bluesworldd

[bluesworldd]

The Price of Keeping Everything

Pairings:human-turned-vampire! Remmick x human!fem reader

Word count: 11.3k+

Summary: In a bakery infused with warmth and unspoken longing, two people navigate the delicate dance between desire and secrets. As their world unravels with revelations and heartache, their choices will lead them down paths that intertwine love with darkness. In a gripping tale where every whisper of the past casts long shadows, both find themselves facing the ultimate choice between redemption and the consequences of love's hidden truths.

Content Warning: Grief, loss, emotional manipulation, death, blood, violence, memory of domestic abuse, betrayal, supernatural elements, lying, coercion, implied sexual content, fear, emotional distress, transformation, abandonment

A/N: omggg I had this written alr but I didn’t have time to edit it(I kind of skimmed through editing this) buttt it’s finally done whoop whoop! Anyways I hope you enjoy this and I can find time to write many more different fics. Likes, Reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!!^^

The scent of cardamom and browned butter clung to the air like memory. The bakery had been open just past dawn, and already the ovens groaned with heat, casting golden flickers across the stone walls like morning ghosts. Your father’s footsteps echoed from the back as he barked orders you could finish before he even spoke them. You knew every rhythm here—every creak of wood under flour-heavy boots, every breath of cinnamon that curled up your sleeve like perfume.

Except now there was a new rhythm.

It was quieter than the rest. Measured. Careful.

You glanced past the rack of cooling loaves to the back corner, where the newest hire stood hunched over a sack of grain. His name was Remmick. And he looked like he’d been carved out of the grey—grey shirt, grey eyes, grey mood. A quiet thing with long limbs and a dorky sort of stillness, like he didn’t quite know how to take up space yet.

He was awkward. Too formal with your father. Too gentle with the bread.

And you couldn’t stop watchin’ him.

“This one don’t speak unless spoken to,” your father had muttered that first day, handing Remmick a pair of rolled sleeves and a sharp look. “And even then, he barely does. But his hands are strong. Might finally keep up with you.”

You hadn’t replied. Just looked the boy over, seen the way he stood like the floor might swallow him whole.

You’d expected him to fold after a week.

But here he was—two weeks in. Still quiet. Still showin’ up before sunrise with his hair a mess and his boots muddy from the walk through town. And you still didn’t know a damn thing about him.

Except you wanted to.

“Mornin’, Remmick,” you called now, loud over the clang of iron trays.

He stiffened. Straightened. Wiped his palms on his apron before glancin’ up.

“Mornin’, miss.”

“Miss?” You raised a brow, leaning your hip into the floured table. “That what we doin’? Real formal-like?”

He blinked. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

You chuckled, rollin’ a bun between your palms. “No offense taken. Just don’t reckon I’m used to bein’ called ‘miss’ by a man who nearly knocked over a whole tray of berry tarts yesterday.”

A flush crept up his neck, and he looked away.

Bingo.

“So,” you continued, folding the dough again just to keep your hands busy, “where’d you learn to knead like that? You got baker blood, or are you just tryin’ real hard to impress my old man?”

Remmick shrugged. “Worked a kitchen once. Before this.”

“That so?”

He nodded, eyes back on the dough he was weighin’. “Nothin’ special. Big house. Lotta noise.”

You tilted your head. “A manor kitchen?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He didn’t offer more. But his knuckles were white on the table’s edge.

You filed that away.

“Well, you’re better’n the last man Pa brought in. That one thought sourdough was just regular bread with an attitude.”

That earned you a flicker of a grin. Barely there. But it tugged at your chest all the same.

“You always this talkative in the mornin’?” he asked softly, eyes still on the dough.

You smirked. “Only when I’m curious.”

“’Bout what?”

“’Bout you.”

That shut him up quick.

The heat from the ovens pushed against your back, sweat pricklin’ beneath your headscarf. You could hear your father stompin’ around in the storeroom, mutterin’ about deliveries, and still—still—all you could focus on was the way Remmick’s eyes darted to you and then away again like it hurt to keep lookin’.

Like maybe he didn’t think he was allowed to.

You picked up your tray and brushed past him, close enough to catch the scent of ash and something else—like spice left too long in a sealed jar. You caught him holdin’ his breath.

“Relax, Remmick,” you murmured near his shoulder. “I don’t bite.”

But Lord, you’d learn one day that he did.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

And the scars would never fade. The morning opened gentle—fog clingin’ low to the stones and the scent of molasses already workin’ its way into the wood beams. You’d been up since before the rooster, coaxin’ yeast to rise and tryin’ not to think about the ache in your lower back from yesterday’s deliveries. The town’s festival was three weeks off, and that meant your father was pushin’ double orders, expectin’ the both of you to run like four.

Remmick was already there when you came in.

He always was. Like he never slept. Like he came with the ovens.

You saw him through the slant of the window near the back door—coat slung over a chair, sleeves rolled up, leanin’ low over the dough trough with that same strange reverence. He moved like the bread might break if he breathed too hard. Like he was still learnin’ what it meant to touch things without losin’ them.

You opened the door with your hip, basket in your arms.

He looked up when you entered, blinkin’ once, then goin’ right back to work.

“Mornin’,” you said.

“Mornin’.”

That was all. But you heard the softness in it now. He was adjustin’ to you—little by little. Like maybe he didn’t mind so much anymore.

You set the basket down on the prep table, unloadin’ the cloth-wrapped jars and bundles. “You ever use orange blossom before?” you asked, holdin’ up the small dark bottle.

Remmick glanced over, brows liftin’ just slightly. “No. But I’ve smelled it.”

“That ain’t the same.”

“Smells like summer,” he said.

You stopped, lookin’ at him. “That’s a good way to put it.”

He offered a shrug. “Got a memory for things like that.”

“Things like what?”

“Smells. Colors. Words people don’t mean to say out loud.”

That gave you pause.

You watched him turn the dough again, strong hands folding it slow and steady.

“You always talk in riddles, or is that just a me thing?” you asked, smilin’ faint.

His mouth twitched. “Might be a you thing.”

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed, eyes still on him. “You’re not from here.”

“No.”

“Where you from then?”

He wiped his hands on a cloth. “East of here. Little colder. Little quieter.”

You nodded. “You miss it?”

He hesitated. Then, “Sometimes. But I like the quiet here better.”

That answer sat heavy between you.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you moved to the back shelves, grabbed the pan for the morning’s tart shells. The silence was easy now—like the space between verses in a hymn. You heard your father in the next room, cussin’ at a dented tray. Remmick didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t until an hour later, as the tarts cooled and the steam rolled thick from the stovetop, that he finally asked, “You ever think about leavin’? This town, I mean.”

You blinked. Caught off guard. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “Not ‘cause I hate it. Just… feels like there’s more.”

“More what?”

“More me, maybe. Someplace else.”

He nodded, like he understood.

“Why?” you asked, settin’ a cherry beside each tart. “You plannin’ on leavin’?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the flour on his palms.

Then, quiet: “I used to think I had to.”

You looked at him.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked back.

His eyes were softer than you expected.

“Now I don’t know,” he said.

And neither of you said much else that morning.

But later, you caught him hummin’ under his breath when he thought you weren’t listenin’.

And the tune—

It was the same one your mama used to sing when she pressed your hair and said love was somethin’ that crept in quiet.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day your father asked you to do the market run with Remmick, you almost dropped the basket of scones.

Not because it was a surprise—he’d been makin’ you do those runs since you were tall enough to carry a tray without fallin’ in the dirt. But because your father never let you go with anyone. Especially not with a man, and certainly not with the quiet one he still didn’t trust with the register.

