#we have no way of confirming this i think. i just think it's a neat theory and possibility

[imnez-daydreams]

if you notice that this is my 3rd remmick fic, 2nd from this talented writer, no you don't. i know i knowww i haven't watched the movie but cmon i have free will let me read more about this vampire dude !! i'm in love with how rosie writes and almost every single warning tag is very much up my alley. so excited !!

'You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows."

the way your writing makes me visualise such beautiful scenes so easily, its like watching a movie when i read your work.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

i like the detail of remmick seemingly not weighing much ? idk if thats a vampire or a movie thing but earlier on also, reader noticed how there wasn't any shuffling or creaking. how remmick doesn't carry the same weight as a human idk its just a neat detail to me.

"Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear."

lovee the way you describe things ! its always explained in such an interesting manner. instead of just saying his voice lowered, you expand on it by also likening the tone drop to an act of intimacy. i love your brain rosie !!

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

giggling at the "dove" pet name. also remmick bending down, justtt a touch away from making contact despite not being able to enter yet is ... a sight.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

soft for remmick being soft. letting reader come to this choice by their own accord, even tho he knows the ending they share. that reader belonging to him is inevitable.

"He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map."

rosie your writing is soooo immersive. i was able to visualise this whole scene so easily like all the words just fell into place in my mind, painting such a vivid art piece. also that last line wowie, just goes to show how long remmick's been alive. he's probably seen empires rise and fall, experienced the change of lifestyles throughout each century.

"He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized."

hmm wow how long has remmick been watching reader i wonder. maybe he's just been looking over reader from the shadows through the years.

"You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having."

wow why is that last line so poetic to me. like this moment was something destined to happen or was already set in stone, even if reader doesn't subconsciously realise it.

"You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it."

"Maybe that was why he smiled."

the vampire diaries taught me that they have super hearing but anyways i like to think that remmick smiled because he knew even if reader ran to the other side of the earth, even if they made him wait and wait outside, the road would always lead them back to him. he had always known but tye confirmation of that fact just brought a smile to his face.

"He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling."

"He looked at you like he was already undressing you."

"Not your clothes—your will."

remmick being enraptured by reader, like a moth to a flame. i appreciate the way the bond goes beyond the sexual expect. that tension is there but its more about their connection, the yearning, the coming apart.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

...

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

hold awn what. what that mean bro dont just lore drop and walk away. hmm. ok so remmick saved reader and their brother right ? the way reader described it was that they were too desperate to care what form the help took, and that theres a debt to be repaid so im assuming he saved the brother from dying by turning him. but what could have compelled remmick to do this gesture of goodwill im thinking now that he knew reader's mother and was like idk watching over her kids ? what are the chances he shows up in their time of need when no other humans were around yaknow ? or maybe i'm reading too much into this sorry rosie haha.

"A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood."

omg empires and rise and fall im always so giddy when i'm on a similar wavelength as the writers hehe. but those are such beautiful ways to show remmick's age. kissed queens before they were beheaded ?? so unique.

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

baby you had me at "hello, dove" cmon lesgaurr. ok jokes aside, like the grave wanting the body ?? rose seriously your writing is genuinely broadening my mind on how the English language can be so beautifully manipulated into forming tuese sentences.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

umfff the way remmick knows when reader doesn't even know it themselves. he knows them in such an intimate manner, like he's has access to the inner workings of their mind, including the hidden parts that they don't want to acknowledge themselves.

"His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint."

love it. a creature like remmick being oh so soft just for reader, holding back his urges and instincts. it probably takes him more effort to not just take from reader.

"He looked like sin and the sermon that came after."

in awe. so so beautiful. both the damnation and salvation.

"He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease."

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

aakdhejdke remmick you are already ruining me !! the ease in his movement, the quiet strength, him saying that about being gentle im so okay.

"Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget."

the domesticity of it all. also ugh that line with the religious theme to describe how remmick looked. like he's something other trying to disguise himself as an angel but bits of his true nature still peeks out.

"His eyes stayed on your mouth."

...

"Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast."

knees weak at the visualisation of remmick leaning against the table so so close, focusing his eyes on reader's mouth despite movement from their hand with the fork. his eyes following reader eat. cant lie i'm a whore for Eye Contact.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

ROSIE DO YOU WANT ME DEAD ???? wkdhdkdk im soooo fine over thissss.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

...

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

thats hot. how remmick controlled himself, yet still has those desires after all those years. how he knows that reader wants it, wants him too.

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

reader and me twinning cos heck yeah i would listen to his instructions if it meant him keeping that Eye Contact.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

i cant. sorry yall i go batshit insane over the yearning, the unspoken and barely contained devotion, the want that extends past just sex.

"Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent."

i love how soft remmick's touches with reader are. his hand on reader's back, his hold around their wrist, sweeping his knuckles over their cheeks. rough n revenant is sooo. like a blood stained creature still practicing that devotion to their person/object of worship.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

put my phone down im. there's drugs in rosie's writing i can't explain it. ok but seriously the way you write these paragraphs with the most devastatingly beautiful imagery only to sweep the rug out from under my feet with these strong one liners. insane.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

the small declarations of intimacy are making me lose it in my room at 1am. save me.

"The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around."

rosie i wanna like. i wish i could commit cannibalism on your writing. this is so good i cant even. like remmick's the story that parents tell their children at night. those last 2 lines urghhHh.

im foaming at the mouth. how do i explain like this is better than the sex like AAAA. the yearning THE YEARNING. peeling back a veil, unwrapping something sacred like like like theyre at the alter getting married.

PLEASEEEE ROSIE my heart is weak !!! i am nawttt your strongest soldier. like it meant something like you meant something im. im on the floor. a prayer he answered with his mouth. pleasoelskeieirjfk

"He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision."

like reading scripture ohHHhhHh my dayssss.

SOMEBODY SEDATE MEEEEEE. the. the Eye Contact. remmick still excercising restraint in the heat of the moment. him demanding reader to not take their eyes off him so he can witness them come undone.

remmick making reader say it ohhh im so. help how am i gonna make it to the end rosie.

shaking the bars of my jail cell pulling at my hair he's so. he's SOOOOO. i could practically feeeel remmick crowding around and smiling against skin.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

well good for him for breathing because i on the other hand, stopped breathing.

omg its been like an hour since i started reading and rambling but i think i mentioned remmick thinking reader would dissappeared if he took his eyes of them :(. ohhh the intimacy of it all. forehead !! touch !!

"Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him."

again there's something about remmick knowing reader better than they know themselves. falling deeper into depravity but that's okay as long as reader falls with him.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

okay rosie just rip my heart out too while you're at it.

their bond is so intrinsically intertwined. reader is his punishment for all his sins up until that point in life, and his absolution for the remaining time he has.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded."

"You’re becomin’ mine."

gawdDDDD. i need this man.

"Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too."

he would walk through the flames of hell if it meant doing it with reader. would make reader stay by his side even it destroyed him

smut had me insane. kissing inside of wrist. "you feel like sin" "then sin with me". begging. sinful smile. worship. sacred. remakes. "say it". forehead touch.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

how does remmick go from being ooey gooey sweetness -> menace to society so quick.

tearing up crying throwing a fit. remmick still giving reader that choice to remain human, still letting reader choose even knowing it would break his very being when it would come the time for him to roam the earth alone again.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

what'd i jus say :"(

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

...

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

...

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

i'm so blown away i can't even begin to comprehend this gorgeous work of poetry that has me completely bewitched, body and soul. i think its taken me about a little over 2 hours to read and ramble. but wow. rosie i want you to know that i'm looking at showtimes of the sinners movie in theatres near my area as i'm writing this, all thanks to your alluring story. this was everything i craved and more. think it changed the wiring of my brain. soo sorry i got so carried away my rambles are probably gibberish haha, i'm quite certain that this is my longest fic ramble reblog too. thank you sooo so much rosie for writing this. truly a work of art. i'm sending you all the hugs and forehead kisses. thank you <3333.

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[jammatown919]

Chaos Counter 1

Welcome to my first weekly Chaos Counter, where I will be counting down the days to dates (both speculated and confirmed) relating to various Jurassic things, largely because I'm chewing drywall waiting for more Chaos Theory.

34 days (5 weeks) until Netflix Annecy on June 11-12. This is probably the absolute latest time that Chaos Theory season four will be officially announced. I was told that season two was announced at this event last year, but after some digging, we already had quite a bit for season two by June 7, which was a week before Annecy. So, there's definitely a solid chance of an announcement at some point before this, but we could also expect to see something at June 11's "Next on Netflix Animation" presentation, or June 12's discussion of their "full animation slate". Given the wording of "full animation slate", it seems like we have to hear something by June 12 at the very latest. It would also line up with Jurassic June hyping up all things Jurassic, but leave the next few weeks purely for Rebirth hype. I don't expect too much out of this, but at the very least confirmation from Netflix about season four (because while we know it's happening, it was an unofficial announcement from a Mattel employee), and hopefully some kind of release window or release date.

55 days (8 weeks) until Jurassic World: Rebirth releases in theaters on July 2. Those who are excited for the movie can enjoy, and those who just want more Chaos Theory can look forward to Jurassic's advertising space opening up once Rebirth has had its time in the spotlight.

77 days (11 weeks) until San Diego Comic Con begins on July 24. If there is a Chaos Theory panel, which there was last year, we could get a lot out of this. Last year, if I remember correctly, they screened two full episodes early. Depending on when season four releases, we could also see a trailer around this time, as a late August release is possible and trailers tend to drop a month before the season. It is also possible that we will get a release date around this time if we haven't already.

133 days (19.5 weeks) until September 18, which I think is a likely release date for season four. It's a Thursday this year, which is the most common day for seasons to drop, and the five-year anniversary of the first season of Camp Cretaceous. Purely speculation, of course, but this date feels extremely likely. However, based on previous patterns of release, late August is also a possibility, and so is roughly any time in September. I count down to this date specifically because it seems the most likely and because, as we get closer, we will get a more accurate date. Also, if I'm right about this date, we're already 20% of the way through the wait, which is neat.

I'll continue to update this counter weekly with new information. If anything particularly big happens (like an announcement) between posts, I'll update early.

(edited some of the weeks because apparently I can't count)

[wrongbodies]

Bodies Between Friends

Buying items off Wish or Temu is always a gamble. Buying a potion off a sketchy website? That is really risky. This is what ran through Brandon's mind when he met up with his two best friends that Friday night.

Brandon, a fairly average guy - dark brown hair, fair skin, and a slightly doughy body. He wasn't fat, just... not often seen at the gym. He was sitting in his friends dorm room, Robby.

Robby was grinning as he fiddled with a package. He was seated on his bed. Robby was skinny, almost emaciated looking, and extremely pale. His fiery red hair was cut short and neat. He was a pretty quintessential nerd, his tight graphic tees and collection of manga novels only cementing it. He did loathe his eyesight, which required glasses to correct.

Leaning against the wall by the door was our other friend, Jace. He was probably what we'd consider our "leader" due to his charismatic nature and good looks. He was a former hockey player, off the team only because of an injury that made him unable to keep up with the intensity of the sport. He still had longer hair, the way hockey boys kept it, typically. His eyes were a piercing blue, with a jawline other men would die for. He had no trouble with women, but he often seemed unable to commit.

"So, what did you have to show us, Robby?" Brandon asked, fidgeting with his phone.

"Only the most interesting thing we could ever do on a Friday night..." Robby said, continuing to open the small box. It was covered in tape and stickers denoting something fragile inside.

"This had better be worth it, I wanted to hit up the bar tonight. We can still go if you hurry." Jace groaned.

"Oh, don't you worry Jace. What we are about to do will transform this whole night. And we can still go to the bar. Let's just say it will be a very fresh perspective." Robby said, mysterious undertones not so subtly laced into his words.

"Ok then..." Jace rolled his eyes.

Finally, after ripping through the tape, cutting across with his room key, the box opened. Inside a satin sack was cradled in bubble wrap. Robby picked it up gingerly, his face flush with excitement. From within the sack, he produced a small bottle of dark liquid. It was stoppered with a cork, which made the whole thing appear very occult.

"Ok, I have some simple instructions for this to work. Can you bear with me? I promise this will be wild fun, and quite safe." Robby explained.

"Wait, is this some kind of drug? Is this ayahuasca or something?" Brandon asked.

"No, it's not drugs. It is a potion, though, if you can believe it. However, I want you to trust me." Robby continued.

Jace and Brandon exchanged a look. Robby could be a weirdo, a geek, and a bit lewd, but they would not expect him to hurt them or put them in harm's way.

"You know, this is weird, right? I am on board, but you being cagey is definitely weird." Jace said.

"I fully understand." Robby replied, uncorking the bottle. A scent emerged, like cinnamon and garlic twining around one another. "Ok, the instructions are simple: when you drink this, you need to think clearly in your mind a name. I am going to think of Jace. Jace, you think of Brandon. And Brandon, you think of me. Don't just think of the name, too. Imagine in your mind's eye their face, body, what they are like. Can you do that?"

"Uhhh I guess so?" Brandon confirmed. Jace nodded as well.

"Ok, it doesn't take much to do this. But let's drink all together at once." He poured a small drop into 3 shot glasses he had prepared. Earlier, Brandon had been looking forward to some pregaming based on the glasses, but it seems Robby wasn't pouring any liquor. Unless this potion was some very high proof something-or-other.

"Ok, remember the instructions. Cheers!" Robby said, as he handed out the glasses. Jace and Brandon exchanged on last look, and then followed suit with Robby. Tilting the glasses back, each of them closed their eyes as the liquid hit their tongues, a vile flavor reminiscent of radicchio and burnt coffee.

Despite the flavor, all 3 were able to maintain their focus. In Brandon's mind he saw the slight, petite body of Robby. His red hair that was neatly groomed, his green eyes behind the glasses. Admittedly, Brandon had always thought his friend was kinda cute. He knew Robby was straight, his collection of anime and general interests were very clearly about big breasted women.

