrief - what can we do for next time?

Handle triggers with care, but don’t be afraid of the feelings that accompany them. There is an unmet need somewhere in your soul - what is it, and how can you meet it?

Journaling and affirmations - record what happened and why you think it happened, and then write kind things to and about yourself.

“Do it scared” - push past the lies you have been told about yourself and enjoy things anyway.

I am a Christian, and I live by the phrase: “if it isn’t your reality, make it your prayer.” Even if you don’t believe now that you are safe, loved, and capable, saying these things to yourself constantly will help them be realized.

Obviously, avoiding negative language about yourself in your adult life is the other half of the pizza. Your inner child is doing work for adult you, too! Don’t undermine it!

The Wrap Up

Well, Kiddo, I’m so glad you’re taking this step in your healing journey. A few things to remember before you go:

You may grow out of regression! That’s good! It’s a sign that your inner child is happy and content.

You may never grow out of regression. That’s okay! Your inner child can get love all your life!

Your regression is your business. You don’t have to tell anyone about it if you don’t want to. Choose who you tell very carefully.

Ignore the haters. You’re doing great.

Bye, Kiddo! You are so loved!! 🥰

[pearlescentparade]

Omg someone who does forsaken YAY 😭 headcanons for Two time x deity user that’s based off of the spawn point cuz like two times in a cult or something

heh... ive gotten requests for two time..... two times [gets shot]

🔄 two time x spawn deity! reader headcanons 💞

utterly devoted to you. you literally represent all of that which they believe in, why wouldn't they be??

always by your side, or following you. they're a Shadow, after all

their insanity intensifies, but they insist that they feel at peace with you. the problem is, it's only with you. when you're not around, they feel restless and irrational

they might have separation anxiety

you need to remind them to eat, sleep and take basic care of themself because they forgo those in order to spend all of their time with you

would do anything you ask them to, so it's easy to get them to do the last headcanon if you frame it as if it's an assignment from you

"it's late. many mortals sleep at this hour."

"that's okay, i don't need to sleep!"

"...i grow weaker with my followers. i ask you to sleep so my power is maintained."

"ah, i see! then goodnight, my god. please watch over my dreams!!"

only ever refers to you as "my god", never your name or anything else

whether you're actually connected to the cult or not, they'll follow you above everything else. why settle with the believers when they could have the belief itself?

refuses to tell the cult about you, despite being a fellow member. they believe you've chosen them as your most devoted and faithful follower, and if the others knew about you, two time's worried you'll be too occupied with the other members to gaze upon them again

you agree with not telling the cult, but rather because you're already bothered enough by the one member. you can't imagine dealing with several at the same time if they're all as clingy as two time is

meeting you makes them feel like all the terrible things they've done were worth it

you've tried to isolate yourself from them, feeling that no mortal should ever be so bonded to a deity and it would only lead to ruin

it was no use. they found you, no matter where you were

akin to a dog, loyal and dependent

a bit annoying to be honest. when it gets too much you just kill them and respawn them to teach them a lesson. it's traumatizing and excruciatingly painful, so you don't know why they keep coming back to you even so

sometimes other deities tease you about them

"oh? i see your little puppy isn't with you today."

"refrain from referring to my follower like they're an animal, lest you desire for me to sick them onto you."

they like to be cupped in your palms and brought close to your face when you're in a larger form

you like to put them into a forcefield and lightly shake them around like a hamster in a hamsterball. two time does not find this nauseating activity as amusing as you do but they suck it up and deal with it because you look pleased doing it to them

two time gets very overprotective when someone approaches you. clutching their dagger, they're ready to strike at any sign of danger

you think it's foolish for a fragile mortal to risk and endanger their life for a deity that doesn't die as easily. though you tell them this many times, two time still persists on it

desperate for your approval

loves to bring you gifts, though you say you've no need for material things. think of it as sacrificial offerings! hand-made bracelets, food, a body... a body?

thankfully, they were only an unconscious person that two time happened upon while on their way to meet with you.. and thought it was a good idea to sacrifice them to you. you released them and reprimanded two time

they've attempted to offer their blood, but you quickly stopped them before they could draw it with their dagger, reminding them that harm to them harms you too. that was enough to get them to never consider it again

has a shrine dedicated to you, complete with incense and pictures and statuettes made in your likeness

lowkey wants to sever you from your divinity and ground you to the mortal realm

(a/n: this concept kinda crazy this is like if u were buddhist and siddhartha gautama himself was real and was ur bff like can u imagine anyway i imagine this relationship would be super codependent and a bit more on the unhealthy side considering reader's mere existence would fuel two time's obsession with the spawn so i hope i did well at portraying that!)

[flixpii]

Never Not Yours (i)

part one

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.1k

link to part two

A/N : Okay...the full thing is 30.2k, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Originally, I was going to do three parts, but after rereading it so many times, I couldn't find a good way to cut it. Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : set in the south—reader meets a quiet, strange man with a past he doesn’t talk about. there’s tension, something off beneath the surface, but something tender too. it’s emotional, kinda eerie, lots of yearning. just trust where it takes you.

He's had those fuckass clothes for a while (don't ask)

warnings (MDNI 18+ because of eventual smut) : takes place before the events of the movie, fluff remmick is lowkey domestic, intense yearning, blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, sexual content (no actual smut until second part), emotional manipulation, angst, religious themes & questioning of faith, themes of loss & abandonment, mind-link shit

----

The wind moves gently across the porch, stirring the leaves like restless dancers. They skitter across the worn wooden planks, some catching under your bare heels before your broom shoos them off with a dull scrape. Each sweep is slow, thoughtful—like a rhythm only your body knows, passed down through the quiet motions of women before you.

A hum curls in your throat, soft and easy, the kind you don’t notice until it fills the silence around you. It floats into the evening air, joining the sound of crickets and the far-off rustle of the trees, like it belongs there.

You had been gone all day—your hands busy beneath the oil-lantern light of your father’s shop, serving regulars with familiar smiles and strangers with careful ones. Your brother hadn’t stirred from bed since morning, fever-warm and muttering in his sleep. With your father needing help and your brother too weak to stand, everything else had fallen on you.

And while you were gone, the house waited.

Chores collected in corners like dust and shadows. The garden sat thirsty. The porch gathered leaves.

So now, beneath the soft hush of nightfall, you work. The moon has begun to rise—silver and swollen, casting light across the steps in pale slants. Its glow kisses the back of your neck as you move, cool against the heat still lingering on your skin from the day.

It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just still.

As your hum carries on, low and steady like an old lullaby, your eyes fall shut for just a moment. The cool air draws into your lungs—clean and earthy, touched faintly by woodsmoke drifting from some distant hearth. The chill soothes the warmth clinging to your cheeks, to the back of your neck. It’s the kind of night air that settles deep in your chest, makes you feel something like peaceful. Almost.

Your hands don’t still, and neither do your feet. They keep sweeping, shuffling, nudging away the dry leaves and twigs that gathered like whispers on the porch. But your mind—your mind begins to wander. Carried off by your hum, by the quiet rhythm of your body.

Then—

A crack.

Sharp, brittle.

Your hum stops.

It came from the woods.

Dense, shadow-thick woods. The kind that swallowed up the last of the sun and didn’t give it back until morning. The kind your father always warned you not to stare into for too long after dusk.

Your eyes blink open, slow. No real fear yet. Just awareness. Curiosity. You’ve heard worse on this porch before. Possums. Raccoons. The occasional stray dog poking through the garden fence.

Still, you pause—broom held mid-sweep—listening.

Another sound.

Closer this time.

You frown and move toward the edge of the porch, the old rail creaking beneath your hand as you lean slightly over it.

Then, from behind a cluster of bushes, a small armadillo scurries out, its claws clicking softly against the dirt as it barrels forward in a panic.

You exhale through a laugh, voice spilling out light and worn.

“You damn animals.”

It’s not angry. Just tired amusement. The kind of thing you say when your nerves were quicker than your logic.

You almost laugh at yourself—almost—already shaping the words in your mouth, something about being a scaredy cat. But then—

Something shifts.

Not a sound this time. A presence. A weight entering the air to your left.

You feel it before you see it. The way stillness deepens. The way the hairs on your arms lift without reason.

Your body reacts before your mind does—snapping back a step with a sharp inhale. The broom handle is tight in your grip, your knuckles aching white.

Then a voice, smooth and low, cuts through the hush.

“Sorry. Ain’t mean to scare ya.”

Your breath stumbles. That voice—there’s nothing unusual about it. Not really. But something in the way it lands sits wrong. Not cruel. Not threatening. Just… off. Like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.

“‘Ain’t mean to scare me’?” you echo, breath catching on a laugh that’s more tension than humor. “You appeared outta goddamn nowhere.”

You’re still staring, still breathing like your lungs forgot how for a moment. He nods, and in that subtle movement, you get a clearer look.

He stands a few feet away in the moonlight, his features finally sharpening in the silver wash of it. Dark pants hang loose over worn boots, held up by thick suspenders. The pale blue of his button-up looks nearly gray beneath the night sky, its collar undone just enough to show the soft white edge of a sleeveless undershirt beneath. Dark coat encases his body.

His hair is brown and cropped short, but loose curls fall just enough to kiss his forehead. And his eyes—dark, almost black in the moonlight—don’t leave your face. They study you the way someone studies a flame: close enough to feel the heat but never quite blinking.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says again, and this time, your eyes catch on the shape of his mouth.

His teeth flash faintly in the low light—mostly straight, mostly normal. But there’s something… different. A few crooked edges. One or two that seem longer. Sharper. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make your stomach turn oddly, like you’ve just remembered a name you never learned.

“You need something?” you ask, voice steady but edged with something dry. “Or do you regularly stand outside women’s homes like some creep?”

The words leave you too fast.

Your tone isn’t sharp—more exasperated than anything—but as soon as they’re out, a cold flush rises up your neck. You shouldn’t’ve said it. Not like that. You know better.

You’ve heard too many stories.

Women who spoke with less nerve than you, and still ended up with bruises blooming along their jaws. Girls who went missing after speaking too plainly. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face from shifting, but it’s there—the flicker of regret in your eyes, in the way you grip your broom a little tighter.

But then, he lets out a low chuckle. Quiet. Unbothered.

It rumbles from his chest like he actually found your words funny, not threatening. The sound unwinds some of the tension in your ribs, loosening your shoulders just enough to let breath flow easy again.

He has humor, you think. That’s something.

Still, you don’t look away. You keep your eyes on him, even as he brushes at his coat—though you’re almost certain there’s no real dust there. Just a motion. Something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“I was just passin’ by,” he says, his tone smooth again, a little slower now. “Heard your humming. Sounded nice.”

His voice dips a little at the end, not like a compliment, not quite—but something close. Something softer. Like the words held a memory.

You say nothing, not yet. Just study him.

The way the moonlight shapes him now feels different than a moment ago. He’s not moving toward you. Not threatening. But there’s something deliberate in his stillness. In how his eyes take you in again—slower this time. Not rude. Not leering.

Just… like he’s remembering.

Then he says it, almost like he’s answering your thoughts.

“You kinda remind me of someone.”

\\\\\\\\

“Who?”

The question slips from your lips before you can think twice, quiet but sharp with curiosity. Your fingers freeze mid-stroke, the piece of charcoal in your hand stuttering against the paper and smudging the corner of your sketch. A rough breath pushes from your nose.

‘A man out near the riverbank.’

His voice threads through your mind—low, calm, almost casual in the way he says it. But the words land heavy. You shake your head gently, trying to keep them from sinking too deep, to keep your focus grounded here, now.

“Remmick…” you murmur, a note of warning in your tone, or maybe worry.

‘I know.’

A pause stretches in the space between your thoughts and his voice, like a breath being held.

‘He deserved it, ya know? He couldn’t—wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

Your eyes narrow without meaning to. You glance up at the sun dipping low in the sky. Even as it sinks toward the treetops, its light still burns hot and bright, stinging your eyes until you wince and look away. Your gaze falls back to the page in your lap, to the lines your charcoal had drawn.

You don’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to.

‘Still there?’

The voice comes again—gentler this time. Like he’s leaning closer, brushing the words he spoke through the strands of your mind instead of speaking it aloud any longer.

Your lips tug, just slightly, into a crooked smile.

“You miss my voice already?”

There’s another pause. And then another.

The charcoal dust clings to your fingertips as you drag the side of your hand across the paper, wiping away excess and softening the shadows. A breeze slips past the open window, stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

‘I miss you.’

Those words come softer. Rawer. They settle into you like warm hands sliding around your middle, like something deeper than sound curling low in your chest.

You let out a slow breath—didn’t even know you were holding it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whisper.

‘I wish I was there now.’

His voice is a whisper now, like it’s being carried from far off and wrapped in something aching.

You rub the back of your nose with the heel of your charcoal-coated hand, leaving a smudge behind.

“You just gotta wait a little more, yeah?” you murmur, turning the paper slowly, holding it up in the late light.

The sketch is rough, but it holds something of him in it. Something of how he lingers in your mind even when you try to focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

He doesn’t answer this time. But you don’t need words to feel it. It moves through the tether between you—an almost tangible pulse. Warm, steady, full.

Devotion.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time a knock echoes through your small home—sharp, but not rushed. Measured. Expectant.

For nearly an hour now, you haven’t moved much, just shifting from chair to window to doorway and back again. The sketch rests across your lap, its edges curled slightly beneath your fingertips. You’ve wiped your hands on your apron more than once, but faint stains of charcoal still cling beneath your nails and settle into the grooves of your knuckles—proof of time spent trying to capture something delicate. Something he might see and recognize as his.

God, you hope he understands it.

Not just the way the lines curve or how the shadows fall—but what lives in the stillness between them. You drew it slow, with smudged fingertips and patient strokes, not to capture detail but memory. A moment stilled.

You hope he doesn’t look at it for what it is, but for what it offers. For what you can’t give him with your hands or your words.

Another knock sounds, and your head lifts.

You don’t call out. You don’t rush. You rise slowly from your seat, your nightgown whispering against your skin as it sways around your ankles. Bare feet pad across the wooden floor, each step unhurried. He’s already here. You can feel it in your chest before your hand even reaches the door.

Then his voice slides through the wood—warm, easy, touched with teasing.

“Gonna make me wait all night?”

There’s no pressure in it. No impatience. Just the lazy drawl of a man who already knows your answer. A man who feels your presence the same way you feel his—always, even before your fingers meet the doorknob.

Your lips curve. You let your voice rise in reply, light and falsely thoughtful.

“I don’t know… I’m thinkin’ on it.”

A pause follows. Still and comfortable. The kind that stretches sweet between two people whose bond was sealed long before this moment.

Your fingers close around the doorknob and twist it slow.

The door creaks open, and you lean into the frame with a crooked smile, eyes catching his shape in the porch light.

“Well, hello, sir,” you murmur, voice thick like honey over gravel. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house?”