“Town’s too busy today,” he’d muttered, rubbin’ flour off his fingers. “And that last batch of lemon braid’s too fresh to go to waste.”

You didn’t ask why Remmick couldn’t go alone. You didn’t care.

You just tied your scarf a little tighter and tried to hide the flutter beneath your ribs.

He was already waitin’ out front, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the crate of bread settled easy against his hip. He nodded when he saw you, eyes flickin’ to the basket you carried.

“That all of it?”

You nodded, pretendin’ you didn’t just count the number of words he said to you.

It was five.

Five whole words. More Progress.

The road to the market was dirt and stone, a half-hour’s walk if you didn’t stop. The heat was startin’ to lean toward summer, not so bad yet, but enough that the shade under the poplar trees looked like mercy.

You walked a little ahead at first, mostly to hide your nerves. He didn’t talk. Didn’t hum like he sometimes did in the kitchen. But you noticed he always stayed just behind you—close enough to be polite, far enough not to crowd.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the market before,” you said after a while, tryin’ to make it casual.

“Only been once,” he said. “Didn’t like the crowd.”

“Too many people?”

He nodded. “Too many lies.”

That made you glance over. “You can tell when people are lyin’?”

He shrugged. “Most folk lie with their hands. Or their shoulders.”

You laughed, not unkind. “You ever see me lie?”

He didn’t look at you. Just walked another step, then said, “Not yet.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you stayed quiet the rest of the way, listenin’ to the wind fuss with the trees and the scuff of your shoes against the road.

The market was already hummin’ when you got there. Stalls lined the square, fruit and cloth and tins of spices from traders who’d crossed more land than you could name. Remmick didn’t seem like he belonged there—his posture too straight, his eyes too sharp—but no one questioned him. You made the sale quick, passin’ off the braid and scones to Miss Tilda, who always paid in coin and news.

“Y’all hear about the wine maker wife?” she whispered, slippin’ your father’s payment into your palm. “Swears there’s a ghost sleepin’ in her rafters.”

“Maybe it’s just her husband snorin’ again,” you said.

Miss Tilda cackled, teeth flashin’. “That’s why I like you, girl.”

You turned to find Remmick standin’ by the edge of the stall, hands in his pockets, eyes on the fountain at the center of the square.

“Done?” he asked.

“Just about,” you said, tucking the coin away. “You want to look around?”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen enough.”

But he didn’t move right away.

He watched the fountain for a long moment, brows drawn, like it reminded him of somethin’ he couldn’t place.

On the way back, the clouds rolled in low and sudden.

You cursed under your breath when the first drop hit your cheek. “Didn’t bring a coat,” you muttered.

“Here,” he said.

And without waitin’ for you to answer, he slid his overcoat from his arms and held it out.

You hesitated. “You’ll get soaked.”

“I’ve been wet before.”

You took it.

It smelled like flour and smoke and something faintly bitter—like cloves, or old sorrow.

He didn’t say nothin’ the rest of the way home.

Didn’t ask for the coat back.

Didn’t look at you twice.

But that night, you hung the coat by the hearth and stood starin’ at it long after the fire died.

Like maybe it’d remember the way he looked at you before the storm came.

And maybe—just maybe—he was startin’ to see you, too.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Two days passed quiet.

Remmick didn’t say more than needed, and you didn’t push. Not yet. But that coat still hung by the fire—his coat—and every time you caught sight of it, a warmth stirred in your chest that had nothin’ to do with the embers.

You were elbow-deep in flour when he came rushin’ through the back door, boots scuffed with mud and the edge of his tunic dusted in pollen.

“I need a blade,” he muttered, half to himself.

Your brow lifted as you dusted your hands on your apron. “We’re in a bakery, not a smithy.”

“I need a small one—sharp. For fruit.” His eyes flicked to the table where your father’s old knives rested.

You tilted your head. “What for?”

He held up his hand. Cradled in it was the most pitiful, sun-dented apricot you’d ever seen—bruised, half-cracked, but gold as anything.

You stared.

Then burst out laughin’. “You nearly tore the door off its hinges for a fruit?”

He looked almost embarrassed, cheeks flushin’ faint beneath his scruff. “I dropped the whole basket. This was the only one that didn’t split.”

“You gonna carve it a throne, then?”

“No,” he muttered, looking away. “You mentioned once… apricots were your favorite.”

Your breath caught.

“I found a stall near the town edge,” he added quickly. “Traded for ‘em. Was gonna surprise you.”

Your hands stilled on the flour bin. “You remembered that?”

He nodded once, setting the apricot on the table like it was holy. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

You reached for it, thumb brushing the bruised side. “It does.”

He watched you like he weren’t used to bein’ looked at. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, or how to stand.

You took a paring knife from the wall and sliced it clean, placing one half back into his palm without a word.

He blinked down at it. Then up at you.

“Share it with me,” you said softly.

He sat.

You leaned against the counter beside him, your shoulders almost touchin’. The bakery smelled of clove and almond, and the soft crackle of the oven filled the silence as you both bit into your halves.

It was sweet.

Overripe and imperfect.

But sweet.

And when your fingers brushed his, reachin’ for the seed, neither of you pulled away.

That apricot changed things.

Not with words. Not with confessions.

But with glances that lingered half a second too long. With the way your fingers would brush as you kneaded dough side by side. With the way Remmick started coming in earlier—never saying why, just sweeping out the ashes and relighting the hearth before you’d even tied your apron.

You noticed how he moved now—how he stood when he thought no one was watchin’, arms folded across his chest, back to the door like he needed to know what was behind him at all times. How he mumbled to himself when he measured flour, or how he smiled under his breath when you teased the village boys who came sniffin’ round for scraps.

He’d never laugh out loud.

But sometimes you’d catch him mid-chuckle, lookin’ like he’d startled himself.

Then one afternoon, it rained.

The kind of rain that comes down slow but steady, soakin’ into the thatch, drippin’ from the eaves like the sky itself was sighin’.

You’d been rollin’ dough while he stoked the fire, and your shawl had fallen off your shoulder. He stepped up behind you without speakin’, lifted it gently, and laid it back across your back.

It should’ve been nothin’.

But his fingers brushed your skin—bare for just a moment.

You froze.

So did he.

The warmth of him lingered even as he stepped back, and when you turned, he wasn’t lookin’ at you.

His eyes were on the window.

On the rain.

On anything but you.

“Remmick,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

You stepped toward him. Just one pace. Bare feet whisperin’ across the flour-dusted stones.

“You’re not just quiet,” you said, watching him. “You’re hiding.”

Still, he didn’t look at you.

So you took another step.

His hands were at his sides—tense. You reached for one, gently, like you were taming a frightened horse.

His fingers twitched. He let you take it.

For a second, he let you hold it.

Then—he pulled away.

Not harsh. Not sudden.

But like it hurt.

Like it took every bit of him to do it.

“I should check the ovens,” he muttered, already halfway to the back room.

“Remmick,” you called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

You stood alone in the quiet.

Heart in your throat.

Hand still open where his had been.

Outside, the rain kept fallin’.

Inside, the warmth of his touch had already gone cold.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

After the rain, he changed again.

Not all at once.

But in small, stubborn ways.

He stopped comin’ in early. Stopped hummin’ under his breath when he swept. Kept to his side of the worktable like there was an invisible line drawn between your flour and his.

He still spoke—when spoken to. Still fixed the oven when it groaned too loud. Still rolled the dough with his sleeves pushed up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the veins in his forearms.

But he didn’t look at you.

Not really.

And not for long.

You tried not to let it show. You joked like you always did. Plucked herbs from the windowsill and tucked them behind his ear when he reached for the mixing bowl. You asked about his past, about the village he’d come from. He answered with half-truths and shrugs, eyes always driftin’ to the fire or the door.

