#i've got so much lore bottled up

[cherry-lala]

The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick 

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

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

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

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

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

He's not wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A twig snaps.

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

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

"I'm called Remmick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remmick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

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

“Evenin’.”

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

“I don’t.”

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

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

That stops me. “Asked who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I ain’t laughing.

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

And I wonder why I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It don’t.

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

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

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

So I go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only to the things that matter."

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

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

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

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

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

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

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

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

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

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

I blink. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got stories?" I ask.

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

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

He grins slow. "Alright then."

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

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

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

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

But I’m not.

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

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

——

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

——

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

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

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

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

I never said that.

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

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

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

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

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

Watchin’. Waitin’.

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

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

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

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

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

“Come in, Frank.”

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

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

Straight for Sammie.

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

I stood frozen in place.

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

Then she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There they stood.

A wall of them.

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

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

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

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

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

[randofics]

Pain and Warmth pt.1

🎶 The Midnight- Vampires

🎶 Deftones- Beauty School (slowed + reverb)

Dante Sparda x F reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, details of menstrual cycle, medication usage, L-word

Link to Dante x F reader Headcannons

16+

18+ if you squint

I finished the entire first season in 2 days, yall! I also get that it's not lore accurate in some aspects, but it's not really supposed to be. It's the director and wrighters interpretation. While I personally have never played the games, I did watch someone play a few years ago, along with watching the other anime adaptation (which I love dearly). Hopefully, I did this adaptation justice in this fic.

----------

As you walked to Dantes, place your cramps were getting serious. You'd have to take some ibuprofen when you got there. You huffed and puffed, trying to breathe through the pain as you finally made it to his doorstep.

You knock without much effort before just opening the door to let yourself in. You force out his name and hear his snoring stop with a snort.

As you pass the threshold into the room, he greets you. "Hey y/n! How's it going..." He trails off when he sees you. You're a bit unsteady on your feet, still panting with droopy eyes and your glasses slipping down your nose.

You cross the room to his side before he gets up, and you set your bag on the desk, pulling out your medicine bag. Taking an ibuprofen from the bottle, you pop it in your mouth and steal his soda from the desk to swallow it down. "Hey, that's my soda!"

"You give him a glare he's never seen on you before that shuts him up." He puts his hands up as he props his feet on the desk behind you again. You look at him analyzing something which he tilts his head at. "What is it?"

Suddenly, you're sitting in his lap, and he freezes as you lay against his chest. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"Ibuprofen won't work right away. Need warmth to stem the pain." Your shortened phrasing gives tell of the level of pain you're in. Suddenly, you grab his hand and slip it into the top of your pants, laying it over your abdomen. You sigh when the heat soakes into your skin.

He blushes, looking anywhere but at you. This is all so sudden! Are you in so much pain that you don't even care that it's HIM you're sitting on with HIS hand pressed against your bare skin!? He's freaking out internally. But suddenly, there's a scent in his nose. It's unmistakable yet tinged with something unfamiliar.

"You're bleeding... why are you bleeding!?"

You hiss and growl at him when he jostles you. Giving him an even more intense glare. "Stay still, Dante... or I swear I'll tear you to shreds."

"But why are you bleeding!?"

You sigh, not wanting to keep wasting energy on speaking. "I'm on my menstrual cycle."

"Ok, yeah, I forgot about that. But why do I smell so much?"

"I'm a heavy bleeder. It's normal for me."

"Shouldn't you get checked out for that, though? That doesn't seem normal to me."

"I'll schedule an appointment soon. Quit talking, I need sleep."

-------

By the time you've fallen asleep, Dante is bored out of his mind. He's already counted the cracks in the walls when there's a nock on the door. Enzo comes waltzing in.

"Hey Dante, I've got a..." Dante puts his finger to his lips with wide eyes frantically shushing him. Enzo spots you in his lap and gives Dante a knowing grin.

Dante mouths to him. "It's not like that, dude! She just jumped me!" He tries to free his other hand, but you grab hold of it, keeping it against your skin. A wave of pain hits you and you hiss. Opening your eyes, you look over at Enzo.

"Enzo my bag, please." He rounds the desk, handing you your bag, which you rummage through for another pill. "Soda." He holds it out for you, and you swallow the pill with another sip.

"Thank you, Enzo. Can you do me another favor, please?"

"Oh sure! What do ya need?"

"Call in a Subnautica Subs order for me. Italian bread with lettuce, spinach, provolone, ham, and mayo. You want anything, Dante?"

"Uh yeah, just get me the meat lover's sub."

"Dante can call you later about the job."

"How did you...?"

"Figured that's why you're here. That's usually why."

"Fair enough. See you two lovebirds later!"

You growl, but don't bother wasting your energy in retort. Dante yells after him. "I told you it's not like that!" The door clicks shut behind him.

You let out a groan, bringing his attention back to you. "I need to get up to use the restroom, but I don't wanna." He can hear the pout in your voice, and he lets a chuckle slip.

"You want me to carry you there?

"Please do." The slight bags under your eyes tell him just how drained you are as he frees his hand to scoop you up. You grab your bag on the way by.

He lets you down at the door, and you let out another uncomfortable sound, screwing your face up in a grimace.

"What is it?"

"The floodgates opened, so to speak."

He grimaced, too. "I'll wait out here for you."

"Ok, thanks, Dante."

-------

He pushes off the wall when you finally open the door. "Took a while. You ok?"

"Yeah, I had a lot of blood to clean up." As you walk past, the strong scent hits his nose along with your attempt to cover it with air freshener.

A nock on the door catches your attention. You're about to go answer it when Dante joggs past you. "Go sit down. I'll get it." You huff but a small smile cracks through your pained/irritated expression. The delivery guy hands him a bag from the restaurant. Dante hands him a few dollars and closes the door.

When he walks back into the room, he cracks a grin at you sitting in his chair. "Stealing my spot now, huh?"

"Hey, you just said to sit. You didn't specify where."

"Fair enoug.h. Here's yours." He sits against the desk beside you as he unwraps his sub, taking a bite. "Dat ibuwpofin wokin?"

You snort. "Yeah, I'm feeling a bit better now. And don't take such big bites you'll choke on it."

By the time he's finished with his, you're only halfway through yours. "Ya'know you're a real slow eater."

"Yes, I know. I prefer to savor the flavor than scarf it all down at once." You give him a pointed look. "You made a mess of yourself too." You stand boxing him in between you and the desk. "Hold still." You grip his jaw and, with your other hand, wipe the sauce from his mouth licking your thumb clean, and he glanced away.

Dante watches you put your wrapped up sub in the mini fridge. Totally not eyeing your rear before you turn back to him. He sits back in his chair, watching your fingers work circles into the skin of your lower back as your shirt rides up.

You move back over to him, and he thinks you're gonna sit across his lap like before. Instead, you straddle him. "Woah, woah, woah, what are you doing!?"

"Sittin' in your lap again."

"You-you shouldn't be straddling me!"

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you nuzzle into him. His muscles tense under you as he bites his lip, your body pressing into his. The heat from his lower stomach seeps into your abdomen.

-------

For a while, he just sits there holding his hands up awkwardly, not wanting to touch you without permission. Your voice muffled in his neck, startles him. "You can touch me, ya'know."

"Heh... I didn't want to assume." He gently lays his hands on your back.

As the time ticks by slowly, his hands start to rub circles into your back. When he adds more pressure, you practically melt into him. "A bit lower, please." He does as asked, remembering where you had massaged yourself earlier.

You let out a quiet gasp, gripping the back of his coat collar.

His hands freeze. "You ok?"

"I'm fine, keep going."

Pressing his fingers into your skin again, gently moving in circles. He sets his chin on your shoulder, letting his eyes close as he listens to your breathing.

The little pain left slowly seeps away as his fingers work across your muscles. You hold in any sounds that try to escape as you relax in his embrace.

This is probably the safest place in the world. The halfbreed demon hunter being one of the few things on earth capable of mass destruction should he choose it. And he's got you wrapped up in those demon killing arms with hands that can break bone being used to gently ease the pain in your back.

A wave of arousal washes over you. Those dang hormones surging through your body as you expel your uterine lining. You bite your lip as your mind races. What would it feel like to kiss him? Or have him kiss up your neck, leaving marks in his wake?

What if you kissed his neck right now? Would he be ok with it, or would he hate you for it?

Maybe you could just start slow? Just nuzzle under his chin.

You do just that, taking off your glasses and placing them on the desk behind you. You hook your nose under his jaw, closing your eyes as your breath tickles his neck.

His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling of your breath on his skin. You pull back just enough for him to see your eyes. They're lidded and glazed over with a familiar look. He turns bright red swallowing hard.

You trail your hands down to his chest, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Getting bashful on me darlin'?" He gives you a nervous grin. Leaning back down, you place a gentle kiss on his neck.

You feel his hands slip down to your hips, and his thumbs press into the sides of your abdomen, making you wince. "Easy big boy, I'm still sore." Suddenly, he moves a hand to your face, making you look at him. In a flash, his lips are on yours. You're stunned for a moment before your eyes slip closed, and you grip the hair at the back of his head.

Your heart races in your chest. You can't believe this is actually happening! The seconds go by before he pulls away, both of you panting for breath. He gives you a calculating look before his lips press into your neck, one hand on the back of your head and the other pushing beneath your shirt. You feel the fabric of his gloves scratch against you.

A small sound escapes your throat as his mouth moves across your skin. Tilting your head back for him, you pull his white locks. He sucks on your pulse, likely to leave a mark. Your back arching into him as a moan bubbles up from your throat. His hands move to your thighs, and he picks you up, making you yelp.

"Wh-what are you doing, Dante?"

"Taking you to bed so you can rest some more. Don't worry. We can have a bit more fun before we hit the hay."

This time, you blush. "But I'm still bleeding."

"We aren't gonna do that. Not that I wouldn't be down for it either way..."

You blush like a tomato. Normally, guys gag at the thought of messing around when a woman's on her period. Then again, Dante's used to blood so it wouldn't bother him as much.

-------

He closes the door behind you with his boot and lays you down gently on the bed with your head on the pillow. "Just relax and let me do all the work." You give him a nod. "Good girl." He pulls off his gloves with his teeth and slips the grey Henley over his head.

As he settles in, pushing his face into your neck, you run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. A pleasured groan rumbles in his throat. You feel his tongue slide across your throat, making you gasp.

His hand gently caresses over your stomach, leaving a tingling sensation in his wake. You feel his hand slip under your wasteband and around to your lower back. His fingertips press into your muscles, gently moving in circles to ease their tension. You let out a pleasured sigh, arching your back a bit.

He shifts his weight so his other hand can slip behind your upper back beneath your shirt. You feel your bra pop open, releasing tension in your back and shoulders. You let a content purr escape your lips.

"I bet that feels better, doesn't it?" His voice a low rumble in your ear makes a shiver run up your spine. He can feel the muscles twitch under his fingertips. "Good, that's all I want right, now baby." He presses featherlight kisses all across your neck and lips before moving to your stomach.

More light kisses press into your skin as you relax and enjoy his touch. His teal eyes lock with yours as he pulls down your waistband just to the top of your pubic hair. With his thumbs, he gently presses into your abdomen. "Tell me where it's most tender." He moves his thumbs inward towards the center of your abdomen.

When they graze over your ovaries and uterus, you feel a twinge of pain. "Right there, huh? Alright, I'll be gentle. Tell me if it hurts." He presses in and moves in circles only to stop when you tet out a hiss in pain. "Too much?" You mumble to him. "Ok, I won't do that again. You're just way too sore there, baby."

You sit up and move to the side of the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Taking these pants off. The waistband is putting pressure on my abdomen. I also gotta take off this bra."

"Thought you were leaving for a second."

"Not after that massage you gave me."

He pouts with a hand over his heart. "Is that all I am to you!?"

Shucking off your pants, you scoot closer to him. With a hand on his jaw, you place your forehead against his. When you lock eyes with him, you smile. "I love you, Dante." His eyes widen, mouth agape.

"You-you love me?"

"Yes, honey, I love you."

He lets out a breathy chuckle of disbelief as he processes the revelation. His cocky facade cracking as overwhelming emotions burst forth. Tears glint in his eyes as he gives you the happiest smile you've ever seen on him, holding your face in his hands.

"I-I love you too! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me!" Tears of your own drip down your cheeks as you pepper his face with kisses. You lock lips again in a kiss full of emotion and genuine love for each other.

When you pull away to breathe, he hugs you tight, and you slip your arms around him in turn. He lets go sliding one hand down your arm to hold yours while the other wipes away his tears. You both sniffle, and you can't help the yawn that overtakes you.

"Getting sleepy again?" You nod and turn your attention back to the bra you need to remove. Dante watches as you pull it from your shirt like a magic trick. "You gotta show me how you do that trick with your bra sometime."

You roll your eyes. Always so romantic. A chuckle tumbles from your mouth. He grins and lays down on the bed. "Here lay down on me, I'll massage you some more."

"I don't want to leak on you, though. Or the sheets."

"In my line of work, I get blood on stuff all the time. Trust me, it's not that big a deal if it does happen. Im practically an expert at cleaning bloodtains at this point." His reassurance soothes your worries, and you straddle him again, laying against him with your hands on his bare chest and your ear over his heart.

You notice right away that it's beating a bit fast, he's nervous. His hands land on your back, and he pulls up your shirt to reach your skin. The firm circle motion of his fingers, making your muscles relax against him. Sleep begins to weigh your eyelids down as the soothing and strong beating of his heart lulls you to sleep.

Within minutes, your breathing slows, and you're completely relaxed against him. He pulls the blanket over the both of you as he begins to feel sleepy himself. "I'm the luckiest man on Earth to have a woman like you."

With his arms wrapped protectively around you, his eyes slip closed, and for the first time in a while, he has a great night's sleep.

