#i. VERSE — care under fire.

[flowersforjude]

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Remmick x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You had been taught from a young age that your body was a vessel for sin. You pray. You obey. You repent for desires you've never acted on. Until one night, something old and unholy walks out of the swamp. Remmick doesn’t ask for your obedience. He simply asks for you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12,353 (I'm incapable of writing short fics anymore stg)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Religious trauma, Shame-based upbringing, Mentions of blood, Vampire themes, Slight power imbalance (handled with care), Typical historical sexism, Horror themes, Smut: PIV sex, Loss of virginity, Period sex, Biting/marking, Worship kink, Oral(fem!receiving), Fingering, Begging/dirty talk, Dom/sub themes, Blood kink.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This is the freakiest shit I've ever written and I love it. I may have gotten a bit carried away, but I was a vampire slut as a teenager so this was like going back to my roots! It might seem a little drawn out, but I promise you it's worth it.

masterlist

“LORD, IF THERE BE ANY WICKED THOUGHT IN ME, CAST IT OUT.”

Knees sunk into warped pine, you knelt before the pulpit. Rigid spine drawn upwards like penance carved into posture. The chapel groaned with age beneath you, floorboards moaning like the ribs of something half-dead. Still, you didn’t move. Not when your knees screamed. Not when sweat slicked down your back. 

Pain, after all, was a righteous offering. 

Beyond clouded glass windows, Mississippi’s summer pressed its damp mouth to the world. Cicadas shrieked into the thick air—bold and blatant. As if even God’s smallest creatures knew no shame. 

But you did. You’d learned it young. 

At thirteen, the blood had come for the first time. Bright and damning, soaking through linen drawers like spilled sin. Your mama had wept into her handkerchief, Bible clenched to her chest.

Your daddy made you sleep in the shed out back that night. 

“You’re unclean now,” Mama had said. Her voice gentle as cattails blowing in the wind, but no less firm. “The devil speaks through blood like that.”

Since then, your body had become something separate from your soul. Something threatening to it. Something to be managed.

And so, you managed it. 

You scrubbed every corner of yourself with lye and scalding water, rubbed lavender oil behind your ears and under your arms to keep the scent of you polite. You covered your chest tight beneath your high-necked dresses and crossed your ankles even in sleep. You swallowed down every tremble, every heat that rose under your skin when you caught sight of a man’s hands. Thick-knuckled and dirty from work, veins like roots. 

When the wicked thoughts came—as they always did, uninvited and slow—you banished them with prayer. Over and over until your throat went hoarse and your vision blurred. 

Lord, make me clean. Lord, make me still. 

You learned to live inside the rhythm of denial. Every dish was washed with precision. Every verse memorized and recited without fault. Every smile measured, every word weighed. Even your silence was studied. Measured like sugar for a pie crust. 

Your daddy called you his “God-fearing girl.”

The town called you sweet. Gentle. A lamb.

But none of them heard the screaming behind your ribs. Still, you stayed soft, obedient. 

You turned your eyes away from boys who looked too long. You flinched when your daddy’s voice turned thundering at the pulpit, screaming about Jezebels and harlots and fire licking at the feet of women who let their hips sway too loose. 

Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, thighs damp and heart racing, some dream fleeing your memory like smoke. The shame that followed was near biblical. You would kneel in front of your window and pray ‘til sunrise, whisper to the floorboards so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t hear. 

Still, deep in the belly of you, a wanting took root. Not loud, not crude, just hungry. Starved from being ignored so long.

That hunger frightened you more than Hell.

The sun had just begun to sink when you uncurled from the floor, joints stiff, knees aching with the kind of pain that settles deep and stays. Your dress clung damp to your back. The chapel had been empty when you arrived, and now as you left, it remained the same. The air still, dust dancing lazily in halos through fogged glass. 

Stepping outside felt like surfacing from deep water. The humidity met you like breath on your skin. Thick, and warm, and a little too familiar. Your shoes pressed down the dirt path in soft grinds on the pebbles, the hem of your dress sweeping across your ankles. 

Home was only a half mile away. Past a narrow field, and through the grove of pines your daddy always said was cursed. “Too quiet,” he’d muttered once. “Ain’t right when the trees don’t even sing.”

You never asked him what he meant. You were taught not to question the wisdom of men like him. 

The cicadas faded as you reached the edge of the trees. The air shifted, cooler now, like something had drawn the heat out of it. There was no wind. No hooting owls, no coyotes yipping, no chirping of crickets. The absence of all nighttime sounds. 

You paused.  

The setting light had gone strange, pale silver-washed, as though the sun had dipped too fast beneath the horizon. The shadows stretched longer here. Almost deliberate in their reach. 

It was then that you saw him. 

He stood beneath a drooping cypress, half swallowed by the gloaming. At first you thought he might’ve been carved from the tree itself—so still and rooted. But then he moved. Not like just any man, not exactly. Not with effort or weight in his steps. He simply shifted. Like water finding the shape of a new vessel.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

His eyes, too pale to be safe, met yours across the thinning distance. He looked like some creature out of folklore. The kind from tales whispered between women who’d seen too much and men who drank too late. Broad, sharp-jawed, dressed in a white and blue striped button-down with a pair of suspenders hitched over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faint old scars, and the collar of his shirt hung open—loose, like he’d never worn a buttoned thing in his life. 

He had no hat, no weapon, not even a smile. 

You should’ve run, but your feet stayed cemented to the gravel, fists tight in your skirt.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you like he knew the trance you were under. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Not with tension, but curiosity. Amusement, even. And when he did speak, his voice came low and smooth, like creekwater over stone. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, mouth curving up in the sort of smirk Mama warned you about. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out here.”

Your lips parted and then sealed shut again. You took a half step back, careful not to trip over the hem of your dress. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb—” you began, but his head tilted just a fraction. 

“You’re the preacher’s girl, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing with delighted focus. 

You nodded, barely. “Yes, sir.”

He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No need for ‘sir’; I’m not that respectable.”

Silence stretched between you. Even though you’d been raised on the belief that it wasn’t polite for girls to talk too much, you wanted to fill the quiet. Spill your voice into the cracks. Your pulse throbbed in your throat before you rounded up the courage. 

“You shouldn’t be out here this time of night.”

“Neither should you, preacher’s daughter,” he drawled, a flicker of something dark and knowing curling the corner of his lips. “But here we are.”

He didn’t look like anyone from town and certainly didn’t talk like one. None of the townsfolk would’ve spoken to you the way he did. Unguarded and heedless of who you were. No, he wasn’t from around here at all. And yet…nothing about him seemed inherently strange. Just out of place. Like he belonged to a different world that had nudged its shoulder against yours for a moment, just long enough to make the air odd. 

He rocked back on the heels of his feet, like he was settling into the moment, not at all eager to leave it. “Didn’t catch your name.”

Giving out your name to strangers never seemed like a good idea to you. It felt wrong just to hand it out, especially not to spooky men alone in the woods. 

“Don’t think you need it, mister.” Your words are nearly swallowed by the blood rushing in your ears. 

That smirk returned, subtle and crooked and ruinous. “Suit yourself.”

His voice curled around the words like telling you he’d figure out your name anyway. Whether you gave it to him or not. And maybe he would; in a town as small as this, everybody knew everyone. 

He took a step forward. Not as a threat, not even boldly. 

The breath in your chest locked up tight anyway. Your ribs caging something suddenly wild and very much awake. Heat pricked at your cheeks, and shame rose in your belly like smoke curling from a chimney. You didn’t know this man, but the shape of him, the sound of him, felt like something your body recognized before your mind could catch up. 

You were both terrified and enchanted by him. 

“You always walk this way alone?” He asked.

You glanced away from his thralling eyes, throat going bone dry. “Ain’t usually anyone else out here.”

“You’re a peculiar thing,” he chuckled, pointing a wagging finger at you. 

You stiffened. “Why d’you say that?”

He shrugged, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. “I’ve been ‘round town awhile. Seen enough to know who stares down their nose and who just keeps their eyes down.” He fixed you with those keen eyes, turning up his nose almost like he was sniffing. “But you look like you’re tryin’ not to see at all.”

You sucked in a breath. You could feel your heart banging around inside you, like it wanted out.

This was wrong. 

Not just him, but the way the trees leaned in like they were listening, the way your skin felt charged under your dress. You could hear it echoing in your skull, how your name would sound rolling off his tongue if you’d chosen to give it to him. 

You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel slid slightly on gravel.  

“I should get goin’,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.

He didn’t stop you as you danced around him. 

“Sure,” was all he said, amusement bending his voice. “Don’t let the woods eat ya on the way home.”

Your pace started out slow, but you could feel him behind you. Something made you look back. 

He’d moved back to where you first saw him, there under the swaying cypress tree half devoured by dusk and shadow. He stood just as still, only now his head was tilted the slightest bit. Like he was listening to something distant or savoring something close. 

When he caught you glancing at, him he grinned. Wickedly. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d caught a glimpse of the crack in your pious little shell and was toying with the thought of prying it open.

The moonlight caught his eyes, or maybe it wasn’t the light at all. For just a moment, they flashed red. Not bright. Not like fire. But like crimson blood. It was just a glint, sharp as wet teeth in the dark. 

Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your eyes still on him. Then another until your pace quickens into something just shy of a run. 

He watched you leave, that grin widening as you stumbled through the brush, skirts snagging on twigs, heart pounding like a hymn sung too fast. He didn’t chase after you, but he drank in your fear like it was fine whiskey. 

You could almost hear that smile taunting you. Ain’t you lucky I let you go?

YOU DIDN’T WALK HOME NEAR THE GROVE ANYMORE.

You took the long road instead, through rows of dry fields and along the ridge where wild blackberries grew. 

But no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, you still saw him. 

Not fully at first, just a shape in your periphery. Standing motionless at the edge of things. Watching the horizon as though he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him.

You never stopped when you saw him; never spoke to him. You kept your eyes forward and your mouth shut. But your palms went damp against the cotton of your skirt, and your heart slammed into your ribs. 

You hadn’t slept that first night. 

You stayed curled under your quilt, ears straining at every creak in the house. You told yourself it was just wind on the windows, just the groan of old nails in old wood. But deep down, you knew better. 

Because the next evening, he was there again—this time down by the riverbed. 

You’d gone to fetch water just as the dark came on, trying to outpace the setting sun, but when you reached the bank, he was already there. Sitting on a fallen log like it was a church pew, skipping stones across the slow-moving current with easy, idle flicks of his wrist. 

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t really need to. 

You could feel his gaze on your back the whole time you filled the pail, like fingers dragging down the slope of your spine without ever touching skin. When you turned around, he was gone. 

You blinked once, twice; nothing but empty woods and water rippling in dusky light. The pail trembled in your hands the whole way home. 

By the third night, you started to wonder if you were going mad. 

You didn’t tell Mama or Daddy. You couldn’t. What would you even say? That some pale-eyed stranger was haunting the dirt roads and riverbeds. Staring like he could see every wicked little thought you’d tried so hard to drown.

No. 

That would only earn you a slap and a verse from Leviticus. 

So you stayed silent, but you didn’t feel safe. 

Especially not the fourth night when you saw him outside your bedroom window. 

It was just past midnight; the house had gone dead quiet hours ago. The air was heavy with heat and thunder-stillness. You’d risen from bed to press your forehead to the glass, the way you always did when your dreams left you flushed and frightened. The nighttime sounds had gone silent again. 

And then he was just there. 

Standing at the tree line just beyond the garden fence. Unmoving and unblinking. Lit only by the moon in the same striped shirt, the same loose collar, his hands in his pockets like this was nothing unusual. Like he belonged right there. 

You didn’t scream or dash away from the window. You just stared because a part of you had been expecting this. Dreading it and needing it in the same capacity.

His head tilted again, same as before. Curious. Amused. That slow, knowing smirk unspooling like thread across his mouth with those razor-sharp teeth as the needle.

 A chill slid down your spine like the slow crawl of a water moccasin, cold and coiling. Your heart jittered wild in your chest, beating like a grasshopper’s wings. Part of you screamed to look away, but some buried piece of you—that part the prayers never reached—couldn’t drag your eyes from him. 

You hoped he wouldn't see the internal tremor of your bones, but you knew he did.

He just watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or let you rot sweetly on the vine. The air felt thick with something unholy. Then from the darkness, a sound soft and low and syrup-slick. 

A laugh straight from the depths of Hell. 

He moved then, pushed himself from the fence post like it cost him nothing, the slow drag of his boots through the grass loud enough through the closed window. The garden seemed to hush around him; even the insects ceased their chattering. 

The moonlight reached for him as he stepped forward, bent toward him like it knew him. Like it’d been waiting to kiss his skin. 

You’d heard plenty of stories in church warning folks about demons who walked only in the dark and wore man’s skin like a borrowed coat. You’d never put much stock in them. 

But now?

Now he was standing in your garden, eyes burning like embers and teeth too sharp, framed by a mouth that smiled like it knew the taste of brimstone. 

He was beautiful in the way demons often were depicted hunting for mortal souls. Terrible and magnetic and full of ruin. 

And every bit of him seemed to say just one thing.

Come closer, little lamb. The door’s already open.

You didn’t remember unlatching the window. Just that your fingers were already there, trembling against the iron hook.

It groaned softly as it opened, just enough to let the air in. Enough to let him near.

He was closer now, no longer by the fence but halfway through the garden, where your mama’s tomato vines curled up splintering stakes. His boots were sunk into the dew-dark earth, but he moved like something that didn’t need to touch the ground to get where it was going. 

When he made it to the window, you gripped the sill to steady yourself. 

“Why you tormenting yourself like this?” His voice was whisper quiet, but it slithered right under your skin like smoke through a crack in the floorboards. You flinched but couldn’t bring yourself to move away. 

“What d’you mean?” Your voice sounded so small in this moment. 

He stepped closer still, until he was just beneath the window. His hands stayed in his pockets, body loose with an ease you’ve never seen another person possess. But his gaze was the only restless thing about him. It was fixed on you shining bloody, sharp, and starving.

“Lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. “Pretending I’m the one you’re still scared of.”

Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there. 

“I don’t—I was just—” You broke off. Words slipped through your fingers like running water.

He tilted his head in that slow, animal way. “Oh, darlin’” And then with a quick click of his tongue, he frowned at you, like it saddened him that you couldn’t see the way he did. “You ain’t really afraid of me.”

The thought made your stomach twist. “I am,” you said too fast. 

“No, darlin’. You’re afraid of what you feel when I’m close. That heat in your belly. That little pulse in your throat. You were raised to call that fear.” He leaned forward just a hair, voice going lower. “But it ain’t.”

Your eyes stung as you blinked the emotion away. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” 

He looked at you like something half-ripened and trembling on the vine. A peach not yet plucked, but splitting at the seam just the same. 

You turned your face slightly, ashamed of how badly you wanted to hear what he might say next. The window creaked as you pushed it open a little more. Not to get closer to him, but to let in some more air. That’s what you told yourself.

His eyes followed the movement. “You ever ask yourself why I keep comin’ back here?” He asked. 

You couldn’t find an answer. 

“You think I hang around ‘cause I like the scenery? The garden?” His mouth carved, those fangs of his poking out. “It ain’t the tomatoes bringin’ me, sweetheart.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could calm the racing in it with sheer will. “What are you?” you whispered. 

He smiled wider but didn’t answer. “Why’d you open the window tonight?” He asked instead. 

That struck something deep in you. A place none of your daddy’s sermons had ever managed to reach. You just stood there, bare feet on old wooden floor, moonlight kissing your cheekbone, your heart loud enough you were sure he could hear it. 

Then, with his eyes fully shining crimson and his voice softer than breath, he spoke with a flicker of something ancient. “Come outside.”

The words hit you low in the belly. And for a split second, you almost did. Almost pulled yourself over the sill without a second thought, like a girl in a folk tale about to be taken by the monsters lurking in the woods. 

But you didn’t. Something made you stay where you were, clinging to the windowsill like it was the edge of the world. Or the edge of your sanity. 

“I can’t,” you whispered. 

He watched you a moment longer, the red glow fading from those unnatural eyes. He nodded just once, like he expected that response from you. His grin lingered as he turned away. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “You will, or either I’ll hang ‘round long enough for you to invite me in.”

He seemed to blink out of existence then. There one minute and gone the next. With his presence no longer holding you in thrall, you stepped back from the window like it had burned you. Heart hammering all the way up your throat as you slammed the window shut. You dropped to your knees without thinking, palms slapping the floorboards, breath coming entirely too fast. 

You prayed, but not out of devotion; out of desperation. 

But no amount of prayer could vanish the image from your mind. 

His face in the moonlight. 

That devilish grin. 

The way his preternatural eyes seemed to strip you bare without even trying.

It was demeaning how intense the thought of him felt, how vivid it was. How warm. He’d crawled under your skin like a fever and made home there. Uninvited and relentless. 

And worse, it was disgusting to want like this. To fantasize in such a way about a man you’d only spoken to twice. One who you knew nothing about. A man who might not be a man at all. 

Because what you’d seen…the flash of red in his eyes, the fang-like teeth, the way the light didn’t touch him, the stillness that came with him that felt wrong in a world always rustling. 

You were certain he wasn't human. 

And still, he’d become the subject of every dark corner of your mind. 

Your nightmares, yes—those came first. Dreams of him dragging you into the woods, tearing into you with those monstrous canines.

But the fantasies came after.

Sinful ones that had your fingers curling in your sheets. Your thighs pressed tightly beneath your nightgown. The shame bloomed fresh each time when you saw the sunrise and realized your soul hadn’t been struck down for the things you let yourself imagine.

You hated it. 

You hated him.

You hated yourself most of all.

And yet, even as your knees ached and your lips whispered psalms too fast to understand, a single, damning truth settled at the base of your spine like a stone.

You weren’t praying for him or even the thoughts to go away. Because in the most blasphemous parts of yourself, you enjoyed this.

The night after he visited the window, you dreamt of him. 

He came not through the door, but through the trees. Born of shadows and honeysuckle, and grinning beneath the weight of the moon. His presence pulled the night close, like even the dark bent towards him in reverence. 

The grove bloomed around you, but it was wrong. Cyprus roots split the ground like vines. The air was thick with humidity and the heavy, heady scent of sweet rot. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale as spilled milk, and everything was silent, as if the world held its breath. 

You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, nightgown clinging to your thighs, the hem damp. The trees whispered in a language your bones seemed to know. There was no wind. 

Then he appeared—just was, suddenly—behind you. Closer than your shadow. 

One hand came to rest on your hip, the other brushing your hair aside, fingers cold but careful, like he was unwrapping a relic.

“You ain’t a saint. Not a sinner neither.” He breathed, voice like molasses poured slow. “Just a…sweet-blooded thing.”

You couldn’t speak. You wanted to, but no words made it free before they died in your throat. Your body pulsed with some kind of rhythm not taught by sermons, but by earth, bone, and blood. His hands roamed without urgency, touching you like something holy, as he hummed low with his sinner’s breath. 

Your knees gave out when his hands wandered too close to between your legs. He caught you holding your weight up with one arm. He lowered his mouth to your throat, inhaled, and sighed like he’d come home. 

And then—

Then the woods split with light, hot and blinding, and his eyes—pale as salt, rimmed in red like dying coals—met yours for a single, damning moment.

You woke with a sharp gasp violent enough to cut through the air. You shot up in bed, heart galloping and skin clammy. The dream clung to you like moss, heavy and damp. 

You felt it before you even looked. 

The wet heat between your thighs and the ache low in your belly. The blood smeared across the sheets like rust on Sunday white. 

You didn’t scream.

You just wept. 

Curled into yourself on the stained bedding, rocking like you had done as a child during storms, when thunder shook the windowpanes and Mama told you to hush. That the rumbling was just God. 

You buried your face in your hands and whispered like a sinner at the feet of the Lord. 

“I didn’t ask for this.”

But somewhere, somehow, you knew you had.

THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT YOU NO MERCY. You woke in a fever of shame, the sheets damp and streaked rust-red. 

You’d barely stripped them from the bed and gotten them to the basin when your mama walked in, face already drawn with suspicion. She stopped short when she saw the washboard and the clear water turning pink.

Her mouth flattened. “You ain’t due,” she said simply, but it wasn’t a question. 

You kept your eyes on the suds, hands starting to shake as you scrubbed harder. 

“You been temptin’ something,” she murmured, voice gone cool and critical, like a snake easing through garden grass. “Lord sees everything, and so does a mother.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. Nothing you said would’ve made a difference. 

By noon your daddy knew. She’d told him in hushed tones over the breakfast table, her words laced with worry and faithful dread, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. 

The blood was a warning, she said. A sign that the devil was whispering, and her daughter was startin’ to listen.

The preacher’s face went hard as wood. There was no screaming, no belt. Just that look, and that was always worse. 

He sent you to the chapel before lunch, said it was time you remembered what it meant to be clean. Pure. God’s own daughter, not some wild thing led by flesh and fever. 

So you knelt all day.

Until your knees throbbed and your spine locked straight, until the air inside the church went stale and sweet from summer heat, and your throat was hoarse from whispered pleas.

You weren’t allowed water or allowed to sit. 

Just kneel, pray, repent. 

By the time evening came, your whole body ached. But the ache inside was louder. A low, relentless pulse that no prayer could silence.

When your daddy finally opened the chapel doors and sent you home, you walked like a ghost through the dusk, eyes empty.

You didn’t try to sleep that night. You knew it would be no use. So, you sat on your bed and waited. Waited because you knew he’d be out there. 

And when the animals fell quiet, when the breeze turned cool and still, and the moonlight poured soft and white through your curtain like cream in a glass, you knew. 

He’d come back. 

He wasn’t at the window, though. He’d gone to the tree.

The old white oak out front, the one your great-granddaddy planted with his own two hands nearly a century ago. Mama always called it the family’s spine. Said its roots ran so deep it could hold back Hell itself. Said it shaded the porch like a preacher’s hand. Protective and watching.

But tonight, it didn’t feel holy. Tonight it felt like it was aiding him, and he was anything but holy. 

You went out the front door before you could change your mind. Quiet as a fallen soul slipping out of confession, you opened it. The screen groaned on its hinges and snapped shut behind you.

The air outside was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly coppery, like blood in well water.

He leaned lazily against the oak’s trunk like he’d grown from it. Like he owned it. His sleeves were rolled, and his shirt rumpled. Shadows seemed to tuck themselves around his boots like hounds curling at their master’s feet. 

Once again, he let the silence simmer between you for a moment. If he was surprised you came out, he didn’t show it. 

You looked right back at him, jaw locked with some emotion that wasn’t quite courage. 

“I oughta tell you to leave,” you said, voice stifled but firm. 

He didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”

Your fingers knotted in the fabric of your nightdress. “Cause you won’t listen.”

That made him grin. “You’re smarter than you let on, preacher’s daughter.”

The night air wrapped tight around the both of you. The oak branches swayed without wind.

You stepped off the porch, slow like stepping into a grave you’d dug yourself. Dry leaves crunched beneath your feet as you got close enough to see his eyes already glinting that wrong shade. Like moonlight kissing iron.

He didn’t look monstrous tonight. Just wrong, like words spoken in reverse. 

You’d meant to confront him, to tell him to leave you alone. To make him. But now you stood before him, your voice softened like wax near flame. 

“Are you the devil?” It came out thin, breathy.

He let that sit in the air for a moment. A beat, then two. 

Then finally, “Would it matter if I was?” The words slithered straight down your spine.

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted, but no response seemed good enough. No verse, no warning, not even a whispered prayer. Because a part of you already knew. 

The devil in the pulpit wore rage and brimstone. 

The devil in the garden wore moonlight and a smile that made your knees weak. 

He pushed off the tree like he was just stretching his back, Like he hadn’t shattered your whole world view with those words.

You stood there like a deer caught by a hunter, bare feet in the loamy dark. The grass kissed your ankles, damp from the dew. The moonlight carved both of you into something unreal. Him all shadow and sharpened grin. You soft and lit from within like a lantern half-extinguished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but it came out too fragile. It didn’t sound like a protest; it sounded like longing dressed up in your Sunday best.

He stepped leisurely but with a certain deliberateness as the night seemed to part for him. “I ain’t the one who came knockin’, lamb,” he murmured. 

“I didn’t knock on nothin’,” you refuted. 

He looked at you through those searing eyes. “You came out the door, though.”

He reached you, then stood right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint hints of aged cedar wood and burnt ashes and the unmistakable stench of blood. One of his hands lifted, slowly, to hover by your cheek. Not touching you yet, like he wanted you to touch him first.

“Tell me no,” he insisted.

Oh God, you should’ve. It was right there on your tongue, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. Not even as you felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple. From the heat, or fear, or something else you didn’t rightly know. 

Instead, you leaned forward like a sinner falling from the clouds of Heaven straight to the pits of Hell. It was just enough to let the tip of your nose brush his. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt his exhale ghost across your lips like a curse. 

His fingers slid into your hair at the base of your skull and gripped. Not too tightly, but firm enough, as if testing whether or not you’d pull away. 

“Tell me no,” he provoked again, letting the sharp points of his teeth bare beneath a grin. “Go on, fight me.”

You did nothing. You said nothing. 

He chuckled. “Thought so.”

Then, before you could blink, he seized your shoulder with a grip like iron and spun you, swift and brutal as a summer storm. Your back hit his chest with a thud that knocked the breath from you, his body a wall of heat and muscle. 

One arm banded tight around your waist, the other clamped low on your hips, unyielding and possessive. Like he meant to etch his touch into your skin, make sure no part of you ever forgot it. 

You gasped, a soft, startled sound that was half swallowed by the night.

His breath dusted along your cheekbone, slow and scalding, as his hand slid up—up—to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. As if to remind you how easily he could. 

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“That noise?” he hummed, voice with a growl like thick honey. “Ain’t even half of what I’m gonna have you singin’ for me.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was rough, yes, but there was an underlying horrible delight in it. Like he was savoring a ripe apple from the Garden of Eden itself. 

He kissed you like he was committing sacrilege. It wasn’t tender or kind; it was sin made flesh and pressed to your mouth. Heated like he wanted to scorch your skin, ruin your body and soul alike. 

You whimpered into it before you could stop yourself, shame and want bleeding into each other. Becoming something you couldn’t tell apart from the other. His other hand came to rest at your waist, splayed over your hip like it belonged there. Like he’d known the shape of you long before you’d met, long before you were even born.

You were shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of everything you’d been told you must never want. 

He kissed you like he already owned your hunger. And maybe he did. 

Because when his lips left yours and trailed down the edge of your jaw, you tilted your head like you’d done it a hundred times. Like your body recognized him, even if your soul still hadn’t caught up. 

“You feel that?” He whispered against your neck. “That ache in your belly?”

You nodded before you realized you were moving. 

“It ain’t shame, sugar. That’s you wakin’ up.”

His tongue brushed your skin, and you whined, the sound catching on the back of your throat. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve fled. 

But instead your fingers reached up to curl into his hair. 

You were dizzy. Drunk on the darkness and whatever he was made of. Your thighs pressed together as if they could cage the heat rising between them. As if they could quiet the throb that started the moment he touched you. 

“You know I can smell it, right?” He said, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “The blood dripping outta that pretty cunt.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. 

A ragged gasp ripped out of you, loud and trembling, like it’d been wrenched from the bottom of your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks—hotter than Hellfire, hotter than a July sun. You tried to turn, wide-eyed, unsure if you’d even heard him right. But his hand stayed steady at your throat, a quiet pressure that kept you still. Anchored in place like a lamb frozen before the slaughter. 

Your breath hitched again, this time rougher, rougher than the words he’d just spoken.

No one had ever spoken of your body like that. As if it weren’t sacred in the way of being a temple of God’s creation, but sacred in the way of what being his would feel like. What being hungered for felt like. What being known felt like.

Your whole life had been Bible verses and closed doors and whispered warnings. And now here was this…creature, saying the unsayable, grinning like he’s torn a veil straight off Heaven and made you look at what was behind it.

“You gonna let me taste?” His voice sang into your ear, raspy and filled with near giddy enthusiasm. 

“W-what?” The word barely made it out, brittle and panting, like it didn’t belong to you at all. Your head was spinning, thoughts colliding like thunderclouds. You weren’t sure if you’d imagined what he said, if the world was tilting, or you were simply losing your mind. Everything inside you recoiled and leaned in at the same time, like a moth drawn to flame. 

“Just a little taste. It’ll be good, I promise.”

His words slid across your skin like velvet and barbed wire. You felt them in your chest, in your belly, in the places of your body that remained unexplored. The world has gone too quiet around you. The branches, the air, your own breath. 

You froze in his arms. Not from fear, but from the nearness of the house just behind you, your parents asleep in their bedroom not twenty steps away. From the raw ache between your legs. From the heat twisting inside you and the shame curling around it like ivy. 

You wanted him. 

God help you; you wanted him.

But not here, not in the front yard. Not under your great-granddaddy’s tree. Not with the windows dark and your daddy dreaming just feet from where his hand gripped your waist like he had every right to.

Your hand left his hair to press against his chest. 

“I—” You swallowed hard. “No, I can’t.”

He went still. Real still. If you were a smarter girl, you’d be afraid right now. 

After a beat, he let out a low breath that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice coaxing instead of mocking. “Little lamb has teeth after all.”

His hand dropped from your throat slowly, the other sliding away from your waist. He didn’t lurch back or scowl. He didn’t curse or shame you; he just let go.

“You ain’t angry?” You whispered.