Still, you didn’t stop.

You offered him warm crusts from the first loaf out the oven—burnin’ your fingers just to get to them before they cooled.

You pressed a plum into his palm one afternoon, sticky-sweet and soft. “You looked like you needed somethin’ sweet,” you said.

He didn’t eat it.

But he didn’t throw it away, either.

He just held it for a long while—then set it down gently beside the water basin.

When he thought you weren’t lookin’, you saw him roll it in his hand. Thumb draggin’ over the skin like he was rememberin’ the weight of your voice.

That night, you found a plum pit tucked in the hearth ashes.

He’d eaten it alone.

You told yourself that meant something.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Another day passed. Then two.

He moved like someone with weights tied to his ribs. Still kind. Still careful. But distant.

And you?

You felt like you were reachin’ through a crack in the stone, tryin’ to coax light into a place where it hadn’t been welcome for a long, long time.

So you tried a different way.

You brought him tea at closing. Not because he asked. Just because you knew his hands ached from kneadin’. Just because you knew it’d been three days since he’d smiled.

He looked at the cup.

Then at you.

And for the first time in days, he held your gaze longer than a heartbeat.

“You don’t have to keep tryin’,” he said, voice low. “Some folk got walls for a reason.”

You smiled, soft and steady. “Yeah,” you said. “And some walls ain’t built right. All it takes is the right hand to press the right stone.”

He didn’t answer.

But he took the tea.

And didn’t look away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The afternoon sun had dipped just low enough to send a soft gold hue through the windows, casting long, warm shadows across the flour-dusted floors. The scent of almond oil and orange peel lingered in the air, from the morning’s pastries still cooling near the window.

Y/N stood on the old wooden stool near the corner shelf, arm stretched high, fingers barely grazing the edge of the tin she needed. Her father had told her time and time again not to use that stool—it wobbled when the floor creaked, and today was no different.

“Just a little more,” she muttered, biting her lip.

Below, Remmick was bent near the prep table, stacking trays with quiet precision, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled to the elbow. He glanced up at the sound of wood groaning.

She’d grown used to climbing the wobbly stool, balancing on her toes, fingers stretching to graze the dusty edge of a jar or tin. But today, something shifted—maybe the wood had warped, maybe she’d rushed it.

Whatever the cause, her footing slipped.

The heel of her boot skated off the stool’s rim, and a startled yelp caught in her throat as her balance tipped forward into open air.

She didn’t hit the floor.

A pair of strong hands caught her—rough palms curling around her waist, steady and firm like the earth had risen up beneath her. Her chest hit his, breath knocked clean from her lungs, the scent of flour and firewood clinging to his shirt, to the warmth of him beneath it.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Remmick’s breath hitched in her ear, close enough that she felt the shift of his chest rise against hers. His fingers gripped tighter without meaning to—possessive, startled, lingering.

She tilted her head just slightly, eyes meeting his at close range. His were wide, a storm of something unreadable behind them. Fear, maybe. Or something older. Something heavier.

“I—” she started, breathless. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice low, rough at the edges.

She hadn’t realized she was trembling until his thumb twitched against her side, grounding her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He held her gaze a beat longer, eyes flickering between hers and her mouth. His own parted—just a little—but no sound came.

And then he stepped back.

The air between them cooled like a sudden draft. His hands fell away, jaw tight, eyes averted.

“You ought not to climb that stool,” he muttered, turning away too fast. “It’s not steady.”

She stood still, heart hammering beneath her apron.

“It held just fine last week,” she said, more softly than she meant to.

He didn’t answer.

Just went back to the counter, hands moving with an urgency that didn’t match the task, kneading dough like it might silence the pulse in his veins.

She watched him for a while, eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and something else—something that had begun curling warm and stubborn in her belly ever since he’d started to unravel.

He could shut himself off again if he liked.

She wasn’t done pulling.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The days that followed moved slow and golden.

Remmick didn’t speak of the fall, or the way he’d caught you like it mattered. But you felt it all the same—in the way his shoulders eased when you entered the room, in the way he stopped pretendin’ not to listen when you hummed.

He started bringin’ things again. Quiet offerings.

A bundle of mint from the woods behind the chapel. A coin smoothed flat by the river. A handful of berries so ripe they burst in your palm.

“You ever eat these with honey?” he asked one morning, setting them on the prep table.

You looked at him, surprised. “You cookin’ now?”

He shrugged. “No. Just thought you might like ‘em.”

You did. And he knew it.

That night, you shared them at the fire, fingers stained red, knees nearly touchin’ beneath the table.

He watched you lick juice from your thumb and looked away fast—like he was ashamed of wantin’ to keep watchin’.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away when your foot brushed his under the bench.

Didn’t flinch when your head tipped just a little closer than before.

And when you leaned into him, quiet and warm and full of some ache you didn’t yet have words for—he let you rest there.

That was the night he started hummin’ again.

A tune you didn’t know. Low and rough and holy.

He left before the song finished. But his eyes stayed on you as he closed the door behind him.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Long days in the heat of the kitchen. Evenings where you lingered outside with bread still warm in your apron and sweat curling at your brow.

He stayed longer now. Helped sweep. Helped lock up. Sometimes walked you partway home before turning off toward the woods, sayin’ nothin’ but leaving a shadow behind that always clung to your heels.

Once, you found a carved wooden charm on your windowsill. Small. Crooked. Like someone had whittled it in the dark.

You kept it under your pillow.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Then came the harvest fire.

The whole town gathered in the square. Bonfires in every corner, sparks catchin’ in the dusk like stars had fallen too low. The day filled with baking and selling and positivity then night came.The fire crackled low.

You and Remmick sat side by side on the bench outside the bakery, the heat from the ovens drifting out the stone vent behind you. The Harvest fire had long gone out, but the scent of smoke clung to his sleeves and your scarf.

You handed him the last of the berry loaf. Still warm. Crust sugared just right.

He took it slow, careful, like everything he ever touched.

You watched him eat in silence for a moment, then asked softly, “Did you ever have this, growin’ up?”

He blinked. “What—sweet bread?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have the sugar for it. We got day-old crusts from the inn if we were lucky.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “What about a fire like this? Family around, music, food?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out across the dark fields, thumb brushing the edge of the crust like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“No music,” he said eventually. “No fire. Just a lotta cold. A lotta yellin’. My da had hands quicker than his temper. And his temper weren’t ever slow.”

You turned to him fully, your heart twistin’. “Remmick…”

His voice was distant now. Like he was speakin’ to the ghosts of it.

“We had this window,” he said. “Cracked in the corner. Let in the wind even in summer. I used to sit beside it at night, pretendin’ I was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with music. Where the bread didn’t taste like ash and the air didn’t stink of fightin’.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch.

He let you take it.

“I used to pray,” he murmured. “Not to God. Just… to anything. For someone to see me. Not fix me. Just see me. Know I was there.”

His eyes met yours then.

And they were wide. Bare. No shields left.

“I see you,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

You leaned closer, thumb brushing his knuckles. “I see the way you hold your breath when you enter a room. The way you flinch when doors close too loud. I see the boy who sits by windows and wishes for warm.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

You touched his cheek. Gentle. Sure.

“You ain’t alone anymore, Remmick.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like your words hurt. Like they healed.

“Every time I think I’m gettin’ better,” he said, voice rough, “something in me remembers I don’t deserve it.”

You shook your head. “That ain’t true.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“You should.”

You leaned in, forehead almost touchin’ his. “I care who you are now. And I know what I see.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, barely breathin’.