Similarly, Robby was glowing inside as he imagined Jace's body. Strong, muscly, and eminently desirable. His hair when brushed back, eyes open like the sky, looking at a beautiful woman in his arms. He could imagine what that strength felt like.

Jace was in his reverie imagining Brandon's body. He wasn't attracted to him, he was firmly into woman. But he envied Brandon. Brandon could be so much more, with an unbroken body, that with time and effort could be molded into something not unlike his own body when in its prime. He didn't begrudge Brandon for it, he just wish he had that kind of potential again. A chance to revive his days on ice without the shooting pain in his knee from the injury and many surgeries.

It was all three of these young men were thinking deeply of their friend, that it happened. Each of them felt a weightlessness, a sensation that might happen when one left Earth's gravitational pull. But, strangely, their bodies felt rooted to the ground. It was like one half of them remained firmly where it was, and another part was drifting up and away. And then... they felt themselves landing, settling back into their body. Sensation of being fully connected returned, from toes to heads, they were reunited with flesh.

But when they opened their eyes, the flesh they had settled in turned out to be someone else's. Brandon found himself staring out from the bed, where he was seated. He could see Jace where he was standing before, looking down at his hands, before they moved to touch his chest and belly. Similarly, Brandon's own body, an impossible sight, was suddenly standing up from the chair and looking around bewildered.

"What the fuck?" Brandon's body yelped. "Wait, what the actual fuck is going on?!"

"Calm down, calm down!" Jace's body commanded. He put his hands on the shoulders of Brandon's body. "I know this is wild, and disorienting. But what just happened is we switched bodies! All three of us."

Brandon realized that this was true. He was peering at the scene from behind glasses, which he did not wear or need in his own body. And looking down at his torso and legs, he was much smaller, and clothed in a graphic tee and loose sweatpants that were most definitely not the clothes he donned this morning.

"So... I'm in Robby's body." Brandon said, a little shellshocked.

"And I'm Jace..." Jace said, from Brandon's body.

"Yep! I'm Robby in here!" Robby said exuberantly. He patted his body as he continued to feel quite excited about his situation.

"Robby, this is absolutely insane. You could have warned us this is what was going to happen. I don't know if I like this." Brandon said, doubt snaking into his language.

"Ok, I admit it was a bit on the sus side for me to leave out what was going to happen. But I genuinely thought it would be an exciting experiment! Besides, do NOT worry. If we all drink the potion again, we can switch back." Robby soothed. "We could even switch with others! There is no limit, except for the quantity of the potion."

"Well... if that is the case, I do feel a bit better." Jace said. "I have to admit, this is kinda wacky in the right way."

"You are actually on board with this?" Brandon asked.

"Why not? We can still go out, have a good Friday night. Do everything we would normally do. Just... with different faces. I'm actually looking forward to see if I could pull a girl in this body." Jace explained.

"That is kinda weird... but I can understand what you are saying." Brandon replied. He was a little turned on being in Robby's body. It felt strangely like a vacation. He was staying at an airbnb, except it was a body and not some random house.

"I am so glad you guys are on board for this!" Robby exclaimed. "And I was thinking the same thing, Jace. We can go out tonight, secretly swapped. We can talk with our other friends, pick up girls, see what happens. It's kind of kinky, isn't it?"

"Ok, I knew you were into Hentai and shit, but you are doing a bit much!" Brandon laughed. "But fuck, I'm down for it."

"Me too!" Jace pumped. "Let's see if I can get my friend a lay, while I AM that friend. That's so trippy."

"Wait-" Brandon spoke up. "I should say something first, because I think it would only be fair."

"What's up dude?" Jace asked. Robby looked on with some concern.

"Just... being in Robby's body, I should admit that I am into - um, well guys?" Brandon explained, not sounding very certain.

"Oh man, that's no problem to me." Jace said immediately.

"Uhh... so you might try and get with a guy in my body?" Robby asked, looking a little dubious.

"Only if you are okay with that." Brandon confirmed.

"I don't know-" Robby started.

"Wait, you can't be serious Robby. You hijacked us both for a body swap roulette. I am down for fun, but I have a suspicion you chose my body for a reason. Let's not impose restrictions because you swapped a gay guy - I say that with love, Brandon. " Jace argued.

Jace's body shifted with Robby in control. His face was red. "Ok, that is actually fair. I admit I did set it up so I could be Jace specifically. But I want everyone to have fun... so I guess if some guy wants to mess around with my twig body, Brandon can give it a go."

"Thanks man, there's no guarantee I get any action tonight anyways." Brandon said. "But... I need to do something about this outfit. I want to change into something better for the bar, no offense. And you two should prepare as well. I want to have a fucking good time tonight."

"Hell yeah!" Jace cheered. He checked out his new body and clothes. "Yeah, let me go freshen up. Robby, come with me and I'll help you pick some clothes. Can't have you walking around in my body looking schlubby."

The three friends beamed. This was going to be a wild night, for sure.

(I am planning on returning to this for a part 2, and maybe more.)

[burinazar]

yeah my take on this was always 'Waz's sense he should prioritize immune health was due to having some vague nondescript feeling that this would be important in the future/that him in particular staying healthy would be important to others' as well as 'indication the character will eat, like, anything, if he thinks it's conducive to survival'

one thing i hadn't really seriously considered upon initial viewing and analysis at first was if in fact this *worked* and was the reason we never see Waz get sick, because it just seemed too farfetched and whacky that there was in fact a way around the inescapable parasitism dilemma in the form of 'just eat cockroaches for twenty years or so first', even if the mockwater itself is a bug like life form it just seemed unlikely. but i've come around to also being open to the idea maybe it did in fact work somewhat.

Not me realizing months (months!) after watching Made in Abyss that Wazukyan eating bugs and rats in episode 1 were Easter eggs, …Chekhov loading his damn gun, ….Foreshadowing with a big F slapped on it

[pastafossa]

"Sharing is Caring" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, 🔥)

Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 4 (Matt very much did not like this only being a drabble so now it's 5600 words, fuck me), I chose to combine the kink and fluff prompts (69 and 'Are you blushing?'). You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 5.6k, Matt fought me and won

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: smutty smut smut, 69 position so oral for both plus face riding, overstimulation, lil bit of prostate stim, multiple orgasms, panty tearing, matt is a MENACE

LOOK AT THIS SMUG MOTHERFUCKER, I HAD A NEAT AND ORDERLY TIMELINE AND A DRABBLE OUTLINE, INSTEAD HE THREW THAT OUT THE WINDOW AND HE HAS FILLED THIS FIC WITH SIN, THE AUDACITY, WHAT TIME IS IT, MATT THIS IS YOUR FAULT

Matt was a giving lover. That much you knew. 

No round of sex with Matt ended without at least one orgasm for you, and often more if he had his way, which he often did, the audacity of that man. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend hours with his head buried between your thighs, skilled tongue lapping hungrily at your sex in a way that made you see stars, and had also led to you tearing a hole in the sheets on more than one occasion. He’d bent you over every last surface in the apartment, and some of the surfaces outside it too. Somehow he always managed to sink himself so deeply inside you that you’d have sworn you felt him in your throat, and that feeling was always followed by him fucking into you with a practiced athleticism that never failed to leave you a melted, howling mess. 

In other words, if sex with you was an artform, your climax was the masterpiece Matt lovingly devoted himself to creating. You’d never been with someone who took such joy in giving you pleasure. But sometimes he was… too giving.

Like now, when what you wanted was to get that thick cock of his into your mouth. 

“Oh, but sweetheart, I’m so hungry,” he purred, a warm, distracting light in his eyes. He was all heat and hungry fire where he stood in the bedroom doorway, a slow, lazy lick of his lips that admittedly had your cunt clenching around nothing. That look meant he had no intention of letting you out of bed for at least the next three hours. The growing outline of his hardening cock against his slacks only confirmed your suspicion as his voice dropped into something low and tempting. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day. It’s the only reason I got through work. Let me get my mouth on you, just for a little while. I’ll make it good for you, you know I will. Don’t you want that?”

It was a good offer. A very good offer, and one he was more than capable of fulfilling. You both knew it. But damn it, you also knew what you wanted. 

“No,” you said stubbornly, crossing your arms. “I don’t want that.” “Lie,” he murmured. His head cocked, his sightless gaze dropping to your chest, and then lower until they landed somewhere around your hips. His lips slowly curled up into a smirk. “Mm, big lie.” “...Alright, so maybe I always want that,” you admitted reluctantly, biting your lip as you stared down at the outline of your prize, heavy and thick even through the cloth. It was enough to make your mouth water. “But right now I want to suck you off more.” 

And god, did you ever. It was rare for him to let you go down on him, but those memories had become regulars in your fantasies. There was just something about his soft moans and hitched whines when you took him in your mouth, the way he threw his head back and his mouth hung slack, his spine arching when you let the tip of your tongue gently brush that spot below the head of his cock until he fucking begged for you to swallow him down. And if you kept going after he’d already come, kept sucking at his softening cock and pressed your knuckle just right behind his balls, drove his trembling, writhing body carefully into overstimulation, you could even drag something like a second orgasm out of him in short succession. He’d been a melted, purring, barely coherent puddle for a good hour when you'd last managed it and you had every intention of seeing if you couldn’t do it again. 

His brows shot up, as if he were genuinely surprised at just how truthful you’d been, or maybe surprised at just aroused the thought of your mouth on him made you. But those same brows quickly furrowed in open confusion. “You…” His head shifted back and forth, checking again that you were telling the truth. “You want that? Over me going down on you?” “Why is it so hard to believe I want you like you want me?” You snorted, wandering over to him until you could lean in and kiss him playfully. He still seemed puzzled, but he made a little huff of amusement when you did it again, dragging your nails down the front of his shirt. His chest rumbled beneath your touch, a quiet groan of pleasure. “Come on. Share, Matt. Let me have a taste this time.” 

He tipped his head down slowly towards you, clearly tempted. You leaned into him, another rumble leaving him when your lips brushed tantalizingly against the corner of his mouth. You almost had him. The blatant note of your arousal in the air would only help your case now that you were up close. There was a growing flush on his cheeks, and his nostrils flared, taking your scent in when you not-so-subtly rubbed your thighs together. You slowly hooked one finger in his belt, giving it a tug. “Please?” Your desire left you almost breathless, the word hushed and pleading. You weren’t above begging if you needed to. “I need you in my mouth, Matt. You can have me after, can’t you?” “Or…” He drew his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, sucking lightly before letting it go,  his mouth parted and wet. “Or we can both get what we want, with a few adjustments.” Oh. 

Your breath caught, and you went still, something thick and rich as molten honey rolling through your veins. “Why, sweetheart,” he murmured, dipping his head until he could feather his lips over your ear. One of his fingers brushed over your sternum, so light you almost didn’t feel it, before it traced its way gradually up your throat to your cheek, stirring all the tiny hairs in its wake. “Are you blushing?” “No,” you whispered, caught up in visions of what that might look like, feel like, to have his tongue licking its way hungrily into your cunt, all while you took his cock in your mouth and tried your best to make him lose his mind. Would he grow sloppy then, clumsy when you toyed with the head of him? Or would he tap into that focus of his, the two of you in a blatant competition to see who broke first? You wouldn’t deny just how wet the idea made you, but that would also be a lot of sensation for him, especially when you both knew he could come from the taste of your cunt alone. “Or… yes, I… Would that be… too much? Your senses—”

“I’ll be fine. I may have…” He let out a low chuckle, his own cheeks now the lightest bit pink as he cleared his throat. “I may have gone into the office bathroom before I left work, and… taken care of myself. I’d been thinking about my head between your thighs all day. I had to make sure I could get home.”

The visual slammed into you with the force of a truck: Matt with one scarred hand pressed tight over his mouth to stifle his moans while he frantically stroked at his cock. And it was all because he’d spent hours thinking about how he was going to go home, throw you into bed, and find his way right down to your cunt. Your low moan was quickly swallowed up as he caught your chin and tipped your head up so his lips could find yours. The kiss was all teeth and burning heat, fire and fierce need, his stubble rasping against your skin until you felt like you were on fire. One of his hands swept down and behind you, fingers spread wide as he groped roughly, greedily against your ass. He used that same grip to haul you forward into him, making you whine when his hips ground into yours, letting you feel exactly what you’d done to him. “Fuck,” he breathed. “I can smell you, how wet you are. Tell me you want that, sweetheart. Tell me—” “God yes, please, please, Matt.”

You didn’t bother to keep track of where your clothes fell as you both stumbled your way into the bedroom, neither of you willing to pull your hands and mouths off each other long enough to figure that out. You managed to get everything off but your panties by the time you neared the bed, and you fully intended to slide those off, too, but you were distracted by the pleasure of Matt’s mouth as he determinedly nipped and licked at the skin of your throat, blatantly drinking the pheromones from your skin. Fortunately, Matt was a bit less distracted.

The tearing of fabric rang out, and then Matt’s fingers slipped between your soaked folds, stroking three fingers eagerly along your slit until you gasped out his name. 

“Oops,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re paying for those,” you grumbled. “Happily.” He side stepped around you, and by the time you’d turned he was already on the bed,  rolling onto his back and tipping his head back in clear expectation. Then he brought his wet, gleaming fingers up to his mouth, inhaling intently as he rubbed his fingers together. The reaction was immediate: a fierce groan, his other hand shooting down to wrap tightly around his cock as his hips bucked. 