He stands just beyond the threshold, dusk outlining his form in soft shadows. His mouth quirks with a grin as he tilts his head slightly.

“Ma’am, I just came by to warn you—there’s a wild animal prowlin’ around out here.”

You blink, playing along, smile growing wider.

“Oh? Should I be afraid?”

You don’t get the chance to finish the tease.

He moves forward in a fluid, practiced motion, arms sliding around your waist. You yelp through a breathless laugh as he lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. Your toes skim the floor once, twice, before you’re fully cradled in his arms.

“They say,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “the animal’s got a thing for women who keep it on its toes.”

His breath is warm. His hold is steady. And you melt into him without thought—like muscle remembers before the mind catches up.

Then his mouth lowers to the tender skin beneath your ear, pressing a deliberate, lingering kiss.

Followed by a faint scrape of teeth.

“It also likes to bite,” he whispers, every word drawn out slow, letting them sink into your skin like heat.

You laugh, breath catching on a sound you didn’t mean to let slip, arms curling tight around his shoulders. 

“I think I’ll keep it,” you whisper, grinning against his throat.

And you swear—you feel him smile, too.

The night deepens around you, slow and quiet. The oil lamp flickers low on the side table, casting warm golden light across the room, leaving the edges in shadow. The kind of light that makes everything feel gentler—closer.

You’re curled into him on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wound around your waist with a familiar weight as his back rests against the arm. His breath brushes the crown of your head. Steady. Calm. His fingers rest lazily against your stomach, and your own hand fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, folding the fabric, then unfolding it again.

“I still remember the first night we met,” he says, his voice low and slow, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound of it thrums through your back—warm and vibrating through the bones of you like a soft drumbeat.

You let out a playful, exaggerated sigh. “You bring this up every other week.”

He lets his chin settle atop your head. A soft, absent motion that makes you smile despite yourself.

“It’s adorable,” he murmurs.

“You scared me half to death,” you remind him, voice tilting up into something mockingly indignant.

He only shrugs behind you, his laugh rolling low from his throat. No apology. Just amusement.

Silence drapes over you for a moment, long enough for the house to settle around you. The wood creaks softly, and the outside hum of insects builds and fades with the wind. You sink deeper into him, the beat of your heart quieting against the shape of his.

Then his voice slips out again—lower now. Different. Threaded with something distant and fond.

“Do you know what really sticks with me?”

You hum, barely a sound, your hand still tugging gently at the edge of his sleeve.

“The second night.”

You groan, the sound full of heat and laughter, your spine stiffening against his chest. “Not this again…”

“I just had to interrupt your performance with the squirrels,” he chuckles, voice full of the grin you don’t need to see to know is there.

“They were trying to take the bird’s food,” you argue, a hint of pride in your voice.

“You practically chased them off with a broom,” he teases, drawing circles against your collarbone with the tip of his finger. “I swear your father had to come help you.”

Your breath hitches with the motion of his touch, but you still manage a scoff. “You stood there like some creep,” you mutter, turning slightly to glance back at him. “You could’ve at least been a gentleman and helped.”

He laughs again—louder this time, but not harsh. It fades slowly as he looks at you, something quieter blooming behind his eyes. His gaze holds yours, soft and still.

“Do you remember the third night?” he asks, voice lower, more careful now.

You watch him for a beat, the memory flickering behind your eyes like a distant spark.

Then you nod—slow, certain—and turn back into his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

An owl calls from the trees above, its song low and long, echoing gently across the yard like a lullaby meant only for the night. The grass beneath your bare feet is cool, still damp from the afternoon rain, and freshly cut—sharp and green-smelling as it brushes against your ankles.

You move with the wind, not to any melody made by man, but to the soft, layered rhythm of the night. The hum of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the breath of the earth beneath you.

Your eyes are closed.

Your hands sweep through the air—out, behind, above—fingertips carving patterns through nothing. The energy of it all coils in your belly and unfurls through your limbs like light, like water. It pulses through you, ancient and steady. You don’t dance to be seen. You dance to be felt.

And still—he sees you.

He stands at the edge of the yard, silent in the shadows.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. But you feel him. The weight of him. The awareness. The way his presence folds into the air like heat rising off stone. It doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t stop you. You’re too far gone in the rhythm to care. You dance as if he isn’t there—because in truth, everything in that moment belongs to something older than either of you.

But when you do finally stop, breath feathering from your lips, you turn your head slowly—and he’s still watching.

His mouth is parted slightly. His eyes are dark, drawn in, like they’re trying to memorize what they just witnessed. Like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed and full—like anything louder might shatter the air between you.

The words curl around your ribs, nest there. A stranger’s compliment shouldn’t warm you like this. Not on the third night of him appearing without warning. Not after the way your father squinted suspiciously at him from the porch light the evening before.

And yet—

“I know,” you reply softly, gaze pulling toward the moon overhead. Its light turns your skin pale silver, glinting off your cheeks and collarbones.

Behind you, he lets out a quiet sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. Barely audible. But it reaches you all the same.

You turn then. Finally look at him. Really look.

And what you see in his eyes stops you.

Not hunger. Not mischief. Not charm.

But something older.

Something searching.

“Beautiful.”

His voice breaks the quiet with a tone that feels almost sacred, and the word lands like a ripple through still water—pulling you gently out of the memory you’d been floating in.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers pause against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words slipping out too fast, too sudden.

Behind you, Remmick shifts, his head tilting slightly. He hums, a soft note of confusion, the sound curling into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“What you sorry for?”

You look down, eyes falling to the hand still idly fussing with the cuff of his shirt—folding it, smoothing it, folding it again. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you catch yourself.

“For not bein’ able to bring them back,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat more than you expected. “Your family.”

You feel it the moment it hits him—his body tenses behind you, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He doesn’t speak right away.

But before he can gather something to say, you’re turning, twisting in his arms to face him. The words tumble out fast, too full, too heavy to hold back.

“Maybe I wasn’t what you were looking for—maybe I—”

“No.”

It cuts through clean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

Just certain.

His hand closes around yours, fingers wrapping tight—not desperate, just firm. Grounding. His eyes search yours, and his head shakes once, like he’s banishing the thought from both of you before it can settle.

“You are what I was looking for.”

He says it like a vow.

And then, softer—softer than anything else he’s said tonight, as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and his brow draws slightly:

“Love, I’m so happy to have found you.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It holds.

And when you breathe again, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself believe it.

“I have somethin’ for—somethin’ to show you.”

The words stumble out, your breath catching in your chest as you untangle yourself from him. A rush of nerves spikes through you, making your hands shake as they hover for a moment before finding their purpose. Your feet carry you over to the dining room table, where the sketch waits, neatly folded and lying there like something fragile.

You glance back over your shoulder at him, catching the way he watches you, still lounging on the couch but sitting straighter now, his feet brushing the floor.

“What is it?” His voice is low, but his eyes are full of something—something expectant, even intrigued.

“It’s just a little drawing,” you murmur, the paper suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands as you move back towards him.

His brow arches, eyes flicking to the ink stains along your fingertips.

“Is that why your fingers look like you’ve been diggin’ in ink?”

You swat his arm gently, a soft laugh escaping you as you push the nervousness from your throat. “It’s small—honestly—it’s nothing big. But I wanted to give you a clear, or as clear as it can get, image.”

You sit next to him on the couch and extend it toward him, heart thudding in your chest.

He takes it slowly, his brows furrowing slightly as he studies the sketch. His eyes trace the strokes and shadows, lingering on the curves of the lines, as if trying to piece together the story you’ve captured. The silence between you both feels thick, heavy with anticipation, and you brace yourself for a reaction you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But then, his gaze shifts back to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are dark, a quiet storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, curiosity, but most of all, longing. Desperate longing.

It hits you all at once, like a soft blow to the chest, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t drawn it at all. You almost regret giving him this piece of you, this representation of something he can never have in the same way again.

But then, before you can pull back, before the doubt can settle in, he leans forward. The paper still in his hands, not forgotten for a moment as his lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, the kind that pulls at your soul as much as it pulls at your body. Your hand rises instinctively to cup his cheek, the cool of his skin grounding you in this moment. You melt into him, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as his touch deepens the kiss.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast.

“The sun,” he whispers, the words barely audible but laced with something raw—something that echoes in your own chest.

———————

It’s been twelve full moons since the night you gave him the sun.

Since you handed him something he hadn’t seen in so long and watched it catch in his throat. The sun—captured in your lines, your hands, your memory. A light he could never touch again, offered to him through you.

Now, the nights are quieter, warmer.

And now, even after all these months, he touches you like that moment never left him.

“Remmick…”

Your voice spills out in a breath, soft and undone, as his lips press against your neck again and again—slow, lingering kisses that melt into the hollow of your throat and the curve of your collarbone. He’s kneeling between your parted thighs, the weight of him grounding you, steadying you.

Your hand is tangled in his hair, the dark locks soft against your fingers as they tighten just slightly. He groans at the feeling, low and deep, like it stirs something in him he never meant to let loose.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, light and quick—but it catches, twists, becomes something else entirely when his mouth opens against the spot just beneath your chin and he sucks gently, leaving a mark that makes your toes curl.

One of his hands grips your hip, firm but worshipful. The other guides your leg higher, wrapping your thigh around his waist. You can feel the flex of his muscles through the fabric of your clothes—always clothed, always drawn out like this, as if undressing fully would tip the balance into something neither of you could undo.

He moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones as your hand tightens in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch.

His tongue drags a slow line up the length of your throat—hot, wet, lingering—until it reaches the corner of your mouth. He kisses you there, not quite on your lips. Just close enough to make you shudder.

Your thighs tighten around him, urging him forward.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, panting softly now, your voice thick with need that’s become almost ritual.

Remmick’s eyes shift—darker now, pupils dilated, hunger swimming through them, but not for flesh. For this. For you.

He brings his wrist up to his mouth and bites. Not gently. His fangs tear into the skin with practiced force, piercing just deep enough to make the blood run freely. Thick, dark, it begins to fall—hot drops staining the front of your dress.

You don’t wait. You never do.

You grasp his wrist and pull it to your mouth, lips parting as you begin to drink.

Slowly.

His blood pours across your tongue like smoke—rich, metallic, ancient. It coils down your throat, and you moan around his wrist, hips pressing down against him in a slow grind that sends heat lacing up your spine.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t kill. Not like it should.

His blood was meant to destroy—corrode, rot from the inside out. To anyone else, it would have been poison. But to you?

It settles like firelight in your chest.

No one, not even Remmick, understands it. How your body takes his blood and lives. Hungers for it. How it makes your senses crackle and your thoughts slip sideways into his.

He watches you now, still holding your leg in place, his wrist slack in your grip as you drink. His mouth parts slightly in awe, eyes half-lidded.

It’s not just the pleasure of it—it’s the connection.

A tether forged in something older than touch.

And as the blood pulses through your veins like a slow current, you feel the familiar shift begin.

The world stills at the edges.

Your breath synchronizes with his.

And then—faintly—like a whisper in a dream—

‘Can you hear me?’

The words aren’t spoken.

They’re felt.

From somewhere inside.

From him.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his body, lips still pressed to his skin.

‘Always.’

You don’t stop drinking right away.

You stay there, lips pressed to his wrist, your breath ghosting hot against his skin with each swallow. His blood fills your mouth in steady waves, pulsing with something ancient and strange, tasting of earth and copper and thunderclouds ready to break. It spreads through your limbs like warmth pulled from the deepest part of a hearth.

You can feel the weight of him above you—his chest heaving slowly, his arm trembling just faintly in your grip. He’s watching you, you know he is. You feel it in the way his hand tightens on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself. His hips shift closer, slow, a near-imperceptible grind that tells you he’s just as drunk on this as you are.

Your body shivers in response, the sensation of him—his scent, his heat, the deep thrum of his power—curling into you, winding itself around your breath like a silk thread being pulled tighter and tighter.

Finally, you release his wrist with one last lick, blood still slicking your lips, glowing faintly in the lamplight. You press your face to the inside of his arm, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the quiet of your joined bodies settle back in.

He exhales slowly, forehead lowering to rest against yours.

“Every time,” he whispers, voice roughened, breath warm against your cheek. “It never gets easier, needing you like this.”

You smile, lips brushing against his skin.

“I don’t want it to get easier.”

Your hand, still tangled in his hair, slips down to cup the side of his face. His stubble grazes your palm. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His free arm slides around your back, holding you fully, folding you into him like he wants to memorize every inch of your shape.

You tilt your head, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The kiss is slow. Saturated. It tastes faintly of blood and something far sweeter—familiar, claiming, home. He groans softly against your lips, his body sinking deeper between your thighs as if he could disappear inside you if he just moved close enough.

Your bodies don’t rush.

You never do.

This has always been about something more than hunger. More than flesh.

It’s about the space between the blood and the breath.

It’s about the way his fingers tremble when they trace the curve of your back through your dress. About the way your mouth parts for him even before he asks. About how his voice breaks just slightly when he murmurs your name like a prayer, spoken only for you.

Your legs curl tighter around his waist.

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And for a long, suspended moment, you just exist like that—pressed together, pulsing with the same rhythm, your minds still softly tangled in that shared tether.

His mouth parts from yours, slow and reluctant, as though breaking the kiss costs him something. But then he’s lowering—pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin at the top of your chest, where your collar dips just below your throat. Each kiss grows messier, wetter, trailing heat in their wake as his breath thickens against your skin.

You feel his lips move back up, soft and deliberate, until he’s at your throat again. He sucks gently on the flesh there—right where your pulse flutters closest to the surface—and your head tips back instinctively, a moan slipping from your mouth, low and unguarded.

You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation, the way his mouth worships you like you’re sacred. You melt into it, hips rising just slightly, your whole body humming.

Until—

A pressure.

A shift.

A sharpness.

It presses, faint at first, then firmer. Something cold, glancing the curve of your neck.

“Remmick?”

Your voice is a breath at first, confused but not panicked. Not yet.

But then you feel it again—definite now—the unmistakable drag of a fang against your skin. Not playful. Not soft. A warning. A threat.

“Remmick,” you say louder this time, a tremor threading through your voice.

No answer.

Only a low growl—feral and guttural—rising from his chest.

Your heart stutters.

You push at his chest, sudden and firm. “Remmick—!”

His body jerks back as if he’s been doused in cold water, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes, once half-lidded with desire, now burn red—crimson—staring past you, unseeing, his breath ragged and uneven. But as you stare, you see the color begin to fade—slowly, then all at once—retreating like a tide.

You sit up, the moment shattered. The air between you now cracked and sharp.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sleeve of your dress, fingers fumbling. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths as the last of the heat bleeds from your skin and leaves something colder in its place.

His mouth is parted. He looks dazed—like he’s just woken from something he didn’t want to be in. His gaze finally meets yours, and what you see there is no longer hunger.

It’s guilt.

And fear.

And something else he’s too afraid to name.

The room is quiet—too quiet.