You smiled, voice trembling but firm. “A man who catches people even when he’s fallin’ apart himself.”

He made a sound then—choked, quiet.

You reached for him again, arms open now, and for a moment he didn’t move.

Then he folded into you.

Not quick.

Not easy.

But like it took everything in him to let himself be held.

You wrapped your arms around him, felt the tension shake through his ribs, felt his breath stutter at your neck.

And you held him.

Not like he was fragile.

But like he was real.

And worthy.

And here.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet.

He didn’t apologize.

You were glad he didn’t.

He just whispered, “Thank you.”

You nodded.

And in your chest, a bloom unfurled—warm and aching and full of hope.

You loved him.

You knew it then.

And when you walked back inside that night, your hands brushed. He didn’t pull away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with a sneeze.

You were dustin’ the countertop when the flour puffed straight into your face. Remmick looked up from the proving baskets and froze.

“You alright?” he asked, already smilin’.

You swiped your sleeve across your cheek, squinting through the cloud. “Just swallowed half the sack, I think.”

He chuckled under his breath, and you narrowed your eyes.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’.”

“What?”

He leaned on the counter, mouth twitchin’. “You got flour in your lashes.”

“So?”

“So you look like a ghost who died makin’ biscuits.”

You grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it.

You missed.

He didn’t.

You didn’t see him throw his until it landed right in your hair, a full moon of white dustin’ your curls.

“Remmick!” you gasped, coughing through laughter.

He grinned—actually grinned—eyes crinkling in a way you hadn’t seen before. “That for the apricot throne comment,” he said.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

By the end of it, the prep table was a battlefield. You both coughed and wheezed and laughed ‘til your bellies hurt, backs against the oven, covered in flour like sugar ghosts.

And when the laughter faded, he looked at you—really looked.

“You’ve got light freckles,” he said, eyes soft.

You blinked. “Really? Never noticed.”

“Me either.” His voice dropped. “They’re real pretty.”

You forgot how to breathe.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The storms rolled in without thunder that night—just grey on grey, wind howlin’ low like a dog missin’ home.

You and Remmick were closin’ up when the candles flickered.

Then went out.

You paused by the hearth, hands mid-way through sweepin’ crumbs.

Remmick set the tray down. “I’ll check the shutters.”

He didn’t move.

You glanced over. “Remmick?”

“I hate the dark,” he said softly.

Your brow furrowed. “Why?”

He hesitated. Then, “When I was young, we lost my little brother. Wandered out one night. No moon, no lantern. By the time we found him…”

He didn’t finish.

You crossed the room, silent but sure, and slid your hand into his.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You ain’t in it alone.”

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t let go, either.

You stood there a long time, two silhouettes lit by the oven’s glow.

No stars.

Just warmth.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late summer brought the laziest kind of heat—the kind that made everything feel dipped in syrup. That afternoon, you dragged a stool out back and poured Remmick a glass of the sun tea you’d left brewin’ on the sill.

He sipped, lips quirkin’.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Mint and peach,” you said, smug. “With a little somethin’ extra.”

“Poison?”

“Rosewater,” you huffed, swattin’ at his arm.

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You laughed, kickin’ your feet up on the crate between you.

“Tell me a secret,” you said.

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause I just gave you my prize tea, and I’m sweatin’ through two layers of cotton.”

He leaned back. Looked at the sky.

“…I’m afraid I’ll ruin this,” he said.

You blinked.

“This?” you echoed.

“You. This. Us.” He swallowed. “I don’t always know how to be… safe.”

Your voice softened. “You don’t have to be safe. Just honest.”

He turned to you, eyes shaded but shining. “Then I’ll tell you another secret.”

You leaned in. “Go on.”

He smiled. “I like your rosewater tea.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late evening. The ovens are off. The fire’s low. The world’s asleep—except for you and him.

You were hummin’.

Just a little thing. Barely a tune. Something your mama used to sing when her back ached and the bread was risin’.

Remmick was stackin’ trays when he paused.

“What is that?” he asked, wiping flour off his palms.

You blinked up from the washbasin. “What?”

“That song. You hum it all the time.”

You shrugged, grinnin’. “Don’t even know if it’s a real song. Could be somethin’ Mama made up to keep from swearin’ when the yeast didn’t rise.”

Remmick leaned his hip against the table, eyes still on you. “Sounds like somethin’ you’d dance to.”

You froze. Half a breath. Then:

“You know how to dance, Remmick?”

He looked mildly offended. “I ain’t a corpse.”

“No, but you act like one most mornings.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know, I once danced at a harvest festival. Spun a girl so hard she threw up on my boots.”

You burst out laughin’. “Lord, I hope you take that as a cautionary tale.”

He stepped closer, holding out a hand like it wasn’t shakin’. “One dance. No vomit.”

You raised a brow. “Ain’t no music.”

“We’ll make our own.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, you set your rag down and took his hand.

It was warm. A little calloused. A little unsure.

You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and he hesitated before resting his palm against your waist.

The bakery felt quieter than it ever had.

The only sound was the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet and the ghost of your hum between you.

You took the first step.

So did he.

In opposite directions.

You stumbled.

He stepped on your foot.

You both froze.

“I warned you,” he muttered, ears turnin’ pink.

You covered your mouth to keep from laughin’. “You did not.”

He exhaled, shakily. “Alright, let’s try again.”

You reset. Hands back where they belonged. This time, you moved slower.

Left. Right. A turn that was more a shuffle than a twirl.

But you didn’t care.

He was holdin’ you like you mattered.

And he was smilin’.

Really smilin’. A little crooked. A little shy. But real.

“You’re not bad,” you whispered.

“I’m terrible,” he whispered back.

You grinned. “But you’re tryin’.”

And when you rested your head on his chest, just for a moment, you felt it:

The way his breath hitched.

The way his heart stuttered once—

Then steadied.

Like he’d been waitin’ his whole life to be held this gentle.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day had been long. The heat had broken. The kitchen was quiet. And neither of you had moved from the flour-dusted table in twenty minutes.

You were sittin’ side by side, ankles bumped beneath the bench, pickin’ raisins out of the last loaf like children who’d sworn they were full five minutes ago.

Remmick leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, watchin’ you like you were far more interestin’ than anything else this side of the river.

“You always eat the tops first,” he said.

You popped a piece in your mouth. “It’s the softest part.”

“That’s criminal behavior.”

You shrugged. “Bold talk from someone who eats crusts like it’s a job.”

He gave a mock scoff. “It is my job.”

You laughed, leanin’ sideways into his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned a little, too.

“Gonna tell me my loaf manners ain’t proper now?” you teased.

Remmick smirked, real slow. “No,” he said. “But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

His face turned red like an oven coil, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe he said it either.

“I mean—uh—”

You leaned closer, grinnin’. “Go on.”

“I… meant that in a respectful, deeply professional, non-criminal way,” he mumbled, lookin’ anywhere but your face.

You bit your lip. “So you think I’m cute?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re real hard not to look at.”

The silence stretched.

And then, soft and certain, you leaned in.

So did he.

And somewhere between the smell of molasses and the warm press of his palm against your knee, your lips touched.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was a little clumsy.

Your nose bumped his.

You giggled into his mouth.

But his hand cupped your cheek after that, thumb dusted in flour, and he kissed you like he wasn’t sure the world would let him do it twice.

It was sweet.

And soft.

And then—

“Mornin’ run’s late,” came your father’s voice as the back door swung open hard against the wall.

You and Remmick shot apart like bread tossed in a grease fire.

You both turned.

He was already halfway across the room, hangin’ his coat like nothin’ happened.

You grabbed a broom that wasn’t even yours, pretendin’ to sweep like your life depended on it.