[quijotine]

things that made me feral and rabid and a concern for animal control in dandadan ep 11

jealous okarun is actually "so anxious i am about to vomit" okarun and i love that for him

jiji being Like That the second he enters momo's class and immediately announcing that not only they live together, they're lovers 💀 jiji💀

but you know what, in jiji's defense i see the Vision. like those 0.5 seconds where he actually got real with momo were >>>> this boy is best boy.

okarun reacting by working out to bottle up his emotions and get ripped instead of dealing with them is so terminally Man of him it's the only time I've ever rolled my eyes at him fhdbsbsbs

MOMO AYASE WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I'LL FEED YOU"

iconic behavior queen, iconic.

girl was flirting with okarun so mf hard and the way this boy was about to have a fucking aneurysm dndbsbsb stop

the anatomy model guy with okarun's golden ball. (i had an out of body experience just typing this. dandadan is not a show, it's an acid trip dhdbsbs)

i need to read the manga to catch up with the lore because I have so many questions about okarun's transformation. Does he rememeber what he says in yokarun form? but also it's such a nifty little pressure valve for his personality like

i don't think he has no feelings as he described it the first time momo helped him transform, it's like, his emotions actually take over but this guy is so lonely and clinically anxious that what he's been feeling for so long bubbles up to the surface. and that something is Depression. lol. depression and apathy.

because also he gets blunter when he transforms and he doesn't seem to remember he literally calls momo "babe" when mans cannot even bear to have girlie on a first name basis??

but also BUT ALSO the way they had me kicking and screaming at okarun already half in yokai form when he was running after momo and jiji because didn't he say that he transforms when he is feeling angry? and the way he was already transformed, which means his anger was already getting the best of him, already making him blunter by actually admitting out loud he didn't like that jiji kept hugging momo fjdbshsushsbsjssb

chat I'm unwell

i know it's such a dumb little thing but it meant SO much

having me howling and clawing against the walls

but also I didn't get why he didn't just run the first time when he transformed? he had to do the thing two times until he put his shoes away? was he waiting for his coat thing or was he just being ocd and couldn't run until he put his shoes away?

ALSO

THE WAY HE IMMEDIATELY FIXED HIS POSTURE WHEN REALIZATION DAWNED ON HIM THAT HE LOVES MOMO AFTER SEEING THE FRIGGIN ANATOMY DOLLS FIGHTING FOR THEIR LOVE (dhsbaba acid trip acid trip acid triiiiiip) SUCH A SMALL DETAIL SUCH A DEFINITE AND ELEGANT WAY TO SHOW HIS CHANGE OF MIND, HIS CHARACTER GROWTH, AND HIS RESOLUTION ALL IN LESS THAN A SECOND. DANDADAN THE SHOW THAT YOU ARE.

[yurozo]

resident evil — vape shop au

this overtakes restaurant au for the dumbest thing i've ever written. i work in a vape shop, and this has been a month-long conversation between the coworkers on what each resident evil character would smoke.

18+ only, because smoke stuff, don't do it kids. contains: carlos, leon, chris. please let me know if you want other characters, i am at your humble service.

as customers:

carlos: this man isn't much of a vaper, but he smokes weeds like nobody's business. every two weeks he comes in looking for a new bong (usually small, and needs to have some sort of cool decoration on it. if it has something pink, the man is handing over his credit card) because he keeps breaking his. either he drops them or one of his pets knocks it over. he also never goes through the process of cleaning them, which inevitably leaves jill the burden of having to buy bong cleaner for him in hopes that one day he will use it. it will collect dust with the rest of the bottles somewhere in his room, laying dormant on a shelf.

the employees are all horrendously down bad for him, mostly because he always comes right after the gym in muscle shirts and a tight pair of shorts. the whole work groupchat is filled with carlos smiled at me today, he wants me so bad.

not that it's necessarily their fault, he's annoyingly chivalrous and has a litany of pickup lines at the ready. you need a ladder to reach something? carlos is behind you and ready to grab it at a moments notice.

leon:

a firm man of routine-- buys the same flavour, same brand, every time without fail. peach blue razz, low puff count because he likes a small device. no, he does not want to try something new. you're wasting your time offering it to him. by the time a couple weeks roll around, you know exactly what to grab the moment he swings open the door.

he's embarrassed he's gotten into this whole thing honestly. hit luis' once after a stressful shift, and it was hook line and sinker. he calls them his shame vapes, and hides it in his sleeve so no one he works with will ever know.

god forbid if an employee ever flirts with him. he tried once to say something flirty back and got so embarrassed he didn't show up for two weeks, nicotine addiction be damned. if you can convince him into trying something new, he's not gonna tell you if he doesn't like it. he'll nod and walk out with his tail between his legs.

and honestly? he just kinda looks like a cop. younger people know to pull out their id when he's browsing, assuming he's undercover. ask him how his day is? he will respond "it's going." every single time.

chris:

tobacco flavoured vapes only. "what tastes most like a cigarette" type motherfucker. he'll try whatever cotton candy vape claire has, claims he hates it, and then take multiple puffs anyways. he really only got into it because claire claimed it was better for him than smoking a pack every day. he buys a vape and then proceeds to smoke a cigarette outside the store anyway.

his routine entirely depends on how stressed out he is, and this shop is both his nicotine hookup and his social outing for the week. it takes him a while to open up beyond the typical customer interaction, but once you get him out of his shell, there's no putting him back in it. bring up sports or something else he's interested in, and he's giving you a long lecture.

hitting on him will entirely depend on his mood and your approach. going in strong by complimenting his arms will only get a half-sheepish response, but gently nudging him into talking about himself is what will get you the full chris redfield experience. sometimes he forgets that these people live relatively normal lives, and will pull some batshit insane lore with the casualty of someone who has forgotten that most people have never even held a gun.

[toxictigertonic]

Alright, I've been cursed with new blorbos (don't worry DJ will always be my number one). Outlast trials has me in a chokehold, specifically Franco, but all the prime assets are running around in my brain causing problems. I'm subjecting you to my stupid food headcanons as a result:

COYLE

- This mother fucker drinks hot sauce. Like. Chugs the shit. You can't take him anywhere without him bringing a bottle of Tabasco.

- Takes his coffee black, but will add a little sugar if no one is looking. Can't let people know that he doesn't like plain black coffee.

- He feels like a big breakfast kinda guy, with all the fixings. If you took him to a diner that'd be what he'd get, no matter the time of day.

- Would he disgusted by energy drinks EXCEPT classic redbull. Now imagine this man hyped up on caffeine.

- Would still eat his scrambled eggs if he got shells in them. Would say some shit like "the shells put hair on your chest"

- Trusting this man to bake anything is a fire hazard, it doesn't matter if it's those pre cut cookie rolls, they're catching fire.

- Says he hates desserts then stares down a slice of pecan pie from across the room like it owes him money.

MOTHER GOOSEBERRY

- The only one I trust to cook tbh, and that's not saying much.

- If you took her to get coffee she'd get the sweetest thing on the menu (and Futterman would bitch and moan about it the whole time) or she'd get a chai latte. Futterman would demand a black coffee.

- I would trust her to make me an apple pie and then she'd put the drill in it bc the crust came out wrong.

- She feels like a woman who really likes jam. Maybe I am projecting but jam is cool.

- She will not touch an energy drink bc they taste bad to her, and bc Futterman would throw a fit about how bad they are for your teeth. No caffeine fueled death sprint for her, but based on her singing and the whole angel dust thing I don't think she needs it.

- I would make her pancakes she seems pretty cool.

- Likes the batter for desserts more than the finished products.

FRANCO

- God help us where do I begin

- On one hand I wanna say he makes some bomb ass Italian food. On the other hand I wanna say he burns cereal.

- Speaking of cereal, he's the kinda guy who let's his cereal turn to paste in the bowl before he eats it.

- Considering what we know about the wolf's milk drink, I'm frightened by this man's palette. Genuinely terrified.

- I think he would die if he tasted hot sauce. I think Coyle is aware of this fact and has plans.

- Give him an energy drink if you wanna see him start doing flips. He thinks they're gross but he's also like "fuck yeah pure sugar I love these"

- Likes his cookies so underdone that they're basically raw (me too chief)

- If you cooked him a homemade meal he'd cry while eating it. Then he'd get pissed because you made him cry.

- He's my little skrunkly doo so I'm feeding him wet plaster ❤️

If I'm wrong about anything bc it's actually stated in the lore I do not care tell Red Barrels to get their facts straight (/J I SWEAR)

I haven't had time to look at Gooseberry's or Coyle's lore so I don't know if they have some super important amazing cooking skills that I'm missing out on. Feel free to tell me if you think I'm wrong or have your own ideas about these idiots.

[quinngefail]

So apparently at 19 Lawrence got institutionalized for 6 months from a psychotic breakdown. I’m pretty sure it’s mentioned in one of the video games. Do you think he’d tell Adam about it? How you you think adam would react? (Also why do you think he even had a breakdown?) love you!!! 🩷

Omfg okay okay I haven't played either of the games yet but I intend to. I did not know about that little bit of lore, though..... But tbh it slides in so perfectly with what I've been formulating for backstory headcanons,

I haven't actually written any of this out in my Google doc yet but. I feel like rambling and just laying out the relevant parts of what I've been brainstorming for him-

Putting a cut because this got longer than I thought it would. Also- tw for talks of emotional abuse, alcoholism, and a brief sui mention- nothing super detailed, though.

So uh. I've been imagining him growing up in this wealthy, very controlling, catholic household. And even from a young age it was extremely rare for his parents to even glance at any of his problems.., One part because they were absolutely the types to guilt him with the whole "THERE ARE CHILDREN IN AFRICA STARVING AND YOU'RE SITTING HERE CRYING ABOUT SOMETHING THAT IS SO TRIVIAL" and another part because I imagine his mother was diagnosed with cancer when Lawrence was just a kid. Which was hard on everyone, of course, but this also meant less attention being put on him and his problems (ft. more guilting because you should be grateful that all you have is a scraped knee, stop crying). Basically the response to any of his struggles would very often be Stop Moping and/or Go Pray About It y’know-

Sooo even at a young age, he quickly developed this mindset that none of his problems were actually 'real', because he had it drilled into his head again and again that he was in a far more fortunate + blessed position than others. Which yeah obviously he had a great deal of privilege on his side from the get-go, but he's still allowed to express hurt and his need for love and care, y’know,

So he just starts repressing everything, holding it all inside. Internally minimizing and invalidating just about anything that made him upset. He does this for years, and years. And by the time that first year of college rolls around, he now has the most independence in his life that he's ever had, finally away from that very, very controlling household... And I very much imagine him as the type to just go off the rails almost immediately, especially in the drinking department. His grades rapidly slip, and he knows there will be hell to pay when his parents inevitably find out about all of this- but it's easier to just sit back and drink, and let his cares about everything slip away.

And of course, his parents do indeed find out. And there is indeed hell to pay. More so from his father, though, as his mother's condition has been rapidly deteriorating, which was certainly just one of the many motivators for Lawrence's drinking. And it's not long before she does pass away, which I think was a final straw of sorts for his mental health.

Between the bottles and bottles of repression he's been holding in for years, the drinking, the fact that he's fucked up so badly with college + absolutely fuckin wasted an amount of time and money, the sheer outrage and disappointment from his parents, his mother's death, and the shattering of his already shaky faith (because evidently, praying for his mother's health didn't do a goddamn thing)... It's a wonder he didn't break sooner,

So then this is where him being institutionalized just SLIDES IN SO EASILY... And I do think right before this happened, he had attempted to take his own life, unable to deal with it all. The treatment helps him back onto a straight path. And maybe he'd already been interested in the medical field, but the loss of his mother was sort of the final push towards wanting to pursue oncology specifically. So after being released, it's college take two: and it goes far better than the last time.

However, he develops this fear of losing control again. He finds comfort and necessity in order. He almost needs it to feel okay. He still has a hard time voicing and downplaying his problems, though, still feeling like they're not 'real'... This being a particular souvenir from growing up that he just can't seem to overcome.

He's also not at all surprised to get a call (in either his late 20s or early 30s) that his father had drank himself to death. Just seemed inevitable.

Then, to cut to the Becoming Closer With Adam Era, I don't imagine he has a hard time explaining that both of his parents have passed away, and why. But he has a very hard time disclosing everything else that happened. Because his problems aren't 'real', of course, and it's just an extremely touchy subject for him in general. Been imagining for a while now that he has this whole Thing where he's far more focused on helping Adam with his own problems- and y’know, part of that is just the fact that when they finally reunite in my AU, Adam is obviously deeply in need of help, because things have gotten bad for him in the months following the bathroom trap. But another part is just Lawrence still having troubles with expressing his own struggles; whether they be traumatic incidents of the past, or the more current Jigsaw related traumas.

Adam eventually catches onto this, especially as his problems become less urgent. And while he's not necessarily going to interrogate Lawrence over anything, he does begin to more frequently urge him to talk about things when he's obviously upset. Lawrence still isn't as good at masking as he thinks he is, much to his dismay. Something specific that I imagine Adam reminding him, with a earnest voice of kindness and patience, is that "this isn't just about you helping me, it's about me helping you, too."

Lawrence does eventually start to open up more about his more current struggles, but it takes a good, long while before he begins scratching the surface of that period of his life. They would be upsetting conversations for the both of them, of course, but the fact that they happen at all are just testaments to the trust they've built together. They feel safer and safer being vulnerable with one another, and it brings them closer together.

And maybe, it brings them closer and closer to things finally just feeling okay.

...WOOH If you are here, thank you for reading- didn't think I was going to ramble this much, but EVIDENTLY I HAVE MORE THOUGHTS ON THIS THAN I REALIZED LMAO..... WHEN I SAY I HAVE A SMALL NOVEL WORTH OF THOUGHTS ABOUT THESE TWO I'M NOT LYING HRKSKGK

A lot of this is also still in the brainstorming stage at this point, so things may be subject to change :] WE SHALL SEE...

And thank you for the ask, and the kind words!!! I hope you enjoy my brainrot HSKGK

[strawberrymira]

🫵YOU!!! HAVE HURT US ALL TOO MUCH!! CUTE. ZEUS AND HERA HEADCANONS. HAND 'EM OVER.

..Y'know what? That's fair- it's been doom and gloom and lore for a bit too long! For now I'll offer some. VERY in depth Zeus and Hera thoughts I've been rotating in my mind <3 Especially since this had to wait until after I finished chapter one of "Love & Other Lies[...]"

As mentioned before, Zeus is utterly obsessed with Hera's curls. Part of it is purely tied to Hera's dedication to veiling- she started very shortly after she and her siblings were freed from Kronos, after all. And at the time, Zeus was practically a stranger to Hera- and even as they got to know each other and even began a courtship, he was someone Hera remained veiled around.

Of course, Zeus would occasionally catch unobstructed glimpses of Hera's silky, bouncy tresses of hair- he'll admit... part of him did nearly obsess over how soft it seemed, how he longed to run his fingers through it. In no small part inspired by Hera's dedication to her modesty, and how slow she insisted their relationship moved. It had been cause for almost pitiable levels of excitement the first time Hera allowed Zeus to take her arm in arm and escort her to some event or meeting- he can't even recall what, he was so elated after they parted and he could celebrate privately.