Just the sound of your breath, ragged and quick in your chest. Just the soft ticking of the old wall clock, the distant chirp of crickets outside the window. The warmth from the oil lamp still glows, but it doesn’t reach your skin like it did before.

You stare at him.

And he stares at you.

Neither of you moves. For a long, trembling moment, you’re both frozen in the wreckage of what almost happened.

Then—he shifts.

Only slightly. A small movement forward, the start of reaching out.

But your body responds before your mind can soften it. You tense, your spine pulling back like a thread snapped tight. It’s not dramatic. Not a jolt. But enough. Enough for him to see it.

He freezes mid-reach, then withdraws—slowly, deliberately—his hands falling to his thighs. He nods once to himself, almost like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask.

With a heavy breath, he lowers himself to the floor, sitting back against the foot of the couch. His legs stretch out in front of him, shoulders hunched, head bowed. One hand comes up to rub over his face, dragging from brow to jaw like he’s trying to wipe away the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse. His fingers dig into his temples. “Fuck, fuck—”

You watch him. From where you sit. From the place where his touch had just been.

He curses again, quieter this time. Not angry. Not cruel. Just broken. Cursing himself, not the world.

And you feel something shift in your chest—not the fear, not yet. But the knowing. The understanding.

So you move.

Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet. The hem of your dress brushes your knees as you walk, cautious and bare-footed, toward where he sits in shadow. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear you coming until you’re already there.

When he does lift his eyes, it’s quick, almost reflexive.

And still—you flinch.

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of muscle, a pull at your shoulders. You don’t mean to. But it’s there.

And he sees it. All of it.

The guilt that floods his face is instant, undeniable. Like something in him collapses. He turns his head slightly as if to hide, like he doesn’t want you to see the part of him he’s just shown.

But you kneel anyway.

You sink down in front of him, the floor cold beneath your knees, and you reach out.

Your hands come up slow, hesitant—but sure. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

His eyes flicker up, full of something wild and wounded. He opens his mouth—and the words fall out in a rush, cracked and frantic.

“I’m sorry—”

His breath shakes.

“I didn’t mean—”

He swallows hard.

“I would never—God, I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh…”

Your voice breaks through softly, warm and steady.

You press your forehead to his.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. But he closes his eyes, and he lets you hold him anyway.

And for now, that’s enough.

Minutes pass, but they stretch long and aching, like time itself is unsure how to move forward.

You’re both seated on the couch, the air between you thick with what almost happened. Close enough to reach for each other, but neither of you does. Not yet.

You sit still, your knees drawn in slightly, eyes on the floor. Remmick leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers twitching at his knees.

Every few minutes, he swipes at his pant leg—dusting off nothing. Just a nervous habit. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times across three years. He does it when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s scared he’s hurt you, when his guilt starts to choke the words in his throat.

“You didn’t mean it,” you say softly, trying to fill the silence with something true.

But he cuts across your words—not sharp, not cruel. Just quiet. Defeated.

“It still happened.”

His voice settles into the room like a stone dropped in still water.

You don’t respond right away. Because you can’t lie—it did happen. This isn’t the first time. You’ve been here before. These moments where the instinct in him overwhelms the man you know. When something ancient stirs in his blood and almost—almost—makes him forget who you are.

Who he is.

And still… you stay.

Because it is instinct. Because it’s him. Because he’s tried so hard to be gentle, to be careful with you, to never take more than you offer.

But your humanity doesn’t always understand.

There are flashes. Of fear. Of your body screaming to move, to run. Even when your heart knows better.

Your hand rises slowly, brushing off your shoulder—not because anything is there, but because your body needs something to do, a motion to match the quiet storm inside you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Remmick watching you. Just barely. Just for a second. Like he’s afraid to look too long.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly, still brushing at nothing.

Your voice trembles—but not with fear.

“I promise.”

That part is steadier. More certain. Like you’re not just telling him, but yourself too.

He turns to look at you, eyes catching yours for a brief, flickering second. Then he leans back into the couch again, sighing as he drags both hands up over his face and into his hair.

His elbows rest wide, shoulders curling in, and for a moment he looks less like the creature who nearly lost control—and more like a man unraveling under the weight of being that creature at all.

There’s another beat of silence.

Heavy.

Full.

But not suffocating.

And then—you move.

You shift slowly, inching closer, careful not to startle him, not to break the fragile calm settling between you. His hands are still tangled in his hair when you press your body flush to his side, your knees drawing up gently to rest near his thigh. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the weight of it soft but certain.

He tenses.

He always does, after things like this. After the hunger, the loss of control. Like he’s afraid your touch might break him. Or that he doesn’t deserve to be held after what nearly happened.

But when you exhale—a long, steady breath that says I’m still here—he softens.

Slowly, his shoulders lower. His body eases against yours. And then his chin dips to rest on the top of your head, the warmth of him grounding you both.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

Then his eyes fall to your chest.

To the thin gold chain and the small cross nestled in the hollow between your collarbones.

His fingers move before his voice does, brushing lightly against your skin. He picks it up with careful hands, like it might burn him.

“Why do you still wear this?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting across the little symbol. The question isn’t mocking. It’s softer than that. Almost confused.

You shrug, barely a motion, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” you say softly, “it’s better to be comforted by the familiarity of it… than to sit in the discomfort of knowing you were raised by people who heel to an if.”

His thumb keeps moving over the metal, slow and thoughtful.

Then—quietly—he asks, “Even after what happened?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away.

You feel the memory press up behind your ribs, the way some people spoke for God while hurting you in his name. But you shake your head, voice gentle but certain.

Your voice is quieter now, but not weak.

“I can’t blame God for the actions of men.”

Remmick lets the cross slip from his fingers.

“They’re his creations, though,” he says. Not accusing—just flat. Like stating a flaw in a story he’s never quite believed.

You pause. Your body shifts just slightly to glance at him.

His eyes aren’t sharp. But they aren’t soft, either. They look like someone who’s stood too long in the rain of something he used to want to believe in.

“Where is this coming from, Remmick?” you ask, reaching to touch the necklace again, your fingers now resting where his had been.

He’s quiet. Then his gaze meets yours.

“Because I’m not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Not what?”

His throat bobs, and he exhales through his nose before answering.

“Holy.”

The word leaves his mouth like something unwanted. Like it tastes wrong.

You shake your head without hesitation, leaning back into him, fingers curling at the side of his shirt.

“I ain��t ask for holy.”

There’s a pause.

Then his arm slides around your waist, drawing you close—not fast, not rough, but sure. His hand rests flat against your back, and he holds you like you’re the only thing left in a world that never offered him much to believe in.

The room settles around you again, the stillness no longer tense, but warm in its hush. The lamplight flickers low, casting soft gold across the floorboards, the corners of the room melting into shadow.

Remmick doesn’t speak, and neither do you.

He just holds you.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting along your spine, fingers splayed wide, keeping you close like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. Your cheek presses to his chest—cool and still beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s no rhythm to lull you, no beat beneath your ear.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve long since stopped searching for it.

His stillness is its own kind of comfort.

The way he holds you, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter yours—it tells you more than a pulse ever could.

Your fingers fidget lightly with the hem of his shirt, not out of nerves but instinct. He shifts just enough to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you in a quiet offering. His movements are careful. As if he thinks too much noise might startle the moment away.

“You always run cold at night,” he murmurs, just above your ear.

“I do not,” you whisper back, half a smile in your voice.

He hums in amusement, dipping his head slightly to press a kiss into your hair. Not rushed. Not wanting anything. Just the kind of kiss someone gives when they think no one else is watching.

Your breath begins to slow.

Your hand, once gently moving across his chest, grows still. He feels the change in you almost immediately—how your weight softens against him, how your fingers twitch once, then relax completely. Your body melts into his side, trusting, safe.

And he stays still.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he wanted. Not anymore. 

He just watches.

The way your face tips toward him, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. The cross glinting faintly against your skin as the lamplight burns itself out.

His hand strokes once down your back, slow and steady. A silent promise. A grounding.

He doesn’t dare move.

Because this—the weight of you against him, the quiet peace that followed the chaos—is something he doesn’t ever take lightly.

And though the house has fallen silent and your breath is deep with sleep, Remmick remains awake, holding you like you’re still asking to be protected.

———————

“I can’t stay here.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—sharp, absolute.

You chase after him, feet bare against the old wooden floor as he moves too fast, too frenzied, like if he stops for even a second, he’ll fall apart. Your hand brushes the edge of his shirt, just barely, but he’s already beyond your reach.

“Remmick—wait,” you call, breath catching, the words tumbling over themselves. “Can’t we just talk about it?”

He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look at you. His voice rises, tight with frustration and something dangerously close to despair.

“I need to get out. I need to find someone—someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can help.”

“Help with what?” your voice breaks slightly. “You said it didn’t matter anymore. You said no one could conjure them, that it was impossible—”

“We have talked,” he snaps, spinning to face you. And when he says your name—he says it in a tone you’ve never heard from him. Not even when you were fighting. Not even when you were afraid.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He sees it—the way you recoil just slightly, how your fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for him or pull back entirely. And still, you try. You step forward, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“You said it didn’t matter anymore,” you plead, anger bubbling up beneath the desperation now. “You said you couldn’t find anyone who could conjure them, and we—we moved on, Remmick! We—”

Your voice shakes. You hate the way it does. You hate the way your chest aches from chasing him, not just through the house, but through the months that led to this.

He turns to you fully now, eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hair—longer now, pinned back in a way that’s already half-fallen from place. There’s something about your appearance that makes him still. Like he’s seeing not just the person in front of him, but all the time you’ve weathered together. All the nights. All the blood. All the silence.

He says your name again.

Softer.

And then he closes his eyes.

“I tried,” he breathes, voice quiet, almost tender in its regret. “I really did.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re empty of hope.

“But being with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “It reminds me of the part of me that still wishes I was human. That part that wishes I could connect with people again.”

You flinch, like you’ve been struck. But you don’t back down.

“You connected with me,” you say sharply, your hand flying up in disbelief, gesturing to your own chest. “You said that. You said I made you feel like—like you were still something.”

He breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched. And then—

A pause.

A beat that goes on too long.

Too heavy.

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours.

“That was a mistake.”

The silence that follows is loud. Deafening.

You stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to take it back.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, full of that distant kind of grief that’s been killing him slowly long before this moment.

Another long beat of silence.

The kind that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that makes the room feel smaller, heavier—like the walls are listening, holding their breath along with you.

Your vision blurs slightly. Tears swell hot at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You won’t. Not in front of him. Not after this.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, voice trembling as you force the words out.

“How dare you?”

His eyes snap to yours, startled—not by the volume, but by the weight of it.

You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides to keep from shaking. He glances away, quickly—like looking at you is suddenly too much—but you don’t give him the out.

“How dare you say that,” you repeat, louder this time, voice cracking beneath the fury that rises like a wave behind your ribs, “after everything we’ve been through?”

He turns back, but you’re already staring him down, eyes wet and burning, teeth gritted so tight your whole body aches with it.

“You think you can just throw all this away? Call it a mistake?” Your voice quivers, but it doesn’t falter. “We survived things together. You shared blood. We—” you stop yourself, shoulders trembling as your breath comes fast and shallow. “Don’t you dare rewrite what we had just because you’re scared.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

And all you can do is stand there, every part of you pulled tight like a thread about to snap, holding on for dear life just to keep from crumbling at his feet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until he turns his back on you.

That simple motion—silent, final—makes something inside you break.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a slow, spreading crack through the center of your chest.

Your throat tightens. Your limbs go cold. You press your lips together hard, trying to stop the trembling in your jaw. But your eyes burn, and your vision sways, and something deep inside starts to unravel like thread being pulled from the hem of something sacred.

He’s facing the door now. Ready to leave you in ruins.

“Look at me,” you say, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move.

Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl against your sides, and you take a step toward him, your voice rising—

“Remmick, look at me.”

He turns.

Fast. Too fast. Like he’s been waiting to snap.

You flinch before you can stop yourself, instinct pulling your body backward a half-step.

And that’s when he says it.

“You aren’t special.”

The words are plain. Cold.

His eyes don’t blink, don’t soften. They bore into you like he’s trying to make you believe it—like he needs you to.

“You weren’t special enough to conjure them,” he spits, voice stripped of all the softness it used to hold for you. “All this time, all this blood, all this hope—and it was wasted. On you.”

You feel the breath knock out of you, a rush of silence ringing in your ears. It’s like your body hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart just heard.

And then he says it.

“Meeting you was a mistake.”

Your face crumples—just a flicker. You try to hide it. Try to stand tall. But the ache comes too fast. Too deep.

He stares at you. Daring you to fight it. Daring you to say he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know he’s already won.

Because he’s broken the one thing that held you both together.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

The words hang between you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to clear. He watches you—still, unreadable—but something shifts.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

It passes through his face too quickly, but you catch it—guilt. The barest crack in the mask. A subtle falter in the set of his jaw. The tiniest twitch of something human behind his eyes. Something that wants to take the words back.

But then he straightens. Withdraws.

His shoulders pull back, chin lifts slightly, and the mask returns. Cold. Detached. It slips back over his face like armor—like he needs it to stand here and not fall apart.

You stare at him, still frozen, your breath caught so tightly in your chest it hurts.

And then, finally—you exhale.

A soft, trembling sound escapes your lips, the breath breaking as it leaves you. It unravels into a quiet cry—small, raw, but cutting straight through the hollow ache inside you.

Your knees don’t give out. Your voice doesn’t rise.

You just… break, quietly.

The tears fall before you can stop them, hot and unrelenting. They spill down your cheeks like something you’ve been holding back for far too long, and your hand comes up—uselessly—to catch them. But they keep coming.

You’re not sobbing.

You’re just grieving.

Grieving what he just said.

Grieving that he meant it.

Grieving the part of him that once held you like you were the only thing keeping him in this world.

You take a step back.

Just one.

But it says everything. The distance grows in more ways than one—and for a breath, you see it in his eyes. The way they flicker. The way his fingers twitch. Like he’s about to follow you.

For a split second, it looks like Remmick might reach out—might step forward.

But he doesn’t.

He stills himself. Draws his hand into a fist at his side. Locks his body in place like it’s the only way he can keep from unraveling.

You stare at him through the blur of tears. Your breath is uneven, your chest tight with every word he’s thrown at you, and still—still—you look at him like you’re trying to see past all of it. Like you’re still trying to find him underneath the cruelty.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower. Less certain.

“I meant what I said,” he tells you.

But it lacks the venom now. The edge has dulled. There’s something buried beneath it—something fragile. And he tries to hide it, tightening his jaw, avoiding your eyes. It’s the kind of lie someone tells when they need it to be true. When the alternative would break them.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, wiping away the tears, though the dampness clings to your skin. Your eyes don’t leave him.

And then, after a long, aching silence, you say it:

“Turn me.”

His eyes widen. His head jerks slightly, like he misheard you. For the first time since he turned away, his composure shatters just a little.