Your dad stopped.

Squinted.

Raised one brow.

“…Why’s there a raisin on the floor?” he asked flatly.

You and Remmick answered at the same time.

“Slipped.”

“Fell.”

Your father just grunted.

Walked past you both.

Didn’t say a word.

But as he grabbed a tray off the shelf, you saw it.

The hint of a frown at the corner of his mouth.

He knew.

He knew.

And he said nothin’.

Just went about his business like his daughter hadn’t just been kissed breathless by the bakery hand with flour on his lips.

Remmick shot you a sideways glance.

You mouthed, we’re dead.

And he mouthed back, worth it.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with your legs tangled up in his, both of you sittin’ on the flour-dusted floor behind the prep table, laughin’ ‘til your sides ached.

Remmick had just confessed he once got caught deliverin’ bread to the wrong house and ended up feedin’ a rooster instead of a customer. You were wheezin’, folded over, tears in your eyes.

He was leanin’ back on his elbows, watchin’ you with that rare, lazy smirk you’d only started earnin’ lately.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You caught your breath and turned toward him. “You like trouble.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like he couldn’t remember what air tasted like before you came along.

You crawled over, slid into his lap without askin’. His hands found your hips like they were meant to live there.

“You keep starin’ at me like that,” you whispered, “you’re gonna have to do somethin’ about it.”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbin’.

“I’m tryin’ to be good.”

“You already are,” you said, breath warm against his jaw. “But I don’t want good right now.”

And that was all it took.

He kissed you—hard. Nothing tentative this time. Just mouths collidin’, hands roamin’, breath comin’ sharp. He gripped your thighs, pullin’ you flush against him, and you moaned into his mouth when you felt the thick press of him, already hard beneath his trousers.

“Fuck,” he muttered, like the word slipped out uninvited. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this every damn night.”

You ground down on him slowly, smilin’ as his breath hitched.

“Then do it right,” you whispered.

He stood, still holdin’ you, and set you down on the prep table like you were the finest thing he’d ever handled. His hands slid under your skirt, pushin’ it up around your waist, thumbs brushing over your thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’ll slap you if you do.”

That made him grin—but it faded fast as he dropped to his knees, draggin’ your panties down your legs slow. Real slow. Watchin’ every inch of skin he revealed like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.

“Pretty,” he said, more like a groan than a compliment.

Then his mouth was on you.

You gasped, head fallin’ back, hand grippin’ the table edge. His tongue moved soft at first—circlin’, explorin’—then firm, steady, rhythmic. He groaned against your pussy when you moaned his name, and the vibration made your knees damn near buckle.

“Remmick—” you panted. “God—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He licked you like he meant to make you fall apart. Like he was starvin’ and you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste.

When you came, it was with a cry into your forearm, thighs clenchin’ around his head, body shakin’.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and sweet, then stood—lickin’ his lips with a look that should’ve been a sin.

You reached for his belt.

“Take it off,” you said.

He obeyed without a word, fingers fumblin’ slightly, breath shallow as he shoved his pants down and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leakn’ at the tip.

Your eyes widened. “Remmick…”

“What?” he asked, brows drawin’ down.

“You’re… big.”

He flushed hard, mouth open like he didn’t know what to say.

You pulled him close. “Good thing I’m brave.”

He kissed you, deep and messy, while you guided him between your legs. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, grippin’ the table behind you with white-knuckled fists.

“Ready?” he breathed.

You nodded. “Need you.”

And he pushed in.

Slow.

Stretchin’ you open inch by inch, your walls clenchin’ around him as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re tight—fuckin’ hell—”

You whimpered. “Keep goin’.”

He paused once he was fully seated inside, tryin’ not to lose it right there.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And he started to move.

Each stroke was deep, slow, fillin’ you up so good you forgot where you were. His hips rocked steady, his breath ragged against your mouth, his hands all over you—your waist, your thighs, your ass.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, voice guttural. “Could die like this.”

You clung to him, legs wrapped around his hips, heels diggin’ in to pull him deeper.

“Harder,” you whispered.

He obeyed.

The table creaked.

Your cries grew louder.

He kissed your neck, your mouth, your shoulder—sayin’ your name like a prayer between thrusts.

You came again, this time clenchin’ around him so hard he cursed into your collarbone.

“I—shit—Y/N—” he choked out, and then he came with a low groan, hips jerkin’, cock pulsin’ deep inside you.

You both stayed there a moment, breathless, his head buried in your neck.

“I think,” you panted, “we might’ve burnt the night rolls.”

He laughed—weakly. “Worth it.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The table still creaked when you leaned against it the next night, memories fresh in your bones.

You’d cleaned the flour off it, wiped every trace, but some things don’t wash out easy. Especially not heat. Not touch.

Not the sound of Remmick gasping your name against your neck.

He was late comin’ in, which wasn’t like him.

But when he finally pushed through the door, coat tugged close and hair tousled from wind, you smiled like your heart already knew how to beat faster just for him.

“Evenin’, stranger,” you teased, nudgin’ a bowl of peaches toward him.

He grinned, tired but genuine. “Got caught up. Had a few things to see to.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged. “Nothin’ bad. Just… personal.”

You didn’t press. Not tonight.

He helped you close up—quiet but present—hands brushing yours when you passed him the trays. There was a softness between you now, unspoken but undeniable. He didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Didn’t hide the way his fingers lingered when he tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

When the last lantern was out, he reached for his coat again.

“You ain’t stayin’ late?” you asked, tryin’ not to sound disappointed.

He gave you a sheepish look. “Wish I could. But I gotta take care of somethin’. I’ll be back before dawn.”

You nodded, stepping closer.

“Hold still.”

He blinked. “What for—”

You stood on your toes and kissed him. Quick. Light. Barely a breath of it.

But it made him exhale like you’d knocked the wind clean from his lungs.

He looked at you like he might stay after all.

But he didn’t.

He kissed your knuckles slow, then stepped back with a whisper of a smile.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

Then he was gone.

And the door clicked shut.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Your father was waitin’ in the front room.

You didn’t notice him at first—just went about stackin’ the last of the linen, still flushed from the kiss.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharp enough to still the air.

You turned. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

He was sittin’ with his ledger in his lap, pen still in hand, eyes fixed.

“I been thinkin’, and it’s time you heard it straight.”

You blinked. “Heard what?”

“You’re marryin’ Thom Hensley.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came.

“I already gave my word,” he said flatly. “Arranged it last week. His daddy’s providin’ two barrels of flour a month and coverin’ the roof repair.”

You took a step back. “No.”

“It’s done.”

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said, voice crackin’.

“Didn’t need to. You’re a smart girl, Y/N. You know love don’t pay for shingles and sugar. This here’s survival.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest.

Your lips still tasted like Remmick.

Your thighs still ached from him.

And now?

Now your world was shatterin’ in your hands like a dropped dish on stone.

“I’m not marryin’ him,” you whispered.

“You will,” your father said, standing. “You’ll thank me someday when your belly’s full and you ain’t beggin’ for scraps.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t soften.

Didn’t see the girl in front of him—just the deal already signed.

You ran.

Out the back door, apron still on, breath catchin’ in your throat like ash.

But Remmick was already gone.

And the stars above were too quiet to answer.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The Next Day – Just Before Sunset

The bell above the bakery door jingled.

Once.

Sharp as a knife drawn too fast.

Her father looked up from the broom in his hand, brows raisin’ at the sound. The sun was already sinkin’ behind the buildings, spillin’ red through the windows. The sign on the door said Closed.

But there he was.

Remmick.

Leanin’ in the doorway like a shadow that had learned how to walk.