“Shit,” you whispered, absolutely mesmerized as he took another greedy breath, a creeping flush spreading across his pale skin. He may have come an hour or so ago, but his cock already looked achingly hard, the whole of it flushed dark and red, a decadent droplet of precum beading at the tip. He was an absolute vision, all of that strength and power, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen laid out like a meal for you, this affected just by the thought, the scent of your arousal. It lit a fire in you, and Matt must have sensed it, because he let out a growl before giving in and shoving his fingers into his mouth. His eyes snapped shut, a loud moan tearing through him. His other hand started to stroke quickly at his cock, firm drives up with a smooth sweep of his palm over the head before sliding back down, all as he sucked the taste of you eagerly from his fingers, unwilling to lose even a single drop. It was one of the hottest things you’d ever seen. “Holy shit, you’re trying to kill me.” “Get up here and ride my face, sweetheart,” he grit out, shifting to let his thumb rub against the wet head of his cock. A delicious shiver ran through him, and he rolled his head on the pillow to face you. There was something far darker in his eyes, then, whispers of the Devil, of merciless rain on hard city streets. “Do it before I drag you up here myself, because I’m not going to fucking care if you can reach my cock when I do.”

It was the only invitation you needed, and you scrambled up onto the bed before he could change his mind. You had no intention of missing the opportunity he’d given you. 

You hit another brief snag, however, once you’d crawled over to him. You’d ridden his face before, but that had always been with you facing the headboard or the arm of the couch. This required the opposite angle. After a moment’s consideration, one that ended quickly when Matt growled a warning, you muttered a quiet, “fuck it,” and did a half turn, throwing your leg quickly over him so you had a knee on either side of his shoulders. Then you walked back a step or two on your knees, Matt’s free hand taking the meat of your thigh in his grip. It was difficult to figure out just where you needed to be to get the angle right. All you could see from this angle was his body stretched out like a long, open road before you, his other hand still stroking roughly at his cock, his knees bent, feet braced so he could rut lazily up into his grip. You didn’t really know where to put your hands, so you settled for placing them against the broad line of his chest, using them to brace yourself as you tentatively adjusted.

Matt, however, had lost his patience. 

With a snarl, he let go of his cock. Both his hands caught your hips, and with one hard yank he wrenched you down, burying his mouth against your pussy as if he hadn’t eaten in days. 

You both let out a sharp moan, Matt’s far more muffled than yours. There was no gentleness now, no parting you with his fingers to tease you with the tip of his tongue before settling in. Instead, it was something ravenous and filthy, animalistic, Matt’s mouth open wide as he licked and sucked at your folds and slit, greedily drinking up every last drop of your arousal he could find. For a moment you forgot what your plan had been. Your head fell to rest against his abdomen, your lips parted on a whine as Matt devoured your slick with heavy grunts and rumbles of approval, your hips starting to rock against his mouth. He was eating at you with everything in him, no thought given to things like air, based on his hitched breathing and muffled groans. He’d told you once, lips curled into a smirk, his chin still wet with your arousal, that if he died between your thighs, well, he’d consider that death a victorious one. 

“Mm—Matt, oh god, please,” you whimpered, your fingers curling against his skin, red lines left in your wake.

 Apparently satisfied that he’d taken in everything he could get, Matt tipped his head down just a hair, using his grip on your hips to adjust you until his tongue found your clit. With a purr, he began to lap warmly, steadily at it, over and over and over again, every now and then pursing his lips to kiss at it with a fond affection that was almost tender. The attention to your clit made your eyes flutter shut, quiet whimpers escaping you with each pass of his tongue, your body clenching in want. At the fresh trickle of wetness, Matt groaned in delight. “Taste so good, sweetheart, all mine,” he slurred warmly, syllables thick and sounding almost drugged, before his tongue found you again, falling right back into his aphrodisiac of choice. As he did, his body began to shift beneath you, before settling into a steady rocking. Startled, your eyes fluttered open, and you glanced down his body. What you saw made your mouth fall slack.

Matt had begun to roll his hips, rutting up in lazy waves. At first you thought it might be an invitation, a reminder, but as you watched you quickly realized what he was doing. With every flex and buck of his hips, he managed to rub his cock against his abdomen, just a little. You could already see the smears of precum pooling in the lines and grooves of flexing muscle, and that only made each successful contact smoother, Matt’s moans against your cunt growing stuttered and hoarse. It likely wouldn’t have been enough sensation for anyone else, but for Matt and his senses, it was just enough to drive him further upwards, his thick thighs starting to tremble. Hell, he was probably enjoying it, considering how he liked to tease himself. 

Fortunately, it was also a reminder of what you’d wanted to do. 

You quickly stretched out above him, headed for your goal. Your hips shifted just a little as you did, and Matt let out a low, possessive growl, his hands tightening on your hips in a warning. He didn’t like the idea that you might pull away before he was done, you had a feeling.

“Relax.” You choked out a shaky laugh, lowering your head to kiss fondly at the crest of his hip. Your affection softened his growl to a gentler, contented groan. “Just-just trying to get to you.” He seemed soothed by that, at least. Then again, maybe he just wasn’t listening, far too focused on your cunt to really hear you. Either way it didn’t matter, because you’d finally maneuvered yourself to where you’d wanted to be. You braced one hand shakily on his thigh, some of your weight settling down on top of him. His chest rose and fell on a happy sigh beneath you, more than happy to have you sprawled out over him. It also meant his cock was now in range of your mouth. 

It was even more tantalizing up close, flushed, wet, and practically begging for your attention even if Matt’s mouth was otherwise occupied. You eagerly caught the base of it, wrapping your fingers tight around it. Beneath you he let out a grunt, his tongue faltering against your clit. You had no interest in waiting any longer, so without a second’s hesitation you dipped your head and stuck out your tongue, catching one of the drops of precum rolling down the shaft. From there you rose with one long drag along his length, following that damp trail back up to his tip like you might a melting drop of ice cream. The moment your tongue swept over the head of Matt’s cock, he let out a startled moan, one that morphed into a hoarse cry when you lapped warmly at his slit, chasing the taste of him, taking in every fresh drop that welled up beneath your attention. It had been far too long since you’d gotten to taste him like this, bitter and salty in equal measure, the scent of musk and sex so much stronger here.

“God,” he choked out, squirming beneath you, his hands practically clawing at your hips. His head dropped back and away from your cunt as he gasped up to the ceiling, breath hitching on a high moan as the strokes of your tongue grew more firm. “Ah-ah! Your mouth, sweetheart, I need it, just—”

Time to see if you could break him before he broke you.

You dropped your mouth open wide before starting to slide him into your mouth, using your hand at his base to angle him and make it a little easier. But easier was… relative. 

Shit, you thought with a low moan, one that had Matt crying out behind you. He was so fucking thick, broad enough that you felt a faint ache in your jaw, saliva already leaking out past the corners of your mouth to drip down his length. There was no graceful way to swallow him down, but the sensation of your saliva rolling down his shaft, your stifled huffs through your nose as you slowly worked your way down his cock had him absolutely wrecked. His body trembled beneath you, his hips jerking in an only barely aborted attempt to thrust up into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. He actually whined when you gave him your first little suck, and those whines only grew in number as you did it again, his panting music to your ears, so wet you were practically dripping down onto him. And maybe you really had, because before you could blink, he’d yanked your hips back down. This time, however, he brought his hands around so he could use his thumbs to part your body for him. With a wild moan, he’d buried his mouth against your slit, licking hotly at your opening over and over until he’d managed to worm his tongue inside you.

Your eyes rolled back at the feel of his tongue lapping eagerly at your inner walls, his chin grinding roughly against your clit. He’d burrowed in so hard against you it was if were intent on drowning, on latching onto you and never letting go. The angle was perfect, and you found yourself grinding down instinctively against his face, riding his tongue inside you and the stubbled texture of his chin, chasing your pleasure just as you were seeking his. His delighted moan as you started to use him the way he wanted was so muffled you swore he shouldn’t have been able to breathe, but still you couldn’t bring yourself to stop, whining around the length of him in your mouth as he slurped deeper, your thighs locking up around his head, his skin slick with you. He was dangerously close to coming based on the way his cock had started to throb against your tongue, and you weren’t much further behind, but he was clearly aiming to get you there first.

No.

No, you wanted to ruin him too.  Focus, just a little more. You clumsily lifted your head halfway up before skating back down to meet your hand around his base. Neither of you were coordinated enough to make this last much longer, too distracted by the rising waves of pleasure, but that didn’t matter. You knew his body. You could outlast him, by a few seconds at least. But to do that, you’d need one more thing. So, determined to win, you quickly worked your free hand down past his cock, pausing to knead briefly at his sac just for the way it made him moan roughly against your cunt before you drifted past it. You didn’t slide your fingers inside him—something you both hadn’t tried quite yet—but you did curl one finger and press your knuckle up gently just behind his balls, indirect pressure against that spot deep inside him. 

His back arched so sharply and suddenly beneath you he almost managed to throw you off, and his choked gasp hit air as he threw his head back. With a shaky whine, he ground down desperately against your finger before snapping his hips up, clearly torn between the wet suction of your mouth around his cock and the firm pressure against his prostate. But unlike last time he’d thrown his head back, this time you followed his mouth with your hips. You were too close to that edge now to go without it, especially not with the noises he was making—whimpers and broken moans, slurred pleas—so you tried desperately to find his lips again, grinding down against his face. And though you were reluctant to let him go, you still managed to tear your mouth off his cock just long enough to gasp out, “Fuck, Matt, please!” 

Your begging dragged him up out of his haze, and he hunted for your clit with his lips and tongue, licking at your cunt until he finally found it. He closed his lips around it just as you did the same to the head of his cock. Two warm pulls of your mouth to match his, and with one more shove of your finger against that spot inside him, he cried out and came hard into your mouth in salty, bitter waves that tasted like fucking satisfaction. His hoarse moans, desperate and so very needy wound up pushing you the rest of the way. Matt’s tongue lapped sloppily against your clit, and with a moan that matched his, you joined him in falling over the edge, your body tightening and releasing in a rolling tide of pleasure that left you floating, whimpering his name around his cock. He quickly shoved his mouth against your slit, grunting as he greedily drank down everything your body gave him. 

You thought you were done, then, your chest heaving, your thighs shaking as the waves began to ease into aftershocks. Matt nuzzled roughly at your clit, his tongue brushing over it almost curiously. Abruptly he moaned, dragging your hips back down. “Don’t stop,” he rasped hoarsely, yanking your hips back down. Just like that, his mouth was on your clit again, which was great except that you still hadn’t quite finished the last orgasm. The sudden rush of overstimulation before you could fully come down left you shaking, clawing wildly at his thighs, but your squirming got you nowhere, your hips firmly held in an iron grip.

Don’t stop. 

There wasn’t much you could do but follow the instruction. 

You moaned and began to suck clumsily at him, the velvet softness of his cock cradled gently on your tongue. The noise he let out was strangled and hoarse, almost pained, because this had to be too much for him, it had to be, and yet… he couldn’t resist starting to rock up instinctively against your mouth, a broken whimper breathed against your cunt when you managed to probe your tongue against the tip of him. You knew, distantly, remembered that you’d had this plan: if you did this fast enough, did this just right, using his senses to your benefit, you could make him come again. And, well, it had helped before, so you slipped on hand down between his legs again, grinding your finger hard against that spot inside him in steady waves, sucking harder at his cock just for the way it made him writhe. His head snapped back against the pillows, his hands dropping away from you to fist in the sheets. He brokenly cried out your name, his thighs trembling, but you didn’t care, your goal in sight. One of these days you were going to get your fingers inside him to see what noises he made then, and just to taunt him, you hooked and curled your fingers against his soft skin, your message clear. 

You weren’t sure who was more startled when he came—you, or him—but  either way, he did, his cock only half-hard at best as he snapped his hips up, his body locking up as he spilled into your mouth. He made a sound you’d never heard from him before, one part shout and one part high, hitching moan, the sounds rising falling with each jagged wave of pleasure you dragged him through, almost enough to hide the sound of tearing fabric. There wasn’t much left for his body to give, granted, but you still accepted those few drops anyway, swallowing them down with a satisfied moan as you milked him dry, massaging your fingers against his cock and that spot inside him to drag it out. You didn’t stop until his sounds grew pained, and even then it was a struggle. You had to force yourself to lift your head, sitting back against his chest. The sudden return of pressure against your clit made you whimper, your body shaking, because despite the overstimulation, as predicted he’d managed to shove you up far enough again that you were hanging right on the edge again, orgasm just a breath away.

“Matt,” you choked out, not even sure what it was you needed—his hand maybe, or even just for him to hold still so you could ride some part of him, be it his chest or his abdomen. One glance over your shoulder, however, let you unsure of what he might be able to give. 

Matt’s head was still thrown back on the pillow, his wet mouth hanging open as he panted, hair damp and sticking up in every direction. His eyes were glazed over and dark, absent any real awareness or thought. You knew that look. It was one you usually only saw when you’d really managed to fuck him senseless or leave him wrecked. He was out of it, his senses momentarily overloaded, out of order, come back later. You quickly pulled yourself off of him, just in case your weight over him had been unpleasant. He’d need some time to come back to himself, but fortunately, sitting here and staring at what you’d done—Matt Murdock, fucked out and drunk off your body—would be just the sort of visual you needed as you took care of yourself. You dropped one hand, sliding it between your legs until you could circle your clit with your fingertips, your lips parting on a satisfied moan. It wasn’t as good as Matt, but it was good enough.

Or… that’s what you thought you’d do, until Matt’s head snapped in your direction. His hand darted up, grabbing for you.

Except that he missed, his hand snatching at the empty air about two inches to your left.

“Matt,” you huffed shakily, using your other hand to take his. He probably just wanted to stay close, he usually did when you got him like this. “I’m-I’m fine, just, unh, gonna fini—Matt!” 