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head like the word itself might undo something. “No.”

But you’re already stepping forward. Slow. Certain. The pain in your chest rising like a tide.

You close the space between you until you’re right there—nearly brushing against him, close enough to feel the cold tension radiating off his body, close enough to make him hold his breath.

“Turn me,” you repeat, firmer now, eyes locking with his. “Do it—so you won’t leave.”

His face twists. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, I do.”

Your voice doesn’t shake now.

“Because I know you, Remmick. I know what this is. You don’t mean what you said. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, because you think you’re protecting me—but I see you.”

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, stunned, struggling to hide the storm behind his eyes.

“And yes,” your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge, “your words hurt me. But I’m still here.”

You lift your chin, breath shallow. “So if this is the only way you’ll stay—then do it.”

Remmick shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with something wild and frayed.

“No,” he mutters, barely more than breath. “No.”

But you press closer to him anyway.

You’re almost flush against his chest now, breath mingling with his, your hands reaching for the front of his coat—gripping the worn fabric in tight fists, like if you hold hard enough, he won’t disappear.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracked, raw. “Remmick, please—just turn me. Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this—don’t say those things if you don’t mean them.”

His hands twitch at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. He looks down at you, expression dark, unreadable—but there’s something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he says again, louder this time, harsher. “No.”

He moves—tries to back away—but your grip tightens, frantic now, fingers curled tight in his coat like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you let go.

And then the sobs come.

They ripple through you like a storm, wracking your body as your knees almost buckle beneath the weight of everything—his words, his distance, the unbearable ache of loving someone who keeps pulling away.

“Please,” you choke again. “Please…”

Your voice crumbles. You’re not begging for the turning anymore—you’re begging for him. For the Remmick who held you at night. Who pressed kisses to your shoulder while you slept. Who whispered that you made him feel alive again.

And that’s what shatters him.

His face crumples—just for a second—and then his hands are on yours, trembling.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I won’t.”

He grips your wrists gently but firmly, peeling your hands from his coat with heartbreaking care, as though touching you too harshly might undo you completely.

“I won’t do that to you,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, swimming with sorrow. “I won’t damn you.”

His words tremble. His hands linger on your wrists even after he’s pulled them free.

His grip on your wrists lingers, trembling, as if some part of him doesn’t want to let go.

But he does.

He peels away from you slowly, like it hurts to break the contact. Your hands fall limply to your sides, empty now. Cold. His touch still clings to your skin even as he steps back, gaze flickering down before he forces himself to look away entirely.

You stumble a step after him.

“Remmick—” your voice is barely there. A breathless sob tangled in his name.

But he turns his back to you.

One hand rakes through his hair, gripping the strands tightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of himself. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he breathes heavy through his nose—too steady for a man this undone.

You stand there, frozen in place, a hollow thing trying to find footing on a crumbling floor.

“Remmick,” you say again, louder, more fractured, the plea cracking down the middle.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back.

He moves toward the door, each step sharp, deliberate. You want to run to him, to grab him again—but your body won’t move. It’s locked in place by too much—rage, grief, love, disbelief—too much.

He reaches the door, and his hand clamps down on the knob so hard it groans beneath his grip.

Metal warps under his palm, the shape bending slightly from the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He could stay.

He wants to.

But if he does, he won’t leave at all. And that terrifies him more than the sound of your voice breaking behind him.

With a harsh exhale, he yanks the door open.

Outside, the night air spills in—cold and wide and merciless. He stands there for a moment, held still by something invisible. He hesitates.

Just one second.

The ache in his chest blooms again. A bloom with no heartbeat, no blood. Just hollow space where your voice used to echo inside him.

But then—he steps forward.

Down the porch stairs. Into the dark.

And as the distance grows, he tries—tries—to drown out the sound of you crying behind him.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body is still frozen in place, chest heaving with sobs that feel too big for your ribs, too old to cry. Your hands tremble at your sides—empty, aching, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

Then, like instinct—like the last spark of hope clinging to a thread—you reach for him the only way you still can.

Through the link.

‘Remmick…’

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t need to. You close your eyes, press your hand to your chest, and focus everything—everything—on him. The ache. The longing. The sharp panic rising as his presence starts to feel distant.

‘Please… come back.’

No answer.

You try again, harder this time, your mind pushing past the pain, straining through the space between you.

‘Remmick, please. Don’t do this.’

Still—nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not even the faint echo of thought.

You feel him.

You feel him walking away. Each step pulling the tether tighter, drawing it out like a thread unraveling at the seams. He’s walking into the woods now, into the dark, and you can feel the earth swallowing his presence inch by inch.

‘Answer me,’ you plead, the thought barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

He doesn’t.

He keeps walking.

And as he moves deeper into the trees, your link with him—so often warm, so steady it felt like breath—begins to fade.

Fainter.

Fainter still.

Like fog slipping through your fingers.

You press your forehead to the wall beside the door, tears spilling again, lips parted in a silent gasp.

There is nothing now.

Just the dark.

Just the cold.

And the silence where his voice used to be.

———————

Your feet brush against each other beneath the quilt as you tug it higher up your shoulder, chasing warmth that never quite stays. The winter air creeps in through the cracks in the wood, biting at your arms, your neck, anywhere the blanket doesn’t reach.

You nestle deeper into the bed, letting the stillness settle over you. It’s a familiar kind of cold now. Quiet. Lonely, but bearable.

Your eyes grow heavy, breath evening out as sleep pulls at you.

Your hand rises absently to scratch your scalp—fingers dragging through the short strands before you wince, quickly remembering that you’d cut it just the morning before. A change. Something new. Something yours.

But then—

A cry.

Loud. Restless. Piercing.

You bolt upright, rubbing at your eyes as your feet find the floor, already moving.

The old boards groan beneath your steps as you hurry down the hall, the sound of her cries swelling with each stride, high and sharp and full of tiny, desperate frustration.

You push open the door to the guest room.

The soft glow from the lamp you’d left on filters across the bassinet—your sister’s, now yours for the week since she dropped off your niece. Just until she sorted some things out. You’d said yes before you could even think twice. 

The baby’s cries fill the room now, bouncing off the walls in wild, wordless protest. You step forward, peering into the bassinet, and there she is—flushed-cheeked and determined, trying to shove her fist into her mouth.

“Girl,” you murmur, exasperation bleeding into affection as you tilt your head and reach in, “you a handful.”

She wriggles as you lift her, her little body warm against yours. The moment she’s in your arms, her cries soften to hiccupped whimpers, mouth still working, cheeks damp. One tiny fist rubs beneath her eye, and she lets out a pitiful little sigh that nearly breaks your heart.

Your feet carry you back down the hall without needing to think, swaying with her as you walk.

You move through the kitchen with practiced ease, one hand on the bottle, the other keeping her tucked close, even as she squirms.

The quiet of the house wraps around you again.

Not the same quiet it used to be.

Not the same ache.

But quieter still.

You bounce her gently against your hip as the bottle warms in the pot of water on the stove, her head tucked under your chin, cheeks flushed with the aftershock of her crying fit. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of a single hanging bulb that hums softly above.

Outside, the wind groans low against the windows.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.

You press a kiss to the baby’s head, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath, the kind of words meant only for soothing, not meaning. Her small fingers clutch at the collar of your nightshirt, still rubbing at her face now and then, whimpering with discomfort, but quieter now. Contained.

You sway with her, barefoot on the chilled wood floor. It creaks beneath you with each step. Familiar. Lived-in.

But something about the quiet feels different tonight. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

The wind shifts again, brushing against the side of the house like fingers trailing across old wood. You glance toward the window, frowning faintly, but don’t stop moving.

“You don’t even like the cold,” you whisper to the baby, rocking side to side. “Don’t know why your mama insisted on that thin little blanket…”

Your voice trails off as your eyes linger on the dark glass of the window.

There’s nothing there.

Just your reflection. You and her. The slow rise and fall of her breath against your chest. The soft flicker of the light swinging just slightly above.

Still—you find yourself listening harder.

To the house.

To the air.

To the quiet between sounds.

The bottle clicks lightly against the side of the pot as you reach for it. You test the heat on your wrist, then bring it to her lips. She latches, her little mouth greedy, like she hadn’t just cried the walls down.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Steady.

But you don’t stop watching the window.

There’s something in your chest—nothing sharp yet, just a whisper in the gut. Like being watched. Like the moment just before thunder. A pressure that builds but hasn’t broken.

You shake your head.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Not since—

You blink. Your fingers brush over the back of the baby’s head. Her eyes flutter closed slowly as she suckles.

You stare into the window a second longer.

Just your reflection.

Just the wind.

But your fingers curl tighter around her.

And you don’t move far from the stove.

Her tiny breaths come slower now.

The bottle hangs at an angle in your hand as her mouth relaxes around the nipple, no longer sucking. Just resting. The tension in her little body has gone limp with sleep, one arm flopped across your chest, the other curled under her chin. Her lashes flutter once, then still.

You watch her.

Your niece.

Small and warm in your arms, her cheek nestled just over your heart. It calms you—being her anchor. Being needed, even in the quiet. Even when your own heart has been patchwork ever since he left.

You sigh and gently ease the bottle from her mouth, slow enough not to wake her. It comes free with a faint pop, and you hold it loosely in your hand, cradling her a little closer with the other. Her lips twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s still dreaming of something sweet.

You press another kiss to her temple and begin to turn, shifting your weight toward the fridge.

Then—you freeze.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

Remmick.

The air leaves your lungs so quietly you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, tall and still and real, like he never left. Like he could’ve always been there, just at the edge of a memory, just out of reach.

The low light from the overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting soft shadows across his face, half of him cloaked in darkness. His eyes are locked on you—not the baby. Not the bottle. You.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe not older—just tired. Worn. His clothes are damp at the hem, boots mud-dusted from the woods. The air around him is cold.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bottle dangles in your hand.

The baby sighs in her sleep.

And all you can do is stare, heart stuttering in your chest like it’s trying to remember how to feel everything it buried.

He doesn’t speak.

And God, you’re not even sure if he’s here to.

But he’s here.

Your lips part—

But nothing comes out.

The words catch in your throat, stuck behind the tide of disbelief and something deeper, something aching. Your gaze stays locked on him, searching for a reason, for any kind of explanation etched into his face.

But Remmick only stares.

His eyes, once soft only for you, now guarded, flicker downward to the bundle in your arms. His expression doesn’t shift, not fully—just enough to register something unreadable.

“…She yours?”

It takes you a moment to process the question. Not because it’s complicated. But because he asked it. Because he is standing there, like he didn’t disappear without a word—like two years didn’t pass in silence.

A scoff escapes before you can catch it. Sharp, tired, disbelieving.

“You’ve been gone, what—two years,” you say, voice low and tight as you rock the sleeping baby in your arms. “And you show up asking if I got knocked up?”

The bitterness is subtle, tucked beneath a layer of false steadiness, but it’s there. Your fingers tighten slightly on the bottle in your hand.

You try to sound even. Indifferent.

But the truth is, the weight of him being back—just standing there like the past didn’t happen—is pressing on your chest like a hand. And you’re doing everything you can not to fold beneath it.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

Just watches you with those dark eyes, unreadable in the low light, like he’s still catching up to the sight of you. Of what he left behind.

And maybe, just maybe, what he’s already regretting.

When he doesn’t answer, something in you shifts.

Breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But in pieces—one word at a time.

“You don’t get to ask questions like that,” you say, still low, still sharp, but your voice thins with every breath. “You don’t get to show up after years—after walking away from me, from everything—and act like you still have any right to know what’s mine.”

He stays still.

Silent.

Watching.

“You left me begging,” you whisper, your arms tightening around the baby now asleep against your chest. “I begged you not to go. I told you I wasn’t scared. That I was still here, and you—you just turned your back like none of it mattered.”

Your words grow quicker, more desperate.

“I tried to call to you—through the link—we shared that. I tried every night for weeks. You didn’t answer. Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word.

Just watches.

And that’s what finally makes something snap.

“Say something, damn it!” you nearly shout, but the sound trembles with pain more than rage. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost in my kitchen—like you didn’t rip me apart and vanish like I was nothing!”

Your voice breaks completely now. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting again despite all the tears you thought you’d already spent on him.

And still—he says nothing.

But he moves.

Quiet. Intentional.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you. Reflexively, you take a step back, shaking your head.

“No—Remmick, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.”

But he keeps coming.

Until he’s standing right in front of you, the baby nestled safe between your arms and your chest, sleeping through the weight of everything around her. His presence so close, you can feel the cool air that always clings to him pressing against your heat.

Then—slowly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter beneath it—he lifts a hand.

You don’t stop him. You want to. You think you should.

But you don’t.

And when his palm finally meets your cheek—his thumb brushing softly beneath your eye—your entire body caves inward.

Not physically.

Not visibly.

But everything inside you folds.

You melt into his touch like you were made to. Like nothing’s ever felt more real, more grounding, more right—even now. Even after everything.

Your eyes close. Just for a second.

The quiet between you hums like a wound.

His hand stays at your cheek, steady, thumb grazing the corner where your last tear dried. Your eyes stay closed, not because you trust him—but because the moment you open them, you’ll have to feel everything all over again.

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

He breathes out, slower.

Then—

He speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

So small.

So late.

Your eyes snap open.

You pull back—not far, not entirely—but just enough to see him. Really see him. His face is drawn, tired. Not just from time. From regret.

You part your lips. The words rise fast in your throat, fueled by every long night, every unanswered cry, every bitter second he left you alone with all that love and nowhere to put it.

“Your sorry doesn’t mat—”

“I know.”

He says it before you can finish, the words low and plain.

Not defensive.

Not performative.

Just… true.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment, the rest of the sentence dissolving on your tongue. There’s something gutting about the way he says it—how fast it comes, how quietly.

He knows.

He knows he can’t fix it.

He knows it’s not enough.

He knows he left something in you that never stopped aching.

And somehow, that hurts worse than if he’d tried to argue.

You stand there in his grasp, his hand still at your cheek, eyes searching yours with that old ache—the one you used to know so well. The silence lingers again, thick and full of everything unsaid. And then—

Your voice cuts through it, quiet but steady.

“…Why are you back?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you feel the tension ripple through his fingers, still resting lightly against your skin.

He hesitates. You can see it—the way his jaw works, how his eyes lower to the floor between you. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. That he’ll leave you in the dark all over again.

But then, just barely above a whisper—

“I think I’ve found someone.”

He looks at you again. “Some people. Who might be able to help.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once, slowly, the motion tight and mechanical. And before the silence can grow unbearable again, you let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—bitter and tired.

“That’s good for you,” you murmur.

And then, you move.

You turn your face from his hand and gently pull your head out of his touch. The loss of his presence against your cheek feels colder than it should, but you ignore it. You shift the baby in your arms, her little body warm and boneless against yours, one tiny fist curled near her mouth.