His coat hung clean, but his eyes looked wrong. Darker than nightfall. Like the world inside him had stopped makin’ sense.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her father said. “I thought you ran off like a whipped pup.”

Remmick didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just stepped inside, boots quiet on the wood, until they stood near the counter where her hands used to press the dough flat each morning.

Her father squinted. “You here for more beggin’? Thought I told you, she’s not yours.”

“You don’t get to own her,” Remmick said, voice low.

“Don’t gotta own her. Just gotta protect her from fools like you who can’t offer nothin’ but promises.”

“Stop the wedding,” Remmick said, stepping closer. “Tell him it’s off. Give her back.”

Her father barked a laugh, full of spite. “Give her back? What’re you, some kind of prince now? You got land? You got title? Hell—you got a pulse worth bettin’ on?”

“I’ll take her away. Far from here. She loves me.”

“She don’t know what love is!” he shouted, slammin’ his palm against the counter. “You think touchin’ her in the dark gives you a claim? You’re a ghost, boy. You were always just passin’ through.”

Remmick’s breath caught.

His jaw clenched.

And somewhere under his skin—something shifted.

He didn’t remember moving.

Didn’t remember the sound of bone splitting.

But he felt it—claws, black as ash, slippin’ out from his fingertips like knives born from hunger.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he growled.

The air went still.

Her father took a step back.

And that’s when it happened.

A blur.

A flash.

A sound like meat tearin’.

Remmick’s hand moved before his mind did.

The claws slashed across the man’s chest—deep, red spillin’ out like wine uncorked in one sudden breath.

The broom hit the floor.

Her father stumbled back, gaspin’, eyes wide with shock. He reached for the counter, missed, and collapsed onto his side with a heavy thud.

Remmick stood frozen.

Shit. Shit—

He dropped to his knees, heart poundin’ in a chest that didn’t beat anymore.

“No, no, no—” he whispered, hands tryin’ to press against the wound, to hold somethin’ in that was already spillin’ out too fast.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean—”

Her father’s lips parted once. No words. Just a long, shaky breath that rattled in his throat.

And then…

Stillness.

Remmick’s hands were soaked to the wrists.

“God—no—”

But what broke him wasn’t the blood.

It was the gold pendant in the old man’s hand.

Still clutched tight.

A necklace.

Simple.

Oval-shaped.

And inside—behind the glass—a faded sketch of a woman’s face.

Y/N’s mother.

Remmick stared at it, chest hollowed out, eyes wild with something worse than fear.

He was trying to hold onto her memory when he died.

She was all he had left.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Too close.

Someone was comin’.

Remmick snatched the pendant, hand shakin’, eyes wide.

He ran.

Out the back.

Into the dark.

Heartless and hunted.

Blood on his coat.

Love on his tongue.

And a curse bloomin’ in his chest that no power in the woods could ever undo.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

One week later. After the funeral. The sun sets behind the chapel.

They buried her father under the willow near the chapel’s edge, the one with roots so deep the grave digger cursed under his breath the whole morning.

The wedding never came.

The flowers meant for the aisle withered in the corner of the bakery, forgotten.

People murmured their sympathies like gossip dressed up in black. So sorry. So sudden. Such a shame.

Y/N didn’t hear a word of it.

She stood through the service dry-eyed and stone-still, clutching the locket that had been pressed into her hand by the seamstress who’d cleaned her father’s coat.

Inside was a sketch of her mother.

Old. Smudged.

She hadn’t known he still carried it.

She hadn’t known a lot of things.

꧁༺༻꧂

The sun was settin’ by the time she was alone.

She stayed behind after everyone else had gone, lettin’ the silence sit heavy around her like the heat after a fire.

Her boots sank slightly into the soft dirt as she stepped away from the grave. Her veil had been black instead of white. Her hands still smelled like lilies and earth.

Then—

She felt it.

That weight in the air. That strange pull, like the wind had stopped breathin’.

She turned.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Standin’ just beyond the tree line, half-shadowed in the gold light.

Not movin’.

Not speakin’.

Just there.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She hadn’t seen him since… before.

Before the blood.

Before the screaming silence in her chest.

“Remmick,” she whispered.

He stepped closer.

And in the light, she saw him fully.

His face was the same. But not.

Eyes darker. Skin paler. A stillness in him that hadn’t been there before. Like the world moved and he stayed behind.

“You’re alive,” she said, the words trembling out of her.

“Mostly,” he murmured.

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again—but what came out wasn’t what she expected.

It was anger.

“You weren’t there.”

His brow furrowed.

“I waited,” she said, voice crackin’ now. “I needed you, and you left.”

“Y/N—”

“You left me with him. With the man who told me I was a burden. Who sold me off like a sack of flour and didn’t even ask me.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And now he’s gone.”

She took a step forward, hands balled at her sides.

“He’s gone, and I never got to say goodbye. Never told him I forgave him. Never got to yell at him or hug him or—anything. He died thinkin’ I hated him. And you—”

Her voice broke completely.

“You weren’t there.”

Remmick’s mouth parted, eyes glassin’.

“I wanted to be.”

“Then why weren’t you?” she demanded, tears spillin’ now, hot down her cheeks.

He took another step, slower this time.

“Because I thought I had nothin’ left to give you,” he whispered. “I went looking for a way to fix it. To make things right. But all I did was break more.”

She stared at him, breathin’ hard, her grief and fury twisted together like a storm that had no place left to land.

And somewhere deep inside her—

She felt it.

Something was wrong.

Different.

Off.

“What did you do?” she asked, barely audible.

Remmick looked at her.

And said nothing.

But the look in his eyes—

The look of a man who would damn himself to keep her safe—

That said everything.

꧁༺༻꧂  

The wedding never came.

Not after the funeral.

Not after the letters stopped.

Not after she sat alone in her room for three days straight, the white dress hangin’ limp in her wardrobe like a ghost she hadn’t invited.

Y/N called it off herself.

Didn’t wait for Thom’s answer.

Didn’t care what the town whispered when she took off the ring and walked into the chapel barefoot and unbothered.

She’d already buried enough that week.

Remmick found her in the garden behind the bakery a few days later, sittin’ in her mama’s old rocking chair with her knees tucked up, a blanket draped around her shoulders and her eyes swollen from cryin’.

She didn’t speak when he approached.

Didn’t flinch when he sat beside her.

She just leaned into him like she’d been waitin’ for his warmth all day, and he let her.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Held her when she trembled.

Didn’t offer false comforts.

Didn’t rush her grief.

He was quiet—but present.

And that meant more than any apology ever could.

“I still feel him in the walls,” she whispered one night, curled up on the old settee in the back room, Remmick sittin’ beside her with his fingers in her hair. “The way he’d mutter when the jam boiled too fast. The way his boots hit the floor when he was pissed.”

Remmick just nodded, soft and slow.

“I hated him,” she said. “And I loved him. And now I don’t know what to do with any of it.”

He looked at her, expression unreadable.

“You forgive yourself,” he said. “That’s where you start.”

She turned toward him, eyes bleary. “But what if I’m the reason he died angry?”

“He chose what he chose,” Remmick said quietly. “That don’t belong to you.”

Y/N broke then, and Remmick caught her—again.

Time passed like that.

She began movin’ more. Smilin’ again in pieces. Her hands found rhythm in baking once more. She laughed softer, held her own silence better.

And Remmick was always near.

She clung to him like a raft in the flood.

Let him kiss her slow, unhurried. Let him whisper how proud he was. How strong she was.

He kissed her scars like blessings.

And she loved him.

Loved him so much it made her forget sometimes.

Forget how he never stepped into the sunlight.

Forget how he flinched when she brought garlic into the kitchen.