Your hand brushing against his had apparently been the compass he needed. You abruptly found yourself shoved back onto the bed with a grunt. He was on his hands and knees before you could blink, scrambling and groping around the bed to feel out how you’d fallen, his eyes burning and wild. The moment he made contact with you again, he shoved his head forward with a growl, mouthing at you, licking, biting at whatever skin he could find, which happened to be your ribs, the nip of his teeth sharp enough to make you cry out. You knew that you knew you’d have a mark there tomorrow, one to join the bruises on your hip. But it clearly wasn’t the part of you he’d been aiming for, and he snarled in clear frustration, swinging his head back and forth in a failed attempt to orient before he managed to find your hips with his hands. Your own hands wound up tangled in his hair as he dragged himself roughly over your legs, and fuck, if he was offering, you were happy to take it. You canted your hips, tugging at his hair to direct him. “Here!” you gasped, pushing his head down between your thighs. “Here, Matt, right—”

He buried his face sloppily against your cunt again, not a hint of shame or hesitation in him. His furious, messy lapping at your clit was exactly what you needed. The sound you made was raw and torn, almost a shriek as you suddenly got the stimulation you’d been looking for, your body tightening in rapid waves beneath his mouth. He caught your clit between his lips, growled, and sucked hard enough to have you seeing stars. That was it for you, your back arching as you fisted your hands tightly in his hair and came across his tongue, a flood of wetness drenching his face. With every pulsing wave of pleasure, he let out a satisfied little rumble, sucking in time with the rhythm of your body, dragging your orgasm out until the world burned white. The moment those waves began to ebb, he switched to broad flat licks along the entire length of your cunt, moaning and mindlessly drinking up every last drop, his eyes falling half closed in apparent bliss. 

Which was nice. Until your body started to request a break. 

“Matt,” you choked out, trying to shift away. He instinctively followed, blearily keeping his mouth latched onto your cunt, the pressure on your clit almost painful now. “Matt, that’s—fuck—I need a break, sweetheart, please! Matt!”

The sharp call of his name seemed to snap him out of it, and he finally let you go with a groan. He didn’t get very far, though. All he did was tip his head sideways until it landed on your thigh with a soft thump.  

You let yourself breathe for a minute, twitching now and then when an aftershock rolled through you. When you were feeling a little more able to focus, you finally lifted your head to glance at him. “That,” you wheezed, still panting, “was… we need to do that again. But in… in a while.”

He blinked slowly at you, blissed out and lazy as a lion who’d just had a meal. He hadn’t moved from your thigh, his face still shining and absolutely drenched. Then he grinned. The expression was so absolutely, drunkenly smug that you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “I take it you’re ok, then?” You snorted, reaching down to stroke your fingers down his wet cheek. 

He blinked at you again, and there was a brief delay before his head turned and he nudged affectionately at your hand. Sometimes when his senses got too overloaded after sex, he needed a few minutes without touch to come down. This time, however, it seemed like touch was what he wanted. 

“You wanna come up here and listen to my heartbeat until your senses are all back online?”

He seemed to think that over for a minute before he slowly started to drag himself up your body. He didn’t even bother to lift his head from you, simply dragging it along your skin as if he were loathe to lose the sensation of you against him. He only ran into a slight hiccup when he bumped into your breasts. He nosed around for a second, huffing briefly, before he found the space between them and continued on. “You’re drunk as hell,” you choked out a laugh, as he rubbed his ear fondly back and forth over your sternum, hunting for whatever spot sounded best. “You’re legitimately pussy drunk. God, I love you.” He finally selected his spot on your chest, his head dropping down to lay against it. The rest of him followed shortly thereafter as he settled down on top of you with a long groan of satisfaction. He rumbled out a contented sigh as you got your fingers in his hair, stroking through the sweat-soaked strands. One of his hands fumbled its way down to your hip. He kneaded clumsily at it, your affections very much returned. “Mhm. Love you, too.” 

“Little more coherent?” “Mm. You taste good.” “So do you. Don’t make me wait so long to get my mouth on you again.”

“Mhm,” he sighed. He absently licked his lips, before purring quietly, his eyes falling shut. “I promise. We’ll share.”

[raekensluver]

rekindled bonds (introduction)

INTRODUCTION, PART ONE, PART TWO,

description: reuniting with your old childhood best friend, spencer reid, in the most unlikely of places, the fbi's behavioral analysis unit.

pairing: spencer reid x bau agent!fem!reader

contains: fluff!!, spencer and r reuniting after a decade, childhood best friends to lovers trope.

song rec: pretty boy by the nbhd- "pretty boy, you did this with me, boy."

w.c: 870+

an: if you want to be added to the taglist for this series lmk! i'm planning for this to have at least three parts !!! also i haven't watched criminal minds in forever so, i definitely think i messed up on what agents are on the team in this era....(my bau team is prentiss, morgan, rossi, jj, reid and garcia)

"you know, i never expected to end up here," you murmured to yourself, glancing around the bustling office space filled with a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces. the hum of conversation and the tap of keyboards created a comforting rhythm that was almost soothing. the walls, lined with case files and maps, whispered tales of a world you had only ever read about.

"you'll fit in just fine," a voice said from behind you, and you turned to find who you suspected was your new boss, her eyes gleaming with a knowing smile. "this place has a way of growing on you." she began to lead you through the maze of desks, each one a miniature universe of clutter and chaos, until you reached one that was shockingly neat. "this is where you'll be working."

as you took in the organized space, she continued, "i'm emily prentiss, unit chief. i've heard a lot about you." her hand extended in a firm, confident gesture confirming your suspicions, "it's an honor to finally meet you."

you took her hand with a warm smile, feeling a sudden rush of excitement. "likewise," you said, your voice steady despite the racing thoughts in your head. "i've followed your work closely. i'm thrilled to be joining the team."

emily's smile grew as she gave a nod of approval. "i have no doubt you'll be an excellent addition to the team." she turned and began to lead you through the office, her heels clicking against the tiles with a confidence that seemed to resonate through the room. as you walked, you couldn't help but feel like you were stepping into a dream - a world of law enforcement and psychological profiling that you had only ever watched unfold on television screens.

each desk you passed had its own story to tell, with case files piled high and personal mementos scattered among the paperwork. "this is where the magic happens," emily said, her voice carrying a hint of pride. "every member of our team brings something unique to the table, and together, we solve the unsolvable."

as you followed her, you noticed a man in the corner, his eyes glued to a computer screen, his fingers flying over the keyboard. something about him was eerily familiar, but you couldn't quite place it. his hair was shaggier than you remembered, and he'd filled out a bit, but the intense focus was unmistakable.

"reid," emily called out, and the man's head snapped up, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. "i want you to meet our newest member."

you felt your heart skip a beat as the realization dawned on you. it was him - the boy from your past, now a man with a sharp intellect and a reputation that preceded him. "spencer" you murmured, a mix of disbelief and excitement coloring your voice.

spencer looked up from his computer, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion before recognition lit up his eyes. "you," he said, his voice a perfect blend of surprise and delight. he pushed back his chair and stood, a warm smile spreading across his face. "i can't believe it'."

you couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. "small world, huh?" you stepped closer, feeling a mix of nostalgia and nerves as he closed the distance between you.

"indeed," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "i never thought i'd see you again, especially not here."

you chuckled, feeling the weight of the years that had passed between you. "life has a funny way of working out, doesn't it?"

spencer nodded, his smile never wavering. "it certainly does. how have you been?"

you felt a flush rise to your cheeks, not quite knowing where to begin. "i've been… good," you managed, trying to keep your cool. "i studied psychology in college, like i always talked about. it's what brought me here."

his eyes searched yours, and you could see the curiosity in them. "i've missed you," he said, his voice sincere. "you were always the one who could keep up with me."

you blinked, surprised by his candidness. "you too," you admitted. "i always wondered what happened to the kid who read encyclopedias for fun."

just as the conversation was starting to flow, emily cleared her throat, her eyebrows arched in curiosity. "you two know each other?" she asked, looking back and forth between you.

you nodded, unable to wipe the smile from your face. "we're old friends," you said, still slightly in shock. "we grew up together."

emily's eyes widened. "really?" she looked intrigued. "i had no idea."

"yes," spencer said, his smile growing wider. "we were practically inseparable until i left for college. she was the one who could actually understand what i was talking about when i went on one of my…rambles."

emily chuckled. "well, that's a rare skill around here. we could all use a little more of that." she turned to you. "i'd love to hear more about your history with reid, but we're on a tight schedule. we have a case briefing in ten minutes."

you nodded, feeling the excitement of the moment give way to the reality of your new job. "of course," you said, trying to compose yourself. "i'm ready."

edited 8.20.24

[luvvyouforever]

my girlfriend (wife) is a witch - sdv harvey x reader

-> in which our beloved small town doctor falls in love with the new resident who just so happens to own a black cat, offer tarot readings in her farmhouse, and loves nothing more than a full moon.

-> not an accurate depiction of witches, just something fun, short, and sweet, harvey's a cutie patootie!

"so, this card seems to be say that your business is gonna take off, which is strange considering your only available pool of patients is about thirty people who all already have yearly appointments booked."

harvey let out a deep chuckle, one that came from the pit of his stomach and traveled up through his chest. to the left of him was a stack of tarot card decks, with crystals stacked on top of those. to his right was an steadily flowing stick of incense that surrounded the backyard patio in a soft haze of lavender.

"maybe the citizens of zuzu will start making their way out here just to see lil' ole me," he said. his fingers toyed with the edge of one of the cards displayed on the table.

you shrugged your shoulders and began to shuffle your deck again, searching for another card. "you never know! the cards once said that lewis and marnie were secretly together and look what happened there! you can't doubt 'em."

harvey chuckled again then, remembering the moment you had bursted into the farmhouse, screaming about finding lewis's purple shorts in marnie's bedroom, all but confirming your suspicions that had been growing for seasons.

he was never much of a believer in anything but the real, practical world. as a doctor, he never allowed himself to indulge in the supernatural or superstitious. going under a ladder is bad luck? not for dr. harvey. however, the moment he fell in love with you, he let himself get absorbed into the world of daily tarot pulls, of drying flowers, of black cats, of full moons, of everything you loved.

snap! snap! "hellooo, earth to harv, please!" your voice snapped him out of his reverie and he noticed two new cards on the table.

"what do those say, dear?" he asked sweetly.

"well, this one says you should give in to spontaneity sometime today and this one is telling me that we should consider forgiving someone's faults," you said, admiring the foil art of the card.

"hmm...maybe i can spontaneously forgive george for verbally accosting me when i recommended that he lower his sodium intake," harvey suggested with a fake thoughtful fist on his chin.

"i think he'd be more open to drinking the elixirs and syrups i make in the basement before eating a salad, hon," you said with a laugh.

after the last pull, you slowly collected every card into a neat pile and tucked them back into their original packaging. harvey admired your handiwork as you placed your crystals back into a wooden box gifted to you by robin. with a smile, you looked up at your husband, only to find him staring at you with love-filled eyes.

you asked, "what are you looking at, huh?"

harvey shrugged his shoulders but made no move to turn his gaze away. "can i not look at my sweet, hard-working wife?"

with a playful roll to your eyes, you stood from the chair and planted a kiss on harvey's head. "speaking of hardworking, i have some strawberries that need harvesting! would you like to come help, my sweet, caring husband?"

harvey gladly stood and followed you through the backyard, into the house full of plants and charms hanging from the ceiling and walls, and out to the porch. at his heels was your black cat, meowing relentlessly for attention. on the porch, he slid on his gardening gloves and sun hat (sun protection is very important, he'd always say, and he always forced you into a straw hat at least).

perhaps his form of spontaneous forgiveness was forgiving himself for not admitting to his feelings earlier, for stressing so hard about finding someone to love, for not knowing sooner that this was always where he was meant to be, tarot cards and black cats and all.

[fancyfade]

Difference between Bruce and Dick as Batman.

So I know that there's a lot of temptation to compare Bruce as Batman to Dick or Damian, and Dick as Batman to Damian, often with a "oh well obviously Bruce was meaner/Dick was nicer", but I do think they have a neat contrast that fandom often overlooks (as well as some parallels).

Robin: Year One #3

Batmatn #408

Batman and Robin #6

Dick and Bruce both will deal with whatever current threat exists, before fully helping wounded Robin, getting a verbal "I'm fine" confirmation. They clearly do care about Robin. But they also have an obligation to protect people Bruce tries to physically stop joker. Jason's not fighting Dick, but he is trying to talk him down and talk him into getting help, like he did in Battle for the Cowl. The characters also generally avoid a wounded Robin -- it's just easier to see for Bruce, because Leslie calls Bruce out on it "you're leaving (to go deal with this?)" whereas no one questions Dick leaving Damian once he's got medical care and doing his own mission to revive zombie bruce. I imagine this is partially from guilt (we do see Bruce blaming himself for Dick's close call, and Dick framing Damian as his responsibility in Battle for the Cowl) and also possible due to the whole 'batman has a job, robin's physically OK now so time to help protect people' thing.

A strong difference is after the character's get injured and treated. Bruce becomes overprotective, and continues being emotionally distant, which understandably upsets Dick. He is so overprotective he benches Dick each time he is wounded seriously, and that creates friction between them.

Robin: Year One

Batman #408

Contrast this to Dick's general lack of protectiveness. Nothing changes when Damian gets wounded as Robin. Which works well (emotionally) for Damian and it works for the conventions of the genre.

Dick is generally not portrayed as very emotionally overprotective when Damian is injured, and when Damian is captured, he often expresses more verbal concern for the people who captured Damian than Damian himself.

Batman and Robin #9 - Damian, with a new metal spine, got thrown off a building by the zombie batman dick accidentally revived.