“You should leave,” you say softly, not cruel, not even angry. Just… done.

You take a step toward the hallway.

But his hand finds your wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you. To ask without words.

“Don’t,” you say, voice barely audible.

But before either of you can move again—

Your niece lets out a small, whimpering sound.

A soft whine, pained and restless, as she begins to stir against your shoulder. Her gums, still tender from teething, are clearly giving her grief again. You instinctively bounce her, soothing.

But it’s the sound—that tiny, human ache—that breaks him.

You feel it.

Something changes.

You glance back, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion, only to find Remmick… crumbling.

His expression falls apart all at once—like a dam finally giving in. His eyes close, jaw clenching as he sucks in a breath too shaky to steady. His shoulders drop, and he lets go of your wrist like it burns.

“Remmick—?” you start, brow furrowing.

But he’s already there—standing in the ruins of whatever wall he’d tried to keep between you. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, voice breaking in the back of his throat.

“I shouldn’t’ve come back,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I thought—I thought I could just come in, tell you what I found, and walk away again.”

His eyes meet yours, red-rimmed, wet.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

You don’t move.

You feel the tremble in him, the rawness beginning to leak out of every word, but you don’t step forward. You keep your distance—not out of punishment, but because if you move now, if you let yourself soften, you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

He’s the one breaking this time.

And you’ve broken enough.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” he says again, voice thin and cracking, like he’s choking on the very thing he’s fought so long to suppress.

You say nothing.

Your arms tighten just slightly around your niece, who shifts again with a small whine before nestling back into your shoulder. The quiet hum of her small discomfort is the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

Remmick’s hands shake as he pushes them into his hair, like he’s trying to rip the feeling out of his skull.

“I thought I could handle it,” he goes on, his voice a hushed blur. “Thought I could just see you, tell you what I found, and leave. Be… grateful, even. That you moved on. That you looked okay.”

You blink, your stare sharp.

“I’m not okay,” you say simply.

He freezes at that.

“I wake up every night thinking I’m still waiting for your voice in my head. Still hoping you’ll answer. I spent months checking the woods for you like a fool. I tried to forget you, and every time I thought I had—I’d dream of you.”

Your breath hitches, but you keep your tone even. You don’t raise your voice.

“I am not okay,” you repeat, softer now. “But I lived.”

Remmick looks at you like you’ve just slapped him, and maybe, in a way, you have.

He nods slowly, eyes lowered.

“You should go,” you say again. Not unkind. But firm. “You said what you came here to say.”

His mouth opens—but no sound comes.

For once, he doesn’t argue.

He just stands there in the kitchen he once haunted, in the silence he left behind.

And you don’t reach for him.

You don’t fold this time.

Because you’re still bleeding from the last time you did.

He doesn’t follow you.

You don’t even hear him move.

Just the quiet behind you, the kind that settles in when someone’s made the choice to stay still instead of chasing after what’s slipping away.

You walk back to the guest room without a word, her small body pressed close to yours, the way babies always seemed to mold themselves into you like they trusted you with every part of them. She stirs, lips parting in a sleep-heavy pout, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

You kneel beside the bassinet and lay her down gently, smoothing your hand over her soft curls, fixing the thin blanket to cover her—tucked just enough to keep her warm, loose enough not to make her squirm. The room is quiet but not empty. It is full of her steady breathing, of your own heartbeat finally slowing, of the warmth that lingers in your chest even through the ache.

Then you leave her.

Walk through the halls that still hold a whisper of his presence, as if the walls remember his shape, his shadow, even when he is gone.

And when you make it back to your bed, you don’t hesitate.

You slump into it—face buried in the pillow, arms limp at your sides—and let a few tears finally slip free. No heaving sobs. No gasps for breath. Just a quiet spill of sorrow that doesn’t ask for permission.

You can’t feel him anymore.

That connection, that strange tether that once ran like a livewire between your ribs—it has gone still. And you know, without needing to check, that he isn’t here anymore.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.

That’s the cruelest part of loving someone like him.

They always return just when you’d started to believe they never would.

And as you drift off to sleep,

you dream.

It begins with the sound of wind—soft and low, brushing through tall grass that doesn’t exist anywhere near your home. The air is warm here, golden. Drenched in late-afternoon sunlight that sways with the trees like it’s dancing. Everything glows. Even the shadows.

You stand barefoot in the middle of a field you don’t recognize. But somehow, it feels familiar. Like something from a childhood you never lived. The sky is streaked with honeyed orange and rose-colored clouds, and the breeze hums low, tugging at your dress like it’s trying to guide you somewhere.

You turn slowly—

And he’s already there.

Remmick stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat you’ve never seen him wear, his expression unreadable but softer than he’s ever looked. His hair is a little longer. His eyes… not quite the same. Warmer. Human.

You want to speak, but your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Because he’s already moving toward you, quiet steps through the grass that doesn’t bend beneath him.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away.

He just looks.

Looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to memorize you again. Your face. Your mouth. The soft glint of your necklace as it catches the dying sun.

And then—he lifts a hand. Presses the back of it to your cheek.

It’s warm. He’s warm.

His thumb runs beneath your eye, so gently it makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice barely above the breeze. “That I could miss something before it ever left me.”

You close your eyes.

It’s a dream. You know it.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not a vampire here. Not a shadow. Not a man made of memory and regret.

He’s just him.

And for a moment, just long enough, you let yourself lean forward—

And rest your forehead to his.

Your forehead rests against his, breath mingling. It’s soft. Still. Timeless.

But the warmth of his hand begins to fade.

Not suddenly. Gently—like dusk rolling over daylight.

And before you can stop it, the field dissolves beneath your feet. The grass melts into wooden planks. The orange sky darkens into candlelight flickering against old wallpaper. And your bare feet… they touch floorboards you recognize.

The dream has shifted.

But it hasn’t abandoned you.

You know this place.

Your sitting room.

The one before the wallpaper peeled and before winter made everything too quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed to the couch. Remmick is across from you, legs sprawled out, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders hanging at his hips. There’s a record spinning low in the background, some jazz tune that always made your foot tap.

He’s smiling. Really smiling.

That rare, crooked grin that used to only appear when he was completely unguarded. When he forgot to be what the world turned him into.

“You gonna play fair this time?” you hear yourself say, younger, teasing.

He narrows his eyes at the worn deck of cards in his hands. “I always play fair.”

“You cheat like you’re allergic to honesty.”

“And yet,” he says, laying a card down with a flourish, “you keep comin’ back to lose.”

You’re laughing now. The sound echoes in your dream like it’s something sacred.

Then—he leans forward. His eyes drop from your eyes to your lips. The moment stretches.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“I don’t care about the cards.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing yours as he plucks a stray card from your lap.

“I just like watchin’ you laugh.”

Your dream self softens. You remember this night. The scent of warm wood. The way his fingers ghosted over yours longer than necessary. The way he kissed you an hour later like it was a confession he didn’t have words for yet.

You blink—and it’s like the moment folds in on itself.

The music distorts. The candle flickers once—

Then dies.

You’re left in silence.

And slowly, your dream-self turns to find the room empty.

No Remmick. No warmth.

Just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to speak into the quiet.

The room around you stills—dim, waiting. You expect to wake up now, maybe with that ache in your chest again. That emptiness that always followed dreams of him.

But instead, you feel it shift again.

Not the space. Not the light.

You.

It begins in your chest, like a second breath filling your lungs. A memory rising not from your mind, but from your body. A sensation before a thought.

And then you’re there.

Not in a room this time, but in the woods just behind your home. Summer hangs thick in the air—humid and fragrant, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It’s night, but the moon is full. Bright enough to see the glint of his eyes across from you.

He’s standing close. Too close.

Your fingers hover just above the cut on his wrist.

“I told you,” Remmick says, voice quiet, not angry, “it’s not safe.”

You remember this.

Not just the words. The pull.

Your dream-self looks up at him, gaze steady. “You told me everything about you wasn’t safe. But I’m still here, ain’t I?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You reach for his arm before he can stop you, fingers brushing the blood that beads along the open wound. It’s still fresh—dark, and viscous, and wrong in color—but you’re already bringing it to your mouth.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

But it’s too late.

You taste him.

The blood is bitter at first. Cold and alive in a way that makes your tongue go numb. It slides down your throat like fire threaded with frost. And then—it happens.

The world bends.

Not violently. Not with force.

But like silk pulled tight over your ears, like your body isn’t yours anymore. The trees go silent. The wind cuts off. And your breath—

You gasp.

Your hands go out to steady yourself but he’s already there, catching you before your knees buckle.

And in the space of a blink, you’re in him.

Not in his body—but in his mind.

You see flashes.

A house fire. A laugh.

Hands reaching for him and pulling away in the same breath.

A name he hasn’t said aloud in years.

Your own face.

And you feel him—

The grief, ancient and echoing.

The hunger he’s tried to chain.

The fear that you’ll vanish like everyone else before you.

It crashes into you.

He sees your thoughts, too—your quiet wondering, your ache, your stubborn belief that he could still be loved.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, breathing like he’s just surfaced from underwater. You sway, dazed, a smear of his blood still wet on your bottom lip.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You linked us.”

You blink slowly, heart rattling in your ribs.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And yet—

You both know something sacred just snapped into place.

You remember the way he touched your face afterward—like it was a thing he’d dreamt and didn’t believe could be real.

You remember how you didn’t sleep that night.

You just listened—to the new quiet that settled between your thoughts.

[weaver77]

Ready player 2

Gamer Shiesty!Mark x Reader

Part 1

Inspired by @clairewritesfanfics version of Shiesty, I didn't know i needed gamer Shiesty until now.

If Mark were to go back in time and told his past self, that he would one day. Buy Animal crossing, Stardew Valley and even the Sims. He would have promptly laugh in his face and tell him to fuck off

And really, Mark couldn't blame him. Because after all he hadn't meet you yet.

When the two of you started dating he didn't expect it to last long.

At best, he thought it would last for a week or two. Before ultimately the two of you would part ways due to respective differences.

But that never happen.

Instead he was surprise when not only did you made an effort to know the things he liked. But you remembered them too.

He mentioned offhandedly about an anime character he liked and you got him a keychain of said character.

Before he knew it, the two of you started talking about all his favorite series, games. Heck, he even showed you the cosplays he made and the figurines he collected.

For the first time in his life, Mark felt like could just be himself around someone. Not Invincible the masked hero or Mark the resident bad boy who gets in trouble with the cops.

Just Mark Grayson who likes to read Seance dog and learned how to sew so he can cosplay his favorite character.

So when he accidentally insult you, he knew he fucked up

You had invite him over to your place, its the first time his been inside your house. And Mark was trying his best to hid how nervous he actually was

He lowkey regrets not doing any romance routes in his games. Maybe it would better prepare him for these stage

Maybe you picked up on his nerves because low and behold you set up a game console for the two of you.

How did he get so lucky?

He toke his respective seat ready to play the game you set up. Mark already decided he would go easy on you on the first round

When the game boot up and the title screen appeared. It toke a minute for Mark to register the name. Mario Kart

"What's so funny?" You ask carrying a bowl of popcorn catching the tail end of Mark's snicker.

"I'm sorry Babe, its just-" Mark bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing again as he reach for the popcorn bowl "I think you bought the wrong game"

You stilled for a moment processing what he said "What do you mean?"

"Its a racing game, you nailed that part sweetheart but it's for kids"

You didn't say anything

"It's okay" He paused to munch on the popcorn "We've all been deceived by good cover art "

You watch Mark pop more popcorn in his mouth

"We can exchange it for a real game so you didn't waste your money, or if you like I'll find a way to get your money back babe"

".. Mark" You spoke softly drawing his attention immediately "I didn't buy these game for you"

He blinked "What?"

"I owned these game for a while now, i played a version of it when i was a kid. And when i saw they're releasing a new version, i got it for myself"

Oh "Oh" Mark looked between you and the tv screen

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"I don't understand, how can you like these?" Mark ask waving his hand towards the screen like it has personal offended him "I understand liking it as a kid but how can you still like it now, is it the nostalgia?"

You toke in a deep breath before responding "I had fun playing it by myself and with friends. You like racing games so i thought we could have fun playing it together"

Mark remembers when he introduced you to one of his favourite anime, you haven't watched the show before and despite it not being in your genre. You watched it with him and listen to him gush about it.

And here he was interrogating you on why you like Mario Kart when you set it up as a cute co-op gaming date with your boyfriend.

"Its fine" You sigh snapping Mark back into the present "We can just watch a movie or something"

Before you can take away the controllers Mark stopped you "Y/n- baby wait" grasping your hand Mark inhaled looking up at you with his sad puppy dog eyes "I'm sorry, i shouldn't have said that too you. I meant not like these game but i shouldn't be an ass about you liking it"

Your expression soften as you hear out Mark's apology, due you didn't respond right away. Letting him sweat for a moment before ultimately bringing him into a hug "Apology accepted". Mark sighed sagging in relief as he returned the hug tenfold, nuzzling his face into your neck before separating.

"Do you still want to play?" Mark asked holding up the controller

"Mark we don't need to play Mario Kart if you don't like it" You replied not wanting Mark to feel pressured into playing it with you

"I know but you like it. And if it's something you enjoy playing then I'm happy to play it with you" Mark replied blushing at how sappy he sounds, but it was no less true.

And that was how Mark mange to salvage the date, only to lose the battle that was Mario Kart.

It seemed simple enough, cross the finish line. Something Mark is familiar with

What Mark didn't account for was how brutal you were with the turtle shell

Mark can figure out the best route of the race course but it was the power ups that got to him

He wasn't familer with them and even when you explained what each were he was still getting use to them

Meanwhile you were incredible experience in the game and it shows

Mark used the squid to ink up your side of the screen, limiting your vision in hopes of catching up

But you were still able to navigate through the course from the small clean gap the power up didn't cover

Which Mark is impressed by and finds attractive as hell

"I can't believe i lost" Mark stares in disbelief at the screen as you cross the finish like first

"Well that's not true you came in second place, that's a good first try" You point out patting him on the back

"Yeah but I'm usually come first" He muttered with a pout "I swear I'm usually good at these"

"Hmm i don't know" You hummed thoughtfully "Sounds like an excuse to cover up your skill issue"

"You did not just say that" Mark gasp

"Oh but i did, what are you gonna do about it Bowser?" You smirked raising your controller

"Oh now it's on!" Mark grinned in return starting round 2

Mark ended up winning that round and both of you ended up having a competition too see who can get the much wins

Mark knew some of the characters, like Peach, Mario and Luigi. But he was surprise there was more then one Mario and Luigi who apparently called Wario and Waluigi

You start to explain the characters history as the two of you played, even going into the other Mario games.

"I'm not sure if they kept these in the new release but in the original Mario and the thousand year door. The robot who was Princess Peach jailer fell in love with her when he watch her take a shower"

".. What?"

"And in another section she had to take off her clothes when she turned invisible to sneak around the castle she's in"

"What!?"