He tilted his head, grin turning softer than what you’d seen before. “Nah, I’m not angry. ‘Cause you will say yes,” he said certainly. “One night soon.”

“Tomorrow,” you blurted out.

His brow lifted, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Tomorrow?”he echoed, slow and teasing, like he wanted to roll the word across his tongue again just to savor the taste.

You nodded abashedly. “It’s Sunday. Mama and Daddy’ll be at evening service. I’ll stay home. Say I’m unwell.”

A smile bloomed across his face like the devil hearing a hymn warped just enough to suit him. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Ain’t you full of surprises?”

Your breath came fast, chest rising like the air had finally remembered how to move. 

“You’ll come?” You asked, quieter, like part of you still doubted he was real. That all this was just temptation stitched into a dream.

His eyes roved over you one last time. “You’ll be the one invitin’ me in.”

He took one more step back into the dark, the shadows seeming to reach out to surround him. He gave you a final crooked grin, then, like always, he was just gone.

The air sighed after him. The oak creaked softly, as if exhaling too. 

You stood in place for another moment, your heartbeat ringing like church bells in your ears.

Tomorrow.

 You’d spilled the word without thinking, without planning; now it hung in the shadows. Stitched into the air between the tree and porch. It felt inevitable, though. This moment, you, him. 

You turned toward the house, and the screen door groaned as you pushed it open. The hallway was still, lit only by the faint moonlight seeping through the kitchen lace. Your bare feet whispered across the floorboards, each one squeaking like they wanted to tattle.

When you entered your room, you didn’t go to the window. He wouldn’t be there, but he said he’d come back. And you believed he would. Not like a boy who was hungry and impulsive. But like something old and well practiced in the art of patience. 

As you lay in bed, quilt pulled to your chin, your knees ached from the chapel. But your lips were sore from his mouth. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a hunger had bloomed.

Because the devil in the garden hadn’t asked for your soul. Only your permission. And you’d given it.

MORNING CREPT IN SLOWLY AND SWOLLEN, HEAVY WITH THE SCENT OF RAIN AND YOUR DECISION. The sky outside hung pale and dull, as if the sun had second thoughts about rising. You stirred beneath your quilt, limbs stiff with ache, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.

At the breakfast table, your movements were brittle, precise—a porcelain doll feigning breath. Spoon untouched. Biscuits going cold. You pressed a hand to your forehead, faking the flush of fever, and let your eyes linger unfocused on the woodgrain in the table like scripture too worn to read.

Your mama’s gaze was a blade behind her coffee cup. She eyed the tremble in your fingers, the pallor in your face. “You’re lookin’ a shade unwell,” she said at last, voice wrapped in thin linen concern, suspicion tucked neat beneath.

You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep good.”

The words rasped out like smoke from a chimney long gone cold.

You played the part through morning service, like a seasoned actress cast in her shining role. You wore your sickness like silk, light and convincing. Spoke only when spoken to. Let your eyes blur with imagined weariness. Folded your hands as if they weren’t stained with things that meant you’d burn in Hell. Sang the hymns like psalms of penance, though your mouth felt dry as ash.

When your daddy called for the wayward to rise, you stayed seated. When the prayer commenced, you bowed your head and kept your breath shallow. If they’d looked closer, they might’ve seen the lie curling beneath your lashes. 

But they believed you as easy as breathing. 

Easy as sin. 

By the time evening rolled around, you should’ve been in flames for how much you’d lied. But no lightning split the sky. No voice boomed from the heavens. Only the quiet nod of your father, the distracted sigh of your mother as she tied her shawl.

“A girl ain’t any good to the Lord if she’s too weak to stand,” your daddy said.

The words carried like a benediction, final and unquestioned. Your mama’s mouth twitched, tight as a drawstring purse, but she didn’t argue. Only adjusted her shawl and spared you a glance that lingered on your flushed cheeks. 

She left chicken broth simmering on the stove, the pot sweating like a guilty man in a prayer tent. “Don’t let it boil over,” she muttered, already halfway through the door.

You nodded, small and solemn as a lamb offered up on an altar.

The screen door clattered shut behind them, the sound sharp and thin in the warm hush of the house. A moment later, you heard the truck rumble to life, tires groaning down the gravel path like some beast being roused from its slumber. Then thick golden silence. 

The sun spilled sideways across the kitchen floor, the last light of it butter-yellow and dying. Shadows stretched long across the wood, and the house exhaled slow, as if even the walls knew what you were gonna invite in.

You sat at the edge of your bed with your hands folded tight in your lap. The lamplight fluttered beside you, casting the room in warmth and shadow. 

Your knees bounce once, twice, before you caught them with your palms. You swore you could hear the mantel clock ticking from the front room, but it could’ve been your ears ringing too. It grew louder with each passing second, like the calling of vultures as they circled a carcass. 

You shouldn’t have done this.

The thought passes through your mind as quickly as a hare. 

Any good girl would’ve known better. God-Fearing girls kept their windows closed at night and didn’t go out to have conversations with demons. They didn’t ache like this, in their bellies and bones.

Your window was closed, the front door too. He couldn’t come in unless you invited him. 

You could still stop it. You could still crawl into bed, hide beneath the hush of your parents’ God, and pray till your tongue went dry.

But the truth was, you didn’t want to pray no more. Not to a God who never answered you. Not to a god that was full of so much hatred and wrath.

You felt closer to the divine when he touched you. When he acknowledged the ache inside of you and didn’t shame you for it. When he decided your longing was his very own guitar string to pluck, then you ever felt when you cried out to God.

You wanted to know what it was like to be chosen. Not by God, but by the thing that watched you from the darkness like he wanted to devour you. You wanted his wickedness to ravage you. Let it seep into your soul and let you free.

But it still didn’t stop your fingers from shaking. Didn’t stop the thin sweat from blooming at your neck. 

The house had gone still. Too still. The kind of hush that settles on graveyards before storms. The kind you’d grown to recognize the last few nights. You could feel it building in your marrow. The pressure, the waiting. The dread that didn’t feel quite like dread. 

The clicking of the parlor clock bleeds through the walls, every second scraping against your skin like the bite of a distant insect. 

There was a knock.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like a fishhook. The room seemed to pulse with the sound. The wallpaper breathing. The floorboards holding their breath.

You rose like something called from a grave, unsure if it was your soul or your sin dragging you forward. Each step toward the door was heavy as a church bell. Your nightgown whispered against the wood floors, and every inch of you felt stretched—thin, lit from within like a lantern at the end of its oil.

You could feel the thrum of him through the wood as you reached the door. 

It looked the same as always—plain pine, white paint flaking at the edges, Mama’s lace curtain tucked in the window. But tonight, it felt like a boundary. A final veil between the life you were born into and the one you’d invited with your own trembling tongue.

You placed your hand on the knob.

“Lord forgive me,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it. Not really. Because there was no salvation in what you were about to do.

Just surrender. 

The brass was cool under your palm, a mercy against the heat rising from your bones. You knew what stood on the other side. Knew he was waiting. 

You cracked it open slow like. The night spilled in like a secret, soft and damp and full of promise. 

He stood on the porch, the light catching on the edge of his smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. 

He stood with the patience of something older than the air around you, something well-fed on the rituals of yearning girls and the sweet rot of their defiance.

The threshold hummed between you like a live wire. You could feel it. That old, bone-deep rule, the one no sermon ever spoke of, but every trembling child knew. Evil couldn’t cross unless you let it.

His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of night, catching what little moonlight the porch allowed. There was no white in them, no mercy, just a glint like storm-wet iron and the promise of undoing.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-thick, “ain’t this a pretty picture?”

He took a breath, though he probably didn’t need to, and the porch boards beneath him groaned as if straining under the weight of something not entirely flesh. “I can’t come in,” he said, quiet, like the words were meant to be stitched into the air and left hanging there.

“I know,” you answered. All you needed to do was say the words. 

His lips parted, not quite a smile this time, but something softer, something that made your belly twist. “Then say it,” he said. “Say it proper, darlin’.”

A shiver ran up your spine, cold as baptismal water. You stared at him, at the way the shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle, at the way the porch light dared not kiss his skin. You thought of all the stories your mama told, of blood and beasts and doors left ajar.

But you didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.

You believed in what was right in front of you. 

So you parted your lips and let the words fall, soft as rain on a coffin lid. “You can come in.”

The moment you said it, the air seemed to shift. Like the house exhaled, or maybe it was you. Something unlatched inside, something old and hungry and no longer chained to the warnings of your father’s God.

He crossed the threshold without a sound. Not a step. Not a breath. He simply was there, inside. Closer than you thought he’d get.

Your lungs seized.

He smelled like blood still. You were beginning to think he always carried the scent with him. He leaned in close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice all honey and hunger.

And then the door clicked shut behind him with the sound of something final. 

He didn’t jump on you right away, just looked around your home with seemingly curious eyes. His gaze moved through the house like a ghost tasting the air. Like he could see the prayers still stitched into the wood grain. Smell the repentance caught between wallpaper seams.

You watched him, chest tight, body wired with something above nervousness. He didn’t say anything else at first, didn’t need to. The hush between you was a thing with weight, heavier still for what was about to be broken.

His gaze found yours again, and in it was that same stillness he wore like a second skin—like he was made of waiting.

“Do you... want anything?” You asked, the words foolish, half-wilted on your tongue.

He stepped closer. Just one pace. But it was enough to draw the warmth from your skin and replace it with something cooler. “I already got what I came for.”

His voice slipped over your ears like dark silk. The space between you seemed to shrink, and you weren’t sure if it was his doing or your own. He raised a hand and touched the edge of your jaw. Just the pad of his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, where your breath caught and held.

“Told myself I’d wait,” he murmured. “Let you lead.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned, gleaming. “But I’m a selfish thing sometimes.”

And before you could reply, before you could decide if you’d stop him, he bent forward and kissed you.

It was softer than you expected. So unlike the first time. There was no fire, no bloodlust. Just the aching press of mouth on mouth, as if he meant to read you by taste. Your hands curled at your sides, then rose of their own accord, fingers brushing the stiff cotton at his chest. His palm came to rest against the curve of your back, anchoring you in the middle of the storm you’d conjured.

You moaned against his lips, a sharp and involuntary sound, and he pulled back just enough to speak into your mouth, voice roughened with want. “Show me.” You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.

You stumbled backward down the hall, his mouth never far from yours, hands on your waist like a brand. He followed you with that inhuman stillness, that predator’s grace. Each step was made not of footsteps but of intent.

And when the bedroom door groaned shut behind you—

He turned you with fluid, startling ease, hands firm as iron as he swept you off your feet. You gasped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his shoulders. Your legs, guided more by instinct than thought, wrapped around his waist as though your body already knew what to do. The world tipped, spun, and all you could feel was the press of him, his hands, and the dizzying pull of gravity undone. 

Lowering you down to the linen sheets of your bed, he moved like judgment falling slow from Heaven. His hands hiked the hem of your nightgown up your legs, bunching the fabric like offerings at the feet of an altar. The mattress beneath you was soft, rich with rot and temptation. 

He positioned himself between them, a serpent coiled in the garden, barring any retreat. One hand dropped to the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing higher like a creeping passion vine. You felt yourself relax into the sheets, widening the passage of your legs for him without even meaning to.

He watched you earnestly, like you were the only holy thing he put faith in. His hands reached for the soft cotton of your panties, like he was peeling back a church veil, uncovering something too sacred for daylight. When he pulled the fabric aside and leaned in, he let out a moan like he was breathing in sin straight from the source. 

A sound rumbled from his chest, low and devout. “Oh God almighty,” he near groaned, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Ain’t you a sight, darlin’.”

In a flash, your panties were off, and you were exposed to him, the night air, and God Himself. You knew you should've been embarrassed; the shame should’ve been eating you alive. But even with your bleeding center, raw and red as a dogwood bloom in spring, all you can do is look down at the demon between your legs. 

By the lord, he’s drooling. Thick spit glistening on his chin, dripping slowly like sap from tree bark. His eyes were lit with hunger that bordered on worship.

You’d been taught since the first time you bled that it was a curse. That it made you unclean. A doorway for devils, a mark of Eve’s sin carved fresh each month into your flesh. Mama said that blood like that was how the devil spoke. That it had to be washed out, silenced with scripture, buried beneath cotton drawers and long skirts and locked knees.

But here he was, salivating at the sight alone, eyes blown wide as if your body’s bleeding was the beginning of a gospel only he could read.

That’s why when he said, “You smell so sweet, darlin’. You gonna let me taste you?”

You nodded, “Yes.”

His mouth is on you in an instant. 

You nearly let out a scream, but your continued piousness stitched your lips shut. Your fingers twisted into the blankets instead, clenching around them until your bones hurt. He licks a stripe up your center, pressing harder against the top where something shoots hot white spikes down your spine.

Stars blink in and out of view behind your eyelids like fireflies caught in a mason jar. His mouth moves slowly, like easing into cold creekwater. He leaves little licks on that tender bud of nerves at the apex, drawing sounds from you like spirits from a grave, keening soft in the back of your throat. His mouth feels like the first warm rays of a new summer sun breaking through the clouds as his tongue glides up and then rolls over that button. He presses a sugary sweet kiss to your slit, hands prying open your legs as wide as they’d go. 

Turns out, that sweetness of his was just borrowed time—grace before the ruin.

He growled into you, like something pulled from the floorboards of the church, thick with rot. Then his wickedness grins, all teeth and no mercy. He grips your hips tight, nails sinking into your flesh like marks left by the devil making a covenant. His tongue works you over with near evil intent. He consumes you like it’s the only desire he’s ever had, gulping down every drop of your essence like it’s a sacrament. Like you’re the altar and he’s been starving for centuries. 

Your legs shake in his hold as the moans you’re holding back threaten to spill out, scattering like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. When he moves to suck on that delightful spot, again you can’t help but cry out, “Oh God!”

The snarl that tears from his throat thrums through your core, like a storm shaking the rafters. When you glance down, you’re met with eyes glowing the color of fresh blood spilled on altar steps. Feral and lit with something not of this world. A predator’s gaze.

“No name you should be sayin’ but mine,” he growls, voice rough as bark and twice as deep. “Remmick, sweetheart. That’s all you need.”

“Remmick,” you say breathlessly, testing how his name rolls from your tongue. Like the strike of a match just before it catches fire.

He hums low in his throat. “That’s right, baby,” he said before his face disappeared inside you once again. 

Something warm is coiling in your lower belly, winding you up like a pocket watch about to snap. Each swipe, each roll of his tongue, has that feeling growing tighter and tighter. Your voice pushes past your mouth in quiet cracks. 

It’s so wrong, downright wicked, what he’s doing to you. Wrong that you’re lettin’ him, wrong still that you don’t want to stop. Can’t even bring yourself to think about stopping, not when it feels like this. Like salvation dressed in silken sin. How can something born of such pleasure be damnable?

It surely doesn’t feel like Hell. It feels like Heaven’s front porch, and you’re laid bare beneath a man that knows every secret you swore to bury. If this is damnation, then maybe it’s always been stitched into your skin. Maybe Remmick’s touch ain’t dragging you down… maybe it’s just showing you where you already belong.

That thought should scare you senseless, but you can’t feel anything aside from him drinking from you so deeply, like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.

He speeds up his ministrations, his tongue raking across your core, licking all the way up to that sweet spot. You gasp as a fire begins to accompany the ringing coil in your belly. His mouth is so warm against you, laced with carnal motive. Everything sounds so soaked down where he works: the glide of his tongue, the quell of your blood, and the wetness from your arousal. 

He’s done being slow; he’s done teasing you to death. The unhurried air about him is gone as he devours everything your cunt gives him.

“Damn,” he groans against you, lips moving to kiss the inside of your thigh. “Never tasted anything quite like you.” Then, quicker than you can draw a shaky breath, there was a small sting. A sharp and sudden feeling, like the prickle of a thorn. You felt his fang split the sensitive skin, felt the warmth of your blood bloom from the cut. 

Remmick chuckled low, the sound curling around you like smoke. “My bad,” he drawled, voice thick with mock apology. “Sorry, darlin’.” But the glint in his eyes betrayed him; it hadn’t been an accident, and you both knew it. Before you could answer—not that you had the breath to—he dipped his head again, tongue darting out to lick the trail of blood. 

His eyes flash for a split moment, and a rumble of pure animalistic satisfaction comes from his chest. He redoubles his efforts once his mouth is back on your center. 

You're shaking all over now, barely able to conceal your growing cries. You slap one hand over your mouth, the other going to fist in his hair.

His tongue focuses on that bud, circling over it with obscene faithfulness. Your fingers in his hair pull without meaning to, making him shudder between your legs, moaning into you like he wants you to rip the strands from his scalp. 

Remmick moves his attention lower, to the entrance of your very being. His tongue delves into that passage, thrusting deep enough it had your back arching off the ground. His nose nudges your bundle of nerves in time with the press of his tongue. 

That coil in your lower belly threatens to give. Fireworks burst in your vision as his mouth stays locked in that position. Thrust, nudge, thrust, nudge. Even as your hips begin to rise up to meet him, he holds you still with his arms bolted around your thighs. 

You squeal behind your palm, tears pricking in your eyes as the feeling that’s been building burns through you. Like the holiest Hellfire merged together by your coupling. It races across your every nerve ending, Remmick groaning when he feels you clench around his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop, not when your thighs close around his head. Not when your hand in his hair tries to pull him up. Not when you whimper his name to get his attention. 

He keeps running his tongue over you, cleaning up every drop of blood, and your arousal. When he finally does move away, raising his face to look at you, he’s an absolute mess.

The silence that followed was a different kind of divine. 

The kind never heard in churches, but in the hush of a forest after a storm. Not peaceful, but the aching stillness of something changed. Something that was never coming back. 

You laid curled in the mess of it, linens beneath your back, the ghost of him still between your thighs. Shame and satisfaction bleed together in your bones. 

Your body was still trembling as Remmick leaned back on his heels. His hands smoothed up your thighs, calming the shaking even if he didn’t mean to. His eyes no longer glowed red, but they hadn’t dulled either. They watched you like a man who’d found God in a place no one else thought to look.

“Well now,” he said, voice lowly laced with honey. “Look at you.”

You flushed, turning your face into the crook of your arm, ashamed of the tears still clinging to your lashes and the heat still pooling between your legs even after everything. Your body felt unfamiliar, like you’d been rewritten. 

Remmick chuckled, soft and smug, but not unkind. “Didn’t think you’d come apart like that. Thought I’d have to work harder.”

You shot him a look then. Half glaring and half gawking at him. 

He grinned wider, teeth white but not sharp now. “Ah, don’t give me that face. You should be proud, sugar. That was a kind of worship, what you just gave me.”

He reached for you, slow as syrup spilling from a spoon, hands sliding over your hips. You flinched under his touch from sensitivity, your skin feeling fuzzy with little aftershocks. And your body, the traitorous thing it was, arched into his palms like a flower reaching for sun.

“We ain’t done,” he said, voice curling low in his chest. 

Your breath caught when he dipped to kiss your belly. Once. Then again. Moving higher as he went, his lethal canines scraping along your flesh. 

You glanced down to look at him, gasping when you see what’s now decorating your stomach. Bloody kiss marks are smeared across your skin. His messy face making you stained right along with him. 

Remmick smiled against you, eyes flickering up to meet your stunned expression. “Let me ruin you proper,” he whispered with soiled lips. 

He moaned into you, eyes still locked on yours as he slid a hand between your legs. One of his fingers pressed into that passage, same as his tongue had done moments ago. 

You gasped at the foreign feeling, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Nuh uh,” he scolded. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do without hesitation, eyes darting back down as if beguiled. His mouth continued to press kisses to your belly while his finger worked in and out of you. Your breath began to quicken again, sparks of that fire reigniting. He added a second finger, making you whine at the intrusion. But it wasn’t an awful feeling; it was strange but satisfying. 

“Remmick!” You cried out when he curled them upwards, pressing against something that brought tears to your eyes. He kept that movement up once, twice, and three times before you went to close your legs around him. A pathetic few tears spilling over. 

“Oh, darlin’.” He cooed, prying your legs back open. He moved then, body stretched over yours, chest brushing yours with each breath he didn’t need to take, his weight settling on top of you. 

You shivered as you sniffled, caught somewhere between the aftershocks and the ache for more. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “I know what you need. I know how to help.”

One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers gliding through the strands with a sweetness you hadn’t expected. He stroked along your scalp, petting you like something precious. Like you hadn’t just let him defile you beneath your daddy’s roof. Like you weren’t still marked by his mouth and your own undoing.

“You want me to help you?” He asked, a certain amount of smugness dripping into his tone. 

You gave a soft, half-broken nod. 

That was all it took for him to rip your nightgown over your head. You had no time to be concerned for your modesty, because he was already fumbling with his belt, unbuckling and unzipping in a haste that was almost reeling. He tore the suspenders from his shoulders, shoving his trousers down before working on his shirt. Before you could fully prepare yourself, he was back over you. Your naked bodies perfectly aligned with each other. 

“Ain’t no sense in drawin’ it out,” he spoke against your throat, voice thick and taut with something close to hunger. “Cunt’s already beggin’ f’me. 

His hips rocked forward, not yet inside but threatening, the hard press of him sliding along the heat of you. You gasped, legs twitching to close around him, but he growled—low and guttural—grabbing your thighs and spreading them wider, anchoring them with his own. 

“Promise it won’t hurt too bad,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, gentler than he had any right to be.

Your fingers clutched at his back, at his arms, nails catching skin, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, it made him press in harder, dragging the thick length of him through your slickness with a hiss through his teeth.

“God,” he muttered, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re soaked for me. Didn’t think you could get sweeter, but damn.”

Then, with no further warning, he pushed inside.

The air left your lungs in one shattered breath, back arching off the bed as the stretch burned through you. He filled you in one steady thrust, rough but precise, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t see the point in waiting.

“Remmick—” you whimpered, voice high and caught between a sob and a moan.

“I know, I know,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he drew back to surge forward again. “It’s hurting so good, ain’t it? But you can take it. You will take it.”

He set a hard rhythm, driving into you in a way that’d leave you sore later on. You swore you could feel his craving wrap around you with each thrust, tight and invisible, choking out everything else. Your hands had started fisted around the sheets, knuckles bone-white, but now they raked up his spine, wanting just to feel him. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, a tension coiled tighter than wire. 

With your hands occupied, your moans and cries were free to float through the air. Remmick’s hold on your hips allowed him to pull you into him. He did so roughly, as if to remind you where he was, what you’d let him do. 

An especially harsh snap of his hips had you sucking in a stuttering breath. It felt like you were being split apart, like a log sliced through with an axe, but it was the most divine thing you’d ever experienced. He made love to you deeply enough that it felt like he was caressing your soul.

Remmick is groaning and panting above you, seemingly losing his own composure right along with you. Cock pressing into you as one hand moves from your hips to between your bodies. His fingers find that bud again, pinching and teasing it until you were crying again. 

“Keep crying, sweetheart,” he moaned into your neck. “Y’tears are just as sweet.”

You shuddered at his words, tears still spilling, core clenching around his length. He grunted at the increased tightness, breathing deeply to steady himself as he drove inside of you with more urgency than before. His tongue darts out to lick up your throat before sucking a mark there. His fangs teasing their sharp edges over the sensitive skin. 

“Remmick, I…” Your damp eyes rolled back as a loud moan interrupted you. The incessant movement of his hips made it hard to form a coherent thought. Along with his fingers swirling your bud with faster and faster motions. Your body quivered as you felt that fire build up once more. 

“You gonna cum again so soon?” He chuckles, basking in the control he’s got over you. 

“Yes, please,” you can’t help but plead. 

His eyes flash that dangerous crimson, fangs bearing as he grins down at you. He picks up his pace, all but battering his cock into you. He still works his digits over your bud, overwhelming you with the onslaught of feelings. 

Your belly coils tighter and tighter like before. That warmth bubbling within you, begging to boil over. When it finally does, it’s the most violent thing you’ve experienced. It burns but in the most euphoric sensations, making you clamp down around him as you nearly scream his name. 

Remmick paws at you, movements faltering just a bit. He moves your legs higher up on his waist, letting himself sink deeper inside of you. Stars blink in and out of your vision; you whimper as you feel him invade every corner of your being.

His moans become more frequent, more loud. His hold on you becomes more bruising with each sharp thrust. Watching him lose even a piece of his control seems to draw out your release. You clench around him again, making an almost pained grunt leave his parted lips. 

“I need—” he mumbles barely audibly before he’s slicing a fang along your neck. That small, recognizable sting blooms across your skin again as he splits it open. Hot blood flows down your throat, but he’s licking it up before covering the cut with his mouth. 

He sucks your blood from the wound, still slamming into your center. It only takes a few more before he freezes, a deep moan reverberating against your skin. Warmth seeps into you as he finishes. 

You both remained still for a moment. The room smelling of sweat and sin, like a baptism gone wrong. Every shuddering breath you took felt like it snagged on something unseen, a seam torn open and left to bleed. 

Your body trembled beneath him, limbs slack, soul aching in the hollows where his name had carved itself. There was a warmth between your legs that wasn’t all yours and a dull sting at your throat that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. His mark. His claim. And you had let him do all that and more. 

Remmick collapsed beside you, not with the grace of shadow, but with the slow, satisfied sprawl of something fed full. One arm draped heavy across your waist, anchoring you in place like he feared you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for some time, only breathed each other in. The tip of his nose brushing against your temple as if he needed to memorize the scent of you post-ruin.

Then his voice came, low, rough-edged, and tender, like gravel soaked in molasses. “You alright, lamb?”

Your throat was too raw for speech, so you just nodded, once or twice, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifted, careful this time, easing the tangled linens higher to shield you. His fingers found your hair again, dragging through it in absent strokes. Not with lust now, but with reverence. Like you were a song he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

“It’s a good shake,” you whispered back.

He grinned as he kissed your shoulder with blood stained lips.

You turned your face into his chest, where his heart didn’t beat but his warmth still lingered. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you confessed.

He curled around you like the dark curling around a dying candle. “That’s alright,” he assured. “Reckon you never liked who you were before anyhow.”

You couldn’t think about how he was probably right. Couldn’t think about how at some point he’d have to leave. Maybe never come back. You didn’t want to think about going back to normal preacher’s girl life after this. After him. 

Even if it meant your soul was damned, you didn’t care much. You just wanted to be his, not saved, but his.

Outside, the cicadas sang like mourners, but in his arms, you knew salvation. Not the kind Heaven promised, but the kind that came with being held in the devil’s gentle hands.

﹙taglist﹚ @001-side

Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat while I wrote this.

[truly-quirkless]

"....everythin's buuubbly....'m---very,---innnnnit." He was not. Not in the damn slightest. His head felt light- his chest too heavy- shouldn't he be able to fly?...yeah--- yeah he could-- fly. Right?--- "....m' aaaa hero~..."

"Toshi, for the love of shit where are you?! My Words were hurting like crazy for several---" There was a pause on the other end of the line. "---the fuck-??? Whoever you are- do you know where the owner of this phone is??? Blond? Seven foot two??? Black eyes with sky-blues? Really cute skinny man????? Big scar on his chest?????" They were afraid for him- concern and terror overriding more logical thoughts in their head. "Has the Words 'Oh, hi' above his left wrist????"

"....hhazy?..."

"You sure about that? Because right now you really seem to be out of it." But he did wonder who could have spiked it. Was it spiked from the start or did someone manage to sneak something in? It seems more plausible that it might have been spiked from the start since he figured it would be hard to spike after the tea was brewed. Now he'd have to wonder how and why as well.

The same person appears to be calling, might as well pick up the phone. "Hello?"

[thesiltverses]

Hello! Apologies in advance for the long ask. I'm currently writing an essay for a rhetoric class and I'm analyzing TSV via American Indigenous theory on bordertowns (written by Nick Estes et al) and I was wondering if you had any comments to make that I could use in my writing. I'm discussing:

- the relationship of voluntary sacrifice and implicit faith in the system in TSV versus the involuntary and violent sacrifice of Native land and blood to uphold capitalism

- the similarities between illegal faiths who must be kept in line to maintain order and peace and the Native tribes who are policed militantly both inside and outside the reservation to maintain order and peace in settler society

-the difference between liberal methods of reform (Shrue) revolution and fighting fire with fire (Woundtree) and the end solution of refusing the basis of society and leaving altogether

I'm curious on if you had considered the relationship between the saints and people of color (specifically Indigenous tribes in settler societies like US, Canada, Australia and NZ) when making TSV or if that was largely unintentional? I enjoy that the Linger Straits and the Peninsula are based heavily on settler society mentality and culture, but that the colonization comes from within via the people and the land. Just curious on if you had any comment on Indigeneity as it relates to the Silt Verses, or anything else that stands out to you.

Sounds like a really fascinating essay! Uh, OK, let me try my best here.

We absolutely did consider thematic relationships between saints/sacrifices and communities of colour, but I think our primary influence was probably the treatment of migrant workers within wealthier nations who are made integral supports to some key internal function - whether that's domestic help in an upper-class household or social care or construction while also being horrifically exploited (and viewed with contempt, treated as abject and unwanted in their suffering and poverty, etc) on the basis of their outsidership. They are brought into the heart of things while remaining perpetually outside; becoming both pariahs and martyrs at once.

That slippery relationship and ultimately unwinnable choice between insidership and outsidership for the powerless (remain an outsider and be despised and destroyed; become an insider and be exploited and consumed) is I think a big concern in the show, and something that I definitely think it'd be very valid to apply as a parallel to experiences of indigeneity in America, as you have.