Batman and Robin #13

Detective comics annual #11

I should note: I think it would be uncharitable to assume that Dick expressing more verbal concern that Damian will hurt the supervillains who have him kidnapped means Dick doesn't care about Damian. We see in Batman and Robin some of Dick being worried when Damian is shot, and we see Dick telling Azrael they need to find a quicker way to get to Damian when Azrael is talking about how to find the guys who took him. And also, you know. I just don't think Dick would care more about the supervillains that Damian. But Damian is regarded as a tough kid, he'll be fine no matter what, and he represents a threat to other people (interestingly, something I've seen fans accuse... Bruce of doing to damian? Even though Bruce was much more protective and wasn't worried about Damian killing Nobody when Damian was going with Nobody, or Damian killing the Saturn Club guys when Damian let himself by kidnapped by the Saturn club guys to find civilians to rescue)

But I am analyzing here the actions he does and the words that he says, and what the writer dedicates panel time to. I think it's interesting that Bruce and Dick's similarities with regards to Robin getting injured involve emotionally removing themselves from the situation and focusing on cases, and then their differences are in the follow up. Dick often maintains a status quo, which is satisfying to the Robin character (he does not feel like he's being fired or judged) and fits with the conventions of the genre. Bruce often becomes overprotective to a degree where the Robin character feels estranged from him, and is excluded, resulting in alienation from robin and coming across as the "bad guy".

I find it very interesting that Dick avoids repeating mistakes of the past that Bruce made (becoming overprotective of Robin to an alienating degree and firing him) by doing things that would be read as callous or uncaring to the reader if he wasn't Dick, I guess.

P.S. I know some people say this is why they regard Morrison's Dick as OOC, but I didn't have any place to fit that acknowledgement in the above paragraphs, but I think it's important to note that this was not just Morrison's Dick. In general Dick as Batman era was way different than Nightwing Rebirth era Dick or even post 2011 Dick.

[dailyadventureprompts]

I've got a new d&d group and they're almost all new players, with some of them having played with me before in oneshots/ gotten a couple sessions into campaigns that fizzled.

There's the usual learning pains: No one's quite got a handle on the rules yet and is relying on me for which dice to roll ( it's a D20 friends, it's always going to be a D20 unless it's damage I don't know how many times I have to say that). Person A is nervous and over-talkative , person B is nervous and withdraws from conversation, Person C is always running a little late...

But what really surprises me is the difference between them and the group I've had going for 2 years now:

Newgroup THEORIZES in a way that I don't think I've ever seen despite playing this game for two decades. I'll ask them what they're doing and they'll have a multi-minute chat weighing the value of different options. They don't turn to ME, or ask me if things are possible ( which is what new players tend to do), they turn to eachother and ask if they think it's a good idea that they do X or Y and then what could happen from there. I'm trying to be a good DM and let them learn the ropes but it's FASCINATING response. For example; the barbarian says "I'll use my shield to pin the monster in place so we can question them about the villain" and before I can even get into my response another player will say "but what if I used my rope instead to tie them up?", meanwhile none of them have confirmed if the monster is in any way related to the villain or is capable of speech (it wasn't, it was a mimic fyi)

Newgroup is LASER targeted on their goal, which was a surprise as someone who was DMing for a party that purposefully jumped ship on the A plot ASAP and is actively resentful of anything resembling a main quest. Newgroup passes through a mining village that's been deserted after a recent attack by monsters which drove people up into the hills, a Classic rescue mission with a bit of a dungeon delve on top, intended to give the party some XP and magic items before they leave the early game and I stop pulling my punches. Newgroup stays just long enough to confirm that the monsters have nothing to do with the A plot and unanimously decide to leave the village post haste. Meanwhile I have to be careful about what information I drop to oldgroup, as if they catch a single whiff of villanious wrongdoing they'll drop what they're doing and divert their attention to wiping that threat off the map. I've now had to have multiple villains make peace treaties in all but name with this party because of their habit of knocking out rivals/threats/governments.

Because oldgroup know the game really well they're less experimental with what they want to accomplish. They know that things can be solved through class features/dice rolls/damage, and so those are their default solutions to most problems. Meanwhile newgroup has no IDEA what the limits of the game system are so they're trying clever stuff left and right. " Can I hit it in the eye with my arrow? Can I use this spell to find out if _____, Can we use the flying boots to _____?" They're asking genuinely good questions so often that it's made me want to play around with the d20 resolution system to get something more closed to the " drawback/mixed success" sorts of results you get in apocalypse world style games. ( I think I found a neat fix, more on that to come)

[hyperfixations-and-hecticness]

Okay so I just finished Sunrise on the Reaping and have had time to process. Here are my thoughts (spoilers, duh):

- I’ve seen arguments it was bad fan-service but I really liked the inclusion of Beetee, Wiress, Mags and Plutarch. Effie I was a little confused about just cause I always thought she was younger than Haymitch for some reason however having gone back she had been presented as District 12’s usual escort by Katniss so it’s totally possible she’d been working within the Games for a few years and got promoted to a camera-facing escort role even if it was the worst one.

- I enjoyed having more names to analyse in terms of District traditions! Ampert was a particular favourite.

- I also very much enjoyed having more arena analysis material - Wiress’ games seem to me to be another reflection (see what I did there) of how propaganda can literally distort one’s view though I may be reading too much into it. I also find it very interesting to learn about a victor who never killed anyone? I’ve always loved her character and it’s so interesting to learn more about her.

- It’s also super neat seeing things Katniss describes that we haven’t before seen directly - the children of victors being reaped for example

- I find it interesting how the reapings are confirmed to be (at least in some cases) rigged completely. Katniss says that children of victors are likely to be rigged but this book made clear that reapings can be rigged for any number of reasons. While I still don’t believe the theory that Prim’s reaping was rigged, it’s interesting to note the way the Games is used as a direct punishment.

- I loved Louella and Lou-Lou, I noted the parallels between Rue and Lou-Lou as well. By extension this creates a further Katniss/Haymitch parallel which I think we see a lot throughout the book.

- Snow’s narcissism is always fun to see - assuming all relationships will end bad like his (never accepting accountability king right there)

- My guess beforehand was that Haymitch’s games were fairly different to what we saw but I was astonished just how much was different while key story elements remained! I really enjoyed it.

- I really loved the Effie content as always.

- Everdeen parent names!!

- A big fan of the graveyard: I wonder if it let Haymitch figure out the name of Snow’s Covey sweetheart. It’s also nice to see how the Covey mourned Lucy Gray though I also imagine her making her own gravestone while chilling out in the woods.

- Wyatt and Maysilee were such favourites of mine! I’ve seen people saying they find Maysilee’s character stereotypical and I totally disagree! She’s a surface level bitch, sure, but she’s got a core of steel and a clearly hidden soft side even if she can be blunt. Wyatt was bright and brilliant and I think there’s something so heartbreaking about losing such a kind and good character so quickly that really drove home the brutality of the Games.

-I found the ending a bit abrupt but that may be because Catching Fire had follow up to the Games that wasn’t as present in this. It was a very fast paced book but the way that continued in the ending gave me a little whiplash I won’t lie.

- Canon Covey Katniss! I do like that she’s not super closely related to Lucy Gray or Lenore Dove but it’s nice to have a theory proven right.

- Beetee and Ampert broke my heart but I think it makes Beetee’s decision in Mockingjay even more powerful- he does not respond to a cruelty done to him with the same cruelty, instead choosing to try end the cycle of violence.

- I found the book to be a hopeful message in the current political climate - Collins said even if all you can do is lay the groundwork it is worth doing!!

- SUZANNE COLLINS SLAMMING AI IN A HUNGER GAMES BOOK WE LOVE TO SEE IT!

- Overall, I really enjoyed the book! I’ll have to give it a little while to settle but I definitely think it’s one of my favourite of the series!

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Hello! :D I'd absolutely adore hearing your thoughts on Paranoid, in the Nightmare too, but more specifically In The Cage and The Apotheosis, and also his dynamic with Broken in The Apotheosis!

I feel like I'm missing something about him, something obvious, that I'm mischaractising him in my head and fic, but I can't put my finger on it!! (Also if you've already talked about him somewhere im so sorry I've searched for it but didn't find anything about him specifically!)

Like, he's called The voice of the Paranoid but he's right!! Like?? He always catches on how their world works way quicker than the others!! Like in the Cage when he figures that if they believe that the chains are rusty, then they can cut through them! Or in The Apotheosis, he convinces Broken to fight back!! (if i remember well!)

I adore your explanations/thoughts about the game and the characters, they really help put into words what I observe but cannot really verbalise myself! :)

-FlowersandMiel

Hello!!!

First of all, thank you for enjoying my rambles!!! And speaking of him, I’m actually currently writing a response on another ask about him, but it’s not quite done yet. I still needed to check a few things for him before I decide it’s good enough to be sent!

And now, for the analysis… (sorry if it’s a bit messy)

First, before we start analysing we need to remember how we get him in chapter 2. (Long ramble below!!!!)

There are a lot of ways we can get him in chapter 2. Either you go down there with the blade and then deciding you can’t trust her, then locking her in the basement, or you go down there without the blade and the locking her in the basement. Or you can flee from her while you’re fighting you with the blade and then lock her down the basement. Paranoid is generally defined by his indecisiveness, his distrust towards the Princess (and the Narrator), and self-preservation. These traits of him are important to remember. The blade to him represents the control he has in a world where nothing feels real. Despite how he sees the world as unstable and untrustworthy, the one thing he desires most is to have something solid to believe in. A solid reality to ground himself in.

To get him in chapter two, you’d have to decide that you can’t trust the narrator, but you also can’t trust the Princess as well, making Nightmare be the only chapter 2 Princess that you can get through both soft and sharp Princess. (Technically Stranger counts as well but the difference being that you didn’t actually meet her here in chapter 1 (speaking of there’s a neat little parallel between Paranoid and Contrarian. I’ll get to that later)).

Nightmare is a big example on his worldview of the construct.

Imagine with me. You are Paranoid. After listening to what the Princess has to say, you still couldn’t decide if you want to trust her or not. So you chose the safe option where you lock the Princess within the basement and watch over her, just in case she is actually dangerous. Or, you got yourself in a fight with the Princess, and found out that you are unprepared for this. You don’t want to feel pain and be hurt. And so you rush out and lock her in, hoping that maybe she will bleed out to death.

But then she started ramming the door. It further confirms your fears. But it’s fine right? She’s locked down there, she can’t actually get out of the place, so you decide to sleep for a little bit while she’s at it. And then after who knows how long, you have awaken, and seeing that the door is wiiiiiide open. But hold on, you literally locked her in the basement and yet she still finds a way to get out of the place??? This shouldn’t be possible, and yet here we are, with her slowly stepping towards us. Wait, but we did think about the possibility of her being able to get out despite locking her in there, does that mean that’s the reason she’s able to get out??? Oh my god this world makes absolutely no sense at all!!! Doors and the lock doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, the Narrator can’t be trusted, the Princess can’t be trusted, and oh my god she is stepping towards me and my heart starts racing and and and-

Boom, Nightmare.

In Apotheosis, he and Broken share a lot of similarities with one another regarding their desire to find something stable to confide in. Broken, where he had found a sense of control and safety in Apotheosis/Tower in a world where he had been broken down, Paranoid in turn finds control in his thoughts and the blade. Of course, him having a breakdown in Apotheosis and realising that the world is not real and solid at all is gonna break him, cause having his thoughts and worst fears about the world be confirmed just means that nothing really matters at all. But Paranoid being That Guy, use those fears and this new revelation of the world to his own advantage, and thus creating a new sense of control over what he used to believe an uncontrollable world. And with that he encourages Broken to believe in themself and regain that sense of control, to the point where they’re able to fight against the goddess herself on equal footing. Apotheosis herself actually comments on it herself, questioning whether he is fighting back because of his courage, or is it madness that drives him.

Speaking of Apotheosis, both Paranoid and Contrarian find their place in this route. Paranoid and Contrarian parallel each other in a way where they would both choose a third option instead of what they were presented with. Paranoid, with him choosing to keep the Princess in the basement instead of choosing to fully committing to freeing or slaying her. Contrarian, on the other hand, just didn’t want to do what he is told by an authority figure. The difference in getting them is in whether you tell her that she’s destined to end the world or not, and whether you bring the blade down with you(I have yet to understand the significance in not bringing the blade down with you to get Paranoid here, so forgive me if it seems a bit incomplete). In a way, their Princesses became mini-versions of the Shifting Mound because of this. Nightmare and her embodying the fear and terror of change, and Stranger with her many perspectives and all of the possibilities that comes with change.

Cage is basically Paranoid falling into despair instead of him have a self-actualisation in Apotheosis. The blade, something Paranoid saw as a symbol of control, is the thing that is keeping the both of them trapped. If you make the choice of not doing anything while Cage is walking towards you, Cage stating that everything they do is just the same shade of the same cycle would lead to Paranoid to have the perspective that nothing they ever do mattered in the first place. That they had absolutely no control in the situation, and their choices don’t matter. This is. Probably a horrible spot for Paranoid to be in.

Paranoid is overall a really intelligent character. But unlike Skeptic, whose logic runs on very grounded and unchanging reality, his runs on anxiety. Both Paranoid and Skeptic would notice little details and would attempt to piece the pieces together in a way that is coherent. Both wants to have a truth to ground themselves in.

As for the reason why he’s the first one who gets a grip on how the construct works is because… he’s paranoid. Hear me out.

The construct doesn’t work with a concrete standard logic. But instead it runs on your perception of the world, which by itself is very flimsy. The conclusion of “the world shifts by our beliefs” type of logic can only be thought by someone who literally doesn’t trust anything around them. Which is someone Paranoid is. That’s the reason why Skeptic wasn’t able to figure out how the construct works but Paranoid could. They’re like, two different flavours of logic. Skeptic’s more of a detective, while Paranoid is more of a conspiracy theorist (kinda? I dunno what other words I should use to describe him). So if you put Skeptic and Paranoid in the “real world”, Skeptic would thrive while Paranoid is just gonna flop real bad. In the construct however it’s the opposite.

The detachment to something grounded is something Cold and Paranoid share. Cold with his emotional detachment and Paranoid whose thoughts runs 5000 miles per minute makes him really detached from a grounded reality. Because of this, these two are the two voices that figured things out before any other voice did. Cold regarding Quiet’s nature(or “The Self”), and Paranoid the world around them. And ironically these two would absolutely fumble if they were placed in somewhere much more stable.