"Yeah it happened"

"Why- wait no go back, rewind. Tell me more about what happened with these perv robot"

By the end of the night not only did Mark have fun playing Mario Kart but he also takes back the Mario franchise being a game only for kids

[fictionismyreality3]

Before You Go (18+)

Warnings: romance and everything that come with it, SMUT AT THE END

Notes: thank u lana del rey for giving me this title 🫡 he’s so lana coded. we love our emotionally stunted bbg simon

Kisses with Simon weren’t always as easy as they had become over the years of you being together.

There was a time when Simon wouldn’t even let you touch anything but his hands or his arms. It took coaxing him like a scared animal, gentle words you offered again and again for him to finally take his balaclava off. That was a good night. You can still remember his shakiness, hands that had been so steady taking a life now quivering at the act of being known.

“Just fuckin’ hurry up.” He snapped, but the anger tasted more like fear when it left his mouth.

“You aren’t gonna want-”

The words of self-loathing barely met the air before you’d leaned down, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. You held his hand as his breath heaved, not commenting on the way his whole body trembled when your lips finally connected with his.

Then there were kisses of maintenance.

At least, that’s what Ghost thought of them as. Keeping you as his slowly became the most important part of his life, the need to have you weaselled its way into his soul. He had no fucking clue how to how to make sure you stayed. He didn’t even really know why you showed up in the first place, but whatever gods that still thought he was worthy enough had given him you, and he wasn’t going to damage the opportunity.

You were his girl.

But Simon was oblivious to how to keep a woman happy. Yeah, he fucked you raw every chance he could, he beat the shit out of anyone you frowned at, but the gentleness you exuded existed nowhere in himself.

It was only when he’d been cleaning his guns, not on the kitchen table because you didn’t like that, that he got a little spark of understanding.

He had to take care of you.

Never letting you go without a reminder that he was always around. It started with morning and night kisses, making sure you were stuck with the taste of him even in your dreams. He’d find you when you were cooking, pressing his lips to your cheek or the top of your head without saying a word. It was nothing intense, just a subtle way that he made sure you were real.

“Si? You okay?” The weight of Ghost hugging you from behind made your heart warm, and you put down the wooden spoon you were holding.

“Yeah.” A kiss to your temple. “M’okay now.”

Marking you up with hickeys that even one of your oversized hoodies couldn’t cover was his way of maintaining your relationship, and knowing you had a visible memento of his claim on you every time you looked in the mirror helped him feel a little more secure.

And then there were the fervent kisses.

Lips colliding in the dim, warm light of your bedroom, Simon’s large hands holding your hips down as he kept you on his lap. He’d swallow every sound you made, knowing he had to leave in the morning. Not being able to see you for months, or even longer, spurred him with the urge to leave you with a lasting memory. He could have you forget him when he was gone.

It didn’t matter if you were tired, he’d force you down onto the bed, drawing mewls and gasps from your lips as he tried to memorize every detail of your body before he went off on his next mission. Latching his lips to the inside of your thighs, he’d suck hard enough to leave a hickey that would take weeks to fade.

“Not gonna leave ya.” He’d echo, kissing your clit like it would offer some form of protection for wherever he was being sent to.

“Gonna keep you all t’myself.” His soft lips would kiss at your even softer cunt, devouring every twitch and shudder that went through you. “Si. Si, I can’t-”

It didn’t matter if you’d been up all night, trapped under the weight of his hands while he ate you without faltering. “You can take it. C’mon, dovie, be a good girl an’ give me one more.” He wouldn’t stop until you were limp on the sheets and he was nose deep in your pussy, permanently engraving his name on your clit with his tongue.

And when he left in the morning, he left knowing your lips were sore.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Precious Truths: Part 5

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.

A/N: I will not be taking tags for this series!

Series Masterlist

Benedict's eyes scan the words across the page. After your confession, he proceeded to buy one of Talbot's your poetry books.

'Tis in your eyes I seek comfort.

Your arms I find solace.

In your lips I find love.

'Tis in you that I find the whole world

Standing before in great beauty

But at an arm's length is where I stay.

The second eldest Bridgerton is in awe. Your words carry such deep meaning, a sense of longing. Is this how you feel? Had someone captured your heart and he was none the wiser?

So many questions have risen since he's learned of your secret identity. Your poetry carries a deep sense of love, desire, passion. He never expected such feelings to come from you. This is a completely different side of you he is now seeing.

In the past, when you shared your poetry with him, they had a light, romantic touch. A sense of naivety and fairy tale outlook on love and life. But as Talbot, it was different.

"Helloooo?" Eloise waves her hand in front of Benedict, breaking his concentration.

He slaps her hand away, "What?"

Eloise snorts, "I have never seen you so deep in a book before, brother."

"A few ladies mentioned Arthur Talbot's work and I figured I see what the fuss was all about."

His sister rolls her eyes, "Women fawning over men waxing romantic poetics. Typical."

"I cannot wait for the day you fall in love, sister, and make an absolute fool of yourself." Benedict stands from his place at the table in the drawing room. He steps out to see Anthony and Kate escorting you to the door. His eyes brighten, "Y/N, I wasn't aware you were here."

You nod to him, "Apologies, Mister Bridgerton. I was simply here to discuss...business with Lord Bridgerton," you gesture to Anthony.

Benedict frowns, "Why such formality with us? We've been friends for years."

"Aunt Eliza advises me that I should be formal with you. She said that there may be men who envy the idea that I am close with you. So it is best we remain more...formal."

Benedict's shoulders sag, "Very well. We mustn't deter any...future prospects."

You nod, "Thank you for understanding," you face Anthony again and curtsey, "My Lord, thank you again for the list." You then face Kate, "I shall see you later, my Lady."

"Of course. I look forward to spending more time with you."

You proceed to take your leave, Benedict's eyes following you as you exit the Bridgertons' home.

"Excuse me," Benedict murmurs, heading straight to the study and pouring himself a drink.

Anthony clears his throat as he enters the room, "Will you be okay, brother? Truly."

"I have to be. There are much better men out there that will be able to provide the life and freedom she deserves. I need to accept that." Anthony, approaches his brother and gives him a reassuring pat on his shoulders, "I commend you for doing this. It won't be easy, but with time, I'm sure you'll be alright."

"Yes...time."

_____________________________

"Tell me about yourself, Miss L/N," Lord Belmont says as he turns you about the ballroom among the other couples.

You have to admit that the man is handsome, "Well I love poetry and to read. I am a fair player of the pianoforte as well as the harp. I know Latin and Greek. I adore animals."

Lord Belmont hums, "How do you fare in the outdoors?"

"I enjoy my time riding and walking amongst nature."

The lord scrunches up his face and distaste, "Oh no. If you are to be my wife, you shall be inside at all times being lady of the house."

You look at him in disbelief, "Am I not allowed to step outside at all, my Lord?"

"Of course, but only when we need to attend balls or important festivities."

Thankfully, the dance ends and you quickly and politely excuse yourself. You head straight to the refreshment table. You grab a lemonade and gulp half the glass down.

"Are you well? You practically ran from Lord Belmont," Kate asks as she approaches you at the drinks table.

You hum, "While Lord Belmont is a handsome man, I do not think he would allow the...freedom, that I desire."

Kate nods in understanding, "I see. Well, onto the next then?" She hooks her arm around yours and guides you to the the corner of the room where Anthony, Benedict, Daphne, and a man you haven't seen before stands with them.

"Apologies, I bumped into Miss L/N at the refreshment table. She needed a break from dancing."

Daphne's eyes light up, "Wonderful! Miss L/N, this is the Duke's friend, Lord Montclair, a marquess" she gestures to the dark skinned man dressed in a navy blue velvet suit.

You curtsy, "Good evening, Lord Montclair."

He nods to you, "A pleasure, Miss L/N," he gives you a kind smile.

"Montclair, you have French heritage?"

His smile grows wider, "I do. My father is French. Have you been?"

You nod, "My family and I would travel there for the summer," your smile weakens, "Unfortunately, I have not visited for years now."

"I understand. It has been some time since I have visited as well."

You and the Marquess continue to look each other with kind eyes. Benedict hides his clenched fists behind his back. Kate watches her brother-in-law with careful eyes.

Daphne is beaming as she speaks, "Lord Montclair, Miss Y/N is well-versed in poetry."

"Really?"

You shy from his gaze, "Yes, um, my mother would read poetry all the time. I fell in love with it. I love how much emotion one can convey through few lines."

"She writes poetry, as well," Benedict speaks and you look at him in surprise, "The way her words can make you feel so much in small amounts of verses...it's a beautiful feeling."

You give him a grateful smile and turn back to Lord Montclair, "Mister Bridgerton flatters me, but I am a novice when it comes to poetry writing."

"I do hope I get to read some of your writing in the future, Miss L/N."

You giggle, feeling your cheeks heat up as Lord Montclair gives his attention to you, "Perhaps sooner than expected, my Lord."

Lord Montclair steps closer to you, "I know you are taking a moment from dancing, but perhaps you have space on your dance card for me?"

"Of course, my Lord," you offer him your dance card and watch as he scribbles his name in the next space, which happens to be for the next dance coming up.

"Oh, it seems our dance is here," he holds out his hand, waiting for you with a smile.

You place your gloved hand in his and follow him as he escorts you to the floor. You glance back at the Bridgertons, who all watch you with eager, careful eyes.

As they all watch you waltz with the Marquess, Benedict asks his sister, "Do you vouch for the Marcquess?"

She nods, "Yes. He is very kind. He enjoys reading and archery-"

"Brother, Y/N excels in archery, correct?"

Benedict clenches his jaw, "She does." His eyes never waver from you as you smile while dancing with the marquess.

"Looks like there may be some things they have in common," Kate says, eyeing her brother-in-law.

"How wonderful for them," Benedict murmurs as he walks away from his siblings.

Meanwhile, you and the marquess move along the ballroom floor with the other participants.

"The duchess tells me that you are looking for a husband this season," Lord Montclair says with curiosity in his tone.

You sigh, "Yes, and I shall admit that the search hasn't been very fruitful." Montclair snorts and you immediately apologize, "Excuse my forwardness, my Lord-"

He shakes his head, "No no. Please, continue. I can admire a woman who freely speaks her mind."

You nod, "I just look for a man who can give me certain freedoms. A husband that will allow me to pursue passions of mine, not expect me to sit there to be seen and not heard."

The marquess hums, "It just so happens that I am in the search for a wife."

You arch a brow at him, "Oh?"

"Yes. To be transparent, I have been grieving for the past two years at the loss of my wife. I loved her dearly, but I miss the companionship."

"I am sorry for your loss, my Lord. I also understand the yearning for companionship."

"Thank you. No one could ever replace, Maria, but I would like someone to be at my side as I continue on with life."

"Tell me about her," you kindly request.

You watch as a smile grows on the man's face. He goes on to share stories about Maria and you share things about yourself. You see the sadness in him but the willingness to put himself out there again. It's admirable.

________________________

You spend a large portion of your night conversing with Lord Montclair. The man was intelligent, charming, funny, and kind. He was the perfect man you see yourself marrying and yet...your eyes still wander towards Benedict. He spoke with some lords, danced with a few women. You knew you initiated the distance between you and Benedict, but that didn't mean it doesn't hurt you.

That man has held your heart for several years and it seems he will never reciprocate the feelings you have for him. So it's best to start the process of moving on, hopefully, with Lord Montclair.

And Lord Montclair did not disappoint when he called upon you the next morning.

He sat across from you in the sitting room, Aunt Eliza nearby going over some paperwork.

You look down at the bouquet of flowers, your favorite, the very ones you mentioned last night during your dance with Lord Montclair.

"Have you read any new poems today?" You shake your head and Montclair pulls out a book you are very familiar with, "Have you read Arthur Talbot's work? He's fairly new yet quite popular already."

You bite your lip to prevent you from bursting into a fit of giggles, "I adore his work. He has an impressive way of words."

He opens the book to a dog-eared page. He clears his throat and begins to recite,

To love you is to bathe in your light

To sway to your laughter,

With its melody and rhythm

To swell with pride when your eyes gaze on mine.

For that, I am whole

And you are forever my muse.

You felt a little...odd. Considering that not only is Lord Montclair reciting a poem that you wrote, but it's also about a man you are trying to get over. Not what you expected when you received your first caller.

"I believe that was one of Talbot's earlier works, yes?"

Montclair nods, "Yes, but I still believe the feeling of what he was trying to convey is very much still there, don't you agree?"

"Very much so, my Lord."

After some lengthy discussion about Talbot's work, you two move to the piano so you can teach him how to play.

"I never did have much of an ear for music. My mother was quite disappointed in me when I was unable to play any instrument she placed in my hands."

You chuckle, "We shall start with something easy." You show him how to place his fingers on the keys, giggling as you move each finger to the right location.

You continue to laugh with each other as you teach him the simplest of songs, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

As you laugh when he gets the wrong note, a footman enters the room, "Miss L/N, you have another caller."

Daphne enters the room and you immediately stand, "Your Grace!"

The duchess' smile grows at the sight of you and Lord Montclair, "I do hope I haven't upset you with my intrusion, but it is nearing lunch and Lord Montclair hadn't return. But I see why now." she gives you a teasing look.

"I apologize for keeping Lord Montclair for so long, your Grace."

"Nonsense, Y/N. I was just checking that our dear marquess is alright."

Lord Montclair chuckles as he, too, stands from the piano bench, "As you can see, I am quite alright, but I suppose I have overstayed my welcome."

You shake your head, "Of course not, my Lord. It was a pleasure seeing you. I hope to see you again soon."

He faces you, "I hope to see you as well," he gently grabs your gloved hand and places a kiss atop it.

He then bows to your aunt, "Miss Y/N, good day."

"You as well, my Lord," your aunt responds with a wave.

You curtsy to Daphne, and she and the marquess both leave your home.

[colonelarr0w]

back to me

pairing - bucky barnes x !hydra experiment! reader

sypnosis - the void isn't a very easy thing to pry yourself from.

warning(s) - spoilers for thunderbolts*, mature themes, foul language, canon marvel violence, mention of human experimentation, trauma, reader is lowkey bucky but in a diff font

author note - the only specific thing about the reader is that she's an ex hydra experiment who was called 'grim wolf'.

playlist - we hug now : sydney rose fake plastic tears : radiohead take aim : sleep token

also please give me bucky requests, the obsession from 13 is coming back and i need to be normal.

word count - 0.7k

what the hell was this?

one minute you had been following yelena to get bob back, half-listening to bucky and alexei yelling over your shoulder, and the next, you were back in that godawful room.

the one with sterile lights and a low hum that you still heard in your nightmares.

you exhale quietly, walking into the room, ignoring the churning in your gut and the way that your stomach whispered, "i have a bad feeling about this."

the doctors surrounding your body muttered things in russian to one another, some of them looking you over with interest while a select few licked their lips and not-so-secretly palmed at themselves. a grimace contorts your face as you watch - an audience member to your own traumas.

you hesitantly step closer, seeing now the version of you that you had spent so many nights trying to forget; the one who acted on someone else's thoughts, the one who was an uncaged animal, the one who killed without thinking of who it was first.

the one who had almost killed the people that would eventually become family.

teeth sink down into your bottom lip, drawing a thin line of blood that manages to keep you grounded. the first needle goes in, past you screams.

you wince, brows pinching as you watch the younger you thrash and beg - stringing together words that are barely cohearent over the rushed talking of the doctors. you watch as the younger you begs and pleads and cries, but how no one listens.

your heart pounds against your ribcage, thundering beneath your skin and reveberating against the shell of your ears. your hands curl inward, fists turning white from the pressure that you apply to yourself.