I personally wouldn't compare the illegal faiths of the setting to indigenous communities under settler colonialism (mostly because I think we come down pretty firmly on the side that the illegal faiths like the Parish of Tide and Flesh are equally awful and that they've always perpetuated the same monstrosities and exploitative power structures as everyone else, in almost exactly the same way as everyone else - they've now just ended up on the wrong side of the story.)

For me the Parish is most comparable to something like the rebels of Hereward the Wake in the English Fens, who may have partly inspired Robin Hood. A local resistance movement out in the marshlands against foreign Norman invaders, made up of Anglo-Saxons who'd been the foreign invaders against the Britons just a couple of hundred years earlier but could now be mythologised in turn as heroic nativist defenders against a colonial power.

The oppressor, when under any kind of attack, gratefully embraces the consolation of reimagining themselves as a plucky oppressed underdog and cleansing themselves of any historical sins. (This is a very English thing, we do it all the time.)

[midnightshindig]

Ahhhhhhhh why are you so good at embodying the characters when you write??! (Teach me👀)

This has been on my mind for awhile, but Mark x platonic ride or die bestie headcanons. I just feel bad for him yknow? Home boy/girl/babe is ready to rock the next enemy’s ****shit**** if they make things a smidge stressful for him or his loved ones. But is also simultaneously very considerate/sweet in their own dumpster-fire way. No matter what dimension, what decision, what future, they’re there because they care. Oh imagine them being like an older sibling figure to Oliver or later on Uncle/Aunt figure for Tara!

Thank you for your time - hope you’re doing well 🫡✨

Mark & Bestie!Reader

Okay so here's where I tell you all my shameful secret:

I had one of those etsy accounts where you pay to get a letter from a fictional character in middle school...

I made like over a thousand dollars with it before deactivating it for school reasons. and that's how I'm so well versed in getting into character. Is I used to get paid to do it.

My one tip is to-- obviously-- understand the character. But not from their perspective, from YOUR perspective. You have to get it and find a way to be them that is still you or else it's too unnatural and you feel cringe

ALSO IDK WHAT THE FUCK A TARA IS BUT I WILL SMITE YOU. Please no comic spoilers <3 (/nm)

anyways hcs under the cut!

Mark was a pretty feeble dude in high school pre-powers

and William-- as a scrawny gay kid-- can only protect him from so much

Which is why when you-- tall ass feisty ass chomping-at-the-bit Y/n-- came into his life, you clicked instantly

It was a classic case of Muscle and brain

except you were both Mark's protector AND his geography tutor

sooo.... idk what Mark really brings to the table

I'm kidding I'm kidding!

you and Mark are absolute homies and you're so happy to have met him

....

especially when he GETS SUPERPOWERS???

All those years of you beating down cruel jocks and trash talking snobby snoots have finally paid off

because now this 18-year-old dweeb owes you like basically a lifetime of free flights to wherever

ohhhh and you abuse this power SO much it's not even funny

"Mark, I feel like Pizza-"

"Oh no..."

"In Italy!"

"This is the fourth time this month!"

"Chop chop, super boy."

Not to say you're using him, though

you're still the same gung ho supportive riot you've always been

When Cecil is getting in Mark's space and business, you're the first person up from your chair to bark at him to

"SHUT THE FUCK UP"

Like "Mark dude I really don't like you taking orders from some politician snob. He's bad news."

and he'd come to an "I told you so moment" with you in a few years.

But you never hold it against him.

Mostly.

You're also one of the only people who Mark listens to when he's wrong

"I'm not leaving Eve!"

and you fucking kick in the door like

"Mark- your eight year old brother is out there ALONE and DEFENSLESS against MURDEROUS YOUS. Debbie is who knows where and if you don't take the fight to them, they're going to bring the fight to you with my head on a stick." You jostle him and shove him by the shoulders

Mark, frazzled and annoyed "no! I'm not leaving her-"

"Shut the FUCK UP." You stop, holding him sternly "Eve is going to HATE YOU for this. Get the fuck out there and let me handle things here." your face softens "I'll make sure these pigs don't touch her."

Powerless though you are, this brings him enough comfort to agree to go back to fighting

Eve can't thank you enough for this when she wakes up weeks later

Mark has a lot of power imbalance issues

it's good that he has someone so staunchly opposed to him who loves him so much

but you're not here to corral Mark into what YOU want him to do

for example

"Y/n, I don't know what to do, Cecil won't stop using D.A Sinclair and Darkwing- but they're murderers! How can he expect me to just work with them?!"

You took a long sip of your sweet tea, perched comfortably on your gaming chair

"I mean, I don't know, Mark. They seem under a tight leash, and doesn't everyone deserve a chance to make up for what they did?"

"Ugh- not murderers. Not guys like that." Mark is conflicted, folding his arms

You spin in your chair casually "I think you're dead wrong, but if you want to storm the capital and fuck up Sinclair yourself, I'll back you."

Mark nods in appreciation, his soles hitting the ground when he didn't even realize he was floating

"Thanks, Y/n.... I appreciate that."

"You know it, man. I'll overthrow a government for you any day. Your powers, my smarts-"

"Yyyyyou have a C in physics-"

"Ah ah aH! HONORS Physics. For second years. In college. and I'm what?" Mark opened his mouth to answer before you cut him off "I'm a first year! So blah blah blah YOUR superpowers and MY smarts." You took another drink of sweet tea "We got this."

You're the only person Mark really trusts to babysit Oliver

Since you're the only person Oliver is too scared to disobey

like not that you beat the kid or anything

you're just intimidating

He sees how you boss around his older brother- his whole WORLD- and he's like... damn gotta get in my pjs and brush my teeth before 8 ig

But you're pretty lax with him

"Hey Oliver, wanna go to the skatepark tonight?"

He's like bouncing on his toes all excited "yeah!!"

"Okayyyy but you gotta eat your peas and fly me there"

so he eats his peas and you get the hilarious visual of an eight year old holding your hands as you dangle helplessly in the air

he's literally too little to hold you any other way lmao

Mark never knowssss

Oliver is in bed by the time anyone gets home

and you're on the couch flipping through and prank calling every telepalm reader in their yellow pages

"Oh hey, you're home!" with a big, mischievous ass grin

and then Mark joins you on the couch and prank calls hella telepalm readers with you

You help him not lose his teenage boy-ness

and he needs that

so

so desperately

[scribbledghost]

Inhuman!II Headcanons

Note: Up next is our favorite Boba Eyes, II! I'm having a lot of fun with this series, hopefully you all are too!

General:

Primary inhuman ability is movement. He has the ability to move incredibly quickly when he wants to, which helps immensely during more intense songs.

Also has standard features aside from sharp canine teeth. They're long too - you can often see them poking out from between his lips.

The second oldest vessel behind Vessel himself, II is very well-versed with how Sleep (and by extension, the manor itself) tends to operate. He can commune with it just as well as Vessel can.

Very rarely speaks out loud; he much prefers to speak telepathically to anyone he needs to talk to. The rare exceptions are mostly when he's yelling at III to get down off of some surface he's definitely not supposed to be on.

Gets very into the musical rituals. All of them do, but being in charge of the beat and most of the rhythm, II takes things to another level. It's another time when he'll use his voice, even if just to scream after a really good drum solo.

Don't let him fool you, he's not above causing shenanigans. Also likes to climb up to places he's not supposed to be on, mostly to scare the hell out of Vessel as he passes by.

Can almost always be seen tapping a rhythm somewhere. Whether that be against his leg, on the table, or any other surface his hand is resting on, he's almost always drumming.

Reads a lot! About almost anything he can get his hands on. He just enjoys learning about things, whether that be music theory or physics.

Fluff:

He's quiet in his affections, but no less genuine. He's like a steady presence, much like the drums he plays. If you need a rock to lean on, he's your man.

The one most likely to ask you things akin to "have you eaten? drank enough water? wearing your jacket?" etc. He just wants to make sure you're taken care of.

Definitely likes to have you play his kit every once in a while. Whether you already know how or not, he likes sitting behind you and guiding your hands. You're the only one he does this for - his drums are off-limits to the other vessels and they know it. If any of them bring it up, II just shrugs it off and tells them you're the favorite.

Remember what I said above about II drumming all the time? He does it on you too. Against your arm, your stomach, etc., he's almost always tapping some sort of rhythm away on you when he's with you.

Likes recommending books to you!! He'll find one he particularly likes in the library and as soon as he's done he's heading over to you to make sure you read it later.

Really, really enjoys laying his head on your lap and having you pet his hair. It's the one sure-fire way to get him purring, as he starts doing it without really realizing it.

Sometimes, when neither of you can sleep, II will take you on a walk around the manor gardens. He'll tell you all about the strange plants that grow there, and how they came to be.

I think II also values quality time with you. The two of you don't have to necessarily be doing anything, he just likes to be around you. (He's like a cat in that way).

Smut (under the cut):

If you ever, ever ask him to go faster, you'd better be well aware of what you're asking for. II takes "fast" to a whole other level, both in his hands and his hips, depending on the situation.

Big on having you look him in the eye. Often will grab your jaw just to make sure you're looking at him while he takes you, like he's trying to memorize every facial expression you make (he is).

The quietest of the bunch, II doesn't tend to talk much during sex. The most he'll really do most of the time is various grunts and groans, but the way he grips you and sighs into your ear really tells you everything you need to know.

His favorite position is probably taking you from behind, though he does wish he could see your face. Best compromise is mirror sex, and it's something the two of you do quite often. It lets him have the perfect view.

Fairly middle-of-the-road as far as teasing goes; he likes drawing things out enough to make you beg, but he won't be too mean about it. Usually one "please" is enough for him to give you what you want.

A switch inside and out. Sometimes he just wants to take control, manhandle you a bit, and go fast and hard. Other times he wants you to take care of him and treat him right. He's not above asking for exactly what he wants, either.

Prone to sticking his fingers in your mouth, regardless of position. He can't explain why it turns him on so much, it simply does. If you happen to stare at him with a blissed-out expression while he's got a couple fingers on your tongue, he's a goner.

Likes to come on you, then take some of it on his finger and feed it to you. The sight alone is almost enough to make him ready for another round right away.

[alittlegiraffe]

heyyy lovely,

could u do marshall and reader are broken up and the kids try and get them back together, Marshall is still in-love with reader but she is to obvious (angst & happy ending)

Title: “Still”

You don’t realize how quiet the house has become until you’re standing at the sink, washing the same wine glass for the third time. There’s no music playing. No low laughter from the living room. No voice rising in rhythm from the studio in the basement. Just you, your breath, and the dull hum of the fridge.

It’s been six months.

Six months since you moved out of the house in Clinton Township. Six months since the lawyers got involved. Six months since you and Marshall sat at opposite ends of a table, trying not to look at each other while signing the paperwork that cut your life in half.

It wasn’t messy, not really. No screaming. No cheating scandal. Just a slow erosion—of trust, of time, of each other.

The drugs didn’t help.

The fame definitely didn’t.

But the love... that’s the part that never left. It just started hiding under the surface, buried beneath years of exhaustion and resentment. And fear. Always the fear.

You never stopped loving him.

And you’re pretty sure he never stopped loving you either.

But neither of you said it.

Not when you were packing the last box of books.

Not when he handed you the keys to your new place.

Not when Hailie hugged you both, her voice too steady for her eyes.

Now, the girls—your girls—are on a mission. The three of them are scheming with the focus of a military operation. You caught Alaina whispering to Stevie in the kitchen last week. Hailie’s been unusually persistent about “family dinners.” You wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a shared Google Doc labeled Operation Remarshall or something equally embarrassing.

You can’t blame them.

You and Marshall were good together. At least, you looked good together. And maybe that counts for something. But now?

Now, you’re tired.

Now, you’re trying to teach your daughters that it’s okay to let go of something, even if it hurts. Even if you love it.

Which is why, when your best friend calls and says, “I know a guy. Not too weird. Not too charming. Normal,” you say:

“Fine. Set it up.”

And that’s how you end up sitting across from Derek—a perfectly average, politely interesting CPA—at a trendy little restaurant that smells like rosemary and regret.

He’s talking about refinancing.

You’re trying to care.

But your mind drifts—like it always does—back to Marshall.

To the way his laugh used to echo down the hallway.

To the way he’d sit on the edge of your shared bed, head in his hands, saying “I’m trying, babe. I swear I’m trying.”

To the voicemail he left last night—his voice quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve called.

“I was just thinkin’ about that Christmas in ‘09. When Stevie got stuck in the chimney trying to prove Santa was real? You were right, by the way. We should’ve called the fire department.”

You saved the message.

You always do.

You sip your wine. Smile at Derek. He seems nice. Stable. Grounded.

But he’s not the man who memorized your coffee order down to the number of espresso shots depending on how you slept. He’s not the man who wrote a verse about the way your hands shake when you’re anxious. He’s not the man who fought demons with your name on his lips like a battle cry.

He’s not Marshall.

And you realize, in that moment, that maybe—just maybe—you don’t need to show your daughters you’ve moved on.

Maybe what they need to see is that it’s okay to hold on. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it hurts.

Especially if it’s real.

---

The drive home is quiet.

Derek hums along to the radio, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the center console—close enough to yours that it feels intentional, but not quite brave enough to make the leap.

You watch the city lights blur past the window, your reflection flickering back at you in the glass. For a moment, you pretend you’re someone else. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who doesn’t carry the weight of a thousand almosts.

He pulls up outside your house. The porch light flickers on, triggered by motion or maybe by fate.

“Tonight was… nice,” Derek says, turning to face you. His voice is hopeful, unsure. Like he’s waiting for a cue that never comes.

“Yeah,” you answer, because it’s polite and safe and doesn’t admit the truth.

You’re already reaching for the door handle when he leans in.

And you let him.

You don’t stop him.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft, practiced. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t hurt, even. And maybe that’s the problem.

Because Marshall’s kisses always hurt in the best way.

They were full of fire and apology, full of hunger and hope and please don’t give up on me. He kissed like he was trying to remember you—every time. Like he was afraid he’d forget the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath.

Marshall kissed you like it was a promise. Like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t.

And this?

This feels like a placeholder.

A desperate attempt to feel something, anything. But all you feel is the echo of what’s missing.

You pull back first.

“Thank you, Derek,” you say softly, and you mean it. He deserves kindness. But not the kind you don’t have to give.

He gives a polite nod, like he understands. Maybe he does.

You step out of the car, the night air biting at your skin, and watch him drive away.

Inside, the house is dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You toe off your shoes, lean back against the door, and close your eyes.

Your heart beats too loud in your chest. Not because of the kiss. But because of the one you want—the one you keep chasing in your sleep. The one that still lingers like smoke in a house long burned down.

You don’t even know how he feels anymore. Not really.

Sure, he leaves voicemails. Sends texts that never quite say what they mean. He shows up early to drop off the girls, lingers too long in the driveway. But that’s not the same as trying again.

You’re scared to hope.

Scared to ask.

Scared that maybe he does feel the same and is just as afraid as you are.

So instead, you sit on the bottom step, phone clutched in your hand. You stare at his name in your contacts.

Your thumb hovers.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You just whisper into the dark:

“Goddammit, Marshall. I miss you.”

And somewhere across town, a man sits in a studio surrounded by silence, staring at a blank page—waiting for the right words that might bring you back home.

---

You’d gone out with Derek three more times.

Once to a cozy downtown bar where they served cocktails in mason jars, once to the planetarium where he tried to hold your hand during the stars show, and once to a friend’s housewarming party where someone asked how long you’d been together and you couldn’t answer.

Each date was a test you kept failing.

Each kiss was a shadow of the ones you used to know.

Each laugh was polite.

Each goodbye was quiet.

You were trying. God, you were trying.

But every smile felt like cheating on the grief.

Then Hailie called.

You recognized the excitement in her voice immediately—the breathless kind she only got when she was truly proud of something.

“I got all A’s this semester.”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your mouth. “Of course you did, baby. You’re amazing.”

“I want to celebrate,” she said, and you could already hear the catch in her throat.

“Whatever you want.”

There was a pause.

“I want a family dinner. All of us. You. Dad. The girls.”

You froze, heartbeat thudding in your ears. “Hailie…”

“I’m not asking you to get back together,” she rushed to add. “I just—I want one night where we’re not in different houses and different rooms. Just one night where it feels like home again.”

You sighed, your fingers pressing into the bridge of your nose. You didn’t know how to explain that seeing him hurts in ways Derek’s kisses only sharpen.

Still, you said yes.

Because she never asked for much.

Because she missed the way things were.

Because maybe… you did too.

The night of the dinner, you spend too long choosing what to wear.

Nothing too formal. Nothing that says I’m trying. Nothing that screams I want you to look at me like you used to.

You settle on jeans and a soft sweater. Casual. Safe. Your armor.

The girls are already there when you arrive. Alaina opens the door with a knowing smile, and Stevie gives you a tackle-hug that almost knocks the air out of you.

The smell of garlic bread and pasta sauce fills the house. It smells like comfort. Like Sunday afternoons and movie nights and burnt meatballs because Marshall always got distracted mid-stir.

And then he walks in from the kitchen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He’s wearing a black tee and grey sweatpants, socks mismatched as always. His beard’s trimmed but a little scruffy, and his eyes—God, those eyes—they still do that thing where they look straight through you.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Not since the first date with Derek.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet, careful.

“Hey.”

It’s stupid how the word feels heavier than the whole night.

Dinner is a blur of laughter and stories and teasing. The girls keep the conversation going, deliberately avoiding landmines. Hailie shows off her grades, and you all cheer like she won a Nobel Prize. Marshall’s eyes never leave her.

You don’t miss how he looks at her like she’s his entire world.

You don’t miss how you used to be part of that world, too.

You reach for your wine at the same time he does for the bread, and your hands brush. It’s a jolt.

And it hits you—how your body still remembers him. How his touch, even accidental, still feels like home.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s a question in his eyes he’s too scared to ask.

You look away.

After dessert, the girls clean up like it was rehearsed. You suspect it was.

You find yourself alone with him on the back porch, the Michigan night air crisp around you. Crickets hum in the silence.

“She asked for this,” you say, arms folded. “I didn’t plan it.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to send mixed signals.”

“I know that too.”

You glance at him. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

He nods, jaw tight. “Derek.”

“How’d you—?”

“Hailie told me. Not on purpose. It slipped.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “She’s not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “She’s not.”

Another long silence.

“I’m trying, Marshall,” you whisper. “To move on.”

“Yeah?” he says softly. “How’s that goin’?”

And that’s the thing. It’s not.

You’re still comparing every kiss to his.

Still sleeping on one side of the bed.

Still catching your breath when you hear old songs you both loved.

Still missing a man you aren’t even sure wants to be yours again.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He nods. Takes a breath like he’s deciding whether to speak or not.

“I’m six months clean,” he says finally. “I did that for the girls. For me. But a big part of it was you. And I’m not askin’ for anything. I just… I never stopped loving you. I just forgot how to say it without breaking everything.”

You stare at him.

Because it’s what you always wanted to hear.

Because it’s what you were afraid of hearing.

Because it might still not be enough.

But your heart?

Your heart starts beating again like maybe it could find a way back.

---

You’re still standing on the porch, arms folded against the chill, his confession hanging between you like smoke—fragile and thick.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid if you do, everything will unravel. Or worse—come together.

Then Marshall shifts, like he’s made a decision. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s nervous, but when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“I told my lawyers to stall the divorce.”

Your eyes snap up to his.

“What?”

He meets your gaze without flinching. “I don’t want it finalized. Not yet.”

“You can’t just—Marshall—what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping closer, “that I don’t wanna keep pretending this is what we both wanted. It means I’m not ready to let you go. Not if there’s still a chance.”

His eyes are clear, heartbreakingly blue in the porch light, and you remember—so vividly—it floors you.

You remember those eyes looking up at you in the hospital room when Stevie was born.

Those same eyes flooded with tears during fights he didn’t have the words for.

Those eyes staring at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And now? Now they’re looking at you like he’s ready to climb his way back out of the wreckage.

“I’ve been sitting in that house, thinking about all the ways I screwed this up,” he says. “All the times I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down. All the nights I should’ve held you instead of hiding in the studio. I let the fame get in my head. I let the drugs take me away. But I’m here now.”

You stare at him, barely breathing.

“I know I’ve got a hell of a lot to prove. And maybe you’ll decide it’s too late. Maybe Derek ends up being the guy who makes you happy. But if there’s even one part of you that still wonders if we can fix this—”

His voice cracks, and your heart breaks with it.

“I’m gonna fight for you.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t rip me apart every time I walk into a room and still want you.”

“Then let it,” he says, stepping closer, barely inches from you now. “Let it rip. Let it break. I’ll help put it back together if you’ll let me. I swear to God, I’ll show up different this time. Better.”

You look at him.

This man who’s made every mistake and still carries your name in every lyric that never made it to the studio. This man who ruined things, yes—but who also loved you so hard it sometimes scared you.

You want to trust him.

You want to believe.

But your voice is barely a whisper when you say, “And what if I can’t go through all of it again?”

His fingers graze your hand—just a brush, not a grab, not a demand.

“Then I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you can. But I’m not walking away.”

And there it is.

The first real fight in six months.

Not screaming.

Not pleading.

Just choosing to stay.

Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

You close your eyes. Let the night settle around you. Let your heart remember what it feels like to be chosen.

And somewhere in the quiet between breaths, you whisper the smallest truth you’ve been carrying:

“…I miss you every day.”

His hand finds yours.

You don’t pull away.

---

Six weeks with Derek.

Three weeks since Marshall looked you in the eyes and said “I’m going to fight for you.”

You haven’t made any declarations. No decisions. No promises.

But you’ve let Marshall call. You’ve answered when he texted “You busy?” at 10 p.m. and ended up talking until midnight about everything except the divorce.

He’s left flowers on your porch. Not store-bought ones—wildflowers, unevenly bundled in string, clearly picked by hand.

He wrote “Thinking of you” in a card and spelled thinking wrong on purpose because he knew it would make you laugh.

And it did.

He’s been over more—helping Hailie put together Ikea shelves, picking Stevie up from art class, standing in your kitchen like he still belongs.

But then there’s Derek.

Kind. Thoughtful. Patient. The safe choice. The fair one.

You’ve kept seeing him—trying to honor the part of you that said you’d try. You owe him that much. You owe yourself that much.

So when it’s your turn to host family dinner again—this time for Stevie’s big art show win—you hesitate for a full hour before you send Derek the text:

“Dinner Friday night. For Stevie. I’d like you to come.”

He replies immediately.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You set down your phone, your stomach twisting in knots.

Because Marshall will be there.

And for the first time, you’re bringing your boyfriend into a room that still holds the ghost of your marriage.

Friday arrives too fast.

You spend the day cooking too much, trying to overcompensate. Stevie’s collage sculpture gets center stage on the dining room table, and she beams when she sees the place settings you made with little paintbrush name cards.

Derek arrives early.

He brings wine and flowers—lilies this time, wrapped in clean paper. He kisses your cheek and compliments the sauce on the stove. He talks to Stevie like she’s the star of the night and makes her giggle with a goofy art pun.

And you want to want this.

You want to feel like you’re making the right choice.

But then the door opens.

And Marshall walks in.

He’s wearing jeans and that grey hoodie you always used to steal when you were cold. He pauses in the doorway when he sees Derek, then gives you a brief glance—waiting, letting you set the tone.

You force a smile. “Hey.”

He gives a quiet, “Hey,” back, and nods politely to Derek.

Derek holds out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Marshall shakes it, his jaw ticking. “Yeah? Same.”

It’s not aggressive, not quite cold—but it’s not warm either.

The girls are quick to fill the silence, pretending not to notice the storm cloud hanging in the middle of the room.

Dinner goes… fine.

Derek fits in better than you expected—he laughs at Stevie’s jokes, listens intently when Hailie talks about her grad program, even offers to help with dishes.

Marshall is quieter tonight. Watchful. Reserved. You can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves.

But he never once makes it about himself.

He compliments Stevie’s art. He asks about Alaina’s new job. He clears plates without being asked. And every time his fingers brush yours, your breath stutters.

After dessert, the girls all migrate to the living room to watch Finding Nemo—one of Stevie’s comfort picks, even now. You start putting dishes in the sink when Marshall lingers in the doorway behind you.

You know he’s there before he speaks.

“You brought him.”

Your hands still on the plate. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“That what we’re calling him now?” he says, voice low but calm. “I just figured, if we’re gonna label things.”

You turn, drying your hands. “You said you were going to fight for me. That doesn’t mean I’m required to stop living my life.”

“I know,” he says, nodding. “I’m not mad.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I’m scared,” he admits, and the honesty in it makes your stomach ache.

“I know I don’t have a right to ask,” he says, stepping closer, voice softer, “but when he touches you… does it feel like when I did?”

You close your eyes.

Because no.

It doesn’t.

Not even close.

But you’re still afraid to say it.

“I’m trying to figure out what I want,” you say quietly.

Marshall swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I hope it’s me.”

Then he turns and walks away—back into the warmth of your girls and the movie and the soft chatter that fills the house.

And you stand alone in your kitchen, heart caught between what is, what was, and what could be.

---

You walk back into the living room just in time to hear Alaina’s voice cut through the low hum of the television.

“So… you’re dating our mom?”

Derek chuckles politely. “Guess I am.”

You freeze mid-step, eyes flicking toward the couch. Stevie’s curled up with a blanket, focused on the screen, but Hailie and Alaina are perched like sentinels, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—full older-sister mode.

“And you’re okay with the fact that she’s still married to our dad?” Hailie asks, her voice deceptively light, but her jaw tight enough to draw blood.

“Hailie Jade!” you snap, heat flaring up your neck.

She shrugs, unapologetic.

Derek just smiles that calm, affable smile of his, like he’s been through worse. “It’s fine,” he says, soothing, hands raised slightly like he’s defusing a bomb. “They’re separated.”

He turns to Hailie like he’s offering logic. “She’s allowed to move on. They’re not together anymore.”

And that’s when you feel it.

Marshall’s stare. Heavy. Unyielding.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped like he’s holding himself back from standing up. His eyes are locked on you—blue, bright, and burning with something he’s too tired to hide.

Not anger. Not jealousy.

Just… hurt.

The kind that makes your throat close up.

You look away.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Derek, motioning for him to follow you into the kitchen. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He nods, rising without protest.

In the kitchen, the soft hum of the dishwasher is the only sound for a few seconds. You lean against the counter, exhaling slowly.

“I didn’t expect them to—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in gently. “I get it. They’re protective.”

You nod, your arms crossing over your chest. “Still… that wasn’t fair to you.”

Derek watches you for a long moment, then tilts his head. “Can I ask you something?”

You brace yourself. “Yeah.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

Your mouth goes dry.

You want to say no. You want to say of course not, that what you had is gone, that this is your life now and you're building something new.

But the words don’t come.

You just stare at the floor, blinking fast.

Derek sighs, kind and tired. “You don’t have to answer. I think I already know.”

He steps forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and bittersweet.

“You’re a good person,” he says. “But I’m not gonna fight a ghost.”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off gently. “But if you still look at him like that, and he looks at you like he’s waiting to breathe again… then you’re not mine.”

And then he leaves.

Not angrily. Not wounded. Just… done.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door he walked through.

Then you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

“Are you okay?” Marshall asks quietly.

You nod. “He left.”

“I heard.”

You finally turn, your eyes finding his. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t my place.”

“Would you have said something if I asked you to?”

He steps forward, closes some of the space between you. “I’d do anything if you asked me to.”

It’s too much.

Too honest.

Too late.

Or maybe… just in time.

You don’t move when he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You don’t breathe when his fingers linger, when his thumb brushes your cheek like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud.

“I told you,” he says softly. “I’m gonna fight for you.”

And right now, with the room full of the echo of everything unsaid, with the girls pretending not to listen from the hallway, and your heart pounding like it remembers what it’s like to be his—

You believe him.

---

The night winds down slowly.

Stevie drifts off first, curled on the couch with paint smudges still on her sleeves and a soft snore rising from beneath her blanket. Alaina leaves soon after, offering you a long hug and a knowing glance—her way of saying I trust you without needing to say it.

Hailie lingers the longest.

She doesn’t speak. She just clears the last of the dishes, gives you a tight smile, and kisses your cheek on her way out. But as she passes Marshall, she pauses. Looks at him. Then at you. Then keeps walking.

It’s quiet after the door closes.

You’re both still in the kitchen. Him leaning against the counter. You sitting on the edge of the table where Stevie’s sculpture still glimmers under the soft overhead light.

He hasn’t made a move to leave.

You haven’t asked him to.

Instead, there’s just this soft weight in the room—like the air itself knows you’re standing at the edge of something.

He finally breaks the silence.

“I should probably head out.”

You look at him.

And then, without really thinking, you ask the question that’s been sitting on your tongue since the moment he walked through your door tonight.

“…What if I asked you to kiss me?”

Marshall goes still.

His breath catches, chest rising slowly, like your words knocked the wind out of him. He stares at you for a long second, those bright eyes flickering with everything he’s been trying not to say.

“You serious?”

You nod once, your voice quieter this time. “You said you’d do anything if I asked.”

He steps forward, slow, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast.

“I did say that.”

You swallow. “Did you mean it?”

He’s standing in front of you now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something warm and clean and familiar. Close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body.

“I meant every word.”