Annnnnd that’s it! These are my current thoughts of Paranoid as a character! Hopefully it’s helpful for your writing ^^

Good luck on your fic btw!

[sixosix]

'cat' the son | itoshi rin

( a/n ) when i came back the poll was 50/50 so i got bribed and it’s now decided that rin is the winner + little highschool au bc we all know they dropped out:/ idk what to title this im ngl

there’s a cat on the sidewalk.

you have about six dollars in your hand, a faltering mission to treat yourself to a cold drink, and an aching heart at the sight of the little animal seated like a king on concrete, looking up at you with blank eyes.

its dark fur and near-teal eyes remind you of someone. of a back facing your seat, dark hair always kept neat and looking like it’s conditioned meticulously, and the sharpest eyes you have ever seen on a high schooler.

it has been a long day, long enough for you to have stormed out of the room as soon as classes ended to rush to the nearest shop that would sell what you’re craving. alas, there is a cat on the sidewalk, and you can’t just ignore it.

“stay here, kitty,” you say before rushing off with the six dollars in hand and a new goal to head straight to the nearest sign with an animal cardboard cutout printed on it.

eventually, you find one; eventually, you come out of the store holding cat food and a tiny cat bowl because you were worried about letting the cat eat straight from the can. it’s baby blue with little fishes added as design, though you think it’s rather gruesome to put that there, considering the canned food you bought is made from fish. still, you hope the cat will appreciate it.

the cat is still there as if it’s understood and blessed you with patience. the unimpressed look it has on its face says otherwise, though. grateful, you kneel beside it, slightly mesmerized by the fact that it hasn’t run away yet.

maybe other people are feeding it, too? it doesn’t look worryingly thin. needs a little cleaning, but looks well-fed. you’re relieved.

“here you go,” you coo, ignoring the strange looks of the passersby. you place the bowl down and crack open the can. the smell has the cat walking over, meowing all crankily. “i know, i know.”

the cat doesn’t dig in until you’ve finished shaking off its contents, staring at you in the same way the itoshi guy in your class would. the resemblance is uncanny.

you spend the rest of your afternoon keeping the cat company. its face speaks as if it’s far from amused, but the way it rubs against your ankle contradicts it.

cute. the cat is cute.

another student comes to visit the cat, carrying two cans of cat food. it’s been sitting in the plastic for a little while because as he had been going in the same routine he usually has, he spots you, his classmate, bent to the knees next to his cat, and paused.

rin thinks you’re scared of him because everyone in the class is. he lets you have your moment, choosing to come back later when you’ve finished so you don’t freak out and scare the cat. he thinks he can strike up a conversation tomorrow where there are no cats to frighten.

the cat walks up to him, instantly familiar. he doesn’t even meow up at rin impatiently, which confirms rin’s suspicions.

“y/n fed you well,” he mumbles. “i guess you can have this tomorrow.”

you’re suddenly all too aware that rin sits in front of you. he’s right there, uniform stretched over his broad back, most likely because he’s the prodigy of soccer in your school.

the neatness of his hair reminds you of the cat from yesterday, with its silky dark fur despite being a stray. you resist the urge to touch it, missing the cat already. you make a mental note to refill your water bottle so the cat can drink after.

while left thinking about the fact that you’re three dollars shorter than yesterday's budget, you fail to notice that class has ended and rin has his arm slung over the top of his chair to turn to look at you.

rin’s eyes flicker down to the paper bag next to your feet. “what’s that for?”

startled by the smoothness of his voice directed at you, you choke out a: “t-this?” you gesture lamely at the bag containing the gruesome bowl.

“what else am i referring to?”

you scrunch your nose. “okay, no need to be so rude. maybe i won’t tell you what it is.”

rin stares, and you’re intensely reminded of piercing eyes looking up at you, patiently waiting for the canned tuna.

“it’s a cat bowl,” you murmur, defeated.

“cat bowl,” he repeats, a gleam in his eye. he probably thinks you’re weirder than he already thinks you are.

“for a stray. i don’t want to bring it around because some other cat owner might steal it. i can’t have that.”

“show me,” he demands.

a little terrified by the fact that the class grump is actively maintaining a conversation with you; you obediently show him the bowl, spinning it around to show all sides. rin hums, contemplative. your classmates are starting to stare. “it’s weird, right? fishes for the print and fishes for dinner. do you like it?”

“lukewarm.”

“what does that even mean?”

“it’s too small. buy a new one.”

“...you think?”

rin nods, standing up. the chair screeches while he says, “i’ll come with you.”

this is how you end up in the same pet supply store with a companion this time. rin picks the most expensive one for the bowl and the canned cat food, which makes you think he must really like cats a lot.

but as you two leave the store, you belatedly realize he’s leading the way even though you never told him anything about the stray you meet.

it doesn’t hit you until the same cat meows and purrs at rin, rubbing against his pants with its entire body.

“hi,” rin says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

you gape. “wait, the cat’s yours?”

rin bends down, knees to his chest while he sets the bowl down and cracks the can open with one finger. “no. dad’s allergic. he doesn’t follow me back home anyway.” while he does that, the cat comes to greet you, and your heart aches on rin’s behalf.

so he just comes to feed him every day, huh… you muse, gently scratching the cat who purrs at your attention but still looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“do you have a name for him?”

rin pauses, having finished pouring everything. “...no.” he squints at you as if you’ve just asked him the exact coordinates of his birthplace: sincerely confused.

“what do you call him, then?” you watch as the unnamed cat starts digging down on the food, content. you wonder why no one else has already kept this cat to themselves. he’s so cute and polite.

“cat.”

“ah, of course.”

you two watch ‘cat’ eat, content with the silence. it starts to drizzle moments later, but rin is quick to pull out an umbrella and cover all three of you. the cat grumbles unhappily at the splatter of rain hitting him.

“do you always visit him?”

“yes.”

“do you like cats?”

“yes.”

a shame that allergies are the only thing keeping itoshi rin from getting a cat.

while you’re distracted, the cat goes back to rin. rin wastes no time bending down to pick him up, looking awfully domestic in the middle of a sidewalk in front of a busy coffee shop. your hands twitch to reach for your phone, but you’re too stunned to do anything but stare. they look so much alike.

cute, you think, horrified, rin looks so cute holding the cat.

while engulfed in rin’s arms, the cat meows at you. and you, with a too-tender heart, can’t resist.

“i’ll keep him,” you declare with newfound determination. “i’ll take care of him. if you let me keep the bowl you bought.”

rin’s eyes light up, though it wouldn’t have been evident if you hadn’t been his classmate and witnessed his varying expressions of death. (as if it was varying in the first place.)

“i’ll buy everything else he’ll like,” he says, like a true cat mom, his face glowing with barely concealed excitement.

since then, rin accompanies you home. you tell him that you’ve saved up three dollars from yesterday and now you have more than enough to buy a nice, cold drink and maybe catnip for the cat, but rin insists that he’ll pay for everything, including your beverage.

“you feed our son.”

“our son?” he repeats curiously.

“yes. he lives with me. he looks like you,” you explain absentmindedly, setting up the water dispenser on the new food bowl rin ended up buying. it no longer has fish for design or the painful lime green he bought the second time—instead, it’s a nice blue that compliments the cat’s eyes.

“and what are you implying is going on between us?”

you nearly spill water all over the floor. “i…” you honestly did not think about that, “—nevermind. don’t make it weird, itoshi!”

you think you heard rin chuckling, but you’re too busy being embarrassed to bother.

(during class, you will find that rin is far from intimidating. in fact, he’s actually a little bitch to deal with. you’re starting to think that he’s more of a pain to deal with than an actual grumpy cat.

“don’t forget to buy food for our son,” rin says after class, in front of students who gossip like there is no tomorrow.

“what?”

“for our son,” rin says, nonplussed at the sight of your haunted expression.

someone who has overheard the conversation pipes up, “you two have a son?”

“we don’t!” you hiss, face burning with embarrassment at the sudden influx of attention from your classmates.

rin frowns. “don’t lie.”

“you two are starting to act like a married couple recently…” another comments offhandedly.

“itoshi walks y/n home, i saw!”

“we have a son,” rin agrees, and you’re starting to think that he’s doing it on purpose.

“stop saying that!”)

thank u art aanobrain for giving me the idea of rin just naming the cat ‘cat’. that idea is so special to me.

anyway. RIN IS SO HARD TO WRITE HELPPPP. this was an excruciating process i genuinely did not know if i did anything right but WHAT’S DONE IS DONE. thx for reading <3

[rentenwins]

silly little excuses (newneighbour!leehan x reader)

masterlist link | next chapter

synopsis: how oblivious can one get? leehan and his most favourite thing in the world… oh and his fish too, i guess.

content: NON-LINEAR TIMELINE this won’t make sense unless you read prev chapters!!, tooth-rotting domestic leehan, how does one feelings?, sungho is supportive but annoyed, f-bomb is dropped, banter, food depictions, FISH AND WATER

a/n: hi… i feel really bad for disappearing ;-; really bad writer’s block and very stressful time for me despite my uni break… but we are getting somewhere :’) hope you can all forgive me, enjoy!

wc: 2350+

taglist: @haechology @jenuinne @saintriots @badaspookie @yveol @yunextdoor @lailols @rawrbamgyu @amarecerasus @pandorahearts19 @luvvhaerin @saritahwang @bee-the-loser @secretlyseochangbin

chapter 7: testing the waters (literally)

“Temperature shouldn’t drop below 22 degrees C, nor the pH below 6.5 and— oh yes, I keep their food just underneath here, and if you see anything uneaten for a few hours just remove it gently with the net. What else…”

You stare at the drawer underneath Leehan’s fish tank as he just showed you, seeing how incredibly neat and organised it all looks. It’s the day after the beach trip with your friends, and now you’re in Leehan’s apartment as you had promised him yesterday. He had just gone through the whole process of how to read the thermometers and pH readings, as well as the quality of the filters.

(As Leehan said, “Oh, but I already cleaned them so they shouldn’t act up. But in case one of them does, just turn one off. One filter really is all they need, but I just find this more thorough…” You look at the tank fondly. He really does love his fish.)

Leehan’s a bit off today, you observe. He talks as much as he usually does, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes like they usually did. Now that you think about it, his smiles yesterday weren’t as quaint either. The boy took to wearing his glasses today, but it doesn’t do much to hide the bags under his eyes, nor to distract from the way he slurs his words a bit today out of an obvious tiredness.

“I think that’s all of it. But seriously, if you need anything, just text me.” Leehan says to you while you insist that it’s really not a problem.

This wasn’t your first time in his apartment, but Leehan was still jittery because of his crush! In his own house! Showing her a hobby that he never really opened up to a lot of people about!

Consequently, Leehan can’t help but recall a conversation from a few weeks ago, the same week when he had embarrassingly showed up to your doorstep asking for ingredients for his dinner.

——

“y/n, I think I like her.”

The line is silent, and a part of Leehan’s sanity comes back to him at the words he just blurted out. A crush. On his neighbour. Someone that he hardly knows. Mortifying to Leehan at least. The silence was almost killing him.

“Sungho? Are you still th—“

“About time you doofus!,” Sungho cuts him off with a shriek, “you and y/n’s heart eyes for each other were giving us high-blood pressure for goodness sake.”

“Us? Who’s us?”

Sungho scoffs at Leehan’s question, “Me and Taesan, duh. And probably Jaehyun too at this point. Don’t you know how hard we’ve tried to be subtle in helping you? God, I didn’t know y/n was this oblivious either, y’all really are meant for each other.”

“Helping? What on this earth have you been helping me with this whole time?”

Sungho groans, loud this time that Leehan has to remove himself from the speaker for a second. “The study session, leaving you alone with her. That ring a bell? Oh, and the chai latte. Leehan, I’ve known you for how long now, if I really wanted to get you something to eat I would’ve just gotten you those gummies you hoard.”

Leehan doesn’t even take a mild offence because he was too busy confirming his suspicions.

“So you were trying to sabotage me! Embarrass me in front of her and everything!”

“Oh good Lord, Leehan.” Sungho drags a hand down his face, “This was a plot for you to get closer to her! God, are you really that much of an idiot that I have to tell it to you like this straight up? I’ve never seen her so nervous, the way she looks at you like she’s mesmerised for some effed up reason. and the cooki— oh my god those cookies were the first fucking sign, I can’t believe yo—”

“Wait, hold on. Those cookies? I thought she made them for everyone.” Leehan leans back in his chair looking at the ceiling trying to process every interaction with you for the last few weeks.

“Well, yeah, she does,” Sungho says a little calmer, “but the last time she made those types of cookies were for Woonhak’s graduation and she wouldn’t stop complaining how time-consuming they were to make. Leehan. She likes you. So much that she’d make cute little biscuits for you and not give the rest of us. You know, like she usually does.”

Leehan is quiet, still trying to process the information Sungho just dumped on him and still staring at his ceiling. Sungho sighs and breaks the silence.

“You’re going to Busan right?”

“Yeah?” Leehan replies, more of a question and not a reply, “Not for another few weeks during study break. Why?”

“Let her take care of your Corydoras or something while you’re gone. Like house sitting.”

Leehan gets annoyed at Sungho a lot, but nothing gets him more annoyed at than when Sungho actually makes sense.

Sungho continues, “I was gonna tell you to confess to her but you can’t really do that if you’re on the other side of the country.”

Leehan slides down his chair, “I hate to say it but I think you might be getting somewhere with this.”

Leehan hears Sungho laugh. “Well, if she wonders why you asked her to take care of your fish and not us instead, just be honest.”

——

Honest.

The word reverberates in Leehan’s head throughout the current ordeal. It was reverberating all of last night when he was trying to fall asleep, the events at the beach were replaying in his mind. And it was the first time in his life he was at the beach and wasn't just thinking of the sea and swimming in it.