"let me go, please!" younger you begs, voice cracking and body trembling as realization begins to sink in. the doctors don't listen, and as the second needle goes in, you turn away.

-- --

it's not until later that night that bucky notices someting off about you; your shoulders are slumped, your voice sounds tired, and your eyes aren't entirely focused on any one thing in particular.

you weren't really there ... for lack of a better way to put it.

only after the others went to bed did bucky approach you, catching you in the kitchen with a shot of whiskey in front of you. you hadn't drank since the final battle against thanos.

he watches you for a minute, just taking you in. the slump to your body, the unshed tears in your eyes, the pain and hurt that radiated off of you.

"you're staring," you say, placing down your glass with a clink. bucky chuckles, entering the kitchen and sitting down at the kitchen island beside you. "hi."

"hey, doll," bucky responds, taking the glass as you offer it to him and taking a sip from it. you smile softly at him, taking the glass back and placing it down. "you okay?"

"fine." you don't mean to sound as harsh as you do, but being asked if you were okay was honestly the last thing that you wanted. but you didn't know what okay meant, you never did, and you honestly never would.

bucky pauses, tilting his head at you and exhaling softly. one hand cradles your face, tilting it upward so that softened blue could meet (e/c). his eyes roam over your face, taking in everything down to the crease between your eyebrows.

"doll -"

"bucky."

he stops again, glancing at you ... no, looking at you.

the tears in your eyes, the part of your lips, the wrinkle to your forehead, the slight quiver to your chin. you were breaking at the seams, now he could see that.

so he does something about it.

one warm arm and one cool one wraps around you, pulling you forward slightly so that he could properly hold you. you don't protest, sliding into his arms and pressing your forehead against his shoulder. vibranium rubs comfortingly against your back, bucky's cheek coming to rest on the side of your head.

"i've got you."

you close your eyes, whimpering silently but letting yourself be held. bucky doesn't say anything, doesn't try to reassure you with words that wouldn't do anything. he holds you, cradles you.

and maybe you wouldn't ever know what it meant to be okay. but right now, in his arms ...

... you did feel okay.

[thatdeadaquarius]

Hello there, friend I'm here for fluff

OK, this has been on my mind for a while

But like

The reader is just becoming the biggest parent to the Benny's adventure team kids

And the wolfs

We are like a parent of like 27

Knitting and making food brushing razors hair(let's be for real, you would hear a crunch when you brush it)

I'm not gonna lie

Do these kids know what spices are?

Cuz when I think about it

Razor hasn't had shit so he's has the least tolerance for spice

He would probably cry if you feed him a pepper

Bennett has tried spicy food but does go well with it

And not completely sure if fischl has had a spicy food before

But what flavor does mondstadt add to their food??

These kids need the damn flavors

AHDHAKALL FERAL ANIMAL AQUARIUS- ANOTHER PLATONIC ASK AAHHHHGGGGDJJSFHSAK!!!!!

AND ITS YOU!! ITS- ITS- ONE OF THE WRITING RULERS OF SAGAU (FOR ME AT LEAST) <3 !!!!!!!!

You cooking in genshin all anime studio ghibli style looking like food from god (literally): ⬆️

Sun: Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: Benny’s Adventure Team! (Bennett, Fischl, Razor), Diluc, mentions of other Mond characters

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: mild cussing, & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

☆

^^ The posts being referenced in ask, (OG Razor ask) (Benny + Razor) and a more direct sequel, a part 2? a part 4 atp?? of this post (Imposter/Not Dark AU + Razor + Diluc) ^^

OMFG

ALRIGHT LISTEN UP BITCHES

SINCE UR IN TEYVAT

YOU GONNA COOK LIKE TEYVAT

AS IN-

SHIT BE SUPER EASY TO COOK, AND MASS MAKE DEPENDING ON COMPLEXITY OF DISH

(So, like Zhongli's special Bamboo Shoot Soup is like getting made... once a year if you read the little desc. for that dish 💀)

AND THEYRE ALL LIKE-

ANIME GORGEOUS FOODS ✨️❤️‍🔥

OKAY SO

PROMO TIME-

U GUYS HAVE TO WATCH THE ANIME "CAMPFIRE COOKING IN ANOTHER WORLD"

Bc that's mostly where this inspo gonna come from to both be realistic cooking + best parts of video game cooking

A guy gets isekai’d and instead of hero powers he just gets the skill of "online grocery shopping" LMAO

and ofc he gets insta gifted whatever he orders and starts making dishes and adding spices and regular stuff you know. like soy sauce.

but the best part is the food in that world is like British medieval soup shit

like barely salted, no spices definitely, no sauces, its barren

so he ends up attracting all kinds of interest that want to eat his cooking ofc

And it gives buffs too!

dw i didnt spoil anything u don't learn in the first episode, but that's just to say that's exactly whats happening here

u DO have to manually collect more ingredients but its so worth it, also u can just buy in bulk or put a commission thru the adventurer guild

tbhhh now that i say that, that could be how u end up drawing in Benny’s Adventure Team even more, bc they just take all ur quests for collecting ingredients around Mond!!

(u have to actively sneak behind their back and whisper to Katheryne that you want to put in other food quests in other guilds tho, silly kids will absolutely go running around Liyue and crazy shit just to have an adventure and do smth for you + eat ur banger food lol)

omfg the first time u barbecue smth???

the wolves, Razor, and Andrius??? Go feral.

Fischl and Benny who were already on their way to u guys to hang out again start booking it thru the woods, dodging hilichurl camps (thatve since settled down and been v peaceful to the wolves + anyone in the woods of Wolvendom after u started living there)

they knowww ur cookin smth fucking amazing

(and u even have some hilichurls and mitachurl that wander close to Andrius’ edge of the woods to shyly beg for scraps,, u give them a portion)

Razor was actually lookin at u like u hung the stars just for him when u gave him a homemade barbecue sauce to put on his food

(u acc may have done that to Teyvatians according to Andrius + the stories u overheard from Springvale…)

ok but the amount of begging u get for desserts like-

No, Razor u cannot have chocolate cake/cupcakes after every meal, u need to take care of ur teeth

(u use ur collection of mora-monster-donations for comms for more ingredients and living supplies like fabric + furniture, u cant afford dental on top of that for ur boy)

Fischl dutifully declares you the “best chef in the kingdom” and writes down all ur recipes (u have them auto-stored in ur settings obv but it cant hurt to have a physical copy, and they look so happy doing it, u don't have the heart to tell them its not necessary-)

Benny insists on both giving u extra ingredients when he takes ur commissions, and giving u handmade trinkets or weapons for the meals!!

No!! He will not take “im good” for an answer!! ur sharing ur home-cave with him, taking care of his best friend Razor, and now feeding him food better than Liuli Pavilion!!! There’s no way he can just take all that and give nothing back!!!!

and theyre not the only ones getting some food tbh

when the knights begin patroling near Wolvendom and slowly all of Mondstadt to search for their “All God”, u break up the beginnings of a fight between 2 confused knights and the now peaceful hilichurl camp at the edge of Wolvendom

U offer some snacks u were going to give Benny’s Adventure Team when they got back (u made little triangle sandwiches, rice balls, etc. finger foods, and u made plenty extra bc u kno their teenage appetites lol)

the knights and hilichurls nearly cried with appreciation, which made for a hilarious sight when the teens actually showed up lmao

ur wearing ur cloak, bc u dont wanna take on that whole “creator of worlds” title just yet, and the kids helped verify u werent anyone suspicious (Benny + Fischl keep ur godly secret, theyre the best like that 🥰)

the knights just swing by for snacks occasionally (they also either pay u in trade or with mora, theyre not bullies)

another person who gets flavored food privileges is the lazy librarian witch herself

u also sometimes pick Razor up from Lisa’s tutoring and bring “the best tea and tea snacks in the world” along with to share with Lisa and him

(she is also fully aware after awhile of meeting u of what u are, and fully believes this is why the food must be enchanted to be so good, but u dont want to be treated super reverently she can tell, so she keeps ur secret too and is just extra flirty when u come by lol)

(Razor refuses to let his pare- Lupical move out of ur cozy cave to the library, so he sometimes hauls u away when Lisa flirts too much LMAO)

…and the moment you've been waiting for.

Yes, Diluc got to try ur food that night he was searching Wolvendom for signs of the god of Teyvat

tbh Diluc was half-convinced that shit was a fever dream.

a bunch of sleepy wolves, a coffee table in the stone colosseum, a giant spirit wolf licking a big plate clean, the wolf-kid glaring at him, and you.

you with gold eyes, staring right thru his soul, like you already know everything there is to know about him, (like the way Kaeya looked at him that night),

like he doesnt even have to introduce himself

and he doesnt, u just lightly smack Razor’s hands until he gets rid of his claymore w/a pout, since Diluc had long since dropped his,

and grab a plate, piling on what leftovers u could, and turn back around from the coffee table to smile at him, patting the cushion-seat beside u for him to join

The giant glowing wolf licks his lips and watches him, the wolf-kid’s creepily watches him, and you, with eyes gold in teh light of a simmering bonfire just past the table, watch him

he just sits down and begins to eat.

its the best food he’s ever had, its his dad’s favorite dish, but not realistically, but the way memory embellishes a dish so much it can never be tasted again, except its right here. in front of him. u pour some wolfhook juice for him, and offer him a napkin to wipe his mouth and eyes

Diluc visits often after that, obviously.

u give him snacks too, and when he lets the staff try some, Adeline will not stop harassing him abt gettin ur recipes/ingredeints so u get him to pay Fischl to get a copy of their recipe book :)

including blank pages for future entries, and Fischl is literally glowing with happiness, would not stop monologuing abt ur food for weeks (send help Oz wants some peace and quiet sometimes)

Oh Diluc absolutely told the Favonius knights he found you. But he’s not saying where LMAO

Jean is actually begging him, Diluc ik u hate the knights but this is an international investigation-

this is the closest Diluc has ever gotten to getting under Venti’s skin.

when he told him this at Angel’s while bartending, he just casually ofc said this, just his smug little smirk, and the anemo god cracked a glass and everything- esp when he said he tried ur��cooking??

he's gotta start looking over his shoulder in the city bc not only is Venti stalking him, the entirety of Mondstadt’s citizens are glaring at him in envy everywhere he goes LMAOO

(Venti now has a bar glass or too on his tab to pay off as well)

mans is literally paying u in weapon/artifact materials/mora to make him lunch one day and Venti nearly lunges over the counter

(Diluc purposefully ate it in front of him 💀)

ur food is the ultimate, “u could make a religion out of this!” /ref

like Diluc fully gives u offerings of ingredients he can pay for shipping from other countries + along with regular materials after grinding in domains

does the rest of Mondstadt + the world find out where u are?

only if Diluc lets them tbh. LMFAO

☆

bk trashfire my beloved <3 love ur ideas and stuff, goes without even saying im so sorry i took actually forever to respond :’(

hope u have a great weekend and i did this little side story justice for you

Safe Travels BK Trashfire,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡my beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily / @justinsomniachild / @nanithefuck / @questionotmystopit / @chinuneko / @silvers-tongue

@kiyomi-uchiha777

[loveroffemmes]

Hii I love your writing sm can you do a Jackie x reader where they go on a date at a fair or a festival? Pleaaase I’m begging 🙏🙏🙏

The Ferris Wheel | Jackie Taylor x Fem! Reader

summary: one-shot of jackie and you going on a date to the fair.

masterlist

“Kick and score.” Jackie read out the name on the sign in front of us, a huge grin making it’s way onto her face as she looked at the big prizes they were giving out for the soccer themed game. 

“It’s an easy game!” The fair worker called out, drawing Jackie and I in further, “Kick the soccer ball through the hole in the board and you can win any of these prizes.” He pointed at the wall behind him, huge stuffed animals hanging over him. 

“I just have to kick a soccer ball into a hole in this board? I can do that.” Jackie pulled five dollars in crumpled dollar bills out of her pocket, handing it to the worker. 

“Three shots for five! Do you have what it takes?” The worker loudly announces and Jackie smirks, feeling confident in her abilities. She does this every day after school, she’s going to nationals, there is absolutely no way she couldn’t make such an easy shot. 

Turns out there is a way. 

Jackie is down twenty bucks and I am down thirty minutes.

“Jackie, you can stop now, it’s okay.” I said with a laugh, attempting to drag her away from the game, but her stubbornness was prevailing. 

Jackie’s cheeks flushed red; sharing looks between me and the fair worker, trying to decide if she should listen to me and stop or take the worker’s new deal of three shots for three dollars.

“I’m captain of the Yellowjackets, I don’t get it.” Jackie pouted, letting me drag her away from the game, “I couldn’t get you that bunny and I know you wanted it – I saw you looking at it.” Jackie sighed. 

I laughed, my fingers intertwining with Jackie’s, “I don’t need a big stuffed bunny, I just want to spend time with you.” Jackie smiled, “Why don’t we lay off the fair games for a while? Maybe forever…” 

Jackie rolled her eyes, “One more shot and I would have won.” Jackie laughed at her own words, realizing how worked up she got over a scam carnival game. 

“Oh, yeah? I think you might have been a lot poorer by the end of it.” We walked through the line of random fair games and I kept my hand tightly locked on Jackie’s to make sure she was not tempted to try and win me something else. 

Jackie stopped walking, her head turned slightly up as her eyes locked onto the absolute perfect date spot; the top of a ferris wheel. I stopped and looked at where she was staring and I knew exactly what she was thinking – she’s really not as discreet as she likes to think she is.

Jackie wasted no time in dragging me to the ferris wheel. The line was pretty much empty. Jackie and I sat next to each other and the carnival worker pushed the bar into place, securing us next to each other. Jackie moved closer to me, her thigh touching mine. I felt all the nerves hit me at once. I was on a date with Jackie.

We had always had an odd relationship; not friends, not lovers – something else. Our hands would touch and neither of us would pull away. We would share a bed for sleepovers and wake up cuddling. Every touch lingered a little too long, every stare a little too frequent. Last week at a party celebrating the Yellowjackets going to nationals, Jackie wrapped her arm around me. Her lips glanced down at mine and I leaned in and she stopped me. She told me she didn’t want our first kiss together to be something we could brush off as a drunken mistake. The next morning, she asked me out, so I knew Jackie was trying to create the perfect first date for us that would lead to the perfect first kiss. She even showed up to my door with flowers (which is ridiculous because she made me drive us here).