You tilt your head up to him, your heart pounding.

“So kiss me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Like he’s trying to memorize every piece of this. Your face. Your voice. The fact that you’re finally asking.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s slow at first—like he’s savoring the permission, like he’s afraid to scare you off. But then your fingers slide into the front of his hoodie, and he groans softly against your lips, and it deepens.

It’s all there.

Everything you tried to forget.

Every promise.

Every failure.

Every night he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And now? Now he kisses you like he’s trying to put every broken piece of your story back together with his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, his hands still cradling your face, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

“I never stopped.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

Because maybe—for now—this is enough.

Maybe it’s the beginning again.

---

Two months.

Two months of secret smiles, of stolen weekends, of falling back into something that feels more like home than anything has in years.

You and Marshall didn’t mean to keep it from the girls. Not forever. Just… until it felt real. Until you could both say this time, we’re doing it right. Until the divorce was officially off the table and not just paused in the hands of your lawyers.

Until it wasn’t fragile anymore.

You thought you were being subtle. Careful. Quiet.

You thought wrong.

Family dinner is casual this time—just pizza boxes and laughter, Stevie’s sketchpad open on the counter, Alaina scrolling through her phone while Hailie debates whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t, in her very loud opinion).

Marshall’s sitting across from you, beer in hand, smirking behind the lip of the bottle every time your phone buzzes and your face lights up before you can help it.

The girls are mid-discussion about movies when Hailie suddenly stops talking and levels you with a look.

“So when were you going to tell us?”

You blink, startled. “Tell you what?”

“That you’re seeing someone.”

You choke on your drink, nearly spluttering soda across the table. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, come on, Mom,” Hailie groans, like she’s been waiting weeks for this conversation. “The late nights? That mystery bruise on your neck you swore was from your curling iron?”

You cough harder.

Alaina bursts into laughter. “Told you it wasn’t a burn!”

Stevie glances up from her sketchbook, wide-eyed. “Wait—was it a hickey?!”

You shoot Marshall a do not laugh glare, which he meets with a lazy smirk and a sip of his drink, the picture of smug amusement.

Hailie presses on, relentless. “The way you keep looking at your phone and smiling like a teenager? You’re seeing someone. Don’t lie.”

You set your glass down carefully, straightening your posture like you’re about to give a press conference.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t seeing someone.”

“Oh my god,” Alaina gasps, clutching her chest. “Who is he?”

“Is he hot?” Stevie adds, eyebrows high. “Please tell me he’s hot.”

You lift a hand to try and calm them. “Listen, it’s… new. And I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. We’re taking it slow.”

Hailie narrows her eyes. “Is this guy going to be around? Is he serious?”

“He’s…” You glance at Marshall without meaning to, and it’s a mistake, because you see it—that softness he only ever wears around you. That quiet reassurance that says I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

You look back at the girls. “He’s important to me. And yes, it’s serious.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hailie nods slowly. “Okay. As long as he’s good to you.”

“He is,” you say, meaning it more than you ever have.

Marshall’s eyes flicker toward you, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“And for the record,” you add, standing to clear the plates, “that was not a hickey.”

“Mom,” Alaina says dryly. “It totally was.”

You disappear into the kitchen as their laughter follows you, your face flushed and your heart pounding.

Behind you, Marshall rises to help, brushing his hand lightly against yours as he takes a stack of plates.

He leans in close, voice low in your ear. “So… I’m hot, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “You heard Stevie. She hopes you’re hot. She hasn’t confirmed anything.”

He laughs under his breath, presses a soft kiss just below your ear, and whispers, “Guess I’ll just have to prove it.”

You swat him with a dish towel, grinning like a woman who’s definitely not hiding anything anymore.

And for the first time in a long time, hiding doesn’t feel necessary.

---

It starts small.

A casual mention over takeout boxes on your kitchen counter. The kind of harmless conversation that shouldn’t have turned into anything.

But somehow, it does.

“I was thinking…” Marshall says, nudging a container of noodles toward you. “Maybe we tell the girls soon.”

You glance up from your phone, frowning slightly. “Tell them what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “About us.”

You freeze for half a second, then go back to twirling your fork. “I thought we agreed we’d wait until the divorce was officially off the table.”

“Yeah, but…” he shrugs, not meeting your eyes, “I mean, we’re practically living together again.”

You bristle before you even understand why. “We’re not living together, Marshall.”

His jaw twitches slightly. “Right. I just mean—you’re not exactly dating anyone else.”

You put your fork down slowly. “That’s not the point. We said we’d wait.”

He looks at you then, really looks. “You’re scared.”

You blink. “What?”

“You think if we tell them and it doesn’t work out, you’ll be the bad guy again.”

The words land sharp and heavy in your chest.

“That’s not fair.”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I just—I don’t want to hide anymore. Don’t you want to be able to say it, finally?”

You stand and start clearing the table, even though there’s food still on your plate. “Of course I want to say it. I want to scream it. But I want to be smart about this. We just started over. We don’t get infinite resets.”

“And you don’t trust me not to screw it up,” he says, voice low.

You whip around, hurt flaring fast. “That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence between you stretches long and tight.

You hate this. You hate this.

The tension, the sharpness in his tone, the way his eyes look dimmer now. It’s your first fight since getting back together, and already your lungs feel too tight, like you’re slipping underwater and can’t find the surface.

“I’m not trying to protect me,” you say finally, voice softer now. “I’m trying to protect them. They’ve already been through enough. I just want to make sure it’s real this time before we bring them into it.”

Marshall nods slowly. Too slowly.

“Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like okay. It sounds like we’re not okay.

You stare at each other in the kitchen, just a few feet of tile between you and a canyon full of doubt.

He turns and grabs his keys from the counter. “I’m gonna head out. Give us both some space.”

“Marshall—”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

“I meant it when I said I was fighting for you,” he says. “Just tell me when it’s safe to stop fighting and start living again.”

And then he’s gone.

You stand there, hands clenched around a dish towel, trying not to let panic win.

Because this was supposed to be different.

Because you love him.

Because this time, you don’t want to lose him.

You don’t even hesitate.

The second the door closes, you throw the dish towel on the counter and follow him. Barefoot, heart pounding, nerves buzzing in your chest like they’ve been waiting for this moment.

He’s halfway down the driveway by the time you reach the porch, keys jingling in his hand as he stalks toward his car, jaw tight.

“Marshall,” you call out, breath catching.

He doesn’t stop.

So you try again, louder. “Marshall.”

This time, he turns.

And when he does, his face nearly undoes you.

He looks… tired. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired—in that way that comes from loving someone too much and not knowing if it’ll be enough.

You take a step off the porch, gravel cold against your feet.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you.

You keep going. “I panicked. You know how many times I’ve let myself believe in this? In us? And it fell apart anyway?”

He swallows hard, keys still dangling loosely in his hand.

“I want to tell them,” you say, voice thick. “I do. I want to tell the whole goddamn world. I just needed to know you weren’t gonna leave.”

“I’m not,” he says instantly, voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’m not gonna pretend like this doesn’t hurt. I get why you’re scared—but you’re not the only one taking a risk here. I put everything on the table for you. Again.”

You move closer, slowly, until you’re standing right in front of him beneath the soft wash of the porch light.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you did. And I’m sorry I made you feel like it wasn’t enough.”

His eyes flicker, and for a second, you see all of it—his love for you, his fear, the ache of the years you spent apart.

You reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “Don’t go. Don’t get in that car. Let’s fight about it inside like emotionally dysfunctional adults, not in the driveway where the neighbors can eavesdrop.”

A slow smile tugs at his mouth, despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous, remember?”

He exhales a soft laugh, finally stepping closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I just want to be able to hold your hand in front of our girls again. Kiss you without feeling like we’re sneaking around.”

“I know. And we will. Soon.”

Marshall brushes a thumb over your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod. “I'm not sure of much, but I'm sure of you. That’s a start, right?”

He kisses you then—soft, slow, like an apology and a promise all in one.

And when he pulls back, you whisper, “Come back inside. Stay.”

He nods.

And you walk back in together.

Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not easily.

But together.

---

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

The girls were all busy—Alaina at dinner with friends, Hailie working late, Stevie staying over with a classmate for a project. That’s what you told yourselves when you ended up at Marshall’s place—your old home—again, curled up in the living room like no time had passed.

But everything had changed.

You’re on the couch, knees on either side of his hips, your hands in his hair as his mouth moves against yours like he’s starved for you. Like the months apart meant nothing compared to the way he still knows how to kiss you so good you forget your own name.

His hands are under your shirt, calloused palms warm and reverent as they rest on your back. Your bodies move in sync, like a rhythm only you two know.

And then—

The front door slams open.

“Oh my god—”

You both jolt like you’ve been shot, and you’re suddenly scrambling to climb off his lap as Hailie, Alaina, and Stevie all stand frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, jaws hanging open.

You fumble for your shirt hem and yank it down, face burning. Marshall’s trying—and failing—to look casual as he runs a hand over his face and leans back on the couch, like yep, this is happening.

“What the hell?!” Hailie shrieks, still rooted to the floor.

Alaina just blinks. “Is that what I think it is?”

Stevie, bless her heart, looks more fascinated than horrified. “Oh my god, were you guys making out?”

You want to die.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

Marshall clears his throat. “Hey, girls.”

“Hey?” Hailie repeats, voice cracking. “That’s all you’ve got?! Hey?!”

“I can explain,” you blurt, cheeks blazing, heart racing.

“No, no, you don’t get to explain yet,” Hailie says, stalking into the room like a prosecutor in heels. “You lied to us. You said you were seeing someone new!”

“I wasn’t lying,” you try to defend, holding up a hand. “I just… I wasn’t ready to say it was him yet.”

Marshall grins faintly. “Gee, thanks.”

You shoot him a glare and he lifts his hands like my bad.

“Wait,” Stevie says slowly. “So the mystery guy? The hickey? The smiling-at-your-phone texts? That was Dad?”

“Gross,” Alaina mutters, but there’s laughter in her voice now.

You run a hand through your hair and sit down properly, trying not to look like you were just straddling your ex-husband on a piece of furniture his kids still use. “Look, we didn’t mean for you to find out this way. We were trying to wait until we were sure.”

Hailie folds her arms. “So… are you?”

You blink. “Are we what?”

“Sure.”

Marshall reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you like the answer is simple.

“We’re sure,” he says softly. “I’m all in.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

You nod, voice quieter. “Yeah. We’re sure.”

There’s a long, dramatic pause.

Then Stevie flops on the armchair and shrugs. “Well, good. ‘Cause this has been like watching a rom-com in real life and I hate unresolved tension.”

Alaina snorts. “You two better not make out in the kitchen, though. I’m putting a boundary on that right now.”

Hailie still looks shell-shocked, but her expression softens. “You really love each other?”

Marshall squeezes your hand.

“Always did.”

Your eyes meet Hailie’s, and something quiet passes between you—understanding, maybe. Hope.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I’m not gonna pretend this isn’t going to take a minute, but… I’m glad it’s him.”

You exhale in relief, your heart finally beginning to slow.

Then Stevie adds, “Just… maybe next time? Lock the front door.”

And Marshall groans, dropping his head back with a laugh while you bury your face in your hands.

Because apparently, there will be a next time.

And this time, it won’t be in secret.

---

The conference room is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit in the same stiff-backed chair you sat in six months ago when the papers were first drawn up. The same table where you’d signed your name over and over again like you were peeling your marriage apart line by line.

Only this time, your fingers are laced with Marshall’s beneath the table.

Your lawyer glances between the two of you, clearly confused. “So… just to confirm… you’re not moving forward with the divorce?”

Marshall nods. “Yeah. We’re calling it off.”

You add quickly, “We’re staying married. We’ve reconciled.”

Your lawyer doesn’t react at first. Then she lifts her pen, scribbles something down, and says, “Well, I have to say… I don’t get a lot of those.”

Across the table, Marshall’s lawyer raises an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t going to be another on-again, off-again situation?”

You don’t even flinch.

You just turn to Marshall—and he’s already looking at you, already steady.

“We’re sure,” you say together.

You leave the office hand in hand, the old nerves buzzing under your skin—but this time, they feel different. They feel like possibility. Like the deep breath right before something beautiful.

[gay-dorito-dust]

How about something about being a very soft and feminine person, strong independent in their own way, with Mizu. I like to think she is joins the party and acts as the “woman” for the group, and she just genuinely is a good person. I just want to see Mizu with someone who just cares about them.

This was way too long and whatever else you wanna call it.

‘You’ll die.’ Mizu puts bluntly.

‘I don’t care. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.’ You shrugged, mind made up as you already have packed your essentials for the departure overnight.

Mizu closed their eyes, sighing deeply through the nose before opening their eyes once more to look directly at you with their usual stare. ‘I won’t be held responsible if you were killed unawares.’ They said but the fire of excitement and adventure within your eyes hasn’t faltered once.

Mizu can only wonder how they attract people of similar natures in one way or the other to trail after them like a little horde of stubborn ducklings; A question they’ll couldn’t quite find the answer for.

You have been prone to leave Mizu perplexed since your first met after healing them of their wounds after a particularly heinous fight. Your soft touches and kind encouraging words brought about uncertain feelings within Mizu. Making them feel as though they have somehow ventured off into unfamiliar territory, immediately sending them to act out in self defensive tactics.

Constantly looking over their shoulder, hand clutching at the hilt of their sword, ears and eyes honing in on every snaps of branches and the rustling of bushes, waiting for a potential ambushes or ransacking attempts. Anything that would put their life in any and all levels of risk.

Mizu found themself in a battlefield they weren’t well versed in whenever your face shone with a bright smile upon seeing them in the mornings, presenting them with the clothes they’ve entrusted to you to sew up the worn and torn fabric, seeing as how only you were the one with the tools and the experience for the job. Or how you would often help fix up breakfast for everyone but always end up making yours last, when Mizu asked about this, you just shrugged and told them that you’d rather survive off of scraps if it meant others having full, warm and satisfied bellies.

Mizu only scoffs at this, not thinking too much into your words, but their sharp eyes would immeditly notice the difference in the amount of food you gave them before looking at your own proportions; which was enough to satiate your hunger for the time being but it was obvious that you gave larger portions of food to them. Their eyes would soften somewhat at the gesture, knowing that your words were more than just words, only to harden afterwards when catching you given them frequent side glances.

You would also patch up reopened words that were in harder to reach for Mizu or Tiagen to get to by themselves , much to Mizu’s dismay at the thought of being in such a vulnerable and open position for sabotage. However under your watchful eye, Mizu had learnt over a long period of time to put their trust into you and your seemingly never ending well of talents.

‘Stop doing stuff that’ll only reopen your wounds,’ you scolded, finishing sealing up the last of Mizu’s wounds with a final stitch. ‘I’m staring to run out of thread and alcohol to disinfect the needle with the rate you and Taigen are going at!’ You added, putting your hands on your hips like a disappointed parent.

‘If it displeases you so much to waste resources, then why bother healing me in the first place.’ Mizu responded straightforwardly as they slowly refitted their clothing on their body whilst trying not to reopen any wounds as to not waste the effort you put into putting them back together again. You huffed, knowing that Mizu was still a little on edge with you and the kindness you went out of your way to give them.

You didn’t blame them for being the way they were and only accepted this as their way of acting the only way they knew how and went to sit down next to them, remembering to keep some distance for keep Mizu from unwarranted contact. ‘It’s not the resources that I’m worried about. It’s you.’ You admitted, seeing Mizu look at you from the corner of your eye, looking as though they weren’t expecting that type of response to come from your mouth. That reaction only hurt your heart knowing that a concerning about of people lacked empathy towards their fellow man. It genuinely disgusted you at how easy it was for them to show you their back the moment you’ve outgrown your usage.

‘Me? Why?’ Mizu asked.

You chuckled humourlessly. ‘Is it a sin for me to be concerned about you? To worry about you whenever you come back from where ever you wander off to, suddenly unable to stand on your own two feet without collapsing from immense blood loss?’ Mizu reminded silent and so you took that as a sign to continue. ‘Am I expected to just stand there and not do anything? I’m sorry but I’d rather wast every resource I own on you because if it meant bettering your chances of survival, even if by a margin, then I’d do anything to make that possibility into a guarantee.’ You finished with a smile before getting up to your feet and leaving the room to give Mizu privacy and time to process your words.

Meanwhile Mizu was back to feeling those foreign emotions. They weren’t use to someone caring for them to the extent that you did, not without wanting something in exchange but Mizu noticed that you haven’t even once asked for anything in return for making them breakfast, sewing up their clothes, gifting them sharping stones for their sword nor patching up their wounds. All you did was take care of them and their every needs, so much so that they felt a weird warm within their chest at the memory of your bright smile that you gave them after everything.

You were sweet and soft but strong, firm in your beliefs and posses a strong independence. A true diamond in the rough in regard to everything they’ve bore witness to since childhood. Your attitude towards them was an extreme contrast to everyone else’s, it often caught Mizu off guard in the odd occasion but it wasn’t until now did Mizu come to realised how much their body ached to be tended and cared for by someone like you. They’ve persevered through the hardships they’re forced to call life and bore the scars of said hardships in a multitude of places upon their body, both new and old.

Mizu was use to being alone but now that you entered their life, they were starting to think that they don’t wanna be alone anymore but was a tad hesitant to make the first move on their own accord. If Mizu was grateful for one thing in life, it was the fact that you were in it and by their side for the indefinite future.

[kioflerkira]

“ CATCH ME IF YOU CAN ! ”

pairing(s): m.morales x reader genre: fluff, humor, established relationship, friendly competition warnings: fluff, implied teasing swearing tee hee, kissing summary: you and miles make a game out of who can swing to the top of the tallest building first

━━━━ ⋮ ୨୧ ⋮ ━━━━

“ALRIGHT RULES ARE SIMPLE,” you said, perched sideways on the edge of a rooftop, fingers holding also the concrete roof. “first one to the top of that—” you pointed across the skyline, toward a skyscraper that gleamed under the afternoon sun, “—wins.”

miles arched a brow, stretching his neck like a professional athlete about to enter the spider-verse olympics. “what building ? that’s like three bridges and a pizza place away.”

“I believe in you,” you teased, already leaning forward like a runner on the starting line.

he gave you a squinty look, smirking as he pulled his mask back over his face. “you’re gonna cry when I beat you, aren’t you ?”

“ha ! you wish.” you grinned. “first one there gets bragging rights and the loser buys dinner.”

“oh, now it matters,” he laughed. “let’s go, pretty girl.”

and with that, he shot a web and zoomed.

you cursed under your breath, firing your own web right after him, launching off the edge with a scream of wind in your ears. the race was on.

the city blurred past as you swung between buildings, weaving through fire escapes and dodging the occasional surprised pigeon. you could see him up ahead—barely. his suit flashed red and black like a taunt every time he flipped over a building edge, cocky as ever.

“slowpoke !” miles shouted over his shoulder.

“trash talk won’t save you when I pass you !” you yelled back.

he laughed again— show-off

you took a shortcut, slicing through a narrow alleyway and rebounding off the side of a brick wall, shooting your web higher. boom, suddenly you were ahead.

“HEY !” he shouted.

“oh now you care,” you called, twisting mid-air, flipping backward just to show off. “I thought you were gonna win ?”

you didn’t even have to see his face to know he was pouting under that mask.

but then, as if scripted, you misjudged a swing. your web caught a weird angle, and you dipped for half a second.

and man, that one slip up was all he needed.

FWOOSH

he passed you in a blur, momentum perfect, body graceful in a way that made you want to punch him.

you landed on the rooftop a mere second after he did, tumbling into a roll and popping up just in time to see him already striking a dramatic pose on the edge of the building.

“you’re late,” he said smugly.

you stood, hands on your hips. “you literally just got here.”

“yeah, but I got here first.” he walked toward you, peeling off his mask. that smug smile of his was in full force. “so.. what’s for dinner ?”

you shoved him lightly, laughing. “you got lucky.”

“no,” he said, gently pulling your mask up halfway and kissing your forehead. “I got you. that’s all the luck I need.”

you groaned. “that was so incredibly corny—”

“and you loved it.”

you shoved him again, harder this time, and he caught you in a hug, arms wrapping around you in that warm, miles way that made everything slow down.

“you almost had me,” he said softly.

“you’re annoying,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “but you love me anyway ?”

you paused .. then sighed. “unfortunately.”

“rude.”

he kissed you anyway, grinning.

━━━━ ⋮ ୨୧ ⋮ ━━━━

a/n: WHY on gods green earth is it so hard to find decent photos for my shi bro, specifically miles 🥀 kid you not, it took me a good 30 minutes to find barely 3 decent photos

[rwrbficrecs]

ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t have fallen in love with) by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@dot524: Such a fun little punk band AU. There’s a meet-cute, some mild angst, and emotional music scenes with bonding. Plus, great cameos of June, Nora, and Alex’s family. I enjoyed the pacing, dialogue, and character development of this AU and its feel-good ending, and it was fun to see them as punk rockers!

Still Sitting in the Corner I Haunt by BrokenChair, mister_nic (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is a high school AU and Groundhog Day combined! Henry is characterized so well in this fic, and each part of this 5+1 has both obvious and subtle differences that combine to make the perfect fic!

The Tea Shop on Verbena Street by @stutteringpeach (book-verse)

@suseagull04: If every fic was this good, I would never get any work done, because it was really hard to put this fic down! The mystery aspect of it is crafted so well, and to top it all off, this is the best slowburn I've read in awhile. Definitely a fic you don't want to miss out on!

Pretty Competent by @noahreids (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Single Dad Alex and hockey captain Henry Fox meet for the first time at Alex’s daughter’s tryouts – and yeah, they take it slow. But honestly, Alex flirts like crazy, Henry’s texting game is on fire, and to top it all off, Alex’s daughter is totally smitten with Henry. My heart does somersaults just thinking about this super sweet and super sexy fic.

The stranger you recognise by @clottedcreamfudge (book-verse)

@suseagull04: Usually I think the sequel is never as good as the original, but that's absolutely not the case with this fic! The version of our faves that we know and love from The Tea Shop on Verbena Street return, and CCF has so much respect and love for these characters that it's impossible to tell that the sequel isn't written by the original author, only with their permission. Add to that the fact that this fic adds tropes that make perfect sense in this verse, and you've got yet another fic that's worthy of becoming a classic. I'll definitely be reading this fic again soon!

Hit (My Love) Out of the Park by bleedingballroomfloor (book-verse)

@suseagull04: Rivals to lovers at its finest! I love the way this fic comes full circle and that it's so fun- the author's love for the sport definitely shows!

the full spectrum of human emotion by @firenati0n (book-verse)

@suseagull04: if you're a fan of movie AUs, you definitely need to read this one! Roop took all the best parts of The Proposal and gave them a RWRB twist! Arthur feels, ALLLLL the proposal feels, just enough nods to the movie to make fans like me happy without writing it word for word, our boys being so oblivious but so soft at the same time, so much heart that it's practically bursting at the seams with it... I can't say it enough, this fic is absolutely AMAZING, a must read!

Flirting for Dummies by @smblmn (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is the perfect combination of holiday fluff, our boys being oblivious and Henry and June being besties! The perfect read to get anyone into the holiday spirit!

I must tell you what you will not ask by @lizzie-bennetdarcy (book-verse)

@suseagull04: combine a college roommates AU with oblivious firstprince (especially Alex, as always) and holiday feels and you have an incredibly soft fic that I'll likely find myself reading again and again, especially during the holiday season!

Careful Cooking by @iboatedhere (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Alex and Henry first met at culinary school, where they were inseparable—how did they end up parting ways?! Years later, they cross paths again under unexpected circumstances … It’s a lovers-to-exes-to-lovers story, with quite a bit of angst. Beautifully written, the tension builds perfectly, and the ending is just as lovely.

Pumped by @myheartalivewrites (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Firstprince goes Climbing AU! Set in London, Alex and Henry meet at their favorite hobby: climbing. After a rocky start, the game is on. Everything about this fic is perfect: the vibes, the banter, the sparks, the pacing, the pining—such a classic and one of my all-time favorites!

Got a will to win and a Cheshire grin by @kiwiana-writes (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is so unique and fun! It captures a year in Alex and Henry's lives as Santa's elves and what that job entails, and the twists and turns all lead to such a satisfying conclusion!

check out our past Monthly Faves here ❤️

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The TTPD Deep Dive (Part ?)

It’s no secret that I have a lot of Thoughts about The Tortured Poets Department and it has lived rent-free in my head since it came out earlier this year. I’m absolutely blown away by how underneath the chaos, it’s actually an exceptionally cohesive story and is probably the closest to a concept album Taylor has ever done.

There are so many themes that have stood out to me over the last five months, and there’s one in particular that I think not only drives the entire album, but ties into previous albums to help deepen understanding of it.

This is it, my fangirl magnum opus, my months of posts consolidated into one place. This is also my disclaimer that this is just my interpretation of the album, and my summary of the story it tells, and I don’t pretend to have any special insight or authority. I’m not saying I’m correct at all, do not take any of this as fact, it’s just what it sounds like to me, and these are my silly not-so-little thoughts about it.

(Under a cut because it’s way too long and involves discussion many may not care for or be sick of.)

Come one, come all, it's happening again (I'm thinking too hard about Taylor music)

The overarching theme in TTPD to me is: Grief. If you’re looking at TTPD as a story being told (instead of just as someone’s real life), the inciting incident of TTPD is loss, and the grief from that loss is what drives the narrator’s actions and the fallout, as well as unpacks those complicated feelings and how they apply to the her life in general. By the end of the standard album, it’s also about recovering from that pain, moving on from it and learning from it.

The loss specifically is the loss of the dream of having a family (with one’s partner). One thing that is abundantly clear both on the top line and under the surface in TTPD is how Taylor (as a person and as narrator) longed not only to for marriage but specifically parenthood, and the fear and then realization of losing that chance absolutely wrecked her— which is why the next lover’s (the conman's) wooing worked so well, because it preyed on that yearning. Yet that loss also dovetails into the grief of many things: of youth, of idealism, of relationships, of ideas, even of self, which causes almost a deconstruction of a belief system to piece one’s life back together by the end.

THE CONTEXT

TTPD weaves in the topics of marriage and motherhood both explicitly and in the subtext, in various forms and scenarios. The cheating husband in “Fortnight.” The wedding ring line in “TTPD” the song. “He saw forever so he smashed it up” in “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys.” All of “So Long, London.” Running away with her wild boy in “But Daddy I Love Him,” fantasizing about weddings and joking about babies. The imaginary rings in “Fresh Out The Slammer.” The cheating husband (again) and the friends who smell like weed or “little babies” in “Florida!!!” “You and I go from one kiss to getting married,” “Talking rings and talking cradles,” and “our field of dreams engulfed in fire” in “loml.” (And arguably: “I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all.”) “He said he’d love me all his life, but that life was too short,” in “I Can Do It With A Broken Heart.” They may not sound like much on their own, but they paint a picture about how the topics pervaded her thoughts and her writing, and in many cases express her desires, and her pain.

It’s something that goes back several albums when you pick up on context clues. You get the first hints on Reputation with “New Year’s Day,” and “you and me forevermore.” Then Lover is very forward with it: “Lover” is basically wedding vows, “Paper Rings” is very engagement-coded, “I Think He Knows” is cheeky but low-key “you better put a ring on it,” “It’s Nice To Have A Friend” has wedding/marriage imagery in the last verse. As a self-professed diaristic writer, it’s the type of stuff one presumably doesn’t put out there unless those conversations have already happened, and she was very excited about it at the time it was released.

Then the pandemic happens and folklore comes out, and while there is still happy love there (“invisible string”), there are also the first indications that something has happened to put a halt to whatever future she once dreamed of (“hoax,” “the lakes”) and that she’s trying to reassure herself and him that it can still happen even if she’s scared it might not (“peace”). Notably, as far as I can remember it’s the first time Taylor explicitly brings up the idea of family (with her partner) with “you know that I’d give you my wild, give you a child,” which stood out at the time because it’s so incredibly vulnerable, but it’s even more poignant when you really take in that the whole song is like a confession of her deepest worries, and this is her vowing to give him these things that she holds most sacred if he’ll let her. These are what she cherishes most dearly and wants to return in kind: her youth and commitment (my wild), the family she craves (a child), unconditional support (swing for the fences/sit in the trenches) and understanding/compassion (silence that only comes when two people know each other).

Evermore follows an even darker path, and suddenly the album explores relationships that end and grappling with loss. There are toxic relationships (“tolerate it”), dangerous marriages (“no body, no crime,” “ivy”), failing/broken relationships (“Coney Island,” “champagne problems,” “happiness,” “‘tis the damn season”), as well as grief (“Marjorie,” “evermore”). Even some of the happy songs have uncertainty in them: in “willow” she’s begging for him to take her lead, like she’s still trying to decipher him and ask him to commit; in “cowboy like me,” still a beautiful love song, she’s thinking, “this wasn’t supposed to work and we were supposed to bail on each other but we fell in love instead”; “evermore” is about the depths of severe depression (and more) with the love story being the one saving grace in her darkest hour. And it’s also notable that after all the “fiction” writing, shortly after this album she writes “Renegade” where she’s telling the subject: I’m ready to start the next phase of our life now, why aren’t you? Is it me you don’t want after all? It’s like there’s something telling her that this stall might not just be a stall.