“Honest… trust.” he thinks.

You were both sitting on Leehan’s dining chairs that he pulled over from his small dining table to sit in front of the fish tank, showing you how he takes care of them.

“I’ll show you how I feed them, then you can try for yourself.” Leehan says as he stands and carefully opens the lid of the glass tank. He then opens the neatly organised drawer and pulls out a container of bottom feeder flakes.

“Just take a bit,” he demonstrates as he pinches a bit between his thumb and his index finger, “and you need to submerge it in the water so it sinks properly and so they don’t need to exert too much effort to swim to the surface.”

The fish food that Leehan releases into the water sinks slowly to the bottom to where the corydoras were all huddled. You watch as few of the fish start to eat and prod at the flakes.

Leehan passes the fish food in your direction to encourage you to give it a try as you stood from the chair. You take a pinch the same way Leehan did and you hesitantly let your hand hover over the water. Leehan seems to have read your hesitation and lightly grabs your wrist that was over the tank. You feel like you forgot how to breathe, yet your heart rate skyrockets and you feel your legs are wanting to give way.

Through it all, he doesn’t seem to notice any of this while gently lowers your hand until the flakes have been submerged, and you release the flakes between your fingertips. You see the fish curiously swim around the flakes like they've never seen it before, honestly you could watch them all day. Distantly, you remember Leehan’s hand that guided your fingers towards the water in the tank so you instinctively look at him, unsure of the blush on your face. But you’re met with the sight of Leehan enamoured with his fish as they ate and effortlessly glided in the tank.

He seemed to come back to his senses as he gazed at his hand still gently holding your wrist above the water. He gently lets go and clears his throat, hoping that his hair was long enough to cover his very red ears.

“Sorry I— wait here.” He manages to stutter out as he steps in long strides to his kitchen to grab a tea towel. He comes back with a tea towel adorned with cartoon corals and offers it to you to wipe your hands on, his ears still very visibly red. You mutter a ‘thanks’ and he clears his throat. Who knew a little gesture like that would’ve sent him to a frenzy? It’s silent again for a second as he takes the tea towel from you.

“How long are you away again for?” You ask to ease the awkwardness with a clear of your throat.

“Just three days, gonna visit my family and my nephew.” Leehan seems to reply easily, also trying to calm his blush down, “have you been to Busan before?”

You shake your head. “Well, did you want anything from there while I’m gone?” Leehan asks.

You shrug, “No clue.” Leehan looks like he’s deep in thought so you supply, “You really don’t have to get me anything, Leehan. Just— just come back safely, is all.”

Leehan’s eyes widen for a second before he laughs nervously, suddenly unable to meet your eyes at where you’re both standing.

“Well, I’ll think of something. I need to thank you in some way or another.” Leehan replies. He says it’s a ‘thank you’ gesture for taking care of his fish, but deep down he knows it’s also for his helpless little crush on you.

“Let’s hang out when I come back.” Leehan says to you, eyes holding yours as you couldn’t do anything but look back at him. His eyes trace your face, down to your lips where he doesn’t dare linger.

“I mean it. Just us two.” He adds.

You were taken aback, you almost laugh. There was no way he’s asking this right now. Right?

“Sure. If you’d like to,” you say with a dryness in your mouth. God, when did it get so warm?, “now you really gotta promise to come back safely.”

——

It’s Monday night, and Leehan had already left for Busan in the morning. You run some errands in the afternoon before coming back home, all with perfect timing so you could look after Leehan’s fish after lounging on your couch.

You make your way to Leehan’s apartment with his spare key, attached to it is a cute little green alien keychain. You go inside and make your way to the fish tank.

You step closer and open the drawer where all the supplies are kept and you’re met with a piece of paper that was undoubtedly Leehan’s handwriting.

Hi y/n, thank you for taking care of the Corydoras while I’m gone. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about your gift

Leehan ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

You can’t help but smile at the letter he had left. Putting it aside so it doesn’t get damaged, you start the routine Leehan had taught you the night prior. Checking the pH, the water temperature, then opening the tank to feed the Corydoras. You do it with care just like Leehan did, and stare at the fish as they swim around the tank, the slow hum of the filter the only thing that can be heard in the quiet apartment.

You felt happy that Leehan has trusted you with his most precious pets, knowing how much they mean to him. You sigh, not really fully knowing what he meant of ‘hanging out’. Not like you already do it with all your other friends. But he said just you two! ‘He probably just means well!’ you thought ‘to be nice, like an extra thank you. It’s not that bad.’

Before you know it, 30 minutes have passed of you just staring at the tank alone with your thoughts about Leehan, only disturbed by your onset of sudden hunger. You remembered the warmth of his hand over your wrist. You sigh and groan again as you stare at the tank and its colourfulness, then you really start to pay attention to it.

It was colourful, clean and vibrant. Leehan’s care was evident. and to you it was endearing. Who else would take so much care in caring for little creatures. You remember the sparkle in Leehan’s eyes as he looked at his pets after demonstrating to you on how to take care of them. You smile at the memory and your stomach flutters again, and not from hunger.

A sudden knock on the door startles you on the chair you were sitting on in front of the tank before the dread of Leehan’s words could haunt you again.

“Y/n? You in here?” You hear Jaehyun’s voice before the door opens as he lets himself in. He’s greeted with the sight of you in front of Leehan’s tank.

“Myungjae?” You turn around confused, “How’d you know I was here?”. Jaehyun was holding a plastic bag, clearly from food delivery, taking his slides off at the door’s entrance.

“I could ask you the same thing,” He chirps as he makes his way into Leehan’s apartment, “What? Are you missing Leehan already?” He places the delivery bag on the small dining table, smiling at himself, proud of his own little jab. The smile falters when your usual bite doesn’t come his way. He nervously looks at you, still sitting on the chair but your gaze meeting anywhere but his.

“Y/n.” Jaehyun says slowly as you look up at him, “I was just joking! I mean, I guess we all miss Leehan! Even though he… hasn’t even been gone for what? 10 hours? But seriously, who’s counting anyw—“

“Fuck, I think I like him.” You blurt before you could stop yourself. Your eyes immediately widen and you feel your heart plummet to your feet as you realise what you just said out loud. You smack your hand over your mouth as Jaehyun looks at you with mouth equally gaped wide.

The silence was palpitating, even the hum of the filter seemed too loud, and even with Jaehyun in the same room.

“Y/n.” Jaehyun tries again, and you meet his gaze again. But this time Jaehyun doesn’t look as calm as he walked in. His face looked like it was about to explode, like how he usually looked at Woonhak before he would scold him into next year.

“Y/N ARE YOU SERIOUS, YOU’RE ONLY REALISING THIS NOW? GOD YOU BOTH REALLY WERE MADE FOR EACH OTHER.”

next chapter.

[firemenenthusiast]

—“spades”

ivo x fem!reader

summary: keeping a straight policy is hard when you have a deep voice talking into your ears

warnings: 18+, smut, porn with little plot, unprotected sex (be safe people), cunnilingus, fingering, semi-public sex

a/n: been wanting to write for ivo for a while cuz he’s a babygirl 🙂‍↕️ also we hit another huge milestone !!! WHOHOOOO THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE. this is my gift to you <3

it’s quite unusual for you to come down to the basement where all the geeks work to provide information for the charter, especially you. when you work with them, you’re usually some place else, only being able to hear them through the earpiece all the time.

you couldn’t care less about them, as long as they make sure that everything going in the way of your mission goes away, and that you’re getting paid for whatever extremely dangerous agenda the charter is putting you through. of course that changed when jack’s suddenly not the one receiving the signal at the end of the frequency.

“this is homebound requesting confirmation, can you hear me well ?”

he had a really deep voice. maybe it’s the prickling ice scattered along the climate you were landed on but his voice sent chills down your spine.

“where’s jack ?”

“jack’s not here to assist you today, i am” frowning, you could sense the sternness in his response, as if he’s pissed to be assisting your every movement from now on.

“hey i didn’t ask for you either alright” all you wanted to do was complete the mission assigned as per usual, collect the check and go home. none of this unnecessary chit chat with the people you only wanted to strictly work with. if you could do it all by yourself, you would’ve a long time ago. but you’ve learned a while back that the mission will only go smoothly with the help of the basement geeks sending cues through your earpiece.

so the mission went okay, it would’ve gone well if the one providing you informations was jack, but instead it was some guy named ivo. at least that’s what he referred himself as, and he sounded pretty unsure about everything. as if he was only put on that task for the first time. you are just glad that no parts of you were severed just to complete that mission, especially with an incompetent assistant panicking in the earpiece.

oh how you wished they’d never put anyone else on other than jack, as he was the only one that actually sounds like he knows what he’s doing.

yet you still couldn’t help but paid a visit to the basement the next day you were free.

that particular voice stood out inside your head, lingering around especially when you tried to close your eyes and drift away. it was all you could think of for days until your feet dragged you down to the headquarters, before your lips specifically requested access to the underground labs.

when you finally laid eyes upon the pair of lips that emits that voice, an immediate grin crept itself across your cheeks. your lashes fluttered naturally to look at him, with the curls on top of his head almost grazing the low ceiling of his work area. you just prayed he’ll never bump his head ever. from the long lashes decorating his deep brown eyes to the neat beard on top of his clear tan skin, that voice suited him so well. maybe too well that he was nothing short of pretty.

it was common for other spies to come down to the basement, especially stone. you heard that she was real friendly to everyone she works with, and for her to occasionally come down there is no surprise.

on the other hand, that’s not your style at all. you choose not to expose yourself to unnecessary danger of being close with anyone down there, as you have nothing to give you reason to trust them. so when you appeared in his work area, leaning against his desk on your hips, it came to be quite the surprise.

“wh- ?! what are you doing here ?” there’s that deep voice you missed from the mission again. the whispered tone of his voice told you he was agitated to say the least, having no recollection of you saying anything about coming down there. carefully slipping away to the files room from the main database platform, you then made sure that your footsteps are followed by his much larger ones.

but that was a number of visits before, you couldn’t exactly put a number of how many times has it been. particularly because you almost always end up banging your head on one of the files cabinet that you forgot you were ever down there, and being fucked stupid to the point of brain fog, accompanying you all the way home from your visit.

you’ve succeeded again this time, in getting him to follow you into the control room, hearing him groan in protest as soon as he turns his back against the door

“i told you this is too close to the main platform, do you not see these glass frames ?” he’s pointing around to the see-through panes surrounding the room, obvious that anyone passing through the room will definitely see the both of you. looking up at him, you have to crane your neck to meet his gaze as he’s towering over you.

“let’s go to the back, please” he’s told you that multiple times, trying to convince you that no one ever goes there anyways and the fact that it’s at the other end of the compound

smoothing the palms of your hands across his fabric covered broad chest, your fingers settle to grip on the edge of his sweater. sighing, the firm flesh always feels so good against your hands. smiling up at him, your grip around the edges tighten before pulling him down, your faces now only inches away, allowing you to feel him shiver a breath out through his nose

“where’s the fun in that, hm ?” you grin at him

wasting no time, you’re quick to peel off the ugly sweater off his shoulders, your tugs slick as he’s immediately left only in his top. his large fingers work on the hem of yours, trying to lift them off before stopping and grabbing you by your waist instead, the size of his fingers almost wrapping the entirety of your sides.

“c’mon, we can’t- not here. if anyone sees im done for” the firm grip against your skin makes you stop your work on his belt to look him in the eyes

“you’re right. oh, or i can just leave, you know ?” raising both your eyebrows at him, you cock your head to the side as you earn a look from him, flashing across his eyes

“no- no, please i just- i don’t wanna get caught” he’s half begging, batting his lashes. though you enjoy seeing him like this, a part of you cares if he’s at risk of losing his job because of you.

he tries to make it up to you quickly, planting soft kisses down at the crook of your neck, delicately trailing his lips down towards your breasts before swiftly pulling your top off your head with ease. letting out a soft moan, you lean against the table behind you on your hands, giving him access to keep kissing down your body, his lips now grazing the tip of your nipples through your bra. you forgot how good is he at this, and just how gentle he could be.

“fuck— just take it off” you urge him, to which he looks at you through his pretty lashes, you can feel him grinning against your tits. he’s shaking his head slightly, opposing to your words as he pushes the fabric of your bra, releasing both your mounds to bounce against his cheeks. between the soft flesh and the hardened nipples on his face, he could feel the rush of blood towards his cock, making him moan against your skin.

he’s continuing his kisses on your navel now, with a hand cupping his crotch trying to relieve the pain of blood quickly rushing to his tip. both of his knees are already settled on the hard floor, the palm of his hands steadying himself against your thighs. as soon as his lips get to your jeans, his fingers move fast to unbutton it before pulling it down, the fabric pooling at your ankles.

tilting your head down, you could see him kissing on your clothed pussy with half lidded eyes, his arms moving slightly to help the grip he has on his hard on. you nod your permission to him as he looks at you, raising both his hands to pull your panties down, immediately closing his eyes again as soon as he feels his lips on your soaked puffy folds. feeling the vibration of him moaning against your pussy, your fingers rake across his scalp in between his tight curls.

his sudden sucking on your wetness takes you by surprise, your mouth forming an ‘O’ before he’s lapping in between of your folds, the tip of his tongue flicking against your clit repeatedly. at this point you regretted not listening to him about going to the far back of the compound, as you feel like screaming your lungs out. the pleasure of the flat of his tongue licking on the entirety of your pussy makes you curl your fingers, grabbing at his hair as you couldn’t help but grind against his face.

he’s enjoying having you smother your juices that some of it is beginning to cover his cheeks that he’s moaning, further sending vibrations to the nerves beneath your folds that also has you struggling to conceal the whines pushing past your lips.