Forget how cold his hands stayed even when he was holdin’ her tight.

She chalked it up to grief. To change. To the weight of all they’d been through.

Love made shadows softer.

Until the day she cleaned his room.

꧁༺༻꧂

She wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’.

Just a fresh blanket. The edge of summer was nippin’ cold again, and Remmick’d been workin’ harder than usual—stayin’ up late, disappearin’ at odd hours with excuses about woodcutters or errands that didn’t quite line up.

She went to fold his spare coat.

It was heavier than usual.

She reached into the inner pocket—

And pulled out the gold locket.

Her mother’s.

Her chest seized.

The sketch inside—familiar.

The smear of dried blood along the hinge—undeniable.

Her breath caught.

The room spun.

Her father had died holdin’ that locket.

And now it was here.

In Remmick’s coat.

Not lost. Not returned.

Hid.

She stared at it for a long, shaking moment, thumb brushin’ the dried edge of what had once been her father’s blood.

Her heart wanted to say no.

Wanted to deny it.

But love didn’t stop truth.

Didn’t erase instincts.

And in the pit of her stomach—

She already knew.

꧁༺༻꧂

She didn’t ask him about the locket.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Not even when he kissed her temple and whispered her name like it still meant safety instead of suspicion.

She tucked it away. Literally.

Wrapped it in linen and shoved it in the bottom of her wardrobe, like maybe if she buried it far enough under her dresses and grief, it’d lose the weight it carried.

But it didn’t.

It burned there.

A tiny, gold fire at the root of everything.

And she felt it every time he walked into a room.

Every time he smiled too slow.

Every time he touched her like she might disappear.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started noticin’ things she’d brushed off before.

The way he moved—too quiet.

The way his eyes gleamed too sharp in the dark.

The way he always smelled faintly of ash, even after a wash.

And the way animals seemed to avoid him now—especially the old stray cat that used to love sleepin’ under the bakery window. It hissed when he got too close last Thursday.

Remmick had laughed.

She hadn’t.

꧁༺༻꧂

Her sleep got strange.

Sweeter, then darker.

Dreams of blood on fresh dough. Of her father’s boots walkin’ across the floor without a man wearin’ them. Of Remmick touchin’ her with hands that didn’t end in fingers.

She’d wake up breathless.

Heart poundin’.

Sometimes with him watchin’ her.

And always—always—the locket called to her like it had a voice.

Like it remembered how her father died even if no one else did.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started foldin’ distance between them in daylight.

Small things.

A slower smile. A turned shoulder. A delay in reachin’ for his hand.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

“You alright, dove?” he asked one evening, brow furrowed as he handed her a warm tart.

“Just tired,” she lied.

He watched her like he didn’t believe it.

But he said nothin’.

That scared her more.

Because Remmick always said somethin’. Even if it was low.Even if it was too late.

Now?

He just nodded. Quiet.

Too quiet. And that kind of silence?

That wasn’t natural.She didn’t know what scared her more. The thought of losin’ him…

Or the thought that she already had—and just hadn’t realized what took his place.

꧁༺༻꧂

Late evening. The fire’s near out. The locket’s hidden. But her grief is not.

The coals had gone low in the hearth, leavin’ only that orange-red flicker across the stone floor. The bakery’s back room was quiet save for the creak of beams and the occasional drip from the roof where the thatch never held. Y/N sat on the edge of the cot, hands wrapped in her shift, locket still buried beneath her dresses upstairs.

She couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t cry anymore either. The ache in her chest had hollowed her out—left nothin’ but embers where her heart used to sit. So when Remmick entered, boots muddy, eyes tired, shoulders broader than they’d been before the grief, she stood.

Said nothin’.

Just walked to him in the dark. He opened his mouth to speak—maybe to ask what was wrong. But she silenced him with her mouth.

Kissed him hard.

Desperate. And he caught her like instinct, hands grippin’ her waist, shift slippin’ beneath his fingers as they stumbled toward the wall. She tore at the laces of his tunic like she hated the thing. Like she wanted bare skin or nothin’ at all.

“Y/N—” he breathed, voice hoarse.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered.

He didn’t. He just kissed her deeper, tongue slick against hers, his breath catchin’ when her hand slipped down the front of his trousers and wrapped around him, already hot and heavy in her palm.

“God’s wounds,” he groaned.

She shoved his tunic down his arms, then turned and braced herself against the table. The same table where they once made bread. Tonight, it was for breakin’.

“Take me,” she said. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”

He hesitated—but only for a moment.Then his hands were on her hips, her shift shoved up to her waist, her legs partin’ for him like they’d done a dozen times in dreams, not enough in life.

When he slid into her, slow and thick, she gasped—but she didn’t stop him. She wanted to feel. Wanted to split apart on him if it meant forgettin’ for a while. He grunted, teeth sinkin’ into her shoulder as he bottomed out, her body clenchin’ tight ‘round him.

“Harder,” she whispered, fingers white on the edge of the table.

He obeyed.

The table rocked with each thrust, her feet liftin’ from the ground, his cock drivin’ into her deep, fast, brutal—just how she needed. She cried out his name, and he kissed the back of her neck like it might undo the pain they both carried. She came like that—half bent, mouth open, skin sweat-slick and marked by his hands.

But it wasn’t enough. She turned, grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him down to the floor. He followed her like a man caught in spellwork. She climbed on top, sank down on him again with a gasp. He gritted his teeth. “You’ll ruin me.”

“I already have,” she said.

She rode him slow and hard, breasts bared to the candlelight, thighs tight around his hips, her mouth on his as they chased oblivion.When he came, he held her like a dying man—arms tight, body shaking, a curse whispered into her shoulder that sounded too ancient to be human.

꧁༺༻꧂

After, they lay together on the cold floor, the stone stealin’ the heat from their skin. She watched him through the flicker of flame, heart still hammerin’, chest sticky with sweat and seed.

And then—

He stood. Dressed in silence.

“You’re leavin’ again,” she said flatly, not lookin’ at him. He didn’t lie.Just fastened his cloak and said, “There’s a matter I’ve to see to. I’ll return before cock’s crow.”

She nodded.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say don’t go.

Didn’t ask where.

And when the door shut behind him, the wind howled under the sill. She pulled the blanket to her chin, eyes burnin’. But she didn’t cry. She just stared at the locket’s hiding place. And wondered how many more lies could live inside the body of the man she loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Just after sundown. The locket’s in her hand.

The fire had gone cold.

So had she.

She stood in the back room of the bakery, the air thick with silence, her cloak still damp from the rain. In her hand was the locket. Cleaned. Dried. Heavy with memory. The gold caught what little light was left. She heard his boots before she saw him—soft steps over stone. Remmick stepped into the doorway, brow furrowed. “You left the door unbarred. I thought—”

“You lied to me.” He froze. Her voice was low. Even. Not broken. Not yet. His jaw clenched. “Y/N…” She held up the locket. He didn’t move.

“Found it in your coat,” she said. “Tucked between your shirts. Still had his blood on it.” He said nothing. The silence dragged until it suffocated the breath in her chest.

“I asked myself a hundred ways,” she whispered. “Maybe you found it. Maybe you tried to save him. Maybe it got caught in your clothes by mistake.” Her hand shook. “But that ain’t what happened… is it?”

Remmick stepped forward once. She stepped back.

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cracked. “Did you kill him?” His mouth parted—then closed again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Her world went still. Just those five words. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“You killed him,” she said, voice numb. “I lost control.”

“You murdered him.”

“I loved you!” he shouted.

That broke it. Broke the last bit of stillness between them.

“You loved me?” she spat, chest heaving. “You loved me and left me to bury the man you butchered like an animal? You loved me and lied every single day since?”