Midnights is a jumble (in a good, but in hindsight, also sad way) with the “sleepless nights” concept, but it seems pretty clear now that the themes and events and relationships she was revisiting tied into a lot of what she was feeling in her present life. I wrote the cliff notes version awhile back, but she’s questioning so much of her life that’s reflected in past events and relationships. Am I actually always the problem? How did we lose sight of each other and what we had? We only seem to work when we block out everyone and everything else. Can we ever go back to when things were good? Why are you neglecting me? I once thought I was going to lose everything but you saved me in the nick of time, can that happen again? I chased my career, but did I give up my chance at having a family in the process? Nobody knows what I really suffer from behind closed doors and I’m all alone.

And so on, which in retrospect now that we have TTPD, is very much what she was grappling with in private while writing and releasing the album. The inspiration behind the songs may have been different events and muses, but regardless of their origins they all end up feeling too familiar, like she's seen this film before (ahem). We’re seeing her view of commitment change too, or rather how she writes about it: she’s not making the outright declarations of it like on Lover, or even the implied ones on folklore, nor is she talking of the dark side of it like evermore. For the most part it’s a return to the early days of some relationships, before things got hard, or the end of them when there was nothing left, and also pushing away the discussion of it altogether by the outside world. “Sweet Nothing” is a sweet slice of life, but even at that, it’s the peace of the home in conflict with the pressure of the outside world. Now that we have “You’re Losing Me,” which was written at the same time as the rest of the album, we can probably deduce that she was going back to the start because something happened that made her doubt the future.

THE SETUP

So much of Midnights directly ties into TTPD, and I said in the post I linked that it’s like Midnights is asking the questions that TTPD answers. But there’s one song in particular on Midnights that sticks out to me as being key in the broadest sense to understanding the state of mind that led to the events of TTPD, and that’s “Bigger Than The Whole Sky,” because the way it expresses grief is reflected in the theme of mourning a life built and the dreams along with it that are never realized in TTPD. There are several instances in TTPD that are basically variations of: “every single thing to come has turned into ashes,” and that’s what makes her snap, and leaves her vulnerable to someone who promises her those things when she’s bereaved at losing them in the first place. (In other words: “the deflation of our dreaming leaving me bereft and reeling.”) The song tells a story about how that loss of hope colours one’s entire mindset, and in some ways is a bridge to TTPD to understand what such a low point feels like.

I think that that grief, and most importantly losing hope for an imagined future in its wake, is fundamental to understanding TTPD on so many levels: both the decline with one partner that kept her hanging on then led her such a dark path, and why she fell for the conman's apparent bullshitting because it offered an express pass to what she was losing with her partner. And I also feel like it plays a part into the ruminating she’s doing all over Midnights, trying to make sense of where she finds herself when she’s writing the album, which directly leads to “You’re Losing Me.” Loss permeates so many of the stories on Midnights: of lovers, of innocence, of youth, of faith, of control, of life’s work, etc. “BTTWS” is just one of the ways in which it is expressed so fully, capturing that deep depression and subsequent extinction of faith in something that once felt assured and very much wanted. (Which is also mentioned in her writing process in the “Depression” playlist on Apple Music.)

If you understand why that feeling of loss in general across so many parts of life is so important to Midnights, then it illuminates so much about the “narrative” in TTPD too. If on Midnights she’s wrestling with the seeds of grief and loss (on multiple fronts), TTPD is her reckoning with it in its full form. “So Long, London” is the song that is the most explicit about it: How much sad did you think I had in me? How much tragedy? Just how low did you think I’d go before I’d have to go be free? You swore that you loved me, but where were the clues? I died on the altar waiting for the proof. It’s the sequel to “You’re Losing Me.” It’s, the air is thick with loss and indecision, I know my pain is such an imposition, I’m getting tired even for a phoenix, all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier, I’ve got nothing left to believe unless you’re choosing me, my heart won’t start anymore, but from the other side of the break.

This is highly speculative, but if you follow the thread about the topic and the relationship as told from Rep through TTPD, in broad strokes it goes: young love with a serious connection (Rep) -> growing up and making life plans (Lover) -> something happens that delays those plans or makes them grind to a halt (folklore) -> serious doubts arise and cause a loss of faith in their future (evermore) -> struggling with the loss of that future and trying to make sense of the problems in a last ditch attempt to save the relationship (Midnights) -> fallout from that grief after the blowup of the relationship (TTPD). Understanding that progression of events (through the music) explains not only the storytelling side of TTPD (e.g. the jump from the partner to the conman) but also how the experiences/muses blend in the music, and how the music that on the surface is about the short-term relationship is really driven by the destruction of the long-term one.

Following the music, it’s IMO implied that Taylor (the narrator) was holding out for marriage and family with her partner, for years, and it seems like it was at one point a shared dream until something happened to pump the brakes, and seemingly on her partner’s end. And extrapolating further, given how the sorrow expressed in former albums bleeds into TTPD, it sounds like a plan that had been concrete in some form before it had fallen apart, and losing something that once felt so tangible is what drives her in her grief to find any kind of respite from the pain. Which is why the situation with the conman becomes so appealing as the one with the partner splinters further and further.

(If everything you’ve once touched is sick with sadness and you don’t want to be sad anymore, what are you left to do?)

THE STORY

So (one part of) the story kind of sounds like this from the standard album: the relationship with her partner as well as his mental health slowly deteriorate and he withdraws emotionally (“London,” “Fresh Out The Slammer”) and physically (again, “London,” and “Guilty As Sin?”) and takes his resentment out on her (“London” and arguably “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” even though I don't want to get into muse speculation here). As she sinks deeper into her own depression as a result, the weight of the failing relationship starts feeling like a cage— or a noose (“London,” “Guilty”), but coming to terms with the loss of their life together and the future they’d dreamed of was killing her (again, “London,” but also “I Can Do It With A Broken Heart”).

Enter the conman who she reconnects with at the very point where this is coming to a head (knowing that IRL she reconnected with him around the time Midnights was being worked on) , and if you read between the lines, she confides some deeply personal things to him (“Down Bad” and “hostile takes overs”/“encounters closer and closer,” “Smallest Man” and the entire sleeper cell spy imagery which is one of my favourite things and I could write a whole essay about the meaning of it, “loml” and “A con man sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme”). Then after she’s confided these secrets to him, he insinuates himself back into her life (“Guilty,” “Down Bad,” “Smallest Man”) and sells her a dream that HE can give her all these things she hopes for (again, “Down Bad,” “Smallest Man,” “loml,” song “TTPD,” “Broken Heart”).

But the thing is, he only knows these are the things she wants because she’s revealed it to him, and presumably, told him that was what she was losing by staying with her partner. And instead of the normal response of, “that is really sad that your partner is not supporting you and you deserve to be treated better,” to a friend in growing distress, it seems like it was, “well I can give you all those things!!!! Right now!!!! Trust me!!!!” And worked on her until she believed it, and jumped at the chance at a precarious time in her life. And one thing I want to underscore is: Taylor has agency in the situation always, it’s not like she’s been kidnapped and brainwashed. (In fact, she implores on songs like “But Daddy” that SHE is in charge of her own choices, good or bad.) She chose to rekindle the friendship and then relationship, and she chose to eventually leave her long term relationship for another man, and she reiterates on the album that she owns this all. But it’s also: nothing exists in a vacuum, and she makes choices based on emotions and information she has at the time, which is why it gives so much whiplash.

THE ALBUM

When you look at it as, the situation with the conman only happens because of what happened with the partner first and that the appeal of the conman and the fantasy he sells her is a direct reaction to that, it makes the “swirliness” of the music make so much more sense. And for much of it, even many of the “conman” songs on the surface are really “partner” songs underneath.

Fortnight

A suburban gothic allegory about a broken marriage with a distant husband with a wandering eye, which makes the rekindled romance with the neighbor so appealing. She’s miserable caged in her stifling house because she’s been abandoned by her spouse, so the reappearance of this past love reignites the passion that’s dead at home.

TTPD

“So tell me, who else is gonna know me?” “I chose this cyclone with you.” I’m gonna kill myself if you ever leave. Everyone knows we’re crazy. She’s laying it out there that she’s already in a dangerous state of mind, and she’s actively putting herself in more danger by pursuing the conman. “At dinner you take my ring off my middle finger and put it on the one people put wedding rings on, and that’s the closest I’ve come to my heart exploding,” spells this whole thing out so clearly: whether it’s an actual event (likely) or a metaphor for the promise he makes to her, the reason why it makes her heart explode is because it’s the thing she’s been waiting for forever with no movement, and here this person comes in and slips it on her finger in an instant like it’s nothing. (And eventually, as we’ll come to know, it is absolutely nothing to him.) You mean it could have been this easy this whole time?! (Well, no. Not until a certain other suitor makes his appearance later.) It feels like she’s finally getting everything she wanted in the blink of an eye! How lucky! How convenient! What was that about the get-love-quick scheme you say? (Unsaid: the reason why this feels so urgent is because there’s a sense that time is running out in so many aspects of her life and not just the obvious. Which reappears later on.)

Down Bad

“Did you really beam me up in a cloud of sparkling dust just to do experiments on?” sets the scene for this euphoric experience in the moment that starts to feel violating once the dust settles (which is then followed up in “Smallest Man” and the spy mission on her). The bridge spells out how he weaselled his way into her life, preyed upon (intentionally or not) her emotional state, sold her a dream and then vanished, without the benefit of hindsight yet we see later in the album.

The alien abduction metaphor is pretty brilliant, because it shows both how she was desperate to escape the place she found herself in, and how much it screwed her brain to then be left stranded when the affair was over. “[I loved your] hostile takeovers, encounters closer and closer,” is so evocative because it details how the situation came to be: his overtures under the guise of friendship blurred lines until he made her an offer that she eventually couldn’t refuse (hostile takeovers) as he infiltrated her life more and more intimately. The sad thing is that the song has parallels to how her relationship with the partner started too in earlier albums, in that they ran away to live in their own bubble (or planet) only for him to metaphorically abandon her as the years went on. (Oven, meet microwave.)

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Being continually emotionally broken down by a person who knows he’s hurting you but still acts the way he does. (The original voice memo version makes this even clearer and it’s rather heartbreaking.) “He saw forever so he smashed it up,” speaks to the loss of a future the person became scared of, and the original lyrics (“he saw forever so he blew it up”) somehow cut even deeper to me because it feels so much more intentional.

Also in the original version, “he was my best friend and that was the worst part,” also speaks not only to the loss of an entire partnership in the wake of this hurt, but also to the feelings of betrayal that the person you trust so deeply has the ability to hurt you in this way too, and how it’s a one-two punch of not only losing the relationship but also your closest confidant. (It’s like the sequel to “Renegade” and the missiles firing to me.) Again, there are shades of both/many situations in the song, pointing to an unfortunate pattern in some ways. The situation in “My Boy” is part of why she was so low, and why the “get love quick scheme” was so appealing later on. And it dovetails nicely into…

So Long, London

The most explicitly “partner” song that puts a coda on “You’re Losing Me,” and is Track 5 because it’s the emotional underpinning of how she got to where she was, and drives the events of the rest of the album. It spells everything out: He withdrew, she tried to fix it for both of them, eventually even that stopped working, he was oblivious to or minimized how badly she was suffering and his (in)actions couldn’t reassure her, he wouldn’t move forward on their future plans and stewed in his own struggles, she was spiralling out of control trying to hang on and ultimately felt like she was going to die if she didn’t leave.

But Daddy I Love Him

Like a direct reaction to “So Long, London” in that she breaks free from the death of one relationship and throws herself with reckless abandon to the next, fuck the haters. How dare you judge me, when the relationship you think I should have stayed in was killing me? (Dutiful daughter all the plans were laid. All you want is gray for me.) Fuck all of you, I’m going to choose whoever I want! (So what if I have a baby with HIM, huh?! I tried doing it the proper way and look where that got me so now we're back to square one) It’s again her imagining how wonderful and freeing this “wild boy” is going to be for her, and how wrong she’ll prove everyone. THIS TIME she definitely got it right. So what if she has to run away! So what if she scandalizes the whole town! They don’t know what she really wants or needs anyway! She’s the only one of her (hee-hee-hee) and she’s the only who gets to decides how this goes. (Because: she longs for control in a situation she’ll eventually realize she has little of it in, which we’ll find out is a recurring theme in her life.)

Fresh Out The Slammer

Also spells out what happened with the partner in the first verse and the pre-choruses, which is what makes the conman so appealing as the imagined jailbreak. The bitter loneliness vs. the sultry passion she builds up in her head as she awaits her release from prison is key to understanding the two sides of the story in the album. There’s this whole outlaw imagery (which is also carried through in “I Can Fix Him”), but it’s contrasted in the end with her and her reunited lover sitting on park swings like children with “imaginary rings” — because “Ain't no way I'm gonna screw up now that I know what's at stake.” What’s at stake is lasting love and the promises that come with it (marriage/family) that are precious and time-sensitive. The imaginary rings are both a nod to the youthful dreams of her and her new/old lover, but also has a double meaning to me because those promises aren’t built on anything together; they're made up, intangible. (They’re no more concrete than the plans that went up in smoke with the partner.) Like with most of the conman situation, it’s all a fantasy in her head that has yet to happen, and as we find out later in the album, reality ends up leaving much to be desired.

Florida!!!

Broadly speaking, it’s running away from your problems and wanting to disappear from your life. (But again: the life she’s disappearing from is the cheating husband she may or may not be feeding to the swamp-- another miserable marriage.) What kind of flies under the radar though is the “I don’t want to exist,” line, which points to her dire state of mind that led her to fleeing to that metaphorical timeshare down in Destin. In many ways about cheating death.

Guilty As Sin

Yes it’s the “masturbation song,” but again the nuance is that she’s left to pleasure herself because her partner has abandoned her emotionally and even physically, i.e. “my boredom’s bone deep.” To be blunt: they aren’t even intimate anymore, so she starts fantasizing about the guy she used to have chemistry with who’s reentered her life and is making moves on her. And realizing that she’s now finding release in another man (albeit imaginary) breaks her even as it reinvigorates her because she finally understands that the relationship she’s in is effectively dead. (“Am I allowed to cry?”)

Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me

This isn’t about relationships, but about society and its reaction to them in a general sense. But again, she’s left to stew in all this anger and hurt as she’s been abandoned at home, then abandoned by public opinion, and the public attack on her is part of the origin as well as the end of that story. The trauma inflicted upon her detailed in the song is the reason why she felt trapped in the first place, which led to the decisions she’s made and habits she’s leaned on ever since.

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)

This is one of the few songs that is the most completely conman-coded, and shows when the delusion finally breaks at the end of the song. She spends the whole song being like, “no really, I alone can make him better! You’ll see! I know he’s gross, but he’s mine! It’ll be fine I swear! You don’t know anything! Uuuuuum hmm wait actually what the fuck—“

Loml

Oof. THE song. Again the surface reading is about the “conman” who comes in and sells her the lie, but the pain is because all the dreams she writes about are HER dreams and implied that they were the dreams she built with her partner that the conman sold back to her. I could do a deeper dive on this but most of the song is applicable to both relationships, which not only shows the “swirliness” of her writing, but also how they both ultimately did the same thing to her in different shades.

The bridge and the last chorus are kind of fundamental to understanding it all, and her ending it with “you’re the loss of my life” is about, among other things, how falling for this trap blew up the life she built and dreamed of for good. (I could talk about this one forever.) “You shit-talked me under the table, talking rings and talking cradles” to “Our field of dreams engulfed in fire” is a hell of a line and progression, and again, indicative of what the real driving force behind the whole album is. The shit-talking is because he took her dreams (of marriage and children) and hyped it back up to her tenfold whether in a moment of his own delusion or for more nefarious reasons — much like how the man prior kept promising these things but never followed through, which left her vulnerable to someone who appeared to offer them enthusiastically. The field of dreams isn’t just the one with the conman, it’s the one with the longterm relationship she’d built the dream with in the first place, because the conman’s actions are part of the reason the LTR went up in smoke. (Not the reason for the rift, but the consequence of the final break.) And THAT is why it’s the loss of her life, so completely.

When she says “I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all,” IMO it’s not just the fake future that the conman lures her into, but also (and perhaps mainly) the once-real one she had with her partner and the loss of which that made her susceptible to falling for the con in the first place. There’s honestly so much between the lines in this song that covers every theme and speaks to the grief of seeing the life she imagined slip away, slowly by the first man then annihilated by the second.

I Can Do It With a Broken Heart

The juxtaposition of “He said he’d love me all his life, but that life was too short” and “He said he’d love me for all time, but that time was quite short” sums it up to me (and parallels “loml”), because they are two different situations, but they cut her just the same. In the first, “that life” IMO was the life they’d built with the dreams that went along with it and it was too short because he never followed through, and in the second, the “time” was quite short because it was the frenzy of the whirlwind romance that fizzled as quickly as it began. The life that was too short led to the time that was quite short.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

This is definitely THE conman song. The rage, the shame, the violation, it’s all in there. But the key to it is the bridge and the espionage imagery woven through it. A honeypot scheme is when spies target a mark and seduce them to gain their trust and their privileged information for their homeland. So her likening him to a sleeper cell spy who set her up just to mine her deepest secrets and use them against her is a heavy, loaded statement. And implied: that valuable information she unknowingly held were her longings of marriage and family (the aforementioned shit-talking about rings and cradles she never got to have), and more importantly, those dreams preceded him reentering her life and then beginning his mission on her.

The insinuation then is: she confesses these are her deepest wishes which are now seemingly unattainable in her current situation (e.g. with her partner) -> he convinces her HE will give them to her and make the dreams she pines for come true -> she falls for him and blows up her life to make it happen -> he gets what he wants (thrill of the chase/sex/the idea of her/whatever his intent was) -> he abandons her when he gets what he wants, or rather it isn’t what he wants or can handle -> she’s left a) all alone b) with dreams unfulfilled c) with no answers d) feeling used at having her most sacred wishes used against her.

Again, the song is unquestionably about the way the conman absolutely destroyed her, but he was able to do that because there was this thing she wanted more than anything, that was dying in her previous relationship, that he was able to prey upon to seduce her, then discarded her and her dreams as soon as it was inconvenient for him while absolutely hollowing her inside out. (And again: the devastating thing is that this also applies to other relationships she’s written about, in different ways.)

The Alchemy

Not about either the partner or the conman directly, but it (loosely) touches on her finding herself after the whole oven-to-microwave experience and opening herself up to life and love again. #GoodForHer

Clara Bow

This isn’t about the romantic relationships on the surface, but it is about how damaging the entertainment industry and public life are on women, and how women are only valued for their beauty as commodities until they can be discarded and destroyed in the process. Which I think plays into the circumstances that led her to make the decisions that she did years ago, and why she makes the ones she does now. (But also, being valued for physical traits and appeal for the male gaze brings us to…)

The Manuscript

The “original sin” that kicks off all of this. Again, at first light this isn’t about the partner or the conman, but the person it is about is the reason why she has made all the decisions she has ever since in relationships (and that’s Mr. Plaid Shirt Days from “All Too Well”). The realization that her first serious adult relationship is what cemented these patterns, and this view of herself and her worthiness in relationships, is profoundly sad. An older man who valued her for being so mature for her age and implying that the mature activities ahem associated with that were the performance benchmarks in her ability to carry a relationship, only to leave her, was earth shattering. She placed her faith in this person, but then the way he treated her changed her view of love and of herself.

She took his innuendo about “pushing strollers” as a sign of potential commitment, whereas he ultimately meant it as foreplay, and she was too young and naive to know the difference. So not only did she learn from that that this man (and men) didn’t view commitment and family the way she did and that it was something to be toyed with, but she also learned that her value to them among other things was sex. Imagine being an idealistic 20 year old and your boyfriend ten years your senior tells you, “if the sex is anywhere near as good as our dates have been, we’re going to be making babies before you know it,” (e.g. this is relationship is serious) and then he dumps you: does that imply that the sex was not in fact that good? (E.g. that you’re not worthy after all?)

No, obviously from this side of life, it’s because he was a commitment-phobic playboy, even if he did love her, but she couldn’t have known that at 20 and instead internalized that shame. But, it did send her on a path of how she approached sex and love and relationships for over a decade afterwards. And her coming to the realization that that first act of (perhaps unintentional) manipulation is what informed her actions thereafter helped her break the pattern. Her worth to men is not just sex, she has value and her hopes and dreams have value, she doesn’t have to change into a different person to please anyone, because if that is what they want, they won’t ever want her anyway.

It’s been described here on Tumblr by people more eloquent and astute than I as a song that encapsulates the album as this: one did it slow (partner), one did it fast (conman), and one did it first (first love)— and that is haunting. After years of men minimizing her dreams and desires, if not outright using them against her, she’s finally at the point where she can let it all go and move on for good. (There’s a whole other tangent about consent and shame and manipulation, but that’s an entirely different kind of discussion. But it is so devastatingly contrasted with “you said if we had been closer in age maybe it would have been fine, and that made me want to die.”)

THE SUMMATION

This is just my interpretation of it, but in going through the standard album, it feels pretty clear how cohesive the album is about a story of love and loss and grief, then reckoning with what caused it all in the first place that set a person on this path. It’s a formative experience at a young age that was traumatic and led to certain coping mechanisms and a shaping of one’s self-perception, as well as the reaction to external pressures that try to dictate behaviours and influence how one feels one deserves out of love which makes it harder to know when one absolutely deserves more and better. And leaves one struggling to cope with loss when there isn’t anything else to hold onto. Then in light of one’s life blowing up, learning to find oneself in the aftermath all over again.

On another tangent that is somewhat related to the theme of loss, the way she writes about the two main muses on the standard album also ties into how the situations converged to create absolute carnage on her emotional and mental well-being. With one situation, she’s talking about a concrete life that crumbles under the weight of their struggles; with the other, the entire thing is a fantasy that she builds up in her head, and when it comes to fruition it falls far, far short.

If you look at the “microwave” (conman) relationship, you realize that almost everything she writes about it happens before it actually becomes reality, and it’s mostly her imagining how great it’ll be, but with few exceptions, when she writes about what actually occurred, it doesn’t even come close to living up to her expectations. “Fortnight” is an imagined future where she escapes to Florida and his touch finally starts her stalled engine (ahem). “TTPD” is perhaps the most positive retelling of their time together, but even that implies he was better off stoned and when he sobered up he succumbed to his demons all over again, and more importantly she conveys how she also is in extreme distress, barely concealed by the veneer of being infatuated with him. (E.g. saying to that she’ll kill herself if he ever leaves her — the implication is that she is absolutely serious about it when she “felt seen.”) And that the warning bells are going off in her head, but she feels like this person is the only one she can be with (because they’re equally fucked up and the chaos he brings into her life makes her feel alive when she felt so close to death).

“Down Bad” is the most explicit about being in love, but she’s also left completely confused and disoriented by him disappearing, wondering if any of it was real and the seeds of violation creep into her consciousness (“did you really beam me up in a cloud of sparkling dust just to do experiments on?” “Waking up in blood.”). “But Daddy” is her imagining she can tell everyone to fuck off for telling her what to do with her life. “Fresh Out The Slammer” is her fantasizing about this man while feeling trapped in her relationship — but never in the song is she actually reunited with him; she’s using him as the projection of all the things she’ll make right after being wronged by her partner. “Guilty As Sin?” Is very obviously about her fantasizing about sleeping with him, but again it’s such a minefield for her because it hasn’t happened yet; they’ve only just reconnected. “I Can Fix Him” is the only song other than “TTPD” that shows them actually together, and it’s the one where she keeps saying, essentially, “I know he’s gross but I can rehabilitate him into an upstanding person, trust me,” until the mic drop at the end of the song where it finally hits her that no, she can’t, because this is who he is, not the person she’s built him up to be.

“Loml” is when it all comes crashing down, and the song emphasizes everything he did and told her, e.g. that she’s the love of his life, but she doesn’t return the sentiment in the song about their time together. Because now that it’s past tense, she knows it wasn’t actually love. (And says as much in the album epilogue poem.) “Broken Heart” is her reeling in the aftermath, but again, it’s “he said,” not “I loved.” And then there’s “The Smallest Man,” where she eviscerates him: he also pursued an idea of her but didn’t care much for the real her in front of him (who else is gonna know me?), he love bombed her only to hurt her (crushing her dreams), he was constantly stoned (and not just in the funny munchies kind of way), and he wasn’t even a good lover (despite the fantasy she’d created before). That last point is especially striking because she spent albums singing about the importance of and pleasure in (sexual) intimacy in the relationship with her partner (sometimes to both their own detriment) and how it was at times the only way they could connect, but in this case, the idea she hyped up and acted on in her head about this lover never panned out in practice. She spells it out in the epilogue: it wasn’t a love affair, it was a mutual manic phase.

In contrast, there’s a lot more tangible action in the “oven” (partner) parts of the album, showing how hard she tried to make the relationship work in real life instead of just in her head. All of “So Long, London” is her detailing how she tried to break through to him and support him, even when he rejected it and pushed her away, thinking she could carry them both until they ultimately sank, but she did it because she “loved this place for so long.” (The place? Not just the city, but the home and perhaps most importantly, him.) In “Slammer” she stayed with him even as things disintegrated for “one hour of sunshine.” (E.g. holding onto the rarer good times even as they were fewer and further between, hoping things would eventually turn around.) And like in “London,” she held on despite people in her life pleading with her that it was hurting her. (Which is also echoed in “Slammer.”) In “Guilty” her boredom is “bone deep” because the passion that once drove their relationship (and papered over their problems) has finally gone out too, so there’s nothing left to hold onto, leading to her fantasizing about the new suitor, which makes her realize her relationship has passed the point of no return. “Loml” is about the conman on the surface, but the undercurrent of all the things she says about him is that he was co-opting the dreams that she was clinging onto for dear life in the previous relationship, which is why the con is so painful; the field of dreams he sets ablaze isn’t just the fake painting he sold to her, but the original artifact (her life with her partner) too.

All the physical and emotional labour she puts into the relationship with her partner ends up reflected in the fantasizing she does in the one with the conman, which is why it is so confusing in the moment and so lethal when he leaves her without any answers. She wants to get married and start a family with her partner which keeps getting stalled; the conman mock-proposes which makes her think he’s immediately serious (“TTPD,” “loml”). She feels caged by having to hide with her partner and shrink herself; the conman promises he’ll stand by her side publicly and let her shine (“Smallest Man”). She sinks into a deep depression in her loneliness as the relationship with her partner careens off a cliff; the conman convinces her they’re meant for each other in a them-against-the-world way (“Down Bad”). The intimacy (in all senses of the word) in her relationship with her partner fizzles; the conman stokes the fire by sending her secret messages and reigniting passion (“Guilty”). She spent years trying to help her partner to no avail; the conman makes her think she has the power to reform him (“loml”). She feels misunderstood by her partner; the conman acts like he’s the (only) one who truly gets her (“TTPD,” “loml”).

In short: there’s nothing that the conman does or says that isn’t a direct response to what her partner did first, and it’s even worse because the conman knew how much her partner’s actions hurt her and he used that privileged information to paint a picture of what he could give her, but in doing so in some ways aimed at her heart with even deadlier accuracy. (I’ve likened it to him borrowing someone else’s life for his own joyride, until he crashes the rental car and flees the scene.) It’s why in the aftermath, the difference in emotions are so different: she feels nothing but rage and violation towards the conman for getting in her head and using her, whereas her feelings towards her partner are more complicated. There’s anger (at her lost youth and being taken for granted), but there’s also sorrow (at their lost life and future), disappointment (that he never could step up the way he’d promised or she’d needed), even compassion (towards his struggles) and a tiny measure of appreciation (for the good times they did share).

When you look at the bigger picture, the story the album paints is just so painfully normal. You have two people (Taylor and her partner) who once loved each other deeply, and despite warning signs early on telling them they have fundamentally different needs and ways of living their lives they fight like hell to make it work (the epilogue) until those warning signs become grenades that destroy their home (“My Boy,” “London,” “Slammer,” arguably “loml”). Having already been through at least one rough patch/break/breakup that she felt almost destroyed her (harkening back to Midnights on “You’re Losing Me,” “The Great War” and “Hits Different”), the final and fatal downward spiral of the relationship (“YLM,” “London”) and the grief over losing that future sends her into a tailspin, just at the time where a flame from the past (the conman) reenters her life and tells her all the things she’s been longing to hear and feel (“TTPD,” “Down Bad,” “Guilty,” “loml”) and, crucially, missing from the relationship that was once her entire life.

So in her panic, she falls prey to the (empty) promises of the past lover (“loml,” “Smallest Man”) and decides he’s actually what will save her from the free fall, because the alternative (that she will end up in a situation she doesn’t think she can survive) is too painful to bear. When she finally acts on these circumstances (leaves her partner/runs to the conman), she snaps, acting on pure emotion and adrenaline (“But Daddy”), but before she knows it, the new lover abandons her, and she’s left to reckon with the fallout of the episode and process everything that has happened (“Down Bad,” “loml”) — with the conman, with her partner, with the choices made in her adult life personally and professionally which leads her back to the moment she feels set her down that road at the start.