Jackie was perfect. The sun was going down and the lights from the ferris wheel illuminated her face. I have never wanted anything more in my entire life. Her hand moved to my thigh; her eyes never leaving my face, not even bothering to look at the view in front of us. Jackie leaned in, her lips softly brushing against mine. It was a hesitancy that I had never seen in Jackie. I moved my hand to her face, cupping her cheek and pulling her deeper into the kiss. I could feel Jackie relax under my touch and I could feel the biggest smile ever against my lips and I couldn’t help but match it. 

Jackie pulled away, “I have been wanting to do that forever.” 

“Me too.” 

[ninzied]

green things

alex kisses henry to make another guy jealous. that’s it. no other reason. based on a prompt for @onthewaytosomewhere. modern au. 1.9k.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Pez remarks, halfway through one of the worst house parties Alex has been to in his life. Seriously; he’s been to so many, and none of the others even compare. “Something on your mind?”

Yes. “No.” Alex takes a sip of his drink and goes casually back to not looking at Henry.

He’s kind of not really been okay-totally-watching-them all night, and it’s fine. It’s fine, because it doesn’t matter who Henry talks to, what matters is that he looks happy, and animated, and hasn’t stopped smiling.

He hasn’t stopped smiling all night.

“Hey, so, who’s the guy?” Alex asks.

Pez glances over. “Ah—yes, that’s a visiting prof in Henry’s department. Hazza talks about him quite a lot, actually.”

Alex grits his teeth so hard he’s surprised that none of them crack. “Does he.” He refrains from adding under his breath, Well, I’ve never heard of him.

“All the time, as a matter of fact,” Pez continues. He doesn’t even sound like he’s had to exaggerate. “And with good reason. It’s not even that he’s easy on the eyes, though there is that too. He’s already accomplished so much in the field despite being our age, from what I understand.”

“I see,” Alex says as neutrally as possible. He’s starting to see a lot from where he’s standing, actually, and he doesn’t like it. Like, at all.

Pez raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “Do I spy something green?”

“No,” Alex says quickly, too quickly this time. “Nope. Definitely not.”

“Well, if you say so.” Pez pops an hors d’oeuvre in his mouth and chews, surveying the room like it’s his own private theatre. Like he’s waiting for something. Like he has a vision. It’s both impressive and disconcerting to see.

As if on cue, someone comes up to Mister Accomplished and claps a hand on his stupid-broad shoulder, drawing his attention away. He flashes Henry a grin—one that’s way too white and with too many teeth, in Alex’s opinion—before walking off and leaving Henry alone in the corner.

Henry, who’s no longer smiling as he closes his eyes and sags at the shoulders. He tilts his glass back and drinks.

Well, fuck. Alex can’t even be glad anymore that the guy has just left because now he wants to punch him for it.

“Douchebag much?” he mutters under his breath.

“Oh, most excellent,” Pez is saying at the same time. “Couldn’t have planned the thing better myself.” He clears his throat, all business-like all of a sudden. “It appears that our poppet is in need of assistance. Are you up to the task, Alexander?”

“Wait.” But Alex finds himself getting pulled along by the sheer force of Pez’s will before he’s even finished speaking. “What task, exactly?”

Pez looks two seconds away from rubbing his hands together like some kind of cartoon villain. “Nothing like making a man jealous to finally spur him into action.”

Alex sputters; didn’t he just say that he wasn’t—? But then he catches the pointed look Pez gives Mister Accomplished again. Oh. That guy. Then: “Wait, that guy?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it,” says Pez.

Alex makes a wild gesture. “You want me to make that guy jealous. Fucking how?”

Pez lets out a long-suffering sigh. “The fact that I must spell it out for you really does explain a lot, actually.”

“A lot about what?”

“One kiss ought to do it, I think,” Pez muses, almost to himself.

Alex swallows. Flirting with Henry every day like he does is one thing. Harmless, mostly, unless you count feeling heartsick that Henry never looks at him the same way.

What Pez is suggesting, though, may be the thing that tips Alex fully over into heartbreak territory.

“I don’t, um.” He clears his throat and glances toward Henry, who’s gazing into his now-empty glass. “What makes you think he’ll be down with this plan?”

“Absolutely nothing, he would never. Which is why we must be quick about it.”

“But,” Alex starts to protest.

“Alex.” Pez says his name like he’s scolding a child who’s being too selfish. “Don’t you want to see Henry happy?”

“More than anything,” says Alex, too honestly. Fuck.

“Then trust me on this,” says Pez, in the voice of a person who’s not to be trusted at all, before opening his arms wide and beaming. “Hazza, darling.”

“Oh, thank God,” says Henry, glancing up as they approach. “I need another one of whatever this was.”

“I have a better idea,” Pez sing-songs, then looks askance at Alex. “Unless, of course, someone’s getting cold feet. I can always ask if dear old Hunter’s available, I think I saw him by the—”

“No, I’ll do it,” Alex says instantly. “I’ll take one for the team.”

“Yes, a big sacrifice on your part,” Pez murmurs, and Alex shoots him a sharp little glare. Henry scrunches his brow, looking between the two of them in something like concerned confusion.

“Alex? What’s going on?” he prompts carefully as Alex marches up to him, taking a breath. He’s determined to do this for Henry, no matter the cost to himself.

“All right. I’m ready,” Alex says solemnly. “Lay it on me, Fox.”

“Sorry,” says Henry, “I still have no idea what we’re talking about?”

“Babe,” and Alex takes Henry’s face in his hands, “Don’t even worry. I’m here to make all your dreams come true.”

Henry stands frozen as Alex presses their mouths firmly together. There’s a second that lasts half a lifetime in which Alex thinks he’s made a terrible mistake.

And then Henry’s lips soften—wow, fuck, they are really soft, actually—and then he’s kissing Alex back and so hard that Alex stagger-steps, almost knocking a chair over as he pulls Henry even closer.

He tries not to totally lose it when he feels Henry’s fingers thread through his hair, or the hitch in Henry’s breath when their lips part and their tongues meet.

It occurs to him that they probably shouldn’t be kissing like this while surrounded by all their work colleagues. Alex doesn’t really care. All he cares about is how devastated he’ll be once it’s over.

Henry is the first to pull back. He’s breathless and smiling, and Alex’s heart hurts like fucking hell but this is what he wanted, right? To see Henry this happy?

Alex puts his hands on Henry’s waist, which, fuck, he shouldn’t have done that; now he thinks he might never let go. His breath comes up short as he gasps into the space between them, “Is he watching?”

Henry blinks. His smile falters a little. “Is who watching, Alex?”

“The guy you were talking to. I was trying to make him jealous.” Alex can’t bring himself to see if he’s noticed. Alex thinks he would rather die than look away from Henry right now. All he wants is to kiss him again even though he probably shouldn’t. “Do you think it worked? Henry?”

Henry has gone very still in his arms. The expression on his face is glazed over, distant. “That’s why you kissed me? To make someone jealous?”

Fuck, they really should’ve talked about this first. Fuck. “Yeah?” Alex winces.

“That man specifically? I didn’t even know you two were acquainted.” Henry heaves out a breath, looking strangely like he might be sick. “So you—you like him, then?”

“What? No, of course I don’t like him. I don’t even know him,” says Alex. Henry isn’t making any sense. “I thought you liked him.” Unless…shit. Unless Henry just doesn’t want them both liking the same guy?

Henry just stares at him for a long time. He’s looking kind of like Alex is the one who’s lost it. “You what?” Henry says finally.

“I thought you liked him,” Alex repeats, but this time it comes out as more of a question.

“You thought I liked him,” Henry says for emphasis. “That man.” Like there’s some other guy Alex could possibly be talking about right now.

“Apparently,” says Alex. He realizes he’s clutched the sides of Henry’s shirt and wills his fingers to loosen a little. It feels like some kind of miracle that Henry hasn’t shoved him away yet. “And then you looked so sad when he went to talk to other people, and I thought, I don’t know, that I’d help? Pez said you talk about him all the time, so…” Wait. Wait a minute.

Henry breathes out. Something solidifies in his expression, like he’s just worked through a math problem of his own. “Hmm,” he says in a weirdly calm tone. “Did he, now.”

“Yeah,” Alex says slowly. “He…” What else was it that Pez had said? Nothing like making a man jealous to finally…

Wow. Okay. Well-played, Okonjo.

“I see.” Henry looks pointedly around for Pez, who’s conveniently nowhere in sight at the moment. “Percy didn’t also happen to mention the fact that the man’s an absolute bellend who’s been gatekeeping my department’s research funding? That I’m thus woefully obligated to kiss the ground he walks on at parties?”

Ah. “He…did not,” Alex allows. “So, just to be clear, you don’t? Like him?”

“Christ, no,” Henry says firmly, and Alex feels something light in his chest flutter and try to take flight.

“Anyway,” Henry goes on, looking all sober now for some reason, “I ought to apologize on Pez’s behalf. He really was only trying to help, in his way. He knows how I feel about—well.” He flushes. “And I’m sorry, too, for kissing you like that. I was under a very different impression as to what it, um. Actually meant.”

“Yeah, hold up.” Alex straightens. “You kissed me back.” Henry looks cautiously on as Alex starts smiling and can’t seem to stop. “You had no idea and you still kissed me back.”

Henry goes a shade pinker each time Alex says the words. “Yes, well,” Henry says faintly. “I believe what you said was something about making all my dreams come true? Which I did take at face value.”

Alex tightens his hold on Henry again. Definitely not letting him go after that. “Henry,” he says. “You’re my fucking dream, are you kidding?”

“I—” Henry gazes at him. His smile is soft with something like wonder. “You’re serious?”

“How do you think Pez got to me?” Alex wants to know. “Do you have any idea how jealous I was of that guy when I thought you were into him?”

“Mm.” Henry tilts his head. “Yet you kissed me fully believing that it would, what, drive him so mad that he’d throw himself into my arms?”

“I did.” Alex takes both of Henry’s hands into his. “I want you. Henry. But I think I want you so much that the only thing I want more is for you to be happy.”

Henry’s eyes are bright and so very, very blue. “And if I told you that they’re one and the same?”

Alex is smiling so hard that it hurts. He never wants to stop feeling like this. “Then I guess that guy can be jealous all he wants,” Alex shrugs, bringing Henry’s hands up to his shoulders. “Because he can’t have your arms now, they’re mine.”

“Noted,” says Henry, mock-seriously. “Anything else you wish to claim while you’re at it?”

“Actually,” says Alex, “yeah, just so we’re clear,” and he pulls Henry back in for a kiss.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Hi, I saw request are open so I hope sending this is okay:). I had an idea that been lingering and I’d like to see if you could write it, possibly? Imagine a reader getting jealous about the friendship between Tech and Phee. I guess in this scenario reader and tech are an established couple? It honestly could go anyway you’d like it to:) My thoughts on this aren’t fully fleshed out so feel free to go crazy with this!:) I just love jealous tropes.

“More Than Calculations”

Tech x Jealous Reader

You didn’t mean to watch them.

It just… kept happening.

You were sitting at the workbench, fiddling with a half-stripped blaster that didn’t need fixing. From the corner of your eye, you could see them—Phee perched on a crate, animated, leaning closer to Tech as he adjusted something on his datapad.

She laughed again, this carefree, almost flirty kind of laugh that curled around your spine like a hook.

“That’s incredible,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “You know more about lost hyperspace lanes than some of the old-timers back on Skara Nal.”

Tech pushed his goggles up, his voice as even as always. “Well, yes. I’ve extensively studied astro-cartography from several civilizations. Your planet’s archival inconsistencies, however, are particularly fascinating—”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I like talking to you.” Phee grinned, her hand brushing against his arm.

You clenched your jaw.

She didn’t mean anything by it, right? She was just… being Phee. Loud, curious, magnetic.

But still.

It didn’t sit right. The way she touched him. The way Tech didn’t even flinch or notice. You knew he wasn’t wired like other people—emotions weren’t instinctive for him. He didn’t register subtle cues, or the way someone’s gaze lingered just a moment too long. And he sure as hell didn’t understand flirting, not unless it came with a schematic.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Later that night, after Phee had left for wherever she stored herself when not draped across your crew’s day-to-day, you found Tech alone in the cockpit, typing furiously into his datapad.

You stood there for a moment, arms folded, watching him.

He didn’t look up. “I am currently cataloging several of Phee’s findings regarding Nabooan artifacts. Some of the data is poorly organized, but she has a surprising eye for—”

“You two seem close,” you interrupted, trying to sound neutral. The words landed heavy.

Tech finally looked up.

“Who?” he asked.

“Phee.”

He blinked. “Ah. I suppose. We have engaged in mutual information exchange on several occasions. Her questions, though often imprecise, are not unintelligent.”

You sat beside him, slowly. “You don’t… think she’s being a little too friendly?”

He tilted his head, confused. “Friendly?”

You sighed. “Touchy. Flirty. You don’t notice the way she leans into you? Or calls you ‘Brown eyes’?”

Tech frowned slightly, processing. “She is expressive. That is her personality.”

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to feel like she’s trying to rewrite your personality while she’s at it.”

There was silence. You hated how small your voice had gotten.

“I just… I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

Tech regarded you with quiet intensity, the kind he reserved for situations he didn’t quite know how to calculate. “Are you implying you feel… threatened?”

You stared at your hands. “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s got this charm, this thing that draws people in. And I… I know I’m not always easy. I’m not flirty or magnetic. I just— I love you. A lot. And I guess I just… worry that it’s not enough to keep someone’s attention.”

His brow furrowed, and then he reached out, gently brushing your hand with his. “You are not somebody, cyare. You are my person. I do not compare you to others. There is no calculation in that. No contest. You… are the constant.”

You looked up, heart catching.

“Then why don’t you ever push her away?” you asked quietly. “Even just a little?”

Tech took a moment. “Because it never occurred to me that she might need to be pushed away. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It does.”

“—then I will create distance. Immediately.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “Your comfort is more important than her enthusiasm.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He squeezed your hand. “Next time, just tell me. I know I miss things. But I will always listen to you.”

Just then, as if summoned, Phee’s voice rang out down the hall: “Hey Brown Eyes, you got a minute?”

You tensed instinctively, but Tech didn’t even glance at the door. His gaze stayed on you, steady and unshakable.

“I’m currently engaged,” he called back. “Perhaps later.”

There was a pause. Then a short, “Huh. Alright.”

You could almost hear the smile behind it.

When the silence settled again, Tech leaned in and said softly, “May I continue cataloging your facial expressions now? I find them far more interesting.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him, right on the mouth.

“Only if you add ‘jealous’ to the data bank,” you teased.

He kissed you again. “Already done.”