“I did it for you!” His voice was ragged. “He was going to sell you off like stock—he took everything from you. From us. I was trying to give you a future.”

“You took my past,” she whispered. “You took my father. My chance to forgive him. To fight him. To understand him.”

He stepped closer, eyes dark with something ancient. “I’d do it again.” Her mouth trembled. “Then I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, reaching for her. “You know every part of me.”

She slapped his hand away. He snapped. His temper—his grief—his hunger flared too fast. Faster than it ever should have.

In a blink, his hand gripped her wrist, hard. Too hard. The force of it slammed her against the wall, a dull thud knocking the wind from her chest. Her eyes went wide. He froze. She gasped, trying to twist away—but he held her still.

And then—

He looked down.

Saw the bruise already blooming beneath his fingers. His expression shattered. He let go like he’d been burned.

“Y/N,” he whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”

She backed away, eyes filled with something worse than tears.

Fear.

Real, gut-deep fear.

“Don’t,” she said, voice small. “Don’t come near me.”

“Please—”

“Get out.”

He stood there—bloodless, breathless, the monster inside finally naked in the light of her pain. Then he turned. And fled. Like he had the night he killed her father. Only this time, he wasn’t running from rage.

He was running from what he’d become in the eyes of the only person he ever loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Some endings never choose a shape. They simply… wait. The forest breathed in silence.

No birds. No beasts. Only the hush of twilight pressing down like a prayer unsaid. Remmick stood at the edge of the ruin—where ivy strangled stone and the altar loomed like a half-buried sin.

He had followed the path without knowing why. No map. No lantern. Just grief carving trails into his mind, and the sound of her name pounding beneath his ribs. Y/N was gone. Not buried. Not wed.

Just… gone.

Some said she left on foot at dawn. Others swore they’d seen her enter the woods in her nightdress, barefoot, like she’d been sleepwalking toward something she couldn’t name.

He hadn’t seen her since the night she looked at him with eyes full of heartbreak. Eyes full of fear. He still heard her voice in dreams.

“You killed him.”

“You lied to me.”

“I don’t know what you are anymore.”

And maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t know either.

But here he was again, drawn back to the place where he’d first bartered pieces of his soul in exchange for something he didn’t yet understand. The altar waited. And so did the voice.

“You return,” it rasped, from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Remmick said nothing at first. Just reached beneath his tunic and pulled the chain from his neck. The locket. Her mother’s portrait, sealed behind glass. Still warm from his skin. He laid it on the altar.

“I want her back,” he said softly.

A pause. Then a chuckle made of leaves and wind.

“She’s not something to own, boy.”

“I know.”

“She made her choice. As you did.”

He looked to the trees. To the dark curling inward like a closing fist.

“What would you give now?” the voice asked.

And for a moment, he couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know what he had left. His love? It had become his ruin. His power? It had never been enough.

And her?

Maybe she still breathed somewhere. Maybe she’d never forgive him. Maybe she waited.

Or maybe she had already chosen a path that never looped back to him.The air thickened. The altar pulsed.And Remmick—aching, desperate, changed—spoke only one word.

“Tell me how.” What answer the forest gave…

…was never heard aloud.

Only the wind knows now what bargain was struck.Only the shadows remember whether he chose redemption……or revenge.

______

Taglist(LMK if you want out): @jakecockley, @alastorhazbin

[bluesworldd]

I’m no better than a man

[bluesworldd]

i'm in love with jack o'connell's teeth and no i won't elaborate i'm just gonna make you look at them.

[bluesworldd]

maybe it’s just me, but Remmick feels like the type to bark back at dogs

[bluesworldd]

less "preacher's daughter" readers and other christianity based sinners fics.. more spiritual reader.. rootwork/hoodoo practitioner reader.. witch reader.. medicine woman reader.. chief's daughter.. idfk.. pls

[bluesworldd]

Born to crave and write smut, forced to build a long plot before it 💔

[bluesworldd]

jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell jack o'connell

[bluesworldd]

Second Glances

human!remmick au x black fem oc

Summary: Liana has been a good wife to a man who stopped noticing. When the quiet, observant new neighbor moves in, she doesn’t mean to get close—but Remmick sees what her husband never does, not anymore. One conversation turns into many, and soon, the lie isn’t where she goes—it’s where she feels like home.

Warnings: Mentions of marital strain and emotional neglect, romantic tension, implied infidelity, slow burn, southern cultural references, heavy themes of loneliness and longing

a/n: hiii, I’ve been thinking about this all day and had to start writing it! Im also working on the preacher boy ff requested by @thugger-wugger (here) and the Remmick x Bo Chow x oc ff. Imma make this a series!

I’ve got plans to get to the other requests too—it might take a little time, but I promise they’re coming!

until then I hope you all enjoyed reading this!

✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡

Liana folded his shirts the way he liked them—sleeves tucked in, collars crisp, stacked in color order. She set them in his drawer without a word. No thanks. No glance. Just the sound of the closet door shutting behind him.

She didn’t expect much anymore. A nod at dinner. Maybe a goodnight if he wasn’t too tired. But every now and then, something inside her ached loud enough to remind her she was still in there—beneath the routine, beneath the silence.

Ever since the accident, she’d hoped he’d open up, that something would change. A year had passed, but the gap between them only widened. He was still the same—quiet, distant, lost in his own world. And she? She was just there, waiting for something to spark again, but it never did. He shrugged her off, and she wondered if that was what she deserved. Everyone else seemed to get his attention—his work, his friends, his own unresolved grief. But her? She’d become just another part of the background.

Her husband hadn’t always been like this. They’d once shared a closeness, a warmth that made their small home feel like a world of its own. But ever since the accident, the distance between them had only grown. It had been nearly a year now—long enough for her to stop hoping he’d open up, long enough to wonder if she was merely a shadow in his life.

She couldn’t blame him for the way things had changed. People grieve differently, and the accident had been traumatic for both of them. But every day felt like a slow unraveling, like a thread being pulled from something that had once been whole. And now, with every quiet meal and unspoken word, it felt like that thread was about to snap.

That afternoon, she noticed the moving truck across the street. Someone new, finally. The house next door had been empty for months, lawn overgrown, porch sagging with disuse. Now, a man stood on the curb in worn jeans and a grey t-shirt, lifting boxes like it was nothing. He looked… serious. Not unfriendly. Just quiet, like the kind of person who listened more than he talked.

She couldn’t help but watch for a few moments. The unfamiliarity of it all, the newness, the hint of something fresh that she hadn’t felt in so long, made her pause. She never expected much of the world outside anymore, but maybe—just maybe—it was time to take a step beyond the silence.

It was the small things, like this—watching the man work, noticing the way he moved with purpose—that made her realize how much she’d shrunk back. How much she’d let her own life grow stagnant. And yet, when she looked back at her own front door, the echo of her husband’s absence weighed heavier than any moving truck ever could.

She wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending.

Maybe it was time. Time to finally acknowledge that this marriage, this routine, might not be enough anymore. Time to admit that she was already living in a divorce without ever signing the papers.

Later That Day

The clock ticked slowly, marking time as the day moved on in its usual silence. Liana had cleaned, organized, and puttered around the house as she always did. Her husband came and went, absorbed in his own world, his quiet disregard for her presence like a background hum.

And then, just as she was finishing up dinner preparations, she heard a knock at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. But when she opened it, there stood Remmick, his posture just a little stiff, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. His hands were empty, but his eyes held something warm—a curiosity, maybe, or maybe an unspoken question.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low, the British lilt in his accent smooth and grounding. “Sorry to bother you, but I realized