The TL;DR of this unintentionally long essay is that the reason the conman affair was so serious was precisely because it was meant to fulfill the promise of what was her life with her partner. To me, a large part of the story is that she projected that life onto the conman (or he projected her life back to her for his own purposes) because she wasn’t ready to deal with that massive grief and the life raft he offered felt like the only alternative to an even darker end. Whether the conman actually believed what he told her, or he went along with it or encouraged it because it served his purpose, we’ll never know, just like we’ll never know the finer details of what went on (nor should we). But no matter what, the album is just an extreme deep dive into all the ways grief can consume us, and whether it’s a long, drawn-out death or a sudden, inexplicable one, it can turn a person’s life into such a trainwreck that they act in ways unfathomable to even them, let alone the people around them. It can also unleash repressed trauma and mental illness that can crater your sense of self. And when those situations are compounded? It makes for a nearly impossible type of breakdown to unpack. (Which is why you might need a 31 song album to process it.)

[rocknroll7575]

Knight of Olympus

*Hestia "Died" and Jaune is seeing Vesta for the first time*

Vesta: I know your mad, angry, Furious and I won't say you're wrong because I am so just say it

Jaune:.....

Vesta *Tears in her eyes*: TARTARUS SAKE JUST SAY YOU HATE ME, THAT MY PHYSICAL PRESENCE DISGUSTS YOU, HOW I ABANDONED OUR DAUGHTER, HO-

Jaune*cuping her cheek and wiping a tear away*: Your as beautiful as the day I lost you

Vesta sat close to the fire, her amber eyes reflecting the flickering flames as she watched the food cook, the scent of roasted meat and herbs mingling with the crisp night air. The steady crackle of burning wood was a comforting rhythm, one that she had grown used to during these long nights under the open sky. Yet, the peaceful moment was disturbed by the soft sound of approaching footsteps.

From behind her, Jaune strolled closer, his presence made known not just by his footfalls but by the gentle tune he whistled—a familiar melody, one that carried warmth and nostalgia. For the Dancing and the Dreaming.

Vesta flinched, her shoulders tensing for just a moment before she forced herself to relax. She didn't turn to face him, though; instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the fire, willing herself to stay composed.

Jaune, unfazed, eased himself down beside her, his voice carrying the song’s opening verse in a soft, lilting tune.

"I’ll swim and sail on savage seas~ with ne'er a fear of drowning~ And gladly ride the waves of life if you will marry me~" His voice was gentle, soothing even, as he let the melody drift between them like the wind stirring the embers. "No scorching sun~ nor freezing cold will st—"

"WILL STOP ME ON MY JOURney…!"

A second voice suddenly burst in, far louder and more enthusiastic.

Jaune and Vesta both turned just in time to see Leo, grinning wide—until realization struck. His face turned red, his bravado melting into sheepishness. "Sorry…" he muttered quickly before dropping back into his seat, suddenly very interested in the dirt beneath his boots.

Jaune sighed, shaking his head with a chuckle before picking up where he left off.

"If you will promise me your heart~ And love…"

He trailed off, his voice quieting as his eyes flickered to Vesta. She still wasn’t looking at him. His singing faltered, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. Maybe he’d pushed too much—

"And love me for eternity~"

Jaune’s breath hitched as Vesta’s voice joined his, soft but sure. Finally, she turned to him, her lips curling into a smile.

"My dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me~" Her voice carried a warmth that made Jaune's heart thrum. "But I’ve no need of mighty deeds when I feel your arms around me~!"

Jaune grinned, the hesitation in his heart vanishing. In one swift motion, he jumped to his feet, taking Vesta’s hands in his own and pulling her up with him. She let out a surprised laugh as he twirled her, the firelight casting dancing shadows around them.

"But I would bring you rings of gold, I'd even sing you poetry!" Jaune sang, lifting her effortlessly before guiding her into a sway.

Vesta giggled, her laughter light and unguarded. "Oh, would you?" she teased, her eyes shining.

Jaune rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Shaking his head in amusement, he continued to sing, his voice rising with playful intensity. "And I would keep you from all harm if you would stay beside me~!" he cried, his tone filled with conviction as he twirled Vesta once more.

She laughed, the sound light and free, before falling into step with him, moving effortlessly as if the dance had been written just for them.

With a teasing smile, she took the lead, her voice weaving through the night air as she countered his verse. "I have no use for rings of gold, I care not for your poetry~! I only want your hand to hold~!"

Her words were met with a beaming grin from Jaune as he stepped in close, keeping in perfect rhythm with her. "I only want you near me!" he sang in response, his voice carrying a sincerity that made her heart skip a beat.

With a sudden spin, Vesta found herself pulled into Jaune’s arms, her laughter mixing with the warmth of his embrace. He held her close, his grip steady yet gentle, as if anchoring her to him. The fire crackled beside them, casting golden hues over their entwined figures, but neither seemed to notice—lost in the music, in the moment, in each other.

Then, voices rose around them, blending into the song. Jason, Piper, and Leo, unable to resist, joined in, their harmonies filling the night with a joyful chorus.

"To love and kiss, to sweetly hold~! For the dancing and the dreaming~! Through all life’s sorrows and delights, I’ll keep your laugh inside me~!"

The melody carried through the campsite, a celebration of life and love beneath the starry sky.

"I’ll swim and sail on savage seas with ne'er a fear of drowning~! And gladly ride the waves of life If you will marry me~!"

As the final note faded into the night, a peaceful hush settled over them. The song had ended, but the warmth it left behind lingered.

Vesta tilted her head up at Jaune, her golden eyes alight with something soft and fond. That same lovely smile, the one she always wore around him, graced her lips—effortless, natural, and breathtaking.

Jaune returned the expression, though his own was laced with something deeper. His gaze lingered on her, drinking in the sight of her face, her warmth, the quiet joy in her eyes. For so long, he had thought this feeling lost—thought he would never see such beauty again. But here she was, standing before him, illuminated by firelight and starlight alike.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he saw the most beautiful sight he had ever known.

[remember-to-be-gentle]

Inspired by this tumblr post by @hawnks 

Subject: JJK, Satoru Gojo

Title: Hate Me Tomorrow (Omega!Gojo x GN Alpha!Reader)

Trigger Warning: Dub con, omega verse, scenting, size difference, biting/marking, obsessive/toxic behavior, self-hatred, knotting, knot riding, begging, heat/mating cycles, grinding 

The sweet, musky scent of Gojo's cologne and sweat enveloped you. Even the giant stuffed beta fish you were snuggling had no scent but his. His pillow fort was surprisingly spacious, granted, Gojo was nearly twice your size so there was a lot of him to fit. But being in here with him was nearly suffocating, and not just because of the light whiffs of omega scent rolling off of him or because he'd practically ripped off your jacket to snuggle into. 

He'd called you suddenly, saying that he needed to spend time with someone. It made sense. Geto just died and there were only so many people who were willing to pick up the phone for Gojo, and even fewer he'd actually call. Especially when it was a secret he was an omega, pretending to be an alpha and you were an alpha pretending to be a beta. 

The two of you were decent friends, hanging out after teaching at Jujutsu Tech for a drink or a quick round of gossip. He was one of the few people who knew you were an alpha and he an omega, an unusual kinship formed but it was never anything more. More importantly, you knew about his relationship with Geto. You couldn't say no. 

Which was why your thigh was snug against his, smartphone balanced on your knee, his favorite plushie shoved into your arms. His head on your shoulder breathes fast but not uneven. It seemed like he was trying not to cry. Poor guy. The winter fashion review didn't seem to be helping him calm down at all. Nor any work gossip. You wanted to stay and help, but it was getting late. If he really wanted to, he could just pin you down, sometimes that thought scared you.

Gojo curled onto his side, struggling closer to you, your jacket wrapped in his hands like a security blanket. 

It felt wrong to leave, but you needed to take care of yourself, too. "Hey, bud, I need to get going. Are you going to be alright by yourself?" 

Gojo buried his face in your neck, silent. He leaned his weight into you, just enough to make it clear he didn't want to be alone. 

Fuck. "I'm sorry. I'll come first thing tomorrow. We'll call out from work and go to the city or--" 

His teeth scraped your neck. Possessive, dominant. Alpha behavior. Before you knew what was happening, he was ripping off your scent suppressor, inhaling like he hadn't been breathing for hours. Alpha pheromones leaked from your skin, invading your nose. "Gojo?" 

Your stomach turned as your instincts awakened, the need to comfort an omega struggling with your own needs for autonomy. Your fingers dug into the beta fish plushie, filled with his scent. 

He reached for his own scent blocker and you suddenly realized what was going on. With his neck practically right under your nose, his omega scent was free. And not just that, he was going into heat. The pillow fort was a nest and this was a trap. Gojo was primed to breed and he was going to use you to fuck away his pain. "This isn't healthy, Gojo, listen to me!" 

But his patch was already off and the omega scent of him in your lungs, filling you, lighting every nerve on fire. Your cock swelled under your clothes, reacting to his breedable scent with vigor. 

Gently, Gojo took the plush and pushed you onto your back, yanking off his pants as his pale face filled with color. His bandages were already slipping, the iridescent shine of his six eyes laser-focused on the swelling at your crotch. He crawled on top of you, already tugging off his shirt. "Just for today, please." He panted, his thin but muscular chest heaving as if just sitting here breathing was a near-impossible task. 

His weight lowered onto your cock and you gasped, feeling his wetness through your clothes. His heat was so pleasant, feverish but warm, empty, and yearning. Blood pulsed lower and you gulped. 

Slowly, Gojo rocked back and forth, moaning loudly each time your shaft met his clit. His back arched, nipples swollen and pink, and standing at attention. "Please," he begged. "Just me just for tonight. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please, ah, Y/N. Please, I wanna cum. Let me have it inside me." 

It was getting harder and harder to think straight. He felt so good, the need to fill him up, let him fuck himself stupid on your cock growing. It would be better if you let him, a voice whispered. Another said, it's what you were made for. Just let him. 

"Gojo," you gasped. You reached for him, tried to make him stop so you could think, but his fingers intertwined with yours and he was moving faster now, his breathy moans coming faster. His skin was so soft and warm, filling you with his heat until you thought you might burst. Blood pulsed in your cock, his pussy was sucking at you through your clothing. He wanted you so badly. You wanted... What did you want to do again? You had to leave but why? 

"Y/N, I'm cumming." His hips rocked faster, tummy rolling with downy white hair covered in sparkling slick. "I'm cumming on your alpha cock." He let go of your hands to lay across your stomach, his head buried in your neck to take in your scent, his own making your head spin as pleasure threatened to burst out of your cock. His teeth met your skin, nibbling and biting gently then hard enough to bruise until he let out a long, throaty groan as he came. 

Instantly, your clothes were soaked, his hot slick smothered on your member. If you weren't fully erect before, you were now. 

Still panting, Gojo lifted himself up just enough to tug your cock free from your clothing. He didn't wait, spreading his pussy with his fingers as he sank down on your tip. Slick gushed down your shaft as he cried out, swallowing your swollen head into his heat. You bit back a groan, fingers digging into the blankets making up the fort. 

"You feel so big," Gojo moaned. "So good. I've only done this with Geto, so I'm going to have to start slow." He sank a little further, impossibly tight and hot and wet. "Feels so good," he huffed, rolling his hips and finally, sinking all the way down your shaft.

Your knot throbbed, seeming to sense that an omega was speared on your length. 

Gojo humped himself on your cock, needy moans slipping from his mouth each time his hips met yours. "Feels so good, Y/N. I've only felt Geto like this before." 

Before you could respond he pulled back to his full height, six eyes glowing in the warm darkness of the pillow fort. He spread his lower lips as he lifted himself up, clear slick drooling from his hole. His pretty, pink, clit a shining pearl at the apex of his thighs. "You did this to me. Look how wet you made me." Slowly, Gojo slid back down, pushing the head of your cock against his cervix. Again, he kept himself exposed and rose up, only to slurp your length right back down to the knot, aiming this time higher, into something spongy and mouth-wateringly soft.

"G-Gojo, I know you miss him but you can't--" 

He raised himself up and dropped down, knocking a groan from you both. "I think about him a lot," Gojo panted. "About how empty he left me. In my soul. In my body. So please, let me fix one of those. Just for now. It's okay if you hate me, but I need you now more than I've needed anyone." 

Gojo whined, flushed and excited. "Right there." He slammed back down on you with a stomach-churning squelch right into that soft sweet spot. "So good." He was riding you now, using you like a dildo to get himself off, his delicate fingers rolling his clit in circles. You couldn't take your eyes off him. "I want you to cum inside me, okay? Fill me up with your seed. Help me feel less empty." 

Pleasure gathered deep inside you, begging to come out as your knot swelled. Shit. You shouldn't. He was your coworker, your friend. But omegas needed alpha seed, he needed reprieve from his heat and you were the only one he could call--because the person he really wanted was dead. 

That thought shattered your high, grounding you back in the moment. "Gojo, I know you're still mourning Geto, but this isn't healthy for you." 

Gojo settled on your stomach, chest heaving. His hands snuck under your shirt, impossibly soft and warm in your skin. Your cock twitched inside him, wanting him to squeeze and milk you dry but that wasn't what a good friend would let him do. 

"I killed him, you know." His hands curled into fists by your hips. "He left me after taking my virginity and when he came back, I killed him on Christmas Eve because he didn't give me another choice. I'm awful, aren't I? Shoko hates me. She won't say it but I know she does. I hate me, too." The blue of his eyes shone as tears gathered, threatening to fall down his red flushed cheeks. 

"Shoko doesn't hate you." You said soothingly. You sat up, so much smaller than him, and ran your hands through his hair. "It was an impossible situation, we all think you did the right thing. We--" 

He didn't let you finish your thought. Gojo grabbed you by your shirt and slammed his mouth onto yours, his tongue filling you as if he could make you swallow every hateful thing he'd ever thought about himself. "If you don't hate me," he breathed against your lips, his spit wet and warm as it dribbled down your chin, "then cum inside me." He rolled his hips, reigniting the electric pleasure in your core. "Please. You can hate me tomorrow, but right now, I can't let you go." 

The pulsing softness of his pussy contracted, squeezing you so tightly you thought you might burst. You gasped for breath when Gojo released you and then did it again. You wanted to move. You wanted to stop. You wanted... 

Gojo pulled down the front of your shirt, rolling his hips roughly, chasing his end against your cock. He bit your chest, hard enough to bruise, marking you like an alpha. And that was enough to come undone. 

You exploded inside of him, eyes rolling back as your core emptied against his sweet spot. Your hips rolled up into his and you shivered as you felt your knot pop into his pussy, slick sliding down your thighs and onto the blankets. 

You struggled to breathe as Gojo laid himself on top of you, breathing fast. He rocked his hips against your knot, already trying to drag another orgasm out of himself. His arms slid under your back, pulling your chest to his. "You're all I have now, Y/N," he whispered, "so please, don't leave.”

[alittlebitofloveliness]

How would you think the whole dynamic within the gang would be if ponyboy instead of dally dying

Ok I've been sitting on this one for a few days because I'm drowning in exam season and I wanted to answer it properly.

So, I'm gonna disclaimer this and say that my previous posts hold true. In canon verse if Pony had died, Johnny would have died too and Dally can't survive without Johnny, but this is a fun thought experiment so lets dive in!

Ok so there's a few scenarios I could see that result in Pony dying but not Dally, but I'm just gonna write the one I think is most likely because this is gonna be LONG. This version is the one where Pony is the one whose back gets broken in the church fire and he succumbs to his injuries, the way Johnny does in canon. In this universe there is no bittersweet Curtis brother reunion in the hospital. Instead, you have Johnny alone in the waiting room, pale faced and shaking, who only left Ponyboy's side when the doctors threatened to kick him out of the hospital (i've said it before and I'll say it again- Johnny is PROTECTIVE AF over Pony). In this universe you have Darry and Soda stumbling into the hospital looking shellshocked, and Soda is sobbing already, and Darry looks so lost and so scared and so guilty. In this universe you have a Darry and a Soda who don't leave the hospital, refuse to leave Pony's side, a Darry that begs Ponyboy for forgiveness when Pony is conscious and who is granted it even though it never feels like enough, a Darry that tells Pony over and over that he loves him, and who watches the doctors with young, terrified, hopeless eyes, that are grieving what he already knows and refuses to accept. You have a Soda who promises Ponyboy over and over that he'll be okay, that refuses to speak to the doctors or even Ponyboy when it becomes clear that Pony won't survive this, who leaves in a fit of tears when he can no longer ignore it and returns just in time for Ponyboy to croak out a final I love you as he takes his last breath. After that its chaos. The rumble still happens, but since the Curtis' didn't leave the hospital until now it happens after Pony dies. Soda is too inconsolable to fight, and Darry refuses to, grieving and cold and unable to, unable to do anything anymore, unable to even hope. Johnny doesn't fight either, and Dally calls him a pussy for it, tells him to do it for Pony and Johnny refuses, knowing it's not something Pony would have wanted. They get into a fight none of the rest of the gang ever expected to see, and Dally goes to the rumble along with Steve and Two-bit, he goes to the rumble but he doesn't fight fair, he pulls a blade and gets arrested, because he couldn't handle Pony's death any better than he could handle Johnny's he just handles it differently. Since he's already up on murder charges he takes the fall for killing Bob, protecting Johnny one last time in a final effort to preserve Pony's legacy or maybe just try and keep Johnny gold, despite their argument. Dallas Winston's story ends there, as effectively as it did in canon, and he spends the next twenty years behind bars. The fallout from Pony's death throws Johnny Cade into an even deeper depression, and (because he can't die in this au) after Pony's funeral, in which he delivers a eulogy that is a modified version of his letter in canon, he runs away from Tulsa, for good this time, leaving behind the only family he ever had, splintered, cracked and then broken beyond repair. He never comes back and no one ever hears from him again.

Darry and Sodapop return home, wracked with grief, and grief. Soda blames Darry for Pony's death, and Darry can't even argue. He blames himself too. They plan the funeral, bury Pony beside their parents just a few days after he took his last breath. At the funeral they're approached by a social worker. The death of a kid under his care has Darry Curtis under investigation for child abuse and gross child neglect. Whether he's convicted or not doesn't matter- in any case Sodapop Curtis is removed from his care effective immediately, as Darry is declared an unfit guardian. It doesn't matter that Soda wants to stay, he doesn't have a choice. Sodapop Curtis spends just over a year in foster care, not allowed to have any contact with his brother, apart from what he hears from Steve and Two-bit at school- which isn't much. He tries not to think about Johnny Cade who left without saying goodbye, or the little brother that did and never should have had to, and eventually takes a leaf out of Two-bit's book and starts drinking until the thoughts become hazy and the world gets quiet. He's had enough of noise to last a lifetime. Steve Randle stays by his side and tries everything he knows to bring back the version of Sodapop Curtis that Ponyboy knew, the one he loved. It takes about six months before he accepts that version of Sodapop is dead too, had died with Pony, and this husk of a man is the only real Soda that is left.

Two-bit Mathews left the hospital the night Ponyboy died with a bottle in his hand and hatred in his heart. He fought alongside Dally in the rumble, beat some kid soc barely bigger than Ponyboy until his knuckles were bruised and the socs face was more blood than skin. He watched Dally Winston give up, watched the fight in him burn bright until the cuffs were around his wrists and it was gone. Two-bit raised a can to the end of the hoodlum, toasted to the end of another east side kid who never had a chance, and hadn't stopped drinking since, stuck celebrating the bruised up tragedy they'd all never escape day after day. Some days, when he thinks maybe he could try it again, the thing called living that felt a lot like dying, he checks in on Darry Curtis and remembers there isn't any sort of point to that kind of trying.

Darry Curtis is a broken man. He's found not guilty on all charges, and Soda's eighteenth comes not two weeks later. The remaining two Curtis brothers reunite, the youngest one not the one who's supposed to be. They get up. They go to work. Darry Curtis works hard and watches the world around him and sees nothing. His eyes are shadows, his hands are regret, and his being is grief. Most folks don't talk to Darry much these days. Darry doesn't talk much either. He thinks sometimes, about his friends, about where Johnny might be, how Dallas might be doing, but usually he thinks of Ponyboy, of the brother he killed through his pride and his fear and his own stupid anger, and he wishes he couldn't think anything at all.

Darry comes home to too much dinner made in too normal colours and a brother whose eyes are far too foggy. Soda is home, and things should be better but they aren't, they never are, never will be again. There are liquor bottles in the cupboard that never used to be there, and a space in the bedroom down the hall that never should have been empty, and the house isn't full of anything anymore except grief.

Ponyboy Curtis died and everyone else survived. But none of them lived.

[alexanderlightweight]

Happy Wednesday! Hope all is well! Give nightshade a scritch and a treat! There is something wrong with my brain because you and saeths have labeled things as 3DNE and I read them and couldn’t figure out what was bad? I’ve been reading fic for too long.

Anyway I love Frost of Fury and All your cracks painted gold so could I prompt an update for either? :)

the night is going a lot better than the day so I think it's good enough ^_^

I have given nightshade several apple slices and some extra fish snacks so i assure you he has been happily pampered with extra care due to this ask. i mean he's spoiled af but he also got extra spoiling (I almost gave him a second chew bone but he's boycotting his kibble and topper again today and I don't want to reward him too much or fill up his stomach when he needs actual sustenance but is being a picky little biscuit). I try to rotate his food enough that he doesn't get bored but the problem is just because I rotate it doesn't mean he wants what I make or he doesn't like the texture the kibble becomes and will refuse. and he will spit it out if he doesn't like it!!! and he won't eat any kibble that falls on the floor and sometimes depending on how tasty the treat is, he won't eat those if they fall on the floor either.

sorry, moving on from my silly pupper. it's taken a while but this is for all your cracks painted gold and I hope you like it. some team immortal in that verse and soft malec ofc

also I mean something is wrong with my brain but I don't think it's that and I agree with you. i'm never quite sure which of my fics are 3DNE myself but I know quite a few of them are so I just assume they'll end up there at some point or another and plan ahead. plus while it's a soft obsession/possessive/violent adoration/literally salt and burn the world for you. it's still not healthy or condoned in real life context so therefore i'd rather be safe with my tags

<3 lumine

Ragnor’s cottage is warm and cozy despite the insidious dampness of the wet wind that presses against the windowpanes and the cold pitter patter of rain on the roof.  The fire dances merrily and Alec watches it, mesmerized in the way only those half asleep can truly be.

“He’s exhausted,” Magnus says from above him and Alec tries to protest but the words don’t make it past his lips, caught on the heaviness of his tongue.  “The Herbal Anthology you sent him had him up all morning. I woke up to find him still in the garden at noon and was going to make him nap when your fire message arrived.  There was no hope for him resting after he asked me not to use magic because he wanted to learn how to harvest the plants from me.” 

Magnus’ voice is soft and soothing, lulling Alec even further from consciousness as he blinks slowly, the room fading under the haze of sleep.

—

“I wasn’t expecting him to find so many of the plants I needed in that wild terrain you call a herb garden.” Ragnor mutters and Magnus finds himself shocked into silence by the sheer gall of his dear cabbage. If Magnus’ rooftop sanctuary is wild than Ragnor’s own garden — herb and otherwise — can hardly be called anything other than rabid. Even the few trails that only exist because of Ragnor’s frequent use can be described as nothing more than a faint impression in a landscape of bedraggled flora.

“Well, Alexander is quite clever in anything he dedicates himself to.” 

For a moment there is a peaceful quiet, the rain and the fire the only noise until Ragnor gets up to go put on another pot of tea and set up his phonograph to play a soft but hauntingly poetic violin. Magnus leans back into the sofa Ragnor had thoughtfully summoned so that it would be easier for Magnus to coax him into slumber.

There is a dreary comfort in the ambiance as Magnus accepts a hot tea from Ragnor, appreciating the warmth of freshly brewed tea through the delicate fine bone china cup.

Alexander makes a soft whuffling snore even as he turns, shoulders digging sharply into Magnus’ thigh before he settles, content to nuzzle his face against Magnus’s belly.

“How is he handling it?”

“Better every day, but still slowly.” Magnus smiles softly as he pets his fingers through Alexander’s hair while taking a sip of tea. “When I first met him I never imagined how wounded and tender he was under all his strength before I found him broken.  It was heartbreaking but also painfully beautiful, to see him find joy and hope again.” Magnus pauses for a minute and his smile turns sharp, “and of course I can’t deny how delicious his ardent devotion and dedication to me is.  I never imagined it would be like this.” 

—

Ragnor watches as Magnus smirk fades and he sighs in contemplation, “I never imagined someone could feel these kinds of things for me, not truly.  Especially not after my father and Camille. To be able to experience it is... indescribable. Whatever comfort I thought I’d found in life I realize now I was merely settling.  I could never give him up and he could never bear to leave and this—” Magnus pauses and then sets his cup down so he can press his own fingers to his heart.

“It’s freedom, Ragnor.  For us both from shades and wounds of the past.  If Camille asked me for help, I’d burn her on sight knowing that her mere presence is a danger for Alexander.” 

The confession is such a shock that Ragnor chokes on his pipe but he recovers easily enough and uses it as an excuse to blow his nose, carefully hiding any tears.  

Magnus would never judge him for crying but it would hurt him to witness just how deeply Ragnor’s relief and joy is.  It would give him a glimpse into how deeply Ragnor and Catarina have both worried and agonized over Magnus’ unhealthy but lingering attachment.  It’s deeply rooted in the night she saved Magnus — the only worthwhile thing Ragnor and Catarina think she’s done and one they are deeply grateful for — but she’d used that against him far too many times for them to ever help her again.

Camille lingers  like a festering wound even with decades upon decades between her and Magnus’ last meeting but finally, finally the stranglehold she’s had on him is gone.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ragnor cheerfully admits. “Now shall we leave your boy to rest and move to the study?”

Magnus’ glare is downright frosty at the mere suggestion and Ragnor chuckles and instead lifts his hands, summoning a new and larger table while Maguns quickly snatches his cup back up — saucer and all — before it can fall. Magnus' left hand hasn’t left Alec’s hair since the moment he started petting his shadowhunter and Ragnor would lightly mock him if he weren’t still so delighted by it all.

Maybe in a century or two the euphoria of Magnus finally having found someone to truly treasure and love him in the ways that he needs will wear off, but until then Ragnor will gladly enjoy this.

-

so the reason it says Alec stayed up all morning is they should have gone to bed before dawn and magnus fell asleep while alec read in bed and then Alec got too invested and ended up not actually going to bed and going back to the garden where Magnus found him when he eventually woke up because there was no Alexander cuddling against him.

and i've mentioned it before but ragnor, magnus and catarina really truly love and adore each other in a deep ride or die kind of way that will not break and betryal would never happen and they're never going to suspect each other. ragnor and cat were grateful to camille at first until she started fucking with Magnus and then basically gratitude didn't mean she could fuck with their friend.

ragnor is just truly fucking delight and he can't wait to portal over to cat the moment Magnus and Alec leave because he's going to spill everything and share memories so cat too can experience the joy of Magnus healing and being happy and confident in his joy and his own self worth which is all they've ever wanted for him

alec is asleep in an unfamiliar place after basically being tortured and that's part of the reason Magnus won't leave him and also why would he leave when he can pet Alec and keep an eye on his rest and make sure he doesn't have nightmares while also enjoying that it's his touch, voice, scent and magic that comfort Alec enough to let him sleep in a strange location especially unarmed and still learning what kind of powers come with his new runes or weapons he can wield.

ragnor is also thrilled because before Alec got interested in the garden it was a side hobby that Magnus only worked on or in when he remembered about it and was interested or wanted ingredients of higher grade

[hxroic-wxlls-fxrever]

Welcome to Hxroic-Wxlls (Again!)

Multi-Muse OC and Canon RP Blog

Contains a variety of muses from series such as Mario, Sonic, Fire Emblem, Gurren Lagann, Dragon Ball, and more

Super OC and Crossover Friendly

Memes Galore

9+ Years of RP Experience

All Art used in icons do not belong to me and all credit goes to their respective sources.

Rules and Muses Below:

No God Modding:

No Vague Posting:

No rushing for replies/guilt tripping

Have Fun!

No Drama (If I’m not involved in it, I do kindly ask to not drag me into it. I’m just here to vibe and have fun.)

Muse List:

Super Mario Bros:

Mario

Luigi

Yoshi

Peach

Cappy

Chompette (Chain Chomp turned princess via the Super Crown:)

Starlette (OC: The cheery creator of the Mario!Verse. Despite her goofy nature and love for randomness, she loves all her creations, equally.)

Apricot (OC: Princess Peach’s younger sister. Mischievous and constantly searching for ways to entertain herself. Tends to skip out on important Royal duties, but loves the kingdom and its people all the same).

Maria (OC: Mario and Luigi’s niece, and the older sister to Louise. She idolizes her uncles and is full of energy, constantly on the search for adventure and is eager to prove herself as someone who can live up to the legacy of the bros.)

Louise (OC: Mario and Luigi’s niece, and the younger sister to Maria. Like her sister, she idolizes her uncles, but is much more reserved and shy when compared to her older sister. She tends to stay behind her sister’s back, but will stand up to help out if the situation demands it.)

Touhou Project:

Little Reimu Hakurei (Osana Reimu)

Minako Hakurei (Reimu’s Mother: Originates from Osana Reimu)

EX Rumia (Osana Reimu)

Youmu Konpaku

Fujiwara No Mokou

Hinanawi Tenshi

Shion Yorigami

Koishi Komeiji

Yuuma Toutetsu

Flandre Scarlet

Utsuho Reiuji

Reika Hakurei (OC: The god of the Hakurei, in the Osana Reimu universe. After watching the future events of the family unfold, she granted all three of the protagonists with divine energy to prevent their sad fate from coming to be…which came at the price of her shrinking down to around Suwako’s size, and losing a majority of her energy. She can best be described as a ‘Lazy Neet who stays inside and plays video games all day.’ She does care, trust her. She’s just not good at showing it.)