So you can only imagine the joy that filled him the very first occasion Hera removed her veil for him to see.

It was a dreadfully hot midsummer day, as it had been all month as the days rolled by one after the other- the unrelenting heat itself the cause for the seemingly endless battle against the titans ebbing long enough for Zeus to pay Hera an extended visit. Zeus recalls how odd he thought it was that she was wearing her hair down on such a sweltering afternoon- already a rare one where Hera had chosen not only to go without the addition of a shawl for modesty, but to wear one of her lightest veils, even among the light and flowing fabrics she had always preferred.

Zeus recalls just as well how he was momentarily struck with the realization he had never paid so much mind to things of that nature in the past, even with his previous lovers. And yet here he found himself walking and talking by Hera's side through the gardens, entranced by how she had chosen to wear her hair. Still, Zeus treasured the rare moments spent together between them- even if he didn't find the heat as agreeable as Hera, always running slightly too hot with lightning bottled inside him.

Still, coping with the heat was a remarkably easy tradeoff to be able to walk arm in arm with Hera, momentarily melting away the stress each of them was under with the looming specter of their much needed contributions to the war. It was remarkable how much Hera had done without needing to see battle herself. ..Not yet at least, prepared as she may be. Zeus sincerely hoped she wouldn't need to. That was already difficult enough to handle with Hades and Poseidon. Not Hera.

Zeus ran his fingers through his own thick hair- even with it tied up, it kept him far too warm. ..Zeus had been so momentarily preoccupied with his own thoughts that only then did he process he and Hera were no longer arm in arm. "...unbearably hot." Hera would finish a comment Zeus hadn't heard the beginning of, a smirk in her voice.

He almost hadn't caught the end, either.

Hera had slipped the delicate gossamer fabric of her veil off the top of her head, instead leaving it hanging low across her back, draped between each of her arms. ..Struck by the summer sunlight, the reddish undertone of Hera's hair was almost.. violet. Deep and rich, the color of freshly poured wine hidden beneath the deep chestnut tone Zeus was so newly familiar with.

"Come to think of it, I really should have thought to put my hair up." The wine-rich tone in her curls shifted further in the sun as Hera carefully lifted her hair with one hand, allowing it to flow freely down the length of her back. However briefly, the fresh afternoon air on the back of Hera's neck draws a quiet sigh.

"...Would you mind?" The question came with a playful lilt in Hera's voice as she glanced up and over her shoulder at Zeus. ...The sunlight caught the arch of her cheekbones and the gentle curve of her plump lips beautifully.

"I'm sorry?" Zeus questioned right back, blinking dumbly in a way he could only hope it seemed was simply from the sun in his eyes.

...Hera laughed. Zeus adored when she laughed, even at his expense. That's all he was after. "My hair." She clarified, turning to face Zeus properly. "..Would you put it up for me?~"

Zeus found himself only able to offer a nod as a response.

And so they sat in the garden together, Zeus savoring each moment he ran his fingers through Hera's chestnut curls, gently warmed by the harsh sun beating down on the two of them.

He couldn't even find it in himself to question why Hera was able to produce several hair pins from her pocket to aid him in his work, if she hadn't planned on pinning her hair up after all.

Nor did he question it each and every time that followed.

[invinciblerodent]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Because if the day doesn't really matter, then the week shouldn't either, right? 🙈

I just saw that the lovely @thedissonantverses tagged me for WIP Wednesday and Self-Promotion Saturday last week (which I totally missed until I checked my mentions lol, that's completely on me), and even though I haven't really posted any fic in a very long time, I though it'd be fun to share a snippet of something I've been scribbling lately!

This (slightly long) bit is from kind of a background-ish story for my main Rook, Verbena, about how Varric recruited her:

Varric took measured, steady steps as he made his way over to the bar. He noted that even though the human behind it -a gangly man with pockmarked skin, rumpled clothes, and fine strands of smoke-blonde, once-grey hair combed across a brow ever-inching towards the back of his head- had his face turned pointedly away from the "intruder", he turned just ever so slightly too quick at the sound of the dwarf clearing his throat.

"Hello there, friend," Varric began, and pulled himself up on one of the stools- and as the sticky surface of the bartop clung to his fingertips, he knew he was exactly where he needed to be. "I was told that this is the place to come, if I want to find someone."

"You were told wrong," the barkeep grunted, the initial wariness of his eyes hardening immediately, like a door slamming shut. "This ain't a Templars' den. They'll find yer man, ask them."

"I'm hoping they won't. And, as a matter of fact, I'm looking for a woman."

The barkeep loosed an ugly, barking laugh that died down in a smoker's cough. "Then try down the street, pal- Madam Valentina is a damn sight prettier than these fucks," he gestured around with a dirty dishcloth, sprinkling what Varric hoped was water in a wide arc, "and her girls'll pop yer cork better too."

"A specific woman," Varric tried again, shaking his head, "sub umbra draconis."

The laugh at his own joke and the shocked cough that followed sputtered out of the barkeep all at once, and a few patrons' eyes turned to him as Varric lamely pat the man's shoulder in feeble hope of helping him regain his breath.

"Who in the Void told you that?"

Oh, Varric noted, that familiar Marcher accent drained from the man's hiss faster than water on parched earth- even the haziness draped over his eyes seemed to clear in an instant.

Maybe it was a mistake to invoke that callphrase so quickly, but he couldn't risk walking away empty-handed- not when so much rode on the success of this endeavor. So Varric pushed.

"I'm a friend of the peacock, but the rooster is the one who sent me. I'm hoping to come up snake-eyes."

He was laying it on thicker than he needed to, he knew, but with each word, more tension seemed to roll off the barkeep's shoulders until he stood up straight, brushed his hands over his rumpled apron, and looked at the dwarf down the barrel of his nose, brows furrowed.

"Alright, you don't got to regale me with the whole bloody census," he whispered, and pulled a bottle off the shelf at random, pouring a drink and sliding it across the filthy bar as if Varric had just ordered a shot of -he smelled it- whiskey, perhaps. "Andraste's sopping cunt, I told her not to send me her bloody marks." He jutted his chin out in belated greeting. "So, what can I do you for?"

Varric raised the glass to his closed lips, and mimed taking a sip. "Does the name 'Mercar' say anything to you?"

I'm not sure who'd like to be tagged, absolutely no pressure to anyone of course, but I'd love to toss it back to @thedissonantverses, and maybe @antiqua-lugar, @lindira, and... is it cheating if I copy a taglist??? I'll copy the taglist I was in. 😛 @mythals-whore @cute-ellyna @pinayelf @thatgaymerguyb @ryoskuna @covertleathers @serensama @turnbaseddave @sugar-peanut-cat @beachhotdog @jenn2d2 @bg3daydream @davrinsleftpectoral @himbopunk @lottiesnotebook

(also yo @starfightrpilot babe give me that whore lore)

And, now that I'm at it, maybe a little progress shot of my doll I'm making of Verbena to go with my little Davrin????

I'm just starting the wig piece, and I'm not yet sure how I'll do it, but I was very excited to stumble upon yarn that matched the Shadow Dragon PJs so nicely, so I just finished her body yesterday. 😊

[erinartemis]

OMGOMGOMGKFMSGSKB IM FREAKING OUT IT'S HERE!!! MURDER DRONES EPISODE 7 TEASER!! EEEEEE!!! I went frame by frame and picked out some cool scenes I wanted to scream about, so get ready for a bunch of crazed ramblings and some theories !! (Long post ahead, folks)

Okay first of all- just- the lighting in these shots ✨ simply gorgeous... Also that "poster" thing in the background of the first image is very interesting.. obviously it says HELP (though that looks scrawled-on afterward with probably blood), and it looks like there could be possibly eyes? EDIT: it's not eyes it's two drones standing !!!

Also can we appreciate how creepy cool that hole in the ground is :00

THEIR ROOMS! THE SILLIES' ROOMS!!! WHAT SECRETS DO THEY HOLD?? I hope we find out

EDIT: THEY'RE LOCKERS NOT ROOMS OOPSIES

Good to see we've still got a bit of that classic md humor: "not to be overdramatic but core collapse" xd

N oh no N IS HE OKAY?? what am I talking about ofc he's not (I'm going to cry at this episode)

OKAY NEXT-

This thing. What is this thing. Probably part of the Solver, as it's all organic and eldritch-y, and it has veins. It looks lit from behind, almost like we're looking out from the inside of something? I think it's possible somebody gets dragged into one of those physical manifestations of the Solver, and this could be their perspective from inside it! Oooor we're looking at it from the outside, and there's something glowing inside the mass.

Next up, these guys??? So many possibilities here... They look like humans, but they aren't necessarily so, just like the "Tessa Isn't Human" theory. And from what little you can see in the teaser, they are moving in an odd way- suspicious. I originally thought they could be manifestation of the Solver or something, created to confuse, but after considering it for a bit, I realized it's more likely this scene is a flashback to when the core collapsed.

SOLVERUZISOLVERUZISOLVER- OHHHH BOY SOLVER UZI

Okay. This shot is a bit confusing; can't really make out what's going on- To me, it looks like something is possibly exploding? And the red string things are lasers or something? Also the blobs in the foreground definitely look like Solver hands, but- that's all I've got for this one

Tessa. Tessatessatessa tessa are you pulling a sword on Uzi? oh no, you are, aren't you, ohh no

WHAT DID UZI SEE. ON THAT TV SCREEN. HELP SHE LOOKS SO TRAUMATIZED- Also also wanted to point out the "freaking ninja star" on the ground.. little callback there :,)

the crucifix will be important, oo religious imageryyy eee

DOG.

Small thing, this is clearly the same scene from the GLITCHx 7/8 teaser, but it's the shot from a little bit before the clip in that teaser plays. I wonder how much control Uzi has over herself at this point... These robots are going to so much pain someone help them

norinorinori nori I'M SO READY FOR THE LORE AND FLASHBACKS EEEE

OMGOMGOGMOGMOMG YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HYPED I WAS WHEN I SAW THIS- WE'RE GETTING MURDER N YALL!!! FIRST TIME SINCE THE PILOT EEEE!!! Oh my gosh I just KNOW it's going to be an emotional response to something horrible happening- something to do with Uzi getting fully possessed, or almost dying, or N THINKING she's dead, or just all the stress of EVERYTHING, along with V's (hopefully not actually) death, and it just pushes him to his breaking point OH AND all the repressing he's been doing this whole time WILL NOT BE HELPING WITH THAT !!! I'm SO EXCITED TO FIND OUT AAAA-

Oh it could also be that N gets factory-reset, causing him to actually lose his memories or something, which is AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT PILE OF ANGST, but personally I hope/think it'll be closer to the first one... It seems very likely to me that all of the stuff N's been going through (and how he's just been pretending everything's fine) would catch up to him, and it would lead to an "outburst" of everything he's been bottling up. PLUS do y'all remember that merch ad?? I know it was just a promo, but merch stuff has been shown to be kind of relevant to the plot in the past soo... yeah I'm feeling very good about this theory-

Okay so this is the same guy from the earlier image with all the humans- That feels notable, like they're going to be important. And is it just me and my poor video quality or does the Sentinel hand look glitchy?? Could it have turned on the humans like the one that turned on "Tessa" in Cabin Fever??

Oh dear, that's oil (or blood; they whole thing's too red to tell) coming from Uzi's eye... Feeling like the same thing that happened to Doll happens to Uzi... agh the ANGST hdfbsjsb

DOOOOOLL DOLL DOLL !!! SHE'S THERE !! I THINK SHE HAS BUTCHER KNIVES AGAIN !! I wonder who she's fighting... (I mean it could be a sentinel, but it looks like she's talking, so I'm guessing it's one of the group) ee I'm excited to see where Doll's character goes from here !!

ALLLLRIGHTY!! This has been a breakdown of my personal thoughts on the teaser! I am SOOO excited; these next two weeks need to go by FAST but ik they won't- Anyways... thanks for reading ! :D

[alfredojesta]

Could you please draw Corpse?....I'd really like to see how it is :)

ABSOLUTELY! my drawing tablet isn't working rn but i have some quick ibis doodles (i never had a real ref sheet of her because i created her as a joke before she became an actual character)

thank you so much for the ask AHHH it means a lot that anyone would wanna know more about my silly fanon kid 😭‼️

here's some extra info i've typed up if that's anything (small comic at the end):

CORPSE is 15! she's a doll built by Jason. both Candy Pop and Jason designed her. Pop made the concept art on his own, but Jason tweaked it because... he's Jason? duh? in order to bring the creation to life, a soul was infused with it—also how Jason created Mr. Glutton, Liquorice and Red Mouse.

being a doll, she ages with models rather than yk. normal biology. so she has different models for different age groups. Jason and Candy Pop agreed to create her at the age of 6 because they didn't want to deal with a whiny baby! ^_^ therefore, she has multiple models (6-8, 10-12, and so on).

to differentiate them Candy Pop is called Pops! and Jason is just Father. there's plentiful lore in this AU. the timeline's fucking whack but i can't explain that here because it'd be too long so i'll describe Corpse real quick—

Corpse's personality is versatile. on one hand, it's respectful and polite. she speaks formally—thanks to Jason's influence—and tends to be a listener more than a talker. she's outgoing, but unfortunately a people-pleaser. Corpse has a tendency for holding back her emotions. a fear of upsetting others. Candy Pop advises her to not bottle up her feelings. and sure—she was more expressive when she was younger! but at 15, it has come to a point where she's only ever open with her bestfriend and parents. her insecurity also derives from the fact she's a doll. Corpse has never felt like she fits in with anyone else.

doesn't mean she's not fun, though. being the daughter of a silly jester means she's got some humour of her own. Corpse can yap for hours... she just prefers to listen and nod... but if a mic is handed to her... yeah that girl can TALK.

ANYWAY LIKE I SAID BEFORE SHE'S ALSO ANXIOUS AND BECOMES OVERWHELMED QUICKLY ESPECIALLY IF THINGS ARE TOO BUSY. THAT'S JUST BECAUSE JASON AND CANDY POP ARGUE SOMETIMES AND SHE GETS SCARED LOLLL there's no violence and there's no fighting. those two just bicker over. their opposing parenting styles. and then they make up after some DISCUSSION.

besides, jason and candy pop are two really emotional people and that can get the better of them if they aren't careful.

so yeah... if you made it this far here's a bonus comic of 10 yr old corpse and jason :) for context: corpse comes to the mansion sometimes while jason works. panda/pandora is corpse's niece. another fanon kid... belongs to nathan and ciara.

[i-will-go-with-you-five]

My Five Lore

Heyyyyy I thought it was finally time to make this post! I've been doing ZR for about nine months now and have been posting from the sidelines so I figured it was about time to introduce myself and Five. Just a little rundown on what my Five is like and her story and stuff. She's basically me, but with a couple things changed.

Apperance:

She’s on the shorter side- Sam is always putting his elbow on her shoulder to annoy her but she secretly loves it :) And pretty stocky but really strong. Simon challenged her to a lifting competition once and while he eventually won, she had him sweating and it was a close thing. She wears her hair in really long double Dutch braids, and has a round face with bright hazel green eyes and a big smile. She also wears really brightly colored gear, especially shoes, its a long-lasting joke with her and the other runners. She's unreasonably attached to axes and baseball caps, and is pretty much constantly wearing something Jody made her.

She has a couple of pretty faint nicks and slices on her hands, from before the apocalypse. She got those was first learning to butcher as a teenager. But since the outbreak, she's gotten a stab wound on her left shoulder, and permanent bruising on her shins. She's very susceptible to shin splints, but its the apocalypse, so it's not like she can properly rest and treat them.

UPDATE: she has new scars now from the ending of Season Two. They are Pretty Important.

[One day I will make the most beautiful drawing of her ever. One day.]

Background:

Five is basically me, with a couple things (appearance, where she lived, some family details, etc) changed. She lived in Northern Montana, a stone's throw away from Canada, and was doing college remotely while working on a farm that raised big animals, and took care of her nieces and nephews while her siblings were at work. That's why she's such a jack-of-all-trades, with book and street smarts, she had a very diverse range of skills due to how she grew up. I consider Five as an AU of myself if I had been thrust into the apocalypse, so personality and history-wise Five and I are similar, except for the trauma of the apocalypse, where she was on her own for almost four months after Z-Day, and hardened her a bit. Five's real name is Lydia, but not a single person besides her knows that.

Early Outbreak:

She went on a rare vacation with her best friend, Nina, and her best friend's family to London two days before the outbreak, in early November of 2023. The worst timing. One day she's on a plane, the next she's seeing Big Ben for the first time, and the day after that hundreds of people have turned, including Nina's family, and they're fleeing for their lives in the chaos.

The plan was for the two of them to try and contact Lydia's family and try to find a way to get home, but the phone lines were all down within a day. So they decided to just get out of the city. Nina got bitten when they were on the outskirts of London, after a week of them surviving together. Lydia stayed with her as she died. Nina begged Lydia to kill her zombie-self, but Lydia just couldn't do it- she fled instead. She decided to kill her name, Lydia, along with her friend's death. It was the only way she felt that she could mourn.

She was then on her own for about four months, and her circumstances really changed her. She'd always been a a happy and trusting person, but each person she tried to group up with ended up betraying her, in a multitude of ways. She threw up mental barriers and became pretty grim and trusted no one. She can talk, but only to people that she likes, and only to one or two people at a time. The bigger the crowd, the quieter she is. But when she gets in a place of being comfortable, she has a lot to say. But in those four months, she said less and less, to the point where some people assumed she was mute. She had to stifle who she was in order to survive, and it took a huge toll on her. The pain of her bottled-up emotions was buried deep.

She's a Christian, and the only thing that kept her going in the apocalypse was clinging onto Christ with all of her might, even if her faith had been shaken by what seemed like the end of the world. She just kept running and fighting for something greater than herself. Save the next person stuck in a building, even if they stole her supplies. Run supplies to different groups of people, even if they then beat her bloody and left her for the zombies. Lead a pack of zombies away from a guy trapped in a tree, even if he then throttled her neck and made it even harder to speak. Give a message to a radio outpost, even if they then dishonored their side of the agreement and held her at gunpoint, rather than just attempt to send airwaves to the States in search of her family. Because if she couldn't do the right thing, and try to stay faithful to her values and Jesus, what good was left in the world?

She ended up at Mullins because, once again, she got betrayed. A group of highway robbers caught her unawares, and she literally ran into some soldiers, who promised to just help her get out of the tight spot, but instead brought her to Mullins and enlisted her. Sour and panicked, she was so uncooperative to the point where they shipped her out to Abel for Project Greenshoot so they wouldn't have to deal with her anymore.

Getting to Abel:

While the apocalypse has been The Worst Thing Ever, getting her helicopter shot down was probably the best thing that ever happened to her in the apocalypse. It was the last thing that she expected, a rocket launcher barreling towards her, after everything she's already been through, and it shook her. For the first time since when she had a depressive episode as a preteen, she just simply wanted to die. Death seemed like the best option as she fell through the air to the sound of hungry zombies beneath her. Everything hurt too much. God wasn't answering her sobbing cries of help every night. She'd given it her all and it still wasn't enough. Gave far more than she took and got hurt every time. If she gave up, everything would just be easier. She was about to accept her death and simply let go of life. It wasn't like she had any friends or family left to love her anymore.

But when that voice crackled into her headset, urging her on and giving her a name, Five, which felt right in a way she couldn't explain, encouraging her- she knew she had to keep going. Life wasn't over yet. There was still hope. So she ran. And the longer that voice, Sam, spoke, the lighter she felt and the less emotionally exhausted she became. A voice in the back of her mind told her that this was the answer to her prayers for a friend, and for help. But she was still incredibly cautious. This seemed like the nicest person in the world, but what if he hurt her? What if she got betrayed again? After all, she knew nothing of who this Sam Yao was, beyond being awkward and sweet and kind of adorable. Wait, adorable? Where had that thought come from?

She wanted to be mistrustful of everyone at Abel when she got there, that was her intent. Especially after the doctor threatened to not let her in. But having those people show her kindness that she hadn't seen in months crumpled her barriers like wet paper. By the time her 8-week training was over she'd sunk right into Abel perfectly. Jody was her good friend who was always up for a hug and a story, Janine was smart and practical and reminded her of her older sister to the point where she started to treat Janine like an older sister, Eugene was a goofball who made bad jokes with her while sympathizing with what she'd been through, and Maxine was a God-send for figuring out how to turn off her survival mode again.

And during that time, she wanted to become friends with Sam, the voice who saved her, so badly. But he was wrapped up in grief from Alice's death. Which she understood. Nina's death still ate at her. Not to mention having no idea if her family was dead or alive. So even though it killed her, because this was the first time she'd wanted to have a friend in forever, she kept her distance to protect him from her brokenness. Because even though she'd lightened up, she still was a woman of few words who held all of her pain back from everyone. Even if that voice in her head saying Sam was God's answer to her problems got stronger and more insistent every day. And even if Maxine told her multiple times that Sam relied on her more than he could express or she could realize. She had to hold back.

Being a Runner: falling for each other

Until the night run in the dark. [fanfic one shot here that will eventually become a twoshot once I finish the post-run debrief.] Where all that slammed through Sam's head was I need a miracle for Five, and all that slammed through Five's was I'm running for Sam. And the moment she crashed into Sam's arms, him sobbing with relief and her sobbing with exhaustion and delirium, was the moment that she realized that she did, in fact, love Sam Yao. And for Sam, that was the moment he realized that he had to become her best friend. And the rest of that night was the first time Five told anyone about her past and her pain and what the apocalypse had been like for her. And Sam was there. As they talked and listened to one another was the moment they firmly became best friends.

Five’s love for Sam only grows in the next few months. But… she doesn’t know what to say, or even think honestly. She’s never been in love before. Ever. She’s, well, she’s scared. Which she knows is stupid. But what do you even say about something like that? ‘Hey Sam, you've chipped away at the hardened exterior that I was forced to adopt bit by bit, and I've become myself again, and you push me to be even better than I was every day. Also I am totally in love with you.'? So she says it in every way besides words. With each moment with Sam. Each gesture is her way of saying I love you. And she runs. For the same reasons as before- her faith. Her trust in God. Her putting goodness back into the terrible world. But now for another reason too. For Sam. For his voice. And even if he doesn't understand it, how he pushes her to trust in her faith even more. Her faith and trust in God are stronger than ever now and she's very strong in it and tries to shine that light to others.

Sam realizes that he loves Five when someone sends Five to die out of spite, as revenge. She's coming back into the gates, angry but not as angry as he is. He's ready to throw down with the person who did that to his runner. Then the way she just grasps his shoulders, locking eyes with him, and reminding him to breathe, he just- falls. So hard and so fast. He knew that this was coming. He's felt it growing since she came back brandishing supplies with the biggest smile in the world for the DnD campaign he was starting. But he ignored it. And now he can't anymore. Because it's Five. His Five. But what do you even say about something like that? ‘Hey Five, you mean everything to me, actually. You've given me something to fight for each day, given me hope when I've had none, and have helped me grow so much and overcome my doubts. I really, really, really love you, more than anyone or anything.’ So he tells her with his words, with every single thing he says. Every voice crack of fear or excitement over comms. Except those three, which are coincidentally, the most important ones. He talks, for the same reason as before. To protect the people he loves. But now for another reason too. For Five. For her running. For who she's pushed him to become. How she's taught him to fight for something even bigger than before.

There is an ending for their story (its REALLY good) but you're just gonna have to wait to read it until I'm done writing it tehehehe! It's more climactic that way. I'll link it here when it's done.

And there we go! A little bit about my Five and her story <3 Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!

@stellar-collective drew my Five!! You can see her here<3 It's from this fanfic dabble

@tazzy-zooming the incredible made another drawing of her that I adore

and my dear friend @book-girl4evaaa did another here!!! Go flood her reblogs please

oh and @masterfuldoodler who is a WONDERFUL human being did her in her survival running mode SO WELL

and then she awed me again with this one which is like,,, the coolest thing EVER?? All of them are just SO SO SO GOOD IT PHYSICALLY PAINS ME HOW AMAZING IT IS

oh we are EATING now and have even MORE talented friends who have done me the honor of drawing my Five here's @valesyn 's incredibly dramatic rendition of Five fleeing zombies to that epic verse in Heavydirtysoul by Twenty One Pilots

Ao3

[ramblin-tiger]

So I'm in a sort of dilemma.

It's long and I know maybe like 2 people will think about reading it so I made it super condensed for people to scroll by.

Let's just call this a vent with a request of others insight lol

First some backstory.

I've been in the same town since i was about 12/13, and yet I know no one in it really. The few friends I did have have all moved away or lost contact in some fashion. The only real source of social interaction outside of work and my union classes i have is my parents and brother.

So pretty much for the 14 years, when i work a job I'm loyal and stay about 2 years because that's usually when I end up finding a better paying job or opertunnity. But I've luckily almost always had a stable income and such. (They're have been 2 stints of unemployment that lasted 4 and 6 months respectively). Currently I'm about a year off from becoming a Journeyman through the union I'm apart of as well.

That being said, I'm not a risk taker obviously. I work hard, show up on time, and in general just do what I have to to get by.

The dilemma however, is that I more or less have an opportunity that I WANT to take, but am honestly too scared to. It would be a major change all things considered, and it's been decades since I've had a change like that.

Let me explain.

About 8ish hours from me is what i call the "family home". It's a house that been in the family at least since my great grandmas time. (I used to visit her a lot there). Back in July, my grandfather who was living there passed sadly. (That's a whole other thing I've written some about before if anyone cares to look up my lore lol).

Now, we've been trying to figure out how to keep up with the house. Currently, the deed is split between my mother (who got my grandfathers part), one of my aunts, my cousin, and one of my uncles (i think). They (except the cousin) send money to pay taxes on it, and that's it.

The house is OLD, and needs a good number of repairs although most are not massively worrying. But it's stuff that I could possible do myself over time, honestly. The main thing is some minor roof repairs to fix a leak, and the front porch having a damaged strut that's currently held up by a bottle jack lol. And part of the kitchen floor in front of the sink needs fixed. But I digress.

The big dilemma is that, I could theoretically move there, and find a simple chill part time job that would cover my basic living expenses (electricity, internet, food, gas) and more or less kinda retire super early in a sense? Like, yeah I'd be taking care of the place and fixing it up, and over time amd updating a few things that absolutely need it but otherwise I'd just do a little bit of work somewhere on the side and just really get into gardening and such. Keep up with everything there and all the plants and fruit trees and such.

Like, I really REALLY want to, but I'm scared because of the stability of everything I have right now. Aside from just leaving a 40hr job (about 2400 mo, but still only get barely half of that after base bills/rent), id also be away from family for the first time honestly. Family is a big thing to me because we're so close.

Really though that's all that keeps me where I am. Like I said before It's not like I have friends or any real commitment aside from family and work that keeps me here.

I dunno. It's just been something I wanted to talk about but don't really have a way to. I haven't brought it up with the parents yet bc I feel like as much as they would support me they would just as quickly point out the stability and longevity of my job/union stuff.

*sigh*

I just dunno what to do, or even IF i should consider going down this road.

[archangeldyke-all]

hi angel!!!

sevika and vampire reader again because i can't get them out of my head <3333 can we get vampire reader turning sevika into a vampire and how their lives would be after her transition?

black reader pleaseee <3

yes yes yes let's do it! i'm going to include an idea mars, @sexysapphicshopowner gave me too! so be sure to check out their blog if u like the bucket list bits <3

same disclaimers as always with this series! i don't know much about vampire lore, so i'm just guessing and making shit up as it goes haha. also, i'm white, so i'll try my best to make this an obviously black reader, but if i mess anything up lmk!! i'll change it asap :)

man and minors dni

sevika's getting older.

a few grey hairs here, a few new wrinkles there, some new aches and pains she'd never had before-- it's an inevitable part of life. at least it is for most people.

but sevika's got you, now, and you've got an out for her-- a very permanent out, but an out nonetheless.

for a while now, she's been pressuring you to change her. about a month ago at work, she very narrowly dodged a fatal blow, and you started taking her demands seriously.

but-- there's a few things you want her to do before you guys go through with it.

you didn't get the chance to live out your final mortal desires before you were changed. you know just how depressing it can be to mourn being human, especially when you don't get to properly say goodbye. so, you've been helping sevika make a 'bucket list' of sorts-- all the things she wants to do one last time before she won't be able to do them anymore.

soaking in the sun, wearing silver jewelry, drinking a glass (or bottle) of whiskey-- stuff like that.

she's been steadily checking items off the list, and now you're down to the last few, and she wants to check 'em off all in one go.

she wants to eat a big, full meal-- steak and potatoes and a slice of chocolate cake on the side. then, she wants to feed you, one last time. and finally she wants to do what all humans are eventually bound to do: she wants to die.

that last one makes you nervous.

changing her requires that you drain her completely before you kiss her back to life. there's going to be a solid ten or so minutes where she's completely dead-- and she's apparently looking forward to it.

"i wanna know what it's like. see if i feel anything, see if i see anything." she says with a curious shrug.

it makes you nauseous to think about.

the entire reason you're doing this in the first place is so sevika never has to die. the idea of her body going still and cold beneath you, of her eyes glazing over and staring off into space, of her breaths ceasing, it hurts you to even fucking think about.

you're trying not to think about it at all.

"babe." sevika says to you over the table as you place her plate in front of her. you look down at her, smiling, and she reaches up to grab your hand. "this look fucking amazing." she says, not even looking at the plate. you snort. "you look... nervous." she says. you groan and slump down into her lap, scooping up a bite of potatoes and shoving it into her mouth. she chuckles.

"i'm trying not to freak the fuck out." you say. sevika hums, grabbing the fork from you to tear into her steak.

"it'll be fine babe." she mumbles around a mouthful. she groans. "fuck, this is divine."

"enjoy it." you say. she grins.

"i'm trying to savor it but i kinda wanna wolf it down and get your teeth in me." she says. you snort.

"eat slower." you demand. she giggles.

"baby." she says, putting her fork down to hold your hips. you lean forward, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. "i promise it'll be okay. it's gonna be fucking amazing, actually. just think about it-- in a few hours i'll be able to float around with you, we can start hunting together, i'm gonna be able to stay up all night with you. think of all the endless sex we'll have once i've got vampire stamina." she says, kissing your head. you snort.

"i'm just. i really don't want you to die." you say. sevika hums, rubbing her hand up and down your back.

"i know. but it's gotta happen one way or another. it's either this-- you killing me with your sexy fucking teeth then fucking me back to life or whatever--" you giggle. "-- or, i die at work or i get sick or something and you're not there to save me. and then we'll both be miserable forever." she says.

you sigh. she's right, of course, but you're still worried. you think you will be until she blinks back to life.

sevika reaches behind your back to grab another bite of her food. with her free hand, she reaches up to gently rub your cheek.

"you're everything to me, you know that right?" she asks around another mouthful of steak. you smile.

"feeling's mutual." you say. sevika smiles, gently toying with the tiny curl near your ear, pulling it straight then watching it coil back up again when she releases it.

"and i wanna spend infinity with you. if you'll have me." she says. you snort, and flick her head.

"course i will." you say. sevika grins.

"so there's no problem." she says.

you'd be lying if you said there wasn't at least a small part of you that's looking forward to tonight. you've been fasting for a month-- in preparation to drain sevika. you're ravenous. and sevika's your favorite fucking meal.

especially now, with her all glowy and happy after a big meal, a little tipsy from the bottle of wine you'd bought her-- she looks delectable.

she grins up at you from her spot on the bed. "hungry?" she asks. you chuckle.

"starving." you say, licking your lips. "i gotta say. i'm really gonna miss your blood."

sevika chuckles. "we'll find something else you like. together." she says, reaching up to thread her fingers through yours. you sigh, leaning down to kiss her, gently trailing your fangs over her lower lip. sevika shudders.

"c'mon, babe. i'm ready." she says, kissing the back of your hand, tilting her chin up, and widening her legs. you laugh.

"i'm not fucking you tonight." you say. sevika gasps.

"what?! why not?" she asks, pouting. you snort.

"because, i gotta stay focused." you say. sevika groans petulantly.

"but!" she tries. you press a finger to her lips.

"i'll fuck you when you wake up." you promise. sevika sighs.

"that works, i guess. is vampire sex any different than human sex?" she asks. you giggle.

"i dunno, it's been so long since i was a human it's all a bit of a blur now. you'll have to tell me." you say. sevika smiles.

"alright." she says. "c'mon." she says, tilting her chin up again. you giggle, leaning down to press a few kisses over her pulse point. sevika sighs, relaxing into the bed beneath her. "i love you more than i've ever loved anything or anyone, you know." she says shakily. you smile against her neck, licking her artery.

"you're sure?" you ask, one final time. sevika reaches up to hold your hips like she always does when she's beneath you.

"more sure than i've ever been about anything in my life."

"i love you sev." you whisper.

"i love you too, baby." she responds.

you take a deep breath, and sink your teeth into her throat.

sevika shudders and sighs, her nails digging into your skin as you retract your teeth and lick against her wounds, before you start sucking down her blood.

she tastes so fucking good. you're tempted to stop, just so you can keep her around as a bloodbag for a bit longer, but you know she'd be pissed if you did. so, instead, you let your instincts take over, and you start to devour her.

sevika's squeaking and gasping beneath you, her hands clawing into your flesh, her thighs squeezing together as you drink.

"th-that's it, honey, drain me. take it all from me. make me yours. make me yours." she whimpers. you growl against her neck, reaching down to hold her shoulder, gently tracing your thumb back and forth on her collar bone. sevika sighs. "c-can't believe you aren't gonna fuck me, shit! gonna make me cum in my p-pants." she says. you groan and readjust, shoving your thigh between sevika's. she laughs as she starts grinding down against you. "fuck i love you." she mumbles.

sevika cums a second later, shivering underneath you as you continue to slurp her down. you're messy-- messier than you've ever been before. something about the fact that you're changing her is making you fucking feral. you can taste the rush of hormones as she cums, and you shiver on top of her at the taste.

sevika goes limp beneath you, her grip loosening as she tries to catch her breath. she's getting lightheaded and dizzy, you can tell from the way she keeps giggling.

"f-fuck." she mutters. you hum against her. "feel drunk 'r somethin'." she says. you snort. "'m so fuckin' in love with you. you gotta marry me now, y'know." she says. you chuckle.

sevika's breaths start getting shaky, the hands on your hips slipping down to her sides. you reach out to hold her hand, intertwining your fingers again. she hums.

a minute later, and all of sevika's sounds stop. you can still hear her heartbeat, but it's much slower and softer than it usually is. your stomach flips, and you continue to drink from her.

when the gentle rhythm of her heart stops completely, you nearly choke with fear.

it's happening. fuck, it's happening.

you take a few more sips from her, draining her completely as she grows cold beneath you, and then you pull away with a gasp.

the usual high that accompanies a recent feed is nowhere to be found, dread taking its place.

sevika's eyes are shut, her skin clammy and cold, and she's not breathing, not moving, her heart completely silent.

you take a second to wipe your face of her blood, licking it off your arm, looking down at your girlfriend. she looks... peaceful. you hope she's feeling peaceful too.

you wanted to give her a solid minute or so to experience death, but your anxiety's too high. you only manage a few seconds before you lean down, cupping her face between both of your hands, and leaning down to gently, shakily press your lips against hers.

sevika's lips are cold and unresponsive.

you start to freak out.

you kiss her again, licking your tongue against her lip.

she stays still.

you gasp, sitting up to tap her cheek with your palm. "sevika." you call. she doesn't respond. tears start to well up in your eyes as you duck back down, sucking her lip into your mouth, running your tongue against it.

she still doesn't move.

you begin to panic.

"sevika!" you shout against her mouth. you bite her bottom lip, then follow it up with a quick peck. sevika remains still beneath you, and tears begin to well in your eyes. "wake up, you bitch!" you cry against her as you press your mouth to her again.

suddenly, sevika gasps and snaps upwards, her lips moving against yours, her hands coming up to hold your hips. you sigh in relief against her, and sevika flips you, pinning you to the bed. you squeal.

"oh thank fuck." you whisper up at her. she grins down at you.

"that is a hell of a way to wake up." she says. you chuckle, a few stray tears escaping your eyes as relief floods your body, and you reach up to grab her by the hair and pull her back down against you.

sevika chuckles against your lips. "you really thought i'd leave you behind?" she asks. you sob.

"fuck off. you had me worried!" you say. sevika snorts.

"i don't think you even fully let me die, babe." she says. "could hear you the whole time."

you giggle, and sevika gently swipes your tears away.

"how do you feel?" you ask. sevika grins, her fangs descending, and you gasp. fuck that's hot. you think.

"honestly?" she asks. you nod up at her. "better than i've ever felt before. what did you do to me?" she asks. you giggle.

"exactly what you asked me to!" you say. sevika grins.

"i didn't know i'd feel so... refreshed!" she says. you chuckle.

"i'm so fucking glad you woke up." you say. "i was gonna kill you if you died on me."

sevika snorts. "how would that work, exactly?" she asks. you groan and shrug, then reach up to pull her against you again, hugging her to your chest. sevika hums, nuzzling against your neck.

"i love you so fucking much." she says. "so fucking much."

"let's get married." you say. sevika grins against your neck.

"that's my line." she says. you giggle and blindly reach out to pat down your bedside table, pulling the drawer open and fumbling for the tiny box you've been hiding for months now. you pull it out and pull sevika away from your neck by her ponytail, before shoving it in her hand.

"i'm dead fucking serious." you say. sevika blinks, her eyes going wide.

"fuck-- really?" she asks. you nod.

"i mean. we're already spending eternity together, what's a ring and some paperwork?" you ask. sevika grins, then tears the box from your hand, tears welling in her eyes.

she opens it and bursts into laughter as she reveals the gold ring, strung on a gold chain so she can wear it all the time. you smile as you watch her squint, trying to make out the inscription.

your secret admirer it reads. sevika bursts into laughter.

"oh fuck-- i love you so fucking much." she cries. you grin up at her.

"yeah?" you ask. "is that a yes?"

"of course it's a fucking yes! are you kidding me?" she asks. you grin, and sevika swoops down to press her lips against yours. "thank you." she mumbles. "thank you thank you thank you thank you."

"for what?" you ask. "i should be thanking you!" you exclaim.

"for stalking me! for falling in love with me and being so fucking sweet and all the gifts and how much you take care of me and changing me and being my fiance and--"

you cut her off with another kiss. sevika hums against you.

"i love you." she finishes.

"i love you too. for infinity." you say. sevika grins.

"for infinity." she agrees, pulling the chain over her neck. you smile as the ring dangles down over you, gently tugging her closer by it.

"you want me to show you how to float?" you ask. sevika grins.

"fuck yes. but first i want to pay you back for that orgasm." she says, leaning down to kiss you.

you giggle, and sevika grins, and right before your lips connect, you think that even forever with sevika might not be enough time.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby

[ibrowjo]

Strands of Freedom

Part 3: Renewed

warnings: discussions of various mental illnesses including trichotillomania, Dean being a cutie pie

word count: 2.9k

a/n: well shit guys it's been like a billion years since I've even touched tumblr. I've had a lot of big things happen in my life, and one of those is that I graduated from this round of therapy. one of the major things I worked on this time around was my trichotillomania, and while it wasn't a cure, I'm proud to say that I've seen major regression in my compulsions. my hair is growing back and filling in where it had thinned out, and I'm not as paranoid to wear my hair down! healing is never linear, but this is a step in a positive direction. this is the final part to the Strands of Freedom trilogy, and it felt fitting to end it on a high note. dealing with mental illnesses can feel like a pattern of losses back to back to back, so I took myself down this little path of self-indulgence and gave myself a win. I hope you like it!

“Hey,” I heard as someone lightly shook my knee. Had I really fallen asleep? “I’ve got dinner ready.”

I opened my eyes to see Dean sitting on the edge of the old brown sofa in the corner of my room, the book on Egyptian Mythology I’d been reading open and heavy across my stomach.

“I fell asleep,” I whispered as a yawn broke out and my brain tried to catch me up on reality.

Dean washed my hair. Dean is making me dinner. Dean.

“Really?” he laughed softly. “Hadn’t noticed.” I watched his eyes move down to the book I was reading. “Egypt, huh?” he asked as he closed it and set it on the floor.

“Yeah,” I said lamely as I sat up. “Egyptian lore.”

Dean laughed to himself at my sleepy elaboration. “Come on, before it gets cold.” He pushed himself up and then reached out for me, so I put my hand in his and let him pull me up too. He didn’t let go, and instead, pulled me behind him out of my room.

Taking longer strides, I caught up, walking by his side, my hand still in his. I used my other hand to rub the sleep from my eyes. “What did you make me?” I asked playfully.

He only shook his head, a smile across his face as he led me to the library. At the large table in the middle of the room, he’d set up two places to eat, complete with a beer for him and a bottle of Mountain Dew next to a glass of ice for me. He showed me to my seat at the head of the table and pulled the chair out for me, pushing it back in as I sat down.

“I’ll be right back,” he remarked as he hurried out of the room. I poured myself a glass after he disappeared and sipped the soda as I looked up at the two candles he had lit. He returned, his boots thudding on the floor, with a plate of food in each hand and a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. As he set a plate down in front of me, I smiled. Bacon burgers, dripping with cheese and pickle juice, sat atop the old ceramic plates next to some seasoned sweet potato fries.

“This is fancy,” I mused. “If it weren’t for the bacon, I’d have doused you in holy water already.”

“Nah,” Dean replied, sitting in the chair to my left. “Just trying something different tonight.”

I giggled. “Ah yes, I’ve never had one of your burgers before.”

He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. “Different enough, alright? The candles are Sam’s. I don’t even want to know what he uses them for.”

“Don’t be weird,” I warned, smiling. “Plenty of spells use candles. And they’re nice, so thank you. It’s a sweet thought.”

Dean smiled to himself, his pride evident in the way he lit up at my compliment. “Eat up,” he said, pivoting his attention back to me. He rubbed his hands together looking at his burger before picking it up and shoving it into his mouth for a bite. He groaned in satisfaction. “That’s good,” he said, his mouth full. I watched him swallow and take another bite before I picked my burger up.

In all honesty, Dean’s burgers were always phenomenal. I didn’t consider myself a “foodie” by any means, but I loved snacking throughout the day since we spent so much time on the road. It was easy to pack a bag of chips, granola bars, and candy so I could eat a little bit any time I wanted, and that habit carried into my daily life, as much as I hated to admit it.

But when Dean made burgers… oh boy, did I settle in for a full meal.

I took a bite as Dean watched me, and pickle juice dripped down my chin as I chewed. 

“Good?” he asked in anticipation.

I nodded my head. “Always,” I said through my chewing.

“Awesome,” he smiled, picking up a couple of fries and devouring them.

We made small talk, chatting about past cases and laughing at a story Dean told about Castiel. It was comfortable. Well, no. More a sense of thrilling familiarity as it sunk in that spending time alone with Dean was never casual, especially now, but I had never felt more at home. There was always an underlying tension between us, relieved by silly flirting and exhausting hunts, so neither of us acted on it.

No, not until…

“So, don’t freak, but I’ve got something on my mind.”

I looked at Dean anxiously as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed it onto his empty plate.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. He sipped his beer. “What’s up, Dean?”

His hand reached to rub the back of his neck as he looked at me.

“Well, I said something to you earlier that slipped out in the heat of the moment, and I… well… I wanted to check in with you. Gauge how you’re feeling, you know?”

I racked my brain, going over every interaction I’d had with Dean in the past 48 hours to come up with what he could possible be talking about, but I came up short. “You’re going to have to help me out here,” I urged. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Really?” he asked. He seemed a bit disappointed, his shoulders sagging slightly and his eyebrows furrowing more than normal. “In the bathroom after I washed your hair… you really don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“You mean when you asked me to have dinner with you? Dean, dinner was delicious. I thought I told you that already.” When I said this, he looked down at his hands in his lap before standing up with a sigh, turning away from me like he needed to hide. “Dean?” I asked, prodding him to explain. “Are you okay?”

“It was just a heat of the moment thing,” he replied, though it seemed he was talking more to himself. “But-”

He turned back to me, his expression one of resolve.

“I did all this to show you that I-” He leaned forward onto the back of his chair, his head hanging between his shoulders.

The realization hit me like a hungry vamp in a dark alley.

“I just want to try and show you that I love you, and I want to be there for you and help you enjoy something for a while.”

“...show you that I love you…”

“I’m so sor- Dean, I didn’t even realize.”

“I told you I love you,” he contended. “What did you think I meant by that?”

“I don’t know…? I guess I thought you meant it the way Sam and I do when we say it to each other, you know? Like ‘hey, love you bro, glad you aren’t dead’ or some shit. I thought you were just being nice.”

Dean scoffed. “Nice? I’m not a ‘nice’ person, okay? Am I decent? Sure. Insanely good-looking? Obviously. But paying compliments to people is the last thing on my to-do list.” He threw his hands up in the air and stomped his boots across the room before whirling on his heel and pointing a finger at me. “Except this isn’t about me, okay? It’s about us. You and me.”

As many times as I’d thought of it, I never imagined being in this situation. Sure, cold and lonely nights would leave me wishing I was curled up next to him, and every time he went out to a bar, I’d drive myself insane just thinking about the possibility of him with someone else, but Dean Winchester being the one to admit his feelings first? The idea never crossed my mind.

Dean’s words hung over us in the air like a loose chandelier, inching closer and closer to dropping.

It’s about us. You and me.

“Us?” I barely managed to ask.

He breathed out a silent laugh and let his head loll back as if keeping an eye on the proverbial chandelier. “Yes,” he said, fixing his gaze back on me. “Damn, if I’d have known it would take you this long to get it…” He trailed off, snickering to himself again.

“Hey,” I defended. “Don’t laugh at me! If I would’ve known you felt this way, I wouldn’t have shoved my feelings so far down! I accepted my fate as the hopeless-romantic-hunter-girl-who-‘didn’t-have-time’-for-relationships-because-she-was-too-busy-slaughtering-monsters years ago.”

“Well, I guess that means neither of us are very good at this, then, huh?” He rested his hands low on his hips, waiting with bated breath.

“But,” I started, but then shut my mouth.

“But what?”

“I just… I won’t stop. Pulling my hair, I mean. I can’t stop.” He looked at me as I spoke, his eyebrows drawn together in vexation. “And I’ll just be gross like I was earlier today.”

“I’d wash your hair every single day if you asked me to-”

“It’s not just my hair, Dean,” I interrupted. “I mean, come on. You don’t want this.” I gestured down at myself. “Dirty hair is the least of my worries, really. I wish it was just dirty hair. But it’s the itch to rip myself apart for one sliver of satisfaction, only for it to send me into this debilitating self-loathing. I don’t just pull my hair, I gnaw at the inside of my mouth until I bleed, and I pull the skin around my fingernails so much that my nails won’t even grow straight anymore. I’m slowly destroying myself day by day, and it probably won’t be long until there isn’t much left of me. I’ll just be a lump of patchy hair and scabs.”

“Okay, woah, slow the fuck down, Sweetheart,” Dean jumped in. “You just said so much, but I don’t give a shit about any of it, okay? Hell, if we’re going there with you, why not the rest of us? Because, oh baby are we all sorts of fucked up around here. Sammy’s a know-it-all who won’t touch sugar or red meat with a 10-foot pole, which I think is bananas, but that’s just Sam. And Cas is chronically literal. I can’t tell him a joke, because then I have to explain it, and then he finds some way to unravel it somehow so the joke doesn’t even make sense to me anymore. Oh, and me? When was the last time you saw me drink water or go a day without tuning Baby up in some way? Hm?”

I sighed, defeated. He was trying to understand, I could tell, but he didn’t. “This isn’t just some silly quirk, okay? I’m just… not well. At all. Those things aren’t destroying you guys, but this is ripping me apart. Literally. And if we’re both being honest here, that’s going to wear on you at some point.”

“Then let’s find someone who can help you. Like… I don’t know, a doctor or psychiatrist or something.”

“Dean, you know how impractical that would be. I’d have to miss hunts to keep a consistent schedule with a therapist. And what happens if they put me on pills and I run out when we’re stuck somewhere across the country?” I slouched and shoved my palms into my eyes, taking a deep breath. “Please, just- it wouldn’t work between us, okay? It’s too hard.”

“You’re right,” Dean whispered, his gaze piercing mine. “As long as that’s exactly what happens, then you’re absolutely right. But now it’s my turn to tell you all the reasons we would work.”

I groaned. “No-”

“Let me make my case, damn it. If you still feel the same when I’m done, then I’ll let it go and act like none of this ever happened. Just smooth sailing from here on out, okay? But I at least have to say my piece.”

I huffed but nodded my head, indicating to Dean that I knew he was right. I resolved right then and there that no matter what he said, I still wouldn’t let him get dragged down with me.

His eyes softened, and I began wringing my hands together to get me through the rest of this conversation. How could I let him down easy? He took my hands in his, effectively stilling them, and led me to sit back down at the table. He took his seat once again, not letting go of me.

A nervous smile crossed Dean’s face as he looked at me anxiously. “So, am I supposed to just list them off, or…?” He was trying to lighten the mood, which I appreciated even if for himself, but I couldn’t say anything. What did he want me to say? He cleared his throat, his demeanor becoming resolved.

“Well, first off, we’re both hunters, and I mean, that’s as good as it can get for two people in a relationship, right? Besides one of us biting it, obviously. But who else could be in a relationship with someone who ganks boogeymen and still understand the life?”

I looked at him unimpressed. “Real convincing,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m not done,” Dean insisted fervently. He took a deep breath as if to ground himself. “You know I don’t do this crap, so just give me a second before you decide not to hear me out, okay? Please.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Well, uh…I guess I’ll just…dive right in? Yeah? Yeah. Yes. Okay… Listen, I’ve been around the country killing things since I was a kid. Just day in, day out, left and right. Fighting demons, kicking ass, playing hero - a man gets desensitized to that shit after a while. And for as long as I’ve done it and tried to find ways to have a good time here and there, I’ve never really felt good. When I have felt… things, it’s because someone bit the dust or demons were taking over the world or… well, you know what I mean, and I just bury that deep down because it’s a bitch to deal with. But you… you’re exciting.

“I like hanging out with you, and I want to pretty much all the time. And I mean sun up to sun down, you’re the first and last thing I see everyday. Living with you was enough for a little bit, but now?” Dean sighed with a smile, shaking his head as he looked down at his lap. “Man, it just isn’t anymore. I’d wash your hair every single day if it meant more time with you. It’s not a burden. And neither is any of that other stuff you’ve got going on. I don’t care about how it’ll affect me as long as it means I’m with you.

“That’s why I offered to wash your hair. That’s why I made you dinner, alright? I mean, you and me? That doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, right?”

Every ounce of my being wanted to agree with him. To throw myself into his arms and let him hold onto me. To accept that maybe someone, Dean, could really be the right person for me. Yet, even with all this hope, reality struck me across the cheek and snapped me from the fantasy.

I reached out for Dean, and his hands clasped mine upon the tabletop.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. Before I could pull my hands away, he squeezed them tighter. “Sweetheart, I know you’re freaked. And if it makes you feel any better, both Sam and Castiel give us their full support. You aren’t alone in this.”

“Oh GOD,” I groaned, pulling back from Dean and rising to my feet once more. “You told them about this?”

He laughed. “How else do you think I got them to give us a night alone?” A sincere smile crawled across his face. “You really wanna say ‘no’ then I’ll drop it. But you don’t have to be nervous, alright? Hell I’m terrified right now. But I think we can both agree that giving in to that fear is the fatal blow in every other part of our lives.”

I screwed my eyes shut as his reasoning echoed throughout my mind. All this because he let slip that he loved me? 

“Heat of the moment, huh?” I teased.

“Maybe, but I’ve been going over this in my head every day.”

I opened my eyes and fixed my gaze on him. With his jaw set and a fire in the way he looked at me, I knew he was determined.

Determined to be with me.

Determined to learn the ins and outs.

Determined to step up and be someone I could depend on.

Determined to love me through it all.

Tears began to brim in my eyes as the air around me grew lighter. Maybe I didn’t have to go it alone any longer. Maybe I could take this next step and everything would turn out just fine.

“You know, the second you started talking, I vowed I wouldn’t give in to you,” I joked, wiping my tears away.

Dean stood to meet me on my level and cautiously approached me. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Sweetheart, but I vowed to win you over way before that, so I think that cancels yours out.”

Laughter erupted from my throat. 

“Good,” I sighed. “I didn’t want to make a liar of myself.”

Gently, Dean’s hands met mine, and he pulled my arms to circle his waist as he rested his chin atop my head.

“God, I love you,” he smiled, taking a deep breath and sinking into our embrace.

“I love you too.”

taglist: @dianawinchester03

[brothermoth]

See I need to share my dad's lore because someone needs to study this man like a bug. We plan to donate his body to science so a bunch of medical students can see the most brain damage a person can possibly have without losing major bodily function.

Now, my grandparents moved around a bit when their kids were little, but my dad spent most of his childhood in rural New York and the middle of bumfuck nowhere in a cottage (it's a shack, make no mistake) on the shore of lake Erie. His parents did not know what the fuck he was doing at any given moment. This guy was diagnosed with ADHD in the SEVENTIES. Do you even know how bad he had to be to get diagnosed in the 70s??

He was a menace of a child but his parents put him in tball instead of getting the little bastard some much needed Adderall. He was super athletic all his life (didn't pass those genes on to me, unfortunately) but this also went along with deeply concerning injuries in the way every boy in the 70s had at one point or another.

He has:

-had his EAR ripped almost completely off while playing middle school football — he duck-taped it back on and it just kinda healed itself

-fell into a storm cellar backwards and got knocked out when he was like 5

-been hit in the head by a hockey stick and knocked out

-had his head smash through a wooden door playing floor hockey in gym class

-broke his leg that one time and then tried out for his highschool wrestling team with the cast on (he got on and ended up being captain)

-broke his thumb and didn't tell anyone, then had to have it re broken at the doctor's

-got knocked out in at least 4 fights

-had his knee replaced in his early 30s, drove himself to the gas station to buy a 12 pack, then fell down the stairs with said 12 pack, smashed half the bottles, and popped stitches out

-broken the same toe at least twice; the nail turned black and fell off the first time

-broke his nose falling out of bed like three months ago

-lost a tooth playing hockey

-cut the tip of his thumb off with a hand saw while camping; duck-taped it and continued camping for another 3 days

-has had at least 20 fishhooks caught in his hands

-had Bell's Palsy a few years ago (he was fine he just couldn't eat soup for a while and it was hilarious)

-had too many drinks and burned off his fingerprints on the side of a mini fire pit (the kind that looks like a paint can), laughed about it, and went golfing the next day with huge blisters on his fingers

~~~~~

I'm missing so many. So many. It's a miracle he reproduced. He has so much brain damage but he's fine, he just ignores it.

~~~~~~~~~~Robert's Greatest Hits~~~~~~~~~~

[In Boston] "Oh yeah that used to be an IRA bar. I think I'm still banned for getting into a fight."

"You know my buddy REDACTED? Yeah he got electrocuted once. Almost died, I visited him in the ICU a couple times, he's fine now though."

"I went into a gas station in rural Florida once, super hungover. My buddy went in and came out with tears in his eyes saying don't go in there, so of course I had to. Guy at the counter had a wooden peg leg like a pirate, and there was a nail screwed in. Attached to the nail was a chain and at the end of the chain was a super sickly looking chicken. Weirdest thing I've ever seen, I think."

"You know that plane crash that killed JFK Jr? His girlfriend he was with—i dated her in college."

"Who's that singer? Dupa Loopa or whatever"

~~~~~~Unhinged Information~~~~~~~~

—his childhood babysitter was the actress who now voices Eda from the Owl House (I've met her twice she's very nice. I fell down the back steps of her mom's cottage once)

—He used to bring home water moccasins (y'know, the venomous snakes) and show them to his very terrified mother

—they had a golden retriever named Toby and nobody can remember if she was a boy or a girl

—while cleaning out the basement he found his ID card from the World Trade Center when he went for a business trip...ON AUGUST 10TH OF 2001

—he lived in Boston in his 20s and took a bet while absolutely hammered to run the Boston Marathon, did it hungover and placed like 200-somethingth

—ate a spider by accident one time because he thought it was a bread crumb from his sandwich

—will drive out of his way just to see car accidents

—man's a sympathy vomiter

—will pet literally any animal. If it's small and sweet he's immediately just ready to commit a crime for it

—likes to pick fights with cops but only if they're rude first. He has gone to court to fight 14 dollar parking tickets just out of spite (and somehow he always talks himself out of it)

—swears to god he's seen aliens

—has hardcore puzzle autism. He'll stay up until 1 am just to get 12 more pieces and will finish a 1200 piece puzzle in a day

—also fish autism I swear to God

—you can put this guy in the middle of nowhere and he somehow always knows where north is

[commander-rahrah]

Talking to the Moon: Part V

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader Word Count: ~6200 Warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, arranged marriage, slight family angst aka daddy issues? I'm terrible at these

archiveofourown: here

masterlist: here

part I: here part II: here part III: here part IV: here

Summary: Set at the end of Act II, after Moonrise Towers and Kethric. Reader/Tav leans on Astarion and reveals more about their family and their story from before the Nautiloid.

Notes: I've emerged from my cave I made on the couch in my basement and finally finished this update! I got bronchitis a week or so ago and it kicked my booty, but I'm finally feeling better!! YAY! I have no voice still, but good thing I don't need that to write fanfiction!

So this update reveals more of our Selune blessed Tav's backstory that is based off my original D&D character. I was really hung up on whether or not I should include more backstory and lore for this GN!Tav/Reader, since it isn't very typical for a lot of the gn!reader fics I've read. But it was giving me such writers block if I did not include it, as I honestly have the rest of this fic completely planned out and the endgame I have for this pairing relies on more of this backstory, so I decided to include it! Also, its my fic… and my character sooo I hope you enjoy my baby and the little story I wrote for them five years ago. This character will have a special place in my heart forever, and I'm excited to share more of them with you all!

I also desperately wanted to include a scene of Astarion and Tav/Reader kissing for the first time since his confession and them setting boundaries about physical intimacy and contact. I know the game just lets you click the kiss option right away, but I like to think its something that Astarion would build himself up to again and would maybe even have to relearn — not kissing like it was a performance, but instead an expression.

Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts! It means so much to me and every time I see a notification! It fills me with infinite joy ♡♡♡ I know there is lots of posts circulating about this and tags get filled with it, but reblogs and comments are so so appreciated!! :)

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He wasn’t sure how you did it. Astarion was exhausted, beyond that actually — shattered. His feet were stiff and aching, his mind fuzzy with weariness. Yet you were still smiling, accepting the gratitude of every single person at the Last Light Inn with humble nods and smiles. He’d never had a longer day in his life. The temple, the Shadowfell, Shadowheart, Moonrise Towers, the goddamn Absolute. Gale... Gods, you had talked down Gale from fulfilling the desire and demands of an actual goddess. All in one day. All he wanted to do was to fall into a bed with you, and sleep. To just pretend for one moment that there wasn’t any marching armies or impending vampire masters waiting in Baldur's Gate. To ignore the thrum of anxiety and fear that coursed through him as he remembered exactly what was carved into his back — what Raphael had finally revealed to him. Just for today, he had wanted to rest. But no — the end of this never ending day was to finish with a celebration. An annoying, lively celebration.  The vampire was being stereotypical as ever — standing in a shadowy corner, moody and silent as he nursed a red glass. It was wine. Gale had found a decadent bottle, buried away and forgotten about on some dusty shelf. The wizard had made an eloquent toast to the group gathered on the bottom floor of the inn. But he was now standing with Wyll — the two of them conversing politely with a pair of obviously flirtatious tieflings. Karlach had her arm wrapped around Damon, the two of them chatting enthusiastically and laughing.  Astarion was surprised to not see Shadowheart by Karlach — the two of them inseparable as of late. No, what was more shocking was that the dark-haired cleric was sat next to Lae’zel. Their mouths barely opening as they spoke to each other in low voices, buried under the noise of the celebration in the inn.  He almost choked on the sip he had just taken as his red eyes finally returned to you — where several people were forming a makeshift line to speak with you. The next one more bashful than the last as they leaned in to speak with you, all flushed cheeks and batting eyelashes.  You always had a certain charm about you, an innate ability to draw out easy smiles and laughs from others. You were also undeniably attractive — anyone who said otherwise would be a blind idiot. But other people being enraptured by you had never bothered him before. He had just silently agreed with them — that yes, you were indeed a prize like no other.  But you were his now, weren’t you? As he was yours. Even without the label or words that he still couldn’t figure out how to say. That he was too afraid to say. Regardless, why were you entertaining these fools?

He'd not felt this before — was it jealousy? Gods, he was being like a petulant child who didn't want to share their toy. You were a person, you could make your own decisions. That was the entire point of all of this. 

What was he going to do — follow you around like a lost puppy? Drape himself over you, clutch onto you like a coat so others would see he was with you? 

You must have felt his red eyes piercing through you as you suddenly flicked your eyes over to meet his gaze. Your face instantly brightened, a smile tugging on your lips. An overwhelming sense of relief went through him as you waved apologetically to the small group in front of you, before weaving your way over to his dark corner. 

"Yes, darling?" He drawled as you approached, trying to hide any emotion betraying on his face as he tipped his wine glass in front of it and took another sip. 

"Why are you hiding away in this corner? Not feeling like being paraded around like a hero?" You said sarcastically. 

Astarion rolled his eyes at you, replying dryly, "I am many things, but a hero, I am not."

You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice until it was just a whisper. "I would beg to differ. But you have a reputation to uphold, don't you?"

He barked out a laugh, before flicking you in the nose gently. "You cheeky pup." 

"Ow." You feigned, scrunching your face up at him. "That hurt." 

A wave of courage swept through him as he pushed back the little voice in his head. He leaned forward and pecked his lips onto the tip of your nose. He hoped the tingle that spread across his lips as they met your skin would spread to you. It seemed it did as your skin then flashed a delicious, brilliant shade from surprise. A tiny squeak even escaped you, your eyebrows shooting up. 

You had not kissed, not since his confession. Not since all of this had started. Not a brush of lips against hands or cheeks, nothing. The look on your face and the sudden increase in the thrum of your heart had him feeling light headed. Did he truly have such an effect on you? 

For a moment, he let his gaze from you lapse as he swept his eyes across the inn. To the disappointed glances of a few partygoers, and the knowing looks of his companions, watching the pair of you interact. 

A flash of gratification went through him, satisfied at the effect he had not just on you but at those who had eyed you before. It squashed the jealously that had made a pit in his stomach, instead twisting it with a new, slowly recognizable feeling. 

"There, all better?" He smirked. 

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding at him. 

Astarion rubbed his lips together, the tingling sensation on them lingering still. "How much longer does the Hero of the Shadowlands need to stay down here?"

You looked over your shoulder to the gathered patrons, the crowd thinning out more and more as the evening faded into a dark, late night. "Bored already?" 

He let out a weary sigh, letting his shoulders droop. "Exhausted, darling. And I know you are too." 

You were always a sight to see, holding a beauty he could have never imagined or conjured up in his head. But he could see the purple circles under your eyes, the usual sparkle in them had long gone dull. 

Your eyes flickered to your boots, nodding your head in defeat. "You're right." 

"I believe they have set some rooms aside for us, if you wish—"

"Do you?" You caught him off, trying to hide your own eagerness.  

His gaze softened, a smile tugging on his lips, "Very much so."

The pair of you bid goodnight to your companions quietly, subtle nods and waves as they continued their own conversations or headed to their own rooms. Astarion walked slightly behind you on the stairs, his hand resting gently on the small of your back as you led the way.  The path you took was familiar, the worn floor boards creaking before you were outside the private room the two of you had occupied once before.

Astarion let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door softly behind him, the sounds from the lingering party below muffled and leaving you in a peaceful quiet. But as he found reprieve in finally being alone, you suddenly crumbled.

You dived for the bed, a heartbreaking sob escaping you as your hands covered your face. 

Your name choked out him before he crossed the room quickly and joined you on the edge of the mattress. Gods, what was it about this Inn and room that had you breaking apart on it? "Darling, what's wrong?" He asked, concern etching every feature.

"I- I, didn't-"

He remembered your words earlier today — gods, was that today? How comforting his touch was for you, being reminded of his presence. He placed his hand carefully on your own that was trembling on your thigh as you tried to speak. 

You finally gasped out, "She wasn't there, she wasn't-"

Mol. The little tiefling girl. You had promised those rascal children downstairs you'd find her. And it was you who had told them she wasn't in Moonrise tonight, swallowing deeply as they dipped their heads with disappointment. But you had told them not to give up hope, that she was resourceful and strong. You had sounded so convincing that even he had believed you. 

But here you were, sobbing and breaking apart in front of him. "Oh, sweetheart. Gods, I should have seen this, I'm sorry."

You sniffled, glancing up at him with wide eyes. "Why are you apologizing?"

He gave you a sad smile, his eyes shining with understanding, "I know you better by now. It was a mask you were wearing tonight...," He tucked a stray hair back behind your ear. "I hate it when you wear it."

"I just wanted everyone to be okay, I tried so hard..." Your voice cracked and broke. 

"You've done so much, darling. Look at what we did today, that was because of you." 

You always took care of everyone else. But who took care of you? Astarion thought, perhaps... him. He could… he would.

He had been.

"Oh my little moon, you don't have to carry the world by yourself, you know?" 

You sniffled and nodded, silver still lining the bottoms of your eyes. 

"May I?" He echoed the question you so often asked of him. You'd never touched him without asking the question first. Your consent you'd granted him was a separate conversation, one where you had told him casual, simple touches were okay. A silent conversation and agreement sometimes was exchanged with a look of your eyes. But with him, you had always asked. He thought that now he would return that favor to you, as you opened yourself to him — vulnerable and upset once again on the edge of this mattress. 

He hoped you appreciated the sentiment, as much as he did.

The vampire reached down, hovering his hands over your boots. Your brows furrowed slightly before you were nodding. Your eyes never left his pale fingers as he untied the laces of your boots, gently prying them off before setting them down neatly at the foot of the bed. Then he did the same to his own before he slid his way up the bed, leaning against the headboard before patting the spot next to him. 

"Come here." 

You hesitated, before beginning to scooch over to him. When he opened his arms as a silent invitation you hesitated again. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please come here." He nodded solemnly.  

Astarion willed himself to keep steady and clear, drawing a breath he truly did not need. He enveloped you in his arms as you laid next to him, trying to stop his limbs for stiffening. It was all so foreign, it was terrifying. 

But your familiar scent filled his nose, and he could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat with your chest pressed to his side. His fingers laxed as you settled into him, bunching into the material of your shirt. Your breaths started calming and eyes fluttering as you laid with him. 

"Is this okay?" You whispered — uncertainty laced every word. 

"I was just going to ask you the same thing."  He said softly, before swallowing thickly. "I don't know what I'm doing." You started to remove your limbs his, but he tightened his hold on you. "Don't, please."

"Astarion if you aren't comfortable—"

"I am, it's not that." He rubbed the soft material of your shirt between his fingers as he spoke, "I want so badly to be this for you, to be what you need. But I don't know how."

You craned your neck up to look at him, "I think you're doing a good job of it."

He looked down at you through his long lashes, "Truly?"

"Yes, Astarion." You sounded genuine, "No one... no one has ever made me feel the way you do."

He let out a sigh of contentment, settling in deeper with you before resting his chin on the top of your head. "I know we have so much left to do... But laying here with you. It makes it worth it."

"Are you scared?" You asked in a whisper. 

"Terrified, actually." He admitted. 

Your thumb rubbed across his stomach in smooth lines back and forth, "I will be with you every step of the way."

"That's part of what makes it all so terrifying." The vampire whispered, "Sometimes, I know that I couldn't do any of this without you by my side. But other times... when Ketheric turned into that thing, that abomination, with you looking so small in front of him..."

"I know." 

Astarion moved his head so he could look at your face, "You were right though." 

"Hmmm?" You hummed. 

"This is nice. Gods, when did I get so soft?" He chuckled, the movement of his chest vibrating your head until you joined him. 

Both of your faces were etched with bliss and contentment as you laid in the bed. On this bed where before he had laid awake, willing himself to fall into a trance, convincing himself to keep his distance from you, trying to protect himself from the inevitably of you. 

Now, you both fell asleep like that, still in your regular attire, wrapped in each other's arms with your head buried on his chest.

The stars caressing their moon. 

• • •

The journey towards Baldur's Gate was turbulent and nerve-wracking while also... hopeful. 

The group was buzzing with energy — the anticipation of returning to Baldur's Gate had made some of your companions restless in more ways then one. 

You were all sat for a short rest, relaxing in a patch of long, green grass just off of the dirt road you were traveling on. It was just your group now, the other parties and groups had begun moving at different paces and times until it was just your familiar companions now. 

Astarion was laid out in the grass, his head resting on your lap and your fingers absent-mindedly playing with his soft, white tresses. His eyes were closed, basking in the glow of the sun that was set high in the sky at this time of day. Occasionally the shadows on his face would bounce as his long lashes flickered, opening his eyes to glance at you with a dreamy expression on his face. 

It made your movements stutter each time you noticed it. But the grip he had on your heart — that was steady and true. He had possessed you in a way you still could not articulate, even all these weeks later. 

But you blinked back to reality as Gale's voice broke the silence. "You're a beautiful couple." 

You looked up, a sheepish smile spreading across your face from being noticed. Astarion craned his neck, his red eyes rolling back to look at the wizard before settling back into your lap with a disinterested look crossing his face. 

"Oh, I'm sorry... I'm made things awkward, haven't I?" Gale mumbled, his hands twirling with the blades of grass in front of him. 

You couldn't help the blush that was spreading across your cheeks at the attention. Especially as you realized the rest of your companions were looking over with small smirks. 

Gale continued as you remained silent, "I just meant that... Well, its nice to see my friends so happy. That's all." 

"Thank you, Gale." Astarion drawled, readjusting himself so he laid deeper on your lap. 

The wizard blinked in surprise, "You're welcome. Are you — is it a secret, or?"

"Not a secret, no." The vampire purred with a shake of his head. 

"We are just taking our time." You finished, a soft smile growing on your face to match the one spreading across Astarion's. 

"Hmm, that's nice." Gale trailed off, a wistful expression on his face. 

Before the silence could really settle in again, the rest of the party started a conversation up. 

"Won't be long now until we get to Baldur's Gate." Wyll said, his face hard to read. 

"Are you nervous?" Karlach stretched her long leg, nudging him in the ankle playfully. 

His mouth scrunched and nose crinkled, "I... I don't know how to feel."

"I can't fucking wait! I'll be able to show you guys my old stomping grounds!" The barbarian said excitedly, falling back dramatically into the grass with her limbs spread wide. She addressed you, shouting up to the blue sky, "What about you, Giggles? Excited to see home again?"

"Oh," Your fingers froze, hovering over Astarion's hair. "I had only lived in the city for just under a year. Home will always be in the north."

"The north? I don't think I've heard you speak of your home much." Shadowheart asked quietly, a quizzical look on her face. 

"I, yes— near the Ice Spires." Your mouth twitched.

"You hail from a noble line, yes?" Gale asked. Everyone was eyeing you with curiosity, even Astarion still stretched out on your lap. His red eyes shifting slightly as he studied you. 

You swallowed, painting on a polite smile before speaking, "My father is a Viscount. He is a formidable figure in the region." 

"Ah." The warlock grimaced, his eyes sad. "Why do I get the feeling our stories are more similar than I realize?"

You bristled. "I'm not exiled or anything... It's just been some time. That's all."

"That's all?" 

A humorless laugh escaped you, "I am a second born child. And my older brother is much more obedient and better suited to the game of politics than I am." You couldn't help the sad, bitter smile that spread across your face. The thought of home stung in more ways then one. 

Astarion noticed how tense you had become, his hand squeezing your knee as he pushed himself up with a dramatic huff. "We are never going to get to the city if we sit here lounging all day." 

You shot him a grateful look, and he gave you the slightest nod in recognition as he offered his hand to lift you up. He did so easily, brushing off blades of grass lingering on you both gently. 

"You were the one complaining not long ago about how long we had been walking for!" Gale said, sounding completely exasperated as Wyll helped him up.   

"Me? I said that? I don't think so." The rogue playfully scoffed, shaking his head so his soft curls bounced dramatically. He looked over his shoulder at you with a conspiratorial smile before stretching his hand out for you. His fingers intertwined with yours easily as he pulled you along the dirt path, away from the questioning and burning curiosity of the rest of the party. 

• • •

Your group finally settled down for the night — picking a small clearing just off of the well-worn, dirt path you had been traveling down. Perhaps the last time you would be sleeping in the wilderness. You would be at Wyrm's Crossing by midafternoon tomorrow. 

Astarion had set up your tent on the edge of camp, attempting to give you both some sense of privacy from your busybody companions. He knew they meant well, that they hadn't meant for this afternoon to turn into an interrogation. That, like him, they were just curious to know more about you. As kind and good you were to all of them, you were still somewhat of a mystery. You had revealed the origins of your powers to the group yes, but you rarely spoke about yourself or your home.

Not even to him. 

The vampire had been content to let it lie. He knew it would come with time — and he certainly couldn't make any demands of you. Not after how gracious and patient you had been with him. But he couldn't deny that part of him wanted to know more. Astarion had somehow become an open book with you — revealing and exploring parts of himself that he had buried down so deep that he was surprised he could find them. 

He worried that it all had been about him for so long. His trauma, his past, his goals. That maybe you had kept parts of yourself hidden away, on the back burner for him. 

You had your back turned to him at the moment, the golden flickering of the candles in the tent illuminating the curve of your spine and freckles across your bare skin. Your muscles stretched and tensed beautifully as you lifted your arms over your head —pulling your nightclothes over yourself as you changed in the corner. It was a boundary that was set much earlier, that he had slowly started making less and less strict. 

He wasn't ready for anything more yet — he knew that. But his red eyes couldn't help but roam your figure. He couldn't help the familiar sensation of want twisting low in his stomach, the twitch of his fingers at his side as he imagined running his fingertips over your soft skin again.  

The smile you gave him as you turned around was dazzling, even in the dim light and tight space of the shared tent. You joined him cross-legged in the center of the tent, both of you not quite ready to go to sleep just yet. 

He picked at his nail for a moment, trying to seem nonchalant as he opened his pink mouth to speak. "So... the Ice Spires?"

You raised a single eyebrow, a hard to read look crossing the rest of your features. "Yes?" 

His fingers continued to fidget in front of him. "It's cold... all the time?"

"Not all the time. Our winters can be brutal though." You said with a scrunched nose. 

"Oh, what a lovely sell. I can't wait to go now!" He said sarcastically. 

"Ha." You laughed dryly, before your voice turned wistful. "It's beautiful honestly... I miss it."

The vampire studied your face as you undoubtedly saw visions of your home in your mind's eye. The edges of his lips curved up as he remembered your promise to take him there one day. He broke you out of your daydream with a quiet cough before he spoke again, "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want. But why did you leave there, darling?"

Your eyes flashed to the floor of the tent, your mouth forming a hardline. "Promise me you won't be upset?" Your voice was barely a whisper. 

His eyebrows furrowed together at your reaction. He took two fingers, dipping them under your chin so you would look up at him. "Why would I be upset? You leaving home for whatever reason is why you are here now. With me."

Your eyes softened with his answer, before you nodded. Yet you still licked your lips nervously before speaking, "Well... you know that Selûne told my mother I would be destined for a different path then the life of nobility. My mother agreed to it all those years ago, both my parents knew and yet... they still hoped they could reel it all back in. That enough etiquette and language lessons would shape me into the perfect child they hoped I would be. But it was never me. I tried for them, I really did. Instead I started to fantasize about the people in our history lessons like they were characters in a book, and I spoke too loud and laughed at the wrong moment at dinner." 

Astarion couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he imagined you as a child — your face round and soft with innocence, your brilliant smile with missing teeth. The havoc that you would have caused, racing down wealthy halls as you acted out scenes from your books and danced in an empty ballroom with your melodic laugh echoing in the space. A piece of himself he had long forgotten about twinged inside him. He couldn't remember his own childhood anymore — it was lost to the last two hundred years of darkness. But something warmed in him as he dreamed up what yours was like. 

He snapped back to reality as you spoke again. "But I had a duty. I'm the second born, I wasn't being primed to one day take over for our father and run the keep, but I could be used in other ways. I've known of it since I was twelve."

His white brows furrowed again, "Known what?"

"When I became of age I would be married off to secure wealth and political ties with other territories. I'm engaged... technically." You admitted. 

His eyes dropped immediately to your fingers, the several jewels that adorned them from the moment he met you. He had never thought anything of them — thinking they were an artful display of rings that matched your personality and appearance well. But there it was — a golden ring of much higher quality then the rest, with a large ruby sitting in the center of it. Gods, how had he missed that. 

"Oh my gods. I'm a homewrecker." Then he burst out laughing, his head thrown back and his hands holding his stomach as he howled.

"Astarion, you'll wake up half the camp!" You leaned forward and hissed. 

"I'm sorry, I just —" He let out between gasps of breath, "It's so funny. Of course the person I fall for is to be wed to someone else."

You joined his chuckles, shaking your head. "It is like a cliché plotline from some terrible drama."

"It is! Or like a punchline to some joke. Did you hear the one about the vampire and the fiancé?" You both laughed for a moment, before he clutched onto your hand and squeezed it reassuringly.  

"So you aren't upset?" Your voice a whisper again, uncertainty flooded every word. 

"Upset? Darling, why would I be upset?" 

You huffed out an exasperated breath, "Astarion, I just told you I am betrothed to another person."

"And you are on the other side of the continent from them. Not married. And sitting in my tent. Is this why you left?"

Your eyes widened in surprise, "Yes, we planned it all out actually— my betrothed and I." 

"Really?"

You nodded, "They had also spent the last years troubling over it, attempting to delay it for as long as possible." 

"I'm assuming getting kidnapped by mind flayers was not apart of that plan?" He said with a smirk. 

"Definitely not. I so badly wanted to travel, to see the world outside of our keep I'd known my whole life. So... they insisted to my family that they needed a spouse that was learned and well-traveled. That I could enroll in a college to become a more suitable match."

Astarion raised a white brow, "And that worked?"

"It did. I think my father was so desperate for it all to work out that they just agreed."

"And how did you attending a college lead you to Baldur's Gate so many miles away from home?" 

You let out a dry chuckle, "I will say that I did go to the college like I intended. I lasted a week. Just long enough to purchase supplies and stationary from the college before paying for a spot on the next wagon out of Silverymoon." 

"Stationary?"

"I've been sending letters home for the past year, using stationary from the college so my family believes I'm still there studying and being a model citizen." 

He raised his eyebrows, a smirk spreading across his lips. "I'm impressed. That's very conniving... I didn't know you had it in you."

You smiled sheepishly, your fingers twisting in your lap. "I'll admit it was a clever idea. I ran out of supplies about a month before the Nautiloid." 

He pursed his lips as he finally understood, "They haven't heard from you since then?"

You shook your head, "No. I imagine my father has sent some of his men to check on me, and they have long discovered that I took back my tuition deposit and left months and months ago." 

"This whole time we were worried about a vampire master storming our camp, when really it could have been a disgruntled father or worried mother finding us?"

A large exhale left your nose as you shook your head, "Oh, my father would never come himself. He would just send his second-best men and a strongly worded letter ordering me back home. My mother though... I can only imagine how she betrayed and worried she feels." 

The vampire squeezed your hand again before running his thumb along the backs of your knuckles. "Why did you never tell me this?" 

"Astarion, the hardship and abuse that you went through...," Your eyes shined with pain, "My story is nothing compared to yours."

"Your story is not nothing." He shook his head, his voice earnest. "Your story is you — and you are everything. Never spare parts of yourself from me." 

"Even the messy parts that years of etiquette lessons couldn't train away?"

He let out a breathy laugh before smiling at you, "Especially those parts, my lovely moon." 

"You have gone soft on me, Starry." You teased before matching his smile. 

• • •

After another day of travel, you stood in the abandoned castle in Wyrm's Crossing, bracing yourself on the stone wall. The skyline of Baldur's Gate could be seen from here, the distant sound of the bell's ringing heard even from here. 

Your party had finally made it — after all of these weeks. You would walk the familiar cobblestone streets of Baldur's Gate tomorrow. The familiar scents and sounds of vendors and citizens, the bustle and crowds would be so different from the wilderness and forests you had been traveling through. 

The group's energy was buzzing as you settled for camp in the abandoned castle — a strange mixture of excitement and nerves. Astarion hadn't hidden his feelings with you — his anxieties and insecurities surfacing with every step closer and closer to the city limits. With every step closer to Cazador and his ritual. Hundreds of different ideas were bouncing around his head, you could tell. 

Yet your confession to him last night was still replaying in your head, especially as your stared at the ring on your left finger — the red gem catching the light. You weren't sure why you wore it anymore. A habit, you guessed. 

The sound of purposeful, shuffling feet announced that you were no longer alone. Craning your neck you looked over to see the man who normally consumed your thoughts, climbing the stone steps that led up to the falling apart battlements you stood on.

"What are you doing up here, darling?" 

"Just taking a moment."  You admitted as you loosed a heavy breath. "And you?"

"Oh, just over pretending to be interested the idle chat by the fire." Astarion waved his hand, before sliding in next to you. He braced his elbows onto the edge looking out over to the skyline. You watched him take a deep steadying breath, his eyebrow crinkled with worry for a moment. 

You fiddled unconsciously with the golden ring on your left hand as you watched him. The movement caught the vampire's attention, his red eyes snapping to it before looking up at you. He chewed the inside of his lip, before speaking, "Can I ask you a question?"

Your stomach tightened with sudden nerves, "Of course."

"This wedding... Your arranged marriage." 

"Hmm?" You hummed. 

His pale throat bobbed as he swallowed, "Would you have gone through with it? If there was no Nautiloid, no tadpole — none of this. Would you have gone through with the arrangement?"

A heavy sigh escaped you as you pushed your elbows off of the stone edge and stood up, "I would have... I would have tried. It felt inevitable before — inescapable."

He shifted around, so he was facing you — standing to his full height and looking you in the eyes. "And now?" He whispered, his long fingers reaching to brush the insides of your wrist lightly.

"Astarion... I never could have imagined any of this. I spent my whole life fantasizing and daydreaming of an escape and grand adventure. Nothing I've dreamed up has ever come close to being with you. I have fought mind flayers and ogres, refused Gods and marched across the country so that we can keep going. So that we can have a chance. I will take my father's disappointment and wrath for ruining his plans for financial security." 

"Heh — We can add him to the list of people we've angered along the way." He joked, but his eyes were glimmering with unspoken emotion after your declaration. 

You studied the handsome man before you, your lips parting slightly as you took him in. He was radiant in the moonlight, his white hair and pale skin shining. The way his usually sharp eyes softened and rounded as he looked at you.

Gods, you loved him. You had known for sometime now that you did. The words had been crawling up your throat, lingering on your tongue and swirling in your mind for days. But you would be patient for him. 

One side of his pink mouth turned up, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Your head cocked to the side, "Like what?"

"You..." He seemed like he was at a loss for words for a moment. He shook his head at himself, before he admitted in a whisper, "They way you look at me... you make me feel like I'm poetry."

"You are, Astarion." You said simply. Courage suddenly flooded through you. You knew you would be fine, no matter how he answered. You wouldn't dare rush him. But you wanted to ask tonight. "May I — May I kiss you?" 

He blinked in surprise before his red eyes flicked down to your lips and he unconsciously licked his own. Then he locked eyes with you, nodding breathlessly. "Yes," He whispered back, his long lashes fluttering. "Yes."

Moving your hands up slowly and gently, your fingertips gripped the side of his strong jaw. You heard his breath sharpen as you moved your face to meet his — slowly, giving him time and space, allowing him to change his mind and pull away. But he didn't. Instead his eyes closed softly, his head tilting towards yours as he waited for you to kiss him. Then your lips locked as your mouth pressed softly against his, carefully as you waited to see if he would kiss you back. A low noise escaped you as you felt his lips press harder against yours, returning the kiss. 

You had long thought of your first kiss with Astarion in the woods near the Druid's Grove all that time ago. You thought you had memorized the sweet taste of him on your lips, the scent of leather lingering from his armor and groans that made the hairs on your arms stand up. 

But this — this was so different. Not practiced, not ritualistic like he so often said. 

This new first kiss was so painfully soft and tender. He tasted like wine, rosemary and honey. His hair softer then you remembered as your finger toyed with the curled tips at the base of his neck. The happiest of sounds escaped him as he parted his lips for you, allowing you to deepen the kiss as your tongue slid across his teeth. You both stood like that for a moment, relishing in the feeling until you both felt dizzy. Your lips stuck together slightly as you pulled away. His forehead was pushed against yours, like he was no longer content to not be touching you. 

Astarion's eyes were ablaze in the moonlight as he looked at you, his mouth falling open as he caught his breath. "Again. Kiss me, again.” “Starry?” You asked, your brow twitched. “Kiss me. Please. I miss it, I've missed you." One of his hands gripped the tip of your chin as you moved your mouth back towards him, halving the movement as he pulled you back in for another kiss. The other intertwining with yours in between you, squeezing your fingers gently. 

His sharp teeth dug into your bottom lip, causing a shudder to run down your spin. "Slow down, my love." Your groaned out.

"I have — weeks of this — to catch up on." His voice was breathless and he continued to interrupt his own words as he pressed lips to yours over and over. 

You pulled away, studying his face — the skin around his mouth pink from kissing, a slight flush crossing his complexion. But his eyes were fixed on you, filled with want and need. "I'm not going anywhere, Astarion. We have time." 

"Good. " He beamed, resting his forehead on yours again as you both breathed each other in. The two of you silhouetted on the crumpling battlements as you held on to each other for a moment longer.  

Read Part VI here