“ivo,, fuck—“

“in a second” you manage to make out of his mumble to the strings of curses falling down your lips

he’s now tongue fucking your hole, you can clearly feel the wet appendage sucking at your sensitive clit alternatively. at this point he’s simply burying his face into your pussy, eating you out like he’s been starved for days. the sounds of tongue smacking on the wetness, accompanying the sucking on your hole makes the room sound so dirty.

before you know it he’s sucking on your clit again, flattening his tongue to feel your folds grazing against his tastebuds for the final time before you’re cumming into his mouth, to which he eagerly laps it all up, his face shiny with your wetness clinging onto his skin.

looking down at him, the both of you lock eyes as you try to catch your breaths, bead of sweat already prickling at the surface of your temples. you hadn’t even calmed all the way down before he gets up to tower over you again, turning you so your back is now pressing hard against his chest, his large hands grabbing you by your tits. his swift movements earns a squeak from you, before you could feel him continue your previous work on his belt with his free hand. the clinking sounds of his buckle tells that he’s impatient, his fingers move fast to push his pants down, forcing the crotch to push down his boxers covered cock, making him wince.

“i’ve missed this pussy, fuck—“ you swear his voice just got deeper when you hear him utter against your ear, his teeth grazing the skin at the side of your neck before biting down on it, making sure to leave marks. the last time he did this, it was accidental but fuck, it got him going like a rabid dog.

pushing his boxers down next, his cock springs up from the elastic band as his fingers immediately wrap around his length. collecting saliva at the tip of his tongue, he spits a huge glob of it down for his hand to catch, before carefully spreading the slick all over his cock.

he still has both his hands grabbing your tits, his fingers playfully flicking at the nipples with his head resting at the crook of your neck. your body is flushed against his, sweaty skin sticking against each other’s as you feel his other hand trailing along your waist towards your pussy, before his fingers settle on your puffy folds.

you’re trying to hold onto the elevated bar attached on the wall, feeling your hole being grazed by the tip of fingers before being split open by two of them, the size of his fingers enough to get him another moan from you. it’s almost crazy how you feel so stretched out with just two of his fingers; let alone his cock.

“i swear you’ve the prettiest pussy” he let out, making you lean back further onto his shoulder. of course he thinks that, it’s not like he’s fucked that many, or anyone had ever wanted to fuck him.

plunging his fingers into your pussy, you could feel them against your walls, curling the tip against it. as soon as he finds the spongey spot when he presses down, he pulls his fingers out making you whine in protest.

“oh baby it’s fine, gonna give you my cock now” the words leaving his lips almost make your knees give out, but he has a strong grip across your waist propping you up.

wrapping his fingers around his cock, you could hear the slick sounds of him pumping his shaft before slowing down to position it against your pussy, rubbing the tip in between your folds to collect some of your wetness.

as soon as he thrusts half of his length into your hole, you could hear him sigh as he adjusts his position. he’s pulling his cock back to only leave his tip inside before pushing it all back in again, his large hand squeezing the soft mound of your tit at the pleasure.

“more ivo, please-“ you hear yourself let out, begging him for more, wanting him to just fuck your senseless

“yeah ? tell me what you want” he’s holding his hips back from fucking into you, making you say it before even thinking to move

“fuck me please, fuck me” pretty much sums up everything that you want him to do to you at the moment, not caring about anything else, even if it means that he’s gonna fuck you dumb.

you hear him tsks at you before thrusting hard, his cock slotted tight into your pussy with a loud slapping sound of his hips against your ass.

“so much for being a hard ass, i could just fuck you dumb” his words slip through his gritted teeth, the pleasure of your walls hugging his cock tight have him groaning into your ear.

the thrusts of his hips makes you bounce against his thighs, your tits bouncing in his hand making him squeeze them harder. his other hand moves down your pussy, circling his fingers on your clit at a rapid pace along with his cock fucking into your pussy, your whines sounding perfect in his ears.

“s’good ivo—hmm,”

with the fog starting to cloud your mind it’s clear that he’s fucked you dumb. your hands are holding onto his arms as you struggle not to let your tongue lol past your lips. his thrusts have gone eager and sloppy too, desperately hitting the tip of his cock against your walls trying to get your pussy to make him cum.

as both your highs are starting to chase your conscience, he’s biting down on your shoulder, the pressure’s sure going to leave marks.

“fuck, m’gonna cum” he pants, his thrusts messy

“inside, ivo please” all you could think of in that moment is how good his cum is gonna feel filling you up and oozing out your hole

“hmm fuck— oh fuck, thank you- thank you” you could feel his cock twitching against your walls as he mumbles a string of thank yous, wrapping his arms tightly around your body as he’s cumming, you could feel his warm load spurting inside your pussy, his hips faltering, pumping you full of his cum all while you’re orgasming yourself.

the control room is filled with the sounds of both your moans as you ride out your highs, sounds of staggering heavy breaths and the smell of sex reeks the space.

ivo’s kissing your shoulder gently, slowly pulling his cock out before turning you around to kiss you. returning the kiss, your eyes are half closed as his lips feel so soft against yours, the kiss slow and delicate, in contrast to what he just did. as he pulls away, his lips still close before trailing down to kiss on your tits, wet tongue grazing the nipple with your hands on his head.

he pulls away smiling, reaching down for his pants allowing the both of you to get dressed.

“you gonna visit me again ?” he asks, leaning on the control panel, watching you smooth your top out

“in your dreams, ivo”

and there’s that damn smile he’s near falling for.

taglist: @flipsconhelado @r4vn @love-me-pls @radioloom @farleighlover @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @luckystrikerealness @juniperhasfallen @themoonchildwhofell @khxna @fuckshitslover @szapizzapanda @inglourious-imagines

divider creds: @loser-otaku-girll

[aenor-llelo]

amitoufo he is carbondated

It's the Year of the Snake. Destiny 2's Heresy just came out. But this ain't about her. I sit on your shoulder, I am your xiaoren.

I'm Taiwanese! Let's carbon date The Drifter!

Lightbearers retain their semantic memory (facts, concepts, ideas) and procedural memory (memory of how to do things) of their original life before death. This is implied from game/lore instances of Guardians with unique accents, ethnic coding, memory of languages that are obscure post-Collapse, even cases of Guardians retaining pre-rez war PTSD. It is outright confirmed by Sen-Aret, a Guardian who- due to the sheer age of her remains or some error by her Ghost- was raised with only the knowledge she had in life, and had to learn about modern weapons/language from other Guardians.

Why does this mean anything? It means that the way a Guardian prefers to dress, talk, and generally behave tells you where they came from pre-rez!

Aside from his voice actor being Vietnamese, his entry in the official cookbook is banh mi, a Vietnamese dish, and his clothes are Chinese, which would point to him being Hoa, the Han people of Vietnam. (He also wraps his clothes in an orientation specific to corpses, because he doesn't count Lightbearers as truly alive humans.)

Behavior-wise, though, have you noticed how obsessed he is with jade? The coins, the necklace. Jade is a very precious stone in the Sinosphere, and jade jewelry is for giving luck or protection to the wielder- what you will hear less commonly is that it is meant to work by breaking instead of you when something happens. We give them to kids and elderly for this reason.

(You can wonder, for a second, the jade coins he always plays with before Gambit rounds, wraps around certain weapons for you, and the Red String of Fate ornament for Malfeasance. Is this a man perpetually deeply terrified for everyone or himself, or is he every middle aging ah-yi who just got back into religion while you were in school?)

So he's Vietnamese and the Chinese influence means his pre-rez life had to have been after Chinese imperial interference with Vietnam. Unfortunately, four different historical periods between 111 BC and the 1400s isn't good carbon dating. KE SHI NI HUI KANDAO THE SANDWICH,

banh mi is a baguette sandwich. this kind of bread comes to vietnam in the mid-19th century from French colonizers, and only during WWI did a mixed flour version make this bread accessible outside luxury. Early 1900s le. But "post-1900s" isn't a better narrowing down than "BCs to 1400s" in a future setting like Destiny.

Except that Drifter's banh mi recipe specifically uses pâté. This was only a common banh mi filling before the 1950s, when the partition of Vietnam sent an influx of northerners to Saigon and led to the Saigon sandwich that is modern banh mi. So, 1910s to 1950s. And the fact that he defaults to hanfu rather than Western dress or more modern standard Vietnamese ethnic clothing like ao dai skews him having been an adult on the earlier end of this time frame or living in a more rural area where colonization ideas were not as enforced. (One could explore him having other Vietnamese forms of cultural expression like lacquered teeth, actually.)

Ain't that something? He could have lived through WWI or even saw the beginning of the Communist revolution. The possibility that his first life was a survivor of colonization, war draft, and/or violent civil war could add a lot to readings of his character, especially his C-PTSD, but that's a whole other post if the people demand it. It's a neat thing to explore, huh?

And don't call him a rat le! Bad enough already the game think that is cute! White people calling East Asians rats is generally a slur in reference (from my collection) to immigrant "infestation" and part of general stereotypes about their uncleanliness (they cook with gutter oil, they eat rats, they cheap they scam they lie dadadada). You want source bigger than I grow up with white people shout in my face and their children pull their eyes to squint like a "jap"? Look up WWI propaganda posters about Japan. They did not invent that out of nowhere, they make Japanese people into rats because that's something they already say.

"It's just about Japanese-" what if I told you a large part of Western racism about Asians is that they can't tell the difference and don't care. and they're making fun of similar cultures and features.

"My Asian friend said it was okay-" the asian friend values your friendship and your comfort more than what they feel when you say slurs, dude. sorry i had to be the one to tell you that. one friend (or stranger online) giving you the pass to say it in front of them doesn't mean you're allowed to say it to everyone.

"it's fictional-" Real East Asian people getting beat down by Sinophobia matters a little more than how cute you think it is to call a Vietnamese man an animal that your culture associates with filth and plague.

"Chinese zodiac animal-" The snake is right there. The game won't shut up about how snake he is. We're having a Drifter-heavy episode right in the beginning of the snake lunar year. His personality matches the charm, mystery, and wisdom associated with the sign. He is never thematically associated with rats. He is never respectfully associated with rats.

It would be one thing if it was another asian character calling him that in the context of the rat's folkloric characteristics, but this is an American game by an American studio writing someone voiced by a non-asian to call him a rat as an insult about his cleanliness and food choices. Good for you if that doesn't hurt your feelings! Hurt many more people than you! They more real than him!

Good game story. Mistakes happen! Doesn't mean you have special privilege to repeat it.

He is snake! Viper! Asp! Cost zero dollar to say that instead! Don't keep a pet slur in your pocket!

[quirkwizard]

The Metapocalypse

So when the series ended, I saw that a handful of fans were confused or disappointed about a certain plot point being resolved. That being the Quirk Doomsday Theory. I saw many fans follow that this idea would be important to the manga somehow. Now, I could easily dismiss this as fans latching onto something when the author never intended it to be that important. However, I still wanted to discuss it. Because I do think that there is something to this concept, but not in the way that everyone seems to think it is.

The Quirk Singularity, or the Quirk Doomsday Theory, is the idea that Quirks become stronger with each generation as they begin to intermingle with one another. And, when these Quirks grow too strong, more complicated, and dangerous to handle. The Quirks as a whole would grow to the point where people and society at large would not be able to handle them. Now, there isn't any denying that something like this is happening. There are a lot of examples of Quirks getting strong as time passes. There are the kids that Bakugou and Shoto work with, there's evidence from Destro's book about kids beating their parents during mock battles, and the absurd heights of the kids of Class 1-A. So it's clear that the manga is pushing the idea that Quirks are getting stronger.

However, the "doomsday" part of the theory is a lot more questionable. Of the Quirks we've seen, there haven't been any major examples of Quirks being too dangerous from the previous generations. Just look at all the pro heroes and the students. They all have their own downsides, but none of them are so strong as to be an active, uncontrollable threat to themselves and anyone around them like the theory is suggesting. What examples we do have are questionable. Tomura and Aoyama were originally the prime examples of this. However, it was eventually revealed that Tomura and Aoyama were given their Quirks. It's an unnatural process, one that their bodies were designed for. They hardly seem like the most fitting examples now.

I would argue the best examples are Dabi and Eri. Yes, their Quirks are dangerous, both to themselves and other people. Yet again, though, Dabi is a result of a very specific combination of powers. Two powers that are active counters to one another and have a very high chance of going wrong. If anything, he could just as easily be used as an example of Quirks potentially getting weaker when they intermingle. Eri is a deviation as well. Her power is so far out of the scope of the setting that I'm not even sure if it counts. Even then, they aren't a threat to the world at large. With the right help, whether it be through training their powers or giving them the right equipment, they could easily live among everyone else. Shoot, you could snap off Eri's horn, and her power becomes harmless.

The only person who really pushes for this idea is Dr. Garaki himself. And yes, Garaki is the number one authority on Quirks in the series. If anyone can have any say on what is happening with Quirks, it's him. However, he's also the guy who made the theory. Of course he's going to see everything as confirmation for his idea, like what's happening with Tomura or the drug made from Eri. All while cackling like a madman about it. He isn't exactly an unbiased source. Especially since a lot of what supported his theory he had some hand in, such as Tomura's bizarre body modifications. There's a reason why people keep calling him crazy, like Present Mic. Because when you really look at the theory and compare it with what we've seen, it doesn't line up.

So, what is the point of all this? Why introduce this theory outside of some neat worldbuilding? I think it has more to do with the themes of the story than being any kind of plot point. The only two people who believe in the idea are All For One and Garaki. Two old, long-lived men who want nothing more than for things to regress and stagnate. That's the whole point of them as villains. The Quirk Doomsday Theory is supposed to show the villain's stance against progress. That it's something to be feared. However, the series runs counter to this. That people shouldn't be afraid of things progressing. That older generations should be working to cultivate and help the next generation grow. It's why when it's first introduced, it's when Bakugou and the gang are doing that exact thing with all the troubled kids.