Sendai Hakurei (OC: The previous Hakurei Shrine maiden, and mother to warriorsofcrimsonrealms’ Reimu. She’s a relatively quiet shrine maiden, who spends most of her time training to improve herself, both mentally and physically. Her devotion training can sometimes lead her to make questionable decisions, like sitting under a waterfall in the winter, but that same devotion is also the reason for her insane physical strength. She has a strong sense of duty, but isn’t too strict, either.)

Cirno

Anko Shinohara (OC: A regular ‘ol student who used to reign at her home town as a Street Fighter 6 Champion and Gaming Streamer, before one day finding herself lost in Gensokyo, after a field trip gone awry. Coming from the modern age of 2025, she’s well versed on modern day topics…mostly gaming. Don’t ask her too much about stuff outside of that, because she tended to ignore other topics that didn’t interest her… In Gensokyo, she managed to bring along her monitor, a PC, and her switch with a charger. So, she’s good on the gaming end…but didn’t bring anything else… So, to ensure she doesn’t starve, she works as an employee at one of the human village restaurants, with uh…not so much Grace.)

Chikara (OC: An Oni who had trained Sendai, when she was but a mere child. She encountered the soon to be Shrine Maiden when the young girl accidentally tripped and rolled down a hill in the forest, and came across the Oni in the midst of a training session. Seeing potential in the young girl, despite Sendai’s (old) scaredy cat behavior, she put her through a rigorous training routine where the young shrine maiden essentially had to fight for her life and survive in a simulation of a hostile wildlife environment, similar to that of a certain Namekian and Hybrid Saiyan’s training session in a certain manga. Chikara loves the thrill of battle, and can often be seen training in caves across Gensokyo, or visiting Sendai for sparring matches.

Yumi Konpaku (OC from Lost Word): An alternate Youmu who came from a different Gensokyo, one where she acted as the executioner in a land where contestant fought against each other in tournament settings, and she had to punish the losers. Like the regular Youmu, she enjoys gardening. However, there are a few key differences. One, she’s much more powerful due to her having much more time to spend training…but is also a terrible chef due to her time spent training taking away any time she had to learn how to cook. Hobbies aside, her blade glows red due to the blood it’s been stained with over many years, and is cursed due to all the souls it’s taken. Regardless, she’s a friendly soul, who didn’t enjoy what she had to do.)

Sakuya Izayoi

Honey Dew (OC):

A fairy maid of the SDM. She specializes in handling the laundry, but has a problem with daydreaming, frequently. As a result, she tends to get distracted mid-folding, and makes an art piece out of the clothes, instead of properly folding them. She once made a 1-1 art piece of Remilia, out of a mass pile of clothes by lining them up, together.

Yoko Shika (OC):

A used to be human villager turned into the Shrine Maiden of the newly formed Shika/Deer Shrine, in Gensokyo. She was revived from a near death illness after her family had taken her to be blessed by the Deer God. And as thanks, she offered to serve as Noko's personal Shrine Maiden.

She admits, she has very little clue on what being the Deer Shrine's Shrine Maiden entails, so she just assumes her job is to gather faith, and resolve incidents, if possible. Luckily for her, because the majority of the human villagers do seem to be fans of the deer wandering about, and her god, gathering faith and donations is far from an issue.

Power wise, she is SURPRISINGLY strong, as a result of the mass amount of faith her shrine gathers, on a daily. She has yet to fully understand the spell card rules, but she's getting there!

Scarlet (OC):

A formerly wealthy Vampire Queen, who’d long since been overthrown by her kingdom, due to being neglectful in paying her minions. She spent years wandering the earth, having to work 9-5 in her own personal business so that she can buy blood, since she’s allergic to blood that’s fresh from any living creature. It makes her super itchy, and gives her a stomach ache. So, she keeps a filtering device on her, that she puts purchased blood into, so that it’s okay for her to consume. As for where she buys the blood, she has a personal salesman who she can summon with a snap of her fingers. The salesman, much to her annoyance, is VERY greedy when it comes to the pricing.

After one fateful night, during a delivery, she found herself in Gensokyo, where she continues her business of Nightly Delivery. The building is located in the bamboo forest of the lost, which makes it a bit hard for others to find her…and for her to find out where to go…

Personality wise, she’s best described as really quiet, and noticeably lazy. She often complains about the fact that she doesn’t want to work, and misses when she was pampered like a queen. She’s still incredibly powerful, as a result of her abilities and status, but never makes use of it, as she says ‘it’s a waste of time and energy to fight.’

Gurren Lagann:

Simon

Kamina

Nia Teppelin

Simonia (OC: Simon and Nia’s child, who was born after the events of SRWX. She inherited her father’s core drill, his sense of passion and determination, and her mother’s kindness and curiosity. She idolizes her parents, and tries to follow their example as much as possible (except for her mother’s cooking. She did not inherit Simon’s tolerance for it, and got really sick after her first time trying it.)

Sonic The Hedgehog:

Sonic

Cosmo (Sonic X)

Shadow

Maria Robotnik

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure:

Jotaro Kujo

Metal Gear:

Raiden (Revengeance)

Shiro (OC: A used to be child soldier who was experimented on as a weapon in the past, before breaking out in a failed test. She was found by Raiden in a warehouse, with a knife in hand, before being adopted into his household. Her memories of her life before the experiments don’t exist for her, no matter how much she tries to dig them up. She’s quiet, but deeply appreciates Raiden for his help, and consistently refers to him as ‘sensei.’ She wields her own personal HF Blade, and trains daily to mimic his combat style. Her favorite food is cereal, which she would have for breakfast lunch and dinner if left unattended, and has a bad habit of spending money on model Gundam figures, recklessly.

Fate:

Cu Chulainn

Elizabeth Bathory

Baobhan Sith

Kirin (OC: Quite possibly the world’s greatest girlfail, with more bags under her eyes than a group of people after a long shopping trip. She’s a middle school dropout who spent the next six years working job to job in run down areas, while barely getting any sleep and playing games 24/7. Once she turned 20, she suddenly got an invitation to work as a master for Chaldea. She initially deemed it a scam, but figured she may as well check it out, since anything was better than working at a bar with ungrateful customers. Soon enough, she found herself fighting in a war to save the world…which she finds completely insane, but kinda fun. The whole ‘threat of death’ thing is annoying, in her opinion, but she figured she could get over it. Personality wise, she can come off as unfriendly and anti-social with a large streak of trouble following her everywhere, but she CAN be nice in some instances… She is not shy about showing when she doesn’t like something to someone, though.

Kiran (OC: Kirin’s older twin, with just as many bags under his eyes, and worked just as many run down jobs before travelling with his sister to Chaldea to work as a master. He’s somewhat more responsible than Kirin, acting as her impulse control to a degree, but for the most part, he tends to behave very similarly to her and the two often finish each other’s sentences. )

Mash Kyrielight

Megaman:

X

Marina (OC: A Reploid Scientist who manages X, Zero and Axl's gear and equipment, while they're off duty. She has a tendency to let her curiosity to tinker with the gear get the better of her, which leads to...sometimes mixed results. Her main goal is to one day make her own custom armors for the three.)

Mad Father:

Aya Drevis

Honkai:

Murata Himeko (HI3rd)

Caelus

Bella

Marvel:

Spider-Man (MVC and MCU verses)

Final Fantasy:

Zack Fair

Dragon Maid:

Elma

Pokémon:

Latias

Latios

Malu (OC: Alola’s champion, who spends most of time relaxing and eating Malasadas with his Pokémon. Being someone who strives to find the most comfortable way to live, Malu can often be seen lazing about, wherever. Whether it be on the beach, in a tree, or one of the chairs in a Malasada store, him, napping, is a common sight across Alola. Regardless of his seemingly lazy nature, his skills as a trainer are nothing to take lightly.

Haruka (OC: A trainer from Johto who moved to Alola to take on the Island Trials and become champion. She’s hard working and determined to prove herself. Her efforts proved valiant…up until she got up to the current champion, Malu. She currently has lost to him a total of 87 times thus far, with no victory of her own, yet. Still, she eagerly challenges him whenever he comes by… She finds his presence somewhat irritating though, due to his seemingly lazy nature clashing with his insane combat skills.

Fire Emblem:

Male Robin

Female Morgan

Henry

Soleil

Madoka Magica:

Madoka

Homura (Moemura)

Sayori Kazuma (OC: An orphan student with the ability to perceive supernatural and magical beings. She recently became acquainted with Simonia after her house burned down from a freak lightning strike, and has since taken residence at her place. She also received a mech of her own, and continues to work diligently to keep the world safe from witches, as she pursues her own goal of hunting down those who've been contracting the magical girls of her world.)

Chronoa Kazuma (OC: A used to be magical girl who exists without a soul, and only lives on as a result of the wish of her friend, after she had already become a witch. She lacks the ability to talk, so she carries around a notebook to make her messages clear. She joined Simonia and Sayori after following their mechs home from a battle with a witch.)

Nana Tomoe (OC: Mami's cousin, from America. A girl cursed with eternal clumsiness, and no real sense of direction. She has no real supernatural abilities to speak of, but she tries her best, even if she ends up falling on her face for it. Sticks around with Simonia at her house because she accidentally locked herself out of her own, which has no other entrances besides the front. And the front is protected by a high security, electronic steel door. A door that she'd be in debt forever for, if it broke.)

Chio Nishiki (OC: The Government leader of Japan’s 13 year old daughter who rose to power, courtesy of her dad, who spoils her rotten, gifting her the position as the primary boss for her birthday. She’s taken interest in the events taking place in Mitakihara, courtesy of recent disappearances of middle school girls, and the sudden arrival giant mechs. She pays no mind to the giant mechs, because she think they’re awesome and that the world should have more. The disappearances, however, have her concerned… As such, she actively has investigators with supernatural backgrounds spying on the city of Mitakihara to see if there’s any leads to who or what may be causing these disappearances.)

Mabayu Aki

Bocchi the Rock:

Hitori Gotou

Ryo Yamada

Kikuri Hiroi

Demon Slayer:

Kyojuro Rengoku

Dragon Ball:

Broly (DBS)

Goku (GT)

Vegeta (GT)

Gohan (Post-Super Hero)

Gamma 1

Gamma 2

Android 17

Android 16

Captain Ginyu

Mister Buu

Blorbro (OC: A time patroller Majin who travelled the world with an Outer Experiment of a girl named Saika, before being recruited into the Time Patrol. He brands super-hero like clothing, and idolized super heros, pro wrestlers, and the champ, himself, Hercule. He’s very laid back and prone to making jokes, but is also the most powerful amongst his group of three.)

Celera (OC: A time patroller Saiyan who worked as a scholar in Universe 6, before being recruited into the Time Patrol. She’s hard working and studious, often trying to find way to make the best of any situation in a logical manner…which makes her a bit irritable due to being surrounded by teammates who rely on anything but logic. Regardless, they’re her friends, and she does her best to keep the world a better place… Also, her natural hair and eye color is black, but gained white hair through a mishap with magic paint, and gold eyes due to a mishap with a spell in school. Both, of which, never got undone or fixed.)

Nio (OC: A time patroller elf who lived in secrecy and practiced dark magic, before being recruited into the Time Patrol. Despite her work in the dark arts, though, Nio is an energetic and extremely friendly soul, who wishes to prove to the world that even magic of this nature can be used to help others. She’s incredibly social…but tends to miss social queues due to having lived alone for so long.)

Kohlri (OC: Broly’s mother, who had abandoned Planet Vegeta in a fit after having heard news of Paragus and her son being sent away to a far away, abandoned planet. Due to her space pod malfunctioning during the trip, she made a crash landing onto earth, and had since been living there while adapting to Earth’s culture, in the meantime. Many years later, after the events of the battle between Broly and Gogeta, the former one day found himself meeting with his mother in the midst of a random shopping trip with Cheelai and Lemo. It didn’t take Kohlri too long to recognize due to both his scent, and tail. This resulted in a very tear reunion on her end, as Kohlri soon found herself walking into her son’s life, once again… Compared to her husband, she’s incredibly cheerful and outgoing, with great social skills…and an apparent lack of impulse control, given her purchase history. She’s also, however, who Broly inherited his rage boosted power ups from, given she goes into similar berserker states when powering up, without focus.

Neptunia:

Uzume Tennouboshi

Ultrakill:

V1

Vocaloid:

Kasane Teto

Akita Neru

Guilty Gear:

Sol Badguy

Yu-Gi-Oh

Yugi Muto & Atem

Kuriboh

Silent Magician

Aurora (OC: Aurora’s the daughter of a wealthy couple who’re known to be famous authors, worldwide. Because her parents are always touring around on business trips, she lives alone with her brother in a private mansion. They’re consistently sent food and money, so they never have to worry too much about fending for themselves, financially. Aurora doesn’t tend to leave the house much, and whenever she does, she’s usually looking down at a book, instead of where she’s going…which often leads to her bumping into people or poles on accident. Despite being extremely introverted, she has a notable passion when it comes to reading. So, if she’s not at home, she’s usually at the local library, reading through a mass stack of books. She once got so interested in reading a series that she spent three whole days in the library without leaving, and only left once the librarian found her reading in the darkness of an empty book shelf.

Animal Crossing:

Villager

A Hat in Time:

Hat Kid

Kirby:

Kirby

Elsword:

Elesis (Flame Lord)

Elsword (Rune Master)

FNF:

BF

My Deer Friend Nokotan:

Shikanoko

Kid Icarus:

Pit

Corpse Party:

Sachiko Shinozaki

Fandomless OCs:

Akira (OC: A super laid back 27 year old woman who works at a small gas station in THE TOWN called Akira’s. She’s a friendly soul treats her employees and friends like family, and gives out EXTREMELY large paychecks, despite her only customers being the people from Mario’s apartment. There are rumors that she used to be a fortune goddess who reincarnated as a human, but she has yet to confirm anything…to the public, at least.)

Kiki (OC: A 19 year old ex-magical girl who was fired from being ‘too old to continue working.’ A fact that she found incredibly bizarre and annoying, but she couldn’t really do anything about it as she just suddenly woke up one day, with a ‘Fired’ letter next to her bed, and no powers. Having been launched back into a normal life so suddenly, after five years of dutiful work, she felt lost, until she moved to THE TOWN with her parents, and was hired by Akira. With such a large paycheck, and friendly co-workers around her, she was able to settle back into a normal life… The craziness of THE TOWN does make her life even more bizarre than it used to be, sometimes, though.

August (OC: A member of the Lethal Company, who recently moved to THE TOWN after being given a ten year vacation by the company for surviving ten years of work. She’s skittish, nervous, and very shy, which would be expected after having survived watching most of her co-workers die at the hands of supernatural beings and harsh environmental hazards. While she is happy to be in a ‘somewhat’ less dangerous environment, she does wish that she never took up the job opportunity to be a space excavator, and stool to working at Dairy Queen.)

Nis (OC: The young princess of the underworld, who rules over all its inhabitants with…a surprisingly lazy and gentle hand. Nis is someone who can best be described as a tired and calm soul, almost always being seen in her pajamas, and resting whenever possible. She’s spoiled rotten by her father, yet never acts entitled. Her favorite hobby is playing video games with her minions and friends…and playing with the magical girls in THE TOWN, who initially viewed her as a threat, but came to view her as a friend after realizing her work was mandatory, and that’d she’d surrender the very moment they showed up to fight her every time.)

Azure (OC: A void dragon appointed by the Underworld’s king to punish souls deemed unfit for the worst of the Underworld. Due to the souls being sent there being very rare and barren, void dragons often spend their time in human form lazing about and playing games in a mansion they made in the void, or the outside world. Azure, himself, isn’t much different. Often spending more time outside the void, than inside. He’s a laid back soul who enjoys playing pranks, and hanging with Rose and Nis, and his sister, Azul. He has a pet stone that he aptly named ‘Stone’, who is completely sentient and talks back, but to only him.

Rose (OC: An underworld devil and Rose’s right hand-man. She used to be a human, before suffering an untimely death at the hands of those she once considered friends. Unable to move on, who soul rested in a forest, before being recruited as an underworld soldier by the reaper. She now works at Nis’ side as a dutiful soldier…even if the monarch’s lazy tendencies tend to stress her out, a bit. Because of her being somewhat easily ticked off, Azure and Azul tend to playfully tease her a lot. This, of course, annoys her, but it never goes far.)

Violet (OC: A laid back swordswoman who left a town run by a corrupt kingdom to explore the world at her leisure, having been inspired by her friends at her childhood orphanage to find a better life. She explored the land with a sword in hand, and a carefree nature. When she’s not busy practicing swordplay, she’s finding quick jobs to make cash, so long as it adheres to her sense of morality, or crashing at places with anyone she’s found to be a friend, along the way.)

Mika (OC: A young magical girl who came from a ruined timeline where she was tricked by her magical girl contractors, the Miracle Mirans, into destroying all life on earth with illusionary techniques, making her think she was stopping monsters and saving the world, where instead, she was destroying everything on it. Horrified, she escaped into a different timeline where no such things had occurred, and managed to somehow settle back into a normal life…or so she’d wished. She still experienced horrific nightmares of her crimes, which makes sleeping for her incredibly difficult. Regardless, thanks to her having found a new group of magical girls to keep her steady, as her new friends, she’s finding it just a tiny bit easier to live a peaceful life, once again, in THE TOWN.

Haru (OC: A young magical girl who idolizes Shonen Manga and anime, such as Dragon Ball and Gurren Lagann. She fights crime with a fiery passion and will, while sometimes vastly overestimating how much will alone can do… It worked in Gurren Lagann, though! Her confidence aside, she was the first of the Magical Girls to meet up with Mika, and eagerly wished for her to be her teammate, until the two fought their first enemy together. After that, Mika relented and agreed to be in a team with Haru, in which the two celebrated with Karaoke, courtesy of Haru almost literally dragging her there. She’s aware of Mika’s past, but doesn’t bring it up to avoid making her uncomfortable, and defends her with all her heart and might.)

Lucky (OC: A young magical girl who became one of the world’s most rich individuals, as a result of her family being blessed with divine luck, and winning multiple lotteries over the course of their lives. She’s a friendly soul who became quick friends with Mika and Haru after become acquainted in school, and conveniently meeting up in the same place to fight a monster, when one showed up. Despite her immense funds, she never uses them as a way to make herself look better than others. Instead, she always uses her funds to try and help them/make their lives easier on them.)

Naomi (OC: A young magical girl who works as a part time shrine maiden. She’s incredibly serious when it comes to her work, both in magical girl duties, and out. She encountered the group of three magical girls in the middle of a losing battle, and jumped in to help. After a narrow victory, the group of three spent the next five weeks along her to join their group, in which she eventually relented after being saved by the three in a losing battle of her own. Due to her being the most serious of the bunch, she tends to butt heads with Haru, due to the other’s much more idealistic and joking nature… Regardless, she appreciates the company of all three, equally.)

Iamaslime (OC: The mayor of THE TOWN, who is a slime. He looks similar to that of the slimes in the world of Dragon Quest, and is incredibly lax with the rules of THE TOWN… Or in reality, lack thereof. There’s no actual rules, which explains why randomness and chaos is so apparent in this town. All forms of ‘authority’ are self-governed independent projects and have nothing to do with him.’)

Iamaslimetoo (OC: The mayor’s daughter, who looks similar to that of a slime girl from a certain half genie’s series. Like her father, she’s incredibly lax with the lack of rules in THE TOWN, and spends all her time relaxing, or hanging out at parties with her dad.)

John Gmod (OC: One of the two bodyguards for the mayor and his daughter, and the one with an actual sense of common sense. He’s consistently caught up in his partner’s shenanigans, and always ends up taking half the blame for the other’s nonsense, even if he had nothing to do with it. He wants to retire and move to Fiji, but with his current inability to hold onto funds, that dream seems like nothing more than a dream.)

John Dark Souls (OC: One of the two bodyguards for the mayor and his daughter, and the one who lack any sense of common sense. He’s consistently stirring up trouble, whether it be to him actively coming up with get rich quick schemes, attempting to show off in lame ways to get a date, like riding around THE TOWN in a tank, or just starting fights whenever it’s least beneficial for everyone. His dream is to have a harem and live as king of the world, but that dream is DEFINITELY just a dream.)

Karley (OC: A worker at the Magical Girl Support Center; a business that focuses on assisting magical girls with anything they may need. She takes her job quite seriously. Very seriously, in fact. Her co-workers say they've never ever seen her leave the center, ever since she started working. They theorize she's a spirit that's bound to the building.)

Crimson Disaster (OC: An assassin who started off as an orphan in a poor position before taking up a deal with a contractor to help her get into a better situation. Her ability is known as Deadly Misfortune. This ability allows her to cause misfortune and disaster for those around her, whether it be falling ill to a fatal illness, or being caught in an accident. Over time, she learned how to properly master this ability, so she can channel and direct all the misfortune onto a single target, within a 50 ft radius of her. With this ability, she's been able to stage all her assassinations as freak accidents, without having ever been caught. She seems to have moral standards, though, as she has a strict rule of never going after innocents or kids.)

Soren (OC: A Magical Girl Contractor in the form of an immortal cat. The scarf he wears around his neck was a parting gift from his first contracted magical girl, right before she passed, due to old age. He travels, alone, in search of potential magical girls who could use a little help in their life...He has no ill intent, and simply wishes for their happiness. He understands the world is often filled with people who wish to destroy it, but he never pushes his offer onto anyone if he feels if it'd get in the way of their own personal life and health...)

Nihil (OC: A princess who'd been cursed with dark magic by a demon lord, who's long since been lost to time. As for what the curse did...it didn't really do much, outside of just amplifying her physical abilities, as well as making her desire to be lazy and lounge around even more apparent. She was already like that, initially, but managed to put up a good enough 'responsible' act to fool her parents and the people. With the curse active, she stopped putting on the act, entirely.The king and queen, feeling like their daughter had become some sort of monster, even though that wasn't the case, had a council of wizards seal her away, after many attempts at breaking this 'curse' failed...Thousands of years later, the seal was broken by courtesy of the Mario Bros' apartment exploding one thousand times. Her sealing place was conveniently, right under the building, to be precise. Once she was freed...she lazily said her thanks, and left to go wander around THE TOWN, with no real task or objective in mind...Recently, she got a job at the Magical Girl Support Center as a new contractor, believing that the job could be 'kind of fun'... That's really her motivation for it.)

Alice (OC: A shy and secluded girl who one day found herself making a contract with a certain cursed princess, after the other saved her from the relentless actions of school bullies... She doesn't tend to speak up too much, and is still VERY much so new to her job... Because of the nature of her contractor's powers and curse, she often gets mistaken as a bad guy by other magical girls, courtesy of the fact that her own magical girl makes her look more like a demon princess, than a fellow hero of justice...She also spends an excessive amount of time at THE ICE CREAM STORE, nowadays, due to her contractor's love for the dessert... She doesn't particularly mind, since she likes ice cream, too.)

Alexandra (OC: Local weird woman wants to impress her kids by being the world's greatest villain...but consistently gets told that she has too good a heart to ever fill that role. And thus, she comes up with a solution...to be the only villain, left. Even if she's a goody two shoes of a villain, if she's the only one to try for the role, then she'll be the best by default! As a result, her skillset is based around exposing the evil in people's hearts to the public, and purifying it until there's no evil left. She has no clue that her skillset isn't villainous in the slightest, or what she'll do once she's actually the only bad guy left.)

Miorine (OC: A young girl from the future who grew up, unsatisfied and riddled with sadness in a world where being a hero was frowned upon, and villainized. She wants to see 'true justice' brought back to the system, by working from the shadows to expose and bring to light the true natures of the ones running the show...and taking them out. She knows the people would sooner burn their own houses down rather than admit they were wrong, so she believes the only way to get them to believe in heroes again is to shatter all their trust and belief in the system they oh so abided by, for so long...effectively leaving them to see that they've been living a lie, the whole time. Her Rider abilities are more stealth based, allowing her to mask her presence and erase all traces and hints of her true identity, leaving her as a completely anonymous source. While not too strong in direct combat, she's still far stronger than the average person, and can easily snipe someone out, from the shadows... However, she has, unfortunately, come into contact with officers in some cases...and had to eliminate them, in self defense. She understands the heroes she looks up to wouldn't approve of such shady and violent methods...but she doesn't know what else to do, in a world that would berate a child for wanting to do good. As for a hint at her true identity, an anonymous once said that they 'wanted to be a hero, too.')

Cheri (OC: A used to be idol from a popular idol group that went viral for a few years, before the crowd ultimately lost interest in them, and was fired to be replaced with a fresh, new group of idols. Is currently desperately working side jobs to garner enough money to pay off the debt she owes to the idol company, and is NOT happy about it, in the slightest. She's generally regarded as grumpy, and hard to socialize with.)

Kana Shinozaki (OC: Previously, she was an orphan who got sent from house to house, as she never quite managed to CLICK with any family... That would one day change, as she managed to apply for the chance at joining the idol business with a group of rising idols... She did not account for the their complete incapability of actually working together, though, which led to their inevitable firing, and immense debt... Not wanting to go back to the loop of going from home to home, she stuck with the group at their shared living space. She doesn't tend to say much, usually preferring to express herself through the art she makes, in her notebook. While she has no singing or dancing skills, her art skills are exceptional, and pays off her debt by doing online commissions.)

Janice OC: Another member of the failed idol group, who got into the idol business out of simply finding it fun, after watching some videos on it. She is kind...perhaps a little too kind. She's kind to the point of being a pushover, and as a result, never ends up being able to halt the chaos of the group in any way. If there is any consolation though, she can somehow bypass the supernatural force and remember Jane's name.)

Kamai (OC: An extremely cheery girl who leans VERY heavily into the cute and stylish side of idol culture, having dyed her hair to be super colorful, wearing incredibly flashy and bright outfits (much to the dismay of the group's budget), and has the energy and positivity of a golden retriever. As for what her gimmick is...whenever she starts to sing, everything around her explodes. Literally. Up until now, she's been serving her sentence for accidentally blowing up the president, and only recently got out because a supervillain blew up the prison, and she ended up walking out in the chaos. She's effectively a wanted criminal, but the actual police force and and all of security conveniently forgot about her due to outside circumstances, so...she's now living it up at the mansion.)

Iori Yuno (OC: A young exorcist from a long family line of spiritualists who were well regarded for dealing with the supernatural for many generations. She was tasked with attempting to exorcise the spirit of an idol named Ophelia and to help her pass on… The issue? She’s not exactly good at her job, and she’s TERRIFIED of ghosts. She still persevered and joined an upcoming idol group in an attempt to pursue her…only to be dragged into the idol life for the long run, and shamefully found out that she’s way better at that, than what she wanted to pride herself on.)

[macabr3-barbi3]

*gets on knees* hello,,,,, I am,, muy hungr y.......... priest vox one-shot PLEAAAAASE.. perhaps Vox has taken a more Catholic turn with Voxtech to capitalise on the fact that being redeemed has suddenly become extremely popular since the Hazbin Hotel was rebuilt ('TRUST US! with YOUR redemption'), he doesn't ACTUALLY believe in any of it of course but anything for a buck. Idk how reader would end up there LOL but I can't stop thinking about him using the most dirty religious euphemisms AND MAYBE USING A ROSARY TO BIND READER'S(OR HIS IF UR FEELING REAL FREAKY) WRISTS RUFF RUFF BARK BARK BARK I'm totally normal (I'm losing my mind)

HELLO FRIEND I LOVE THIS (AND YOU SINCE I KNOW WHO YOU ARE LOL)

disclaimer that I am not religious, I took most of these bible verses and things at face value- Vox doesn't care about using them correctly why should I LMAO

going to Hell for this one lads anyone wanna carpool?

Tags: blasphemy, priest kink, fucking in a church, improper use of rosary beads, confession that is not up to code, exhibitionism? if you squint? improper use of bible verses

HOT PRIEST VOX IN THE BANNER FROM @chefskjssart AND THE BANNER ITSELF FROM @fraugwinska I LOVE YOU GUYS ❤️❤️❤️

When you arrive in Hell as the result of a car accident, the first thing you see is a billboard- there’s a television on it, of all things, one with a face that wore a confident smirk under eyes that seemed to promise something. What exactly it was, you couldn’t tell, but the bright, flashing words next to him caught your attention, like you were sure they were supposed to: “VoxTek presents VeeLigion- TRUST US! With YOUR Redemption!”

You spend a couple days trying to get your bearings, and you determine that Hell fucking sucks- before falling you had been stabbed a grand total of zero times, and within 24 hours you’d had a knife in you twice. Which, TV did a terrible job at depicting stabbings; it wasn’t a soft gasp and a betrayed glance at the person holding the knife, it was a burning flash of pain and a scream that echoed in your head even after you stopped, even after the wound miraculously healed and left you with holes in your clothing that exposed unblemished skin.

TV also painted a pretty inaccurate portrait of Hell as a whole. Sure, you’d been stabbed a couple times but it wasn’t all fire and brimstone- everyone else mostly left you alone, a fox-faced woman had given you a bandage and a half eaten sandwich while you sat bleeding in an alley outside, there were bakeries and regular storefronts, and maybe a few more sex shops than you had been anticipating. But it was a whole society like it was when you were alive, albeit with maybe less rules and consequences.

You see more advertisements from the guy with the television head (Vox, you had picked up from the newspapers and magazines that littered the sidewalks), promises of salvation to be found in his newly built church in Pentagram City, redemption at a low cost. You had seen other ads, from a place called the Hazbin Hotel, but regardless of how different Hell was from what you had imagined, you still figured that the Devil was bad- his daughter couldn’t have been much better. And the Princess of Hell just didn’t catch your attention like Vox had; come on, his head was a television, what choice did you have but to look at him?

And it was no real surprise that you had ended up here, despite the years of Catholic school and nuns striking the fear of God into you when your parents had decided that you were too much trouble as a teen and shipped you off for a few years. You had done your time, did the prayers and shit with your skirt just an inch or two above the regulated length, and as soon as you had the chance you were out of there, back to the fun life you had enjoyed before…

Even if you did now have the voice of Sister Lucy in your head when you went down on someone, telling you that idle hands- and probably lips- should only be used in service of the Lord.

But Jesus, was some premarital sex really enough to damn you to this shithole? The more you thought about it, the more you wanted to find your way to the center of the city to find that Church. Maybe the whole redemption thing was bullshit, but also maybe since it was a church they could give you shelter. A place to hide from the chaos on the streets while you figured out what the fuck you were going to do. You didn’t think you needed food to survive, really, but you would do almost anything for a hot meal in your mouth just for the comfort of it.

After getting directions- and another fucking stab wound, where the fuck were people getting these knives?- you make your way to the VoxTek church, and here’s another point against the Hotel. The thing is massive and gorgeous, blue and white stained glass that covered the building reflecting the red of the pentagram in the sky, Vox’s likeness front and center above the intricately detailed doors. It’s pristine, and perfect, and you’re suddenly very self conscious about the state of yourself, covered in blood with clothes that are the wrong brand of ‘holey.’ But you’re already here and on the steps, so there’s not much else to do but climb them and reach for the doors.

A tablet pops in front of you, ‘AdamAI’ engraved across the top. “Welcome to the VeeLigion church,” the thing says, the voice bored and haughty. “Entry starts at $5.99.”

“You fucking charge just to come in?” Maybe you shouldn’t swear at what looks like some sort of angelic device but fuck, really?

“A small price to pay for salvation!” It says, and little wings flick out of the sides to flutter, like it was trying to distract you. “Come on, don’t you wanna go to Heaven? It fucking rocks up there- Hell is dirty and smelly and gross, and-”

“Yeah people just stab you like all the fucking time,” you mutter, “but I don’t have any money.”

“Plan B then- you can sign this screen right here-” Some sort of contract appears on the screen, the letters too small to read properly, with a line at the bottom. “And the matter of payment can be discussed at a later date, at the owner’s discretion.”

“That’s a little suspicious.”

“You could go get stabbed again,” it snarks, and a pen pops out of the top. “Or you could go to that shitty hotel that doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing, with Lucifer’s brat. Choice is yours.”

You have to admit that the pristine glow of the church seems more promising than what you had seen of the Hotel, so you sign the contract and the doors swing open without the creak of heavy wood- when you touch it on your way in you realize that it, too, is actually metal, manipulated to look like wood to sell the facade of the building. “Good luck,” the tablet chirps, followed by something that sounds suspiciously like “you’re going to need it” as the door slams shut behind you.

It’s eerily quiet inside the church, likely soundproofed since you can no longer hear anything that’s going on outside. There’s no one else inside, no priest or other sinners, the stage at the front of the chapel empty except for the obviously simulated sunlight that streams through the windows at the back. Despite the cash grab at the door, the place does feel divine. It’s quiet and peaceful, and beautiful beyond belief. You wander up to the front, looking around to see if there would be some sort of pastor or something to show you what, exactly, you were supposed to do- to give you answers, to show you some kind of mercy in this hellhole.

A door slams somewhere in the building, and gradually a voice gets louder as they approach the chapel. “-told you, Val, that the church was a waste of fuckin’ time,” they’re saying, “but did you listen? Of course not- you’re shoved so far up Angel’s twinky little ass lately it’s a wonder you have time to plan your fuckin’ ‘holy orgies’ or whatever the fuck you’re calling them-”

And there’s the television you had been seeing on the billboards and ads- Vox in the flesh, priest robes dripping off his frame, one of those little hats somehow attached to his flat head. Even with his eyebrows drawn down in irritation at whoever he was on the phone with, he still has an air of confidence and cockiness about him that you can admire- and you had seen some of the magazines declaring him the hottest in Hell, and know that he has clean lines of lean muscle hiding under those holy folds of fabric. He paces back and forth across the stage a few times, throwing insults and jabs into the phone in his hand, and then he looks up and finally notices you. 

“Oh fuck,” he says, eyes widening in surprise, and then- “not you, Valentino, Satan, fucking narcissist. Someone’s fucking here- yes, in the church- fuck it, no, I gotta deal with this.” And the phone is slipped into one of the pockets of the robe. His whole demeanor changes- his posture straightens, his eyes closing and his face rearranging into something softer, more peaceful as he looks down at you. 

“Welcome, lost lamb,” he says, and you could almost believe him if it weren’t for the glitch that crackles across his screen at the words. “How may I help to guide you today?”

“Um… I’m not totally sure,” you confess, and his eye twitches in irritation. “I saw some ads and I was curious about the idea of a church in Hell. If you can actually get redeemed here then, you know, I’d love to give it a try-“ 

You don’t even get to mention your almost ulterior motive before he fucking laughs at you, the sound echoing with the acoustics of the place. “Fuck, so you’re a real one then? Y’know how many people I’ve had sitting in these pews that don’t give two rats shit about redemption, just wanted to see the fancy new fucking building and watch one of the most powerful Overlords in Hell strut around in this stupid fucking thing?” He plucks at his robes, the fabric fluttering around his body. “And now I've got a real one. Imagine that. Okay!” 

He claps his hands together and a small bench emerges from the floor in front of the stage as he drops to sit on the edge of it, legs hanging off so his feet touch the floor. “Fucking kneel, then,” he says, gesturing to the cushion, “Don’t these things usually start with confession? I don’t have all day if you have like, a million sins to confess.”

“Oh, right.” This part at least you knew, even if it usually took place in a booth and the other person couldn’t see you. You hadn’t really been planning on confessing when you got here, but at least it was an easy part.

You watch him patiently, waiting for the usual blessing, until he stares at you expectantly. “Well?”

Guess you were skipping that, then. “Um, okay. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He waves a hand at you; a silent ‘get-on-with-it’ if you’ve ever seen one. “It’s been… ten years? Since my last confession-“

“No fucking wonder you ended up down here, doll,” he mutters, head tilted towards the ceiling and not even looking at you, “you were one of those ‘Easter and Christmas’ church-goers, huh? And you thought that would be enough.”

“Hey, fuck you,” you snap, flushing at how easy you were to pin down like that, and his head snaps back down to look at you, an eyebrow raised like he’s fucking bored. “Aren’t you supposed to be here to help?”

“Does it matter? Besides, I’m new to the job; sue me for a learning curve. Come on- what sins are you confessing?” His screen brightens suddenly, a grin directed at you that steals your breath. “Was it something fun? You kill someone?” His eyes go hooded, expression lascivious as he looks down at you. “Impure thoughts, maybe? Impure actions?” His gaze lingers on your skirt before he meets your eyes again.

Your face heats- you’re very aware, suddenly, of the position that you’re in- knelt on the floor in an empty church, the priest as far from saintly as one could get and hot as Hell even with his TV head, his knees spread apart where he sits on the edge of the stage and you essentially between them. Images race lightning quick through your head- pushing his robes up around his thighs, leaning forward with your tongue out to show him just how impure your actions could be-

A bell rings overhead and you’re reminded that you’re in a fucking Church, even if it is one in the center of Hell. You had come here for help, not sex. You shove the thoughts back. “Can you just- be a normal priest, please? With the bible verses and shit so I can feel like this wasn’t a total waste of whatever I signed before coming in here.”

He sighs but seems to acquiesce, placing his palms on the stage and leaning back. “That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one! Give me one sec…” His screen changes, words and images flying across it at lightning speed while he taps his fingers on the floor under his hands, sometimes slowing on a particular passage, and it occurs to you what he’s doing- he’s searching the fucking internet for a bible passage.

“Ha! This should do-” His face comes back, expression serene, and he leans forward and places a finger under your chin to tilt your head up, closer to him now  than you would have expected. “I know how you feel, my child, tempted by the sins of the flesh,” he says in an exaggerated tone. “‘For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses.” He winks at you with that smirk of his back in place, “but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin.’”

You blush but can’t turn away with his finger on you, keeping you tilted to face him. “‘Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.’ Is that what you’re here for, doll? Mercy?”

Your mouth runs dry, and you can see the way his eyes track the movement of your throat when you swallow. “Y-yes,” you stammer, and your voice is weaker than you would like, your eyes half-lidded as you look up at him. “Mercy-” 

“In your time of need,” he offers, and when you close your eyes you feel his thumb trace over your cheekbone, his hand warm against your skin. “What do you need? Cause I’ll tell you- all flushed and trembling and sweet on your knees here? I don’t think a bible verse is gonna cut it, babe.”

He almost slides off the stage, dropping to a crouch so he’s level with your face. “Sir-” you try, and his grin is wide and dangerous.

“Father,” he corrects you, and if you weren’t already on your knees you would have fallen to them. “And I believe you still have to confess before we can move on.” He reaches into the pocket of his robes and pulls out something long and dangling- a rosary, you realize, and you can’t stop the flash of heat that rips through you despite the blatant blasphemy of what was happening. “Give me your hands.” And you do, helpless to refuse as he winds the beads around your wrists with the cross dangling between your arms as he finishes. He stands then, using a hand on the beads to pull you from the cushion and guide you forward on your knees when he sits on the edge of the stage again. You’re properly between his legs now, the fabric of his robes almost touching your nose, and he’s holding your bound hands atop one of his knees. 

“This is just to keep you focused,” he says when he sees you watching where he has them restrained in one hand. His other hand pets across your head, a finger briefly touching one of the horns that you had grown upon arrival. “Now then- tell me of your temptations, little lamb, and I’ll give you absolution. I’ll give you the mercy you want.” When he meets your wide eyes again, he winks. “Maybe something else, too.”

“Fuck, I’m- God, okay. Okay. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” You take Vox’s silence as a sign to continue, his hand still gently brushing through your hair, the other keeping a tight grip on the rosary beads. “It’s been ten years since my last confession.”

“Go on, my child,” Vox says, and fuck, it feels wrong that the words of a priest- regardless of how legitimate he was- are making your core clench, a strong jolt of arousal bolting through your body. “What brings you to confession today?”

You try not to tremble as you continue. “I have… behaved immorally in the past. And even now I’m having impure thoughts,” you whisper, and you hear Vox suppress a groan in front of you. “I- I know the Bible says not to fall prey to temptation, but it’s so hard to resist. I can’t stop myself from thinking about it- about what I’ve done. And about you.”

The fingers in your hair are gone, grip tightening on the one holding the rosary. “This is troubling indeed,” he says, like you can’t hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me what you’ve done- what you’ve thought about. What you want now. Be specific.” There’s a soft rustling of fabric before you, a whisper of air across your face as Vox moves. You make an inquisitive noise and he shushes you. “Keep your eyes closed, dear- imagine you confess to the Lord himself. Show him how earnest you are in your devotion.”

You let your face relax, brow going slack and keeping your face tipped up. You can see through your eyelids the shine of the sunlight through the windows, artificial but warming and holy nonetheless. And like this you ‘confess.’ “I’m thinking about you touching me- in s-sinful ways. Your hands on my skin the way that others have touched me. It feels good, I can’t help but want it…” You feel a little ridiculous even with the flush of your cheeks and the need overtaking your body.

“Fuck,” you hear Vox whisper, and there’s another faint sound of movement that you can’t place with your eyes closed. “How did these f-f̰̰̯͕͊̃̊͞͞͞i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘t͖͖̠̬͛h̨͚͚͖ͯ̒̄͗͞y͙͙̪̰ͫ͌́ sinners touch you?” His voice seems to fail him at the thought, a crackle in his vocals that betrays how much he’s invested in the moment.

“Like a harlot,” you say, and you hear a full groan escape him, a tug to the rosary when he leans a bit down towards you. His face is closer now; you can feel his hot breath as it ghosts across your lips when you speak. “They touched my bare skin- sometimes I lie awake at night and trace the path their hands have taken over my body, over my breasts, between my legs. I’ve let them fuck me, bent over tables and spread across beds, and God, I want more.” You let your voice take on a pleading edge. “I want it to be you- please, won’t you help me?”

You let your eyes flutter open, and the sight before you steals your breathe- Vox’s eyes are trained on you, his mouth hanging open with his face screwed up in pleasure as he fists his cock inches from your face, his robes drawn up over his thighs to jerk himself off in time with your confession. When he notices you watching him he smiles, all teeth and dripping saliva, looking more and more like the agent of damnation that he is than the holy man he’s pretending to be. “F̼̼͓̙ͤ̋̅̚͞͞ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧa͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎ṛ̣̬̫̍͌ͩ͟ n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥo͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞t͖͖̠̬͛,” he growls, his vocals once again corrupted and fried when he speaks. “‘No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. G-G̯̯̩̙͆ͣ͟o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞d̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓ is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability-’” The last words are accompanied with a harder thrust of his hips, bringing him closer to the edge of the stage, the head of his prick nearly brushing your lips before its covered with his fingers as he continues to stroke. “‘But with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.’”

You know what he’s going for, but… “I think in this instance, ‘enduring it’ would mean not giving in to the temptation,” you murmur, and you let your tongue ghost over his hand when it gets within reach, just able to taste the saltiness of his precum on his fingers. “But I think I’m weak to it, Father- would you forgive me if I can’t resist?”

Static flashes across his screen for a moment. “Fuck,” he pants when he sees that you’ve kept your tongue extended, waiting for him. He loses the haughty, holy edge to his voice as his fingers tighten their grip, less of a stroke now to let the head of his dick tap against your tongue a couple times. “Can’t fuckin’ think straight like this, Satan- how am I supposed to keep this shit up when you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a devout whore praying for a cock in your throat,” he snarls, and releases the hand keeping hold on the rosary to cup your face. You waste no time in bringing your bound hands up under your skirt, shoving your panties to the side with trembling fingers to rub at your clit. The angle is all wrong, but any friction is good friction at this point, and Vox laughs breathlessly at the desperate way that you rock against your hands with your head held in his. “I might not be God but I can answer that fuckin’ prayer if you want.”

The way you shift to get a better angle to slide a finger into yourself brings you closer, your head resting more heavily in his palm, and you can’t resist giving him a wink- “Promise you’ll give me my absolution after?” You let your mouth fall slack, and groan around the length of him as he pushes past your lips, both of his hands abandoning their respective tasks to tangle in the strands of your hair and keep you still.

“I’ll give it to you, doll, I’ll fuckin’ give you a͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘ o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞f̰̰̯͕͊̃̊͞͞͞ i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟t͖͖̠̬͛.” He guides himself in further, deeper, until the head of his dick is just bumping against the back of your throat, whorish whines escaping the scant space between your lips when he starts to buck his hips, sucking to the best of your ability while you ride your own fingers and try to work your tongue against the solid erection that’s taken up a temporary residence in your mouth. His hands fist in your hair and tug you closer, your nose bumping the sharp lines of his abdomen and the solid weight of his balls resting against your chin with every jerk forward. A particularly hard thrust has your gag reflex triggering, the channel of your throat convulsing and fluttering around the head of his cock while his head throws back with a moan.

Tears prick at your eyes- your orgasm is a distant, intangible thing, the pleasure from your fingers sweet but not even close to what you needed, whimpering and drooling around Vox’s cock in a way that echoed around the beautiful chapel. When you look up at him his eyes are wide and frantic, harsh moans falling from his mouth and rumbling through his body so you could feel it against your nose pressed into his pelvis the way you are. 

A hand slides forward to brush at your tears, a smile more befitting the devil than any kind of priest taking up Vox’s screen, red lines of what could be drool dripping off the sides. “Fuck, gonna cum- you want it, angel? Your a͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎b͔͔̳͈̊̆ͥ͂͜͝s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅo͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡t͖͖̠̬͛i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥ?” You can’t speak with his cock filling your mouth so fully, so you nod the best you can and grind your hips down onto your fingers, still bound together with the rosary. He chuckles low, once again keeping your head still so he can pound into the wet heat you’ve provided to him, the muscles of your throat clenching down every time he pushes far enough back. “‘Repent and be baptized, e-every one of you-’” he starts, the silky skin of his erection sliding pleasantly over your tongue a final time, then he stills. His cock twitches, and there’s a jet of hot, bitter liquid spilling across your tongue before he pulls out completely. “‘In the name of J̸̡̡̟͑ͭ̄͘ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧs̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅụ̴̴̾̀͟͡s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅ Ch̨͚͚͖ͯ̒̄͗͞ṛ̣̬̫̍͌ͩ͟i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅt͖͖̠̬͛, for the forgiveness of your sins.’” There’s another pulse of cum that lands on your cheek as he pulls back, his thumb coming up to smear it on your skin and then dip into your mouth for you to suck it clean as his cock gives one final twitch, a weak spurt against your lips closed around his thumb. “‘And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit,’” he finishes in his normal voice, that cocky smirk back on his screen when he finally pulls all the way back.

You lick your lips, rid yourself of the remnants of his release that you can reach. “Is that what that was? You don’t look much like the Holy Spirit to me.”

He groans looking down at you, the hand still in your hair petting almost affectionately through the strands. “We make do with what we have in Hell,” he says. His eyes flick down to your lap, where you still have two fingers poorly sunk into your pussy and are rocking back and forth on them. “Don’t worry, doll, you’ll still-”

He freeze, some notice popping up in one of the upper corners of his screen, and he shakes his head and groans as it clears away. “Quiet- someone’s at the door,” he murmurs, and takes his hands off you entirely.

You suppress a groan at the lack of contact,  fingers momentarily stilling and cocking an eyebrow at him. “How can you tell?” There’s no knock resounding through the building, no bells or chimes, and he holds a finger to his lips.

“I get an alert when someone interacts with the AdamAI. Just hold on a sec-”

There’s an audible gasp from the sinner that enters the church, and Vox looks down at you with a wicked smile. “Keep praying, my child,” he says softly, “and we’ll resume our discussion on the matter of your ‘repentance’ soon.” He stands to his full height and with a swish of his robes he’s gone, approaching the newcomer behind you and speaking in hushed tones- you catch something about a ‘private prayer session’ and resist the urge to snort, instead shifting a bit to get your thumb against your clit and rub soft circles. You don’t think you can cum like this but it's nice, sweet little zaps of pleasure that start at your core and echo through your body like the acoustics of the church you kneel in. You bite your lip to keep the sounds from escaping you as they talk, the low timbre of Vox’s voice making your body hum and tingle remembering the way he had moaned and clutched at your hair as he chased his release with your mouth around him.

Fuck, if Sister Lucy could have seen you now she would probably have an aneurysm. But its not her words echoing in your brain right now- it’s Vox’s soft “keep praying” that has your hands unable to stay still, your hips jerking minutely while you reach futilely for the edge of your pleasure, to tumble headfirst into it.

It takes a moment for you to realize that the Church is silent once again, and when you look up- and up and up, your head tilting all the way back like you’re searching for God himself in the rafters- Vox towers over you from behind, his eyes dark and hungry. He drops to his knees, a resounding crack on the floor as he reaches for you, his hand wrapping around the front of your throat to keep your head tilted back, and a low growl rumbles from his chest when he feels you swallow against his palm. “Such a well behaved lamb, to stick to your prays so devotedly in the presence of others,” he whispers, his tongue curling over the shell of your ear, and now that you’re alone there’s no shame in the desperate moan that you let loose- the way he says ‘lamb’ is so sickeningly sweet and exaggerated that you know the word he wants to use is ‘slut.’ “What kind of shepherd would I be if I didn’t give you a reward?”

His other hand comes down to grab the rosary, pulling your fingers from the slick heat of your cunt and bring them to his mouth- his tongue curls around them, the lewd sound of him sucking the juices from your digits right next to your ear, causing heat to pool in your lower stomach. Once he’s satisfied, he hoists you up with his grip on them, spinning you so that you’re facing him and pinning you to the edge of the stage. “Thought the ‘baptism’ was my gift,” you say as he lifts your legs up around his waist, shoving your skirt out of the way and just tearing your panties off your body, exposing you to the cool air of the church. “You should keep your metaphors straight.”

“Come on, I’m fuckin’ trying,” he mutters, pressing his screen to your forehead so you’re breathing in the same air. “Didn’t Jesus say some shit like ‘choose words that bring peace, not conflict’ or something? Take that holy advice, stop poking holes in my sermon, and let me show you Heaven.” He leans in before you can respond to tangle his tongue with yours, and considering where you are and what you’re doing, kissing a television is hardly the weirdest thing to happen to you today. It’s pleasant, even, a light hum of static where your lips meet his, his tongue almost vibrating with concealed electricity as he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste his own cum in the back of your throat.

When he pulls back for your answer, you can’t resist the truth- “That was Buddhism,” you deadpan, and laugh when static crackles across his body, a renewed erection pushing into your thigh when he uses your bound hands to lay you flat on the stage. He fumbles with his robes to get them up and around his waist again, and the laughter dies in your throat as the silky smooth head of his cock bumps against your drenched folds.

“You know a lot about religion for someone that seems to only know how to be on her knees for one thing,” he murmurs, and it's both shame and heat that flashes through you at the words while he slides his length back and forth through your wetness, pressing lightly against your clit and retreating, teasing. “Let’s see how long you can keep that up while I’m fucking the thoughts out of that pretty head, hm? Gimme a Bible passage since you know so much, dollface.”

“I don’t have access to the internet in my brain like some people but I’ll do my be- ahhh, fuck-” Vox cuts off your sentence with a solid thrust of his hips, the tip of his prick finally slipping in, and he works it in slowly, letting you adjust to it a few inches at a time until he’s buried to the hilt in your wet cunt and breathing heavily against your neck. “Oh God-”

“Thought taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin,” he breathes, and licks down the column of your throat. He pulls back a little, the drag of him inside of you a delicious burn before he snaps forward again, punching the air from your lungs. He maneuvers the fingers of the hand still holding the rosary to press the wooden cross into your palms. “Come on, angel, give me something good.”

It’s admittedly hard to think with the way that he pistons into you, hips angled just right to hit that sweet spot inside that you had been missing with your bound hands, his free hand digging bruises into the flesh of your hip. You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind- “‘A-All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for- fuck, for instruction, for conviction, for correction, and for training in right-righteousness,’” you manage through the pleasure that courses through you, and Vox laughs, the action causing his body to shake against you. 

“Something better,” he demands, still drilling his cock into your pussy, hard thrusts that make your vision waver and your breath catch in your throat- how he expects you to talk during that, you weren’t sure, but you would do your damndest as you search your memory for something else.

“Fuck, uhhh… ‘If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with pointing finger… and malicious talk, and if you spend yourself on behalf of the hungry-’” You lose focus on the words you can see behind your eyelids when the hand leaves your hip to press a clawed finger to your swollen clit, a firm circling that has you choking on the words before they can finish leaving your lips. A whimper escapes instead, and Vox’s grin is wide and hungry as he stares down at you.

“‘And satisfy the needs of the oppressed,’” he continues for you, “come on, little lamb, you know the rest.”

“‘Then your light will rise in the darkness, and your light become like the noonday.’” Every muscle is tense, waiting for the thread to snap as Vox continues to fuck into you like a man possessed, his tongue lathing over whatever bits of skin he can reach. You can feel the orgasm crackling like electricity down your spine, unsure if that’s a side effect of Vox’s half-machine body or just how fucking good it feels. Either way, the cusp of release has never felt like this before, like you might pass out from the strength of it, from how all consuming the pleasure is before the peak has even hit.

The pressure against your sweet spots- inside and outside- intensifies suddenly when Vox tilts his hips, pressing down harder and slamming his thick cock against that bundle of nerves inside, the wet sounds of your coupling all that you can hear over your voice and his grunts of effort. “‘The lord will guide you always; he will… s-atisfy your needs in a- in a- oh fuck, God, Vox-”

You want the face he’s making framed in the living room of wherever you end up living in Hell; he could almost be a real priest with the expression of worship that’s taking over his screen, looking down at you like you’re Heaven incarnate. “F̼̼͓̙ͤ̋̅̚͞͞ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡c̨̨̣̮̝̈́̔ͯ̀͂k̼̼̞̦̞̼̔, d̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘, that’s right; cum on my cock, sweetheart, a͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥg̬̬̱ͩ͋͟͟ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧl͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘, fuck-”    

It’s just as all consuming as you expected- even more so as you tip over the edge into blissful ecstasy, every part of your body clenching down, your hands on the beads, your legs around Vox’s waist, your walls around the hard length still pounding away at you. You’re not even a little embarrassed about the echoing of your cries as you cum, the sound bouncing off the walls of the church and coming back to you and Vox, who’s chasing his own release in the tight clench of your pussy. The lewd, wet sounds intensify suddenly, sharply, the evidence of your orgasm drenching the robes bunched around Vox’s thighs. A high pitched noise emits from him, and his screen goes dark when he follows you over the edge, hot pulses of heat into your slick cunt, walls fluttering and spasming and wringing every last drop of cum from him, resting thick and warm inside of you as his head drops down to your chest and the entire building seems to just power down.

You fiddle with the rosary beads in your hands, trying to see if you can get them undone on your own- and yes, there they go, a quick twist of the wrist and they’re sliding along your skin, your wrists sore where they had been digging in this whole time. His grip on the beads had slackened as well, so you pull out of his grasp and let your hands run down his body, properly touching him for the first time- and it was well worth the wait, even through the priest robes. His muscles felt firm to the touch, the skin of his arms soft where his sleeves had ridden up, and the hot air coming off his head when you traced your fingers along the ports and wires on the back of it was oddly pleasant.

“You keep touching me like that,” he mumbles against your chest, and you feel his dick twitch where it’s seated inside you still, “and you can be the one to explain to my business partners why power’s down across Pentagram City.” The building flickers back on slowly, the simulated sunshine once again streaming from the windows as Vox boots back up, a loading screen flashing on his face before it turns back into his eyes and mouth, quirked up at the sides while you run your fingers over his body and head. “Gimme like half an hour and we can go again without blacking out both rings of Pride, maybe.”

You laugh when he pulls out, collapsing in the space next to you, the stupid little hat tumbling off in the process while he adjusts his robes. “‘Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light,’” you quote. “Maybe a power outage will bring more people to the Church, you could play that up on your advertisements- then if we regularly fuck there’s a business aspect.”

His chuckle echoes in the chapel. “Where have you been all my afterlife?” He jokes, and his clawed fingers give yours a squeeze when they come down to your sides. “I know you’re probably half kidding but listen, I could use some of that religious knowledge if Val and Velvette insist on making me do this once a week- the fucking doesn’t always have to be a part of it, but-”

“Listen, if that offer comes with a place to sleep and a hot meal every once in a while I’m down.” You think back to the screen you had signed before coming into the church- “Shit, unless that tablet I signed means I don’t get a say? Guess I should have looked at it a little closer-”

“Oh, that.” He has the decency to look a little ashamed as he pulls something up on his screen, making a note before closing it again. “Sorry, just a contingency- if we didn’t have a way for financially challenged sinners to get here that would severely limit our target market so we added that contract as an option. Technically your soul is now owned three ways by the Vees as a whole until terms are settled, but we’ll renegotiate, figure something else out.”

“‘Give to everyone who begs from you, and from one who takes away your goods do not demand them back,’” you quote at him- “you help me out and I’ll help you.”

“Deal.” He stands and pulls you up with him, and you place the hat back onto his head- it snaps into place with a soft click that you laugh at- “Magnets, babe, I work with what I have”- while he leads you to the back of the church to clean up and talk about where you would be going from here.

Bonus

You’re laying reclined on Vox’s living room couch a few days later, wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else while he pours a couple drinks for you. All things considered, going to the church that day had worked out well. You weren’t ‘dating’ Vox, but he was keeping you off the street, fed, and fucked, so you didn’t have much room to complain. Every once in a while you would go over some common Bible passages with him, try to play out a full confession so he could see how it was actually supposed to go to try and help with the church thing, but because of how you met you could hardly get out “forgive me, Father” before Vox was hard and pulling at your clothes.

He’s bitching about it now as he mixes things in glasses at the kitchen counter when his apartment door flies open and Velvette strolls in. “Vox, babe, the fuck are you doin’ at that fuckin’ church? Your ratings are absolute shite compared to the stand-ins we have and that should not be the fuckin’ case.”

He immediately jumps on the defensive. “Imagine that- maybe its because I’m not a real fucking priest? God forbid it take me a fucking minute to learn the shit.”

You pipe up from the couch, tipping your head back over the arm to look at Vox and Velvette upside down. “A good start would be not taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Traitor,” he hisses at you, and the demoness doubles over in laughter when static sparks between his antennae as he whips in your direction. “And you’re one to fucking talk- remind me how we met again?”

“You sure you wanna do that while your friend is here, Vox? I can live with the blasphemy of fucking in a church but I draw the line at full blown exhibitionism.” Velvette wipes a tear from her eyes while Vox’s screen tints pink. “And besides- we’re working on it, aren’t we, Father?”

Velvette’s irritated grumbling is ignored as Vox pushes her back out the door and approaches you on the couch, curling his claws into your hair, coaxing you to your knees for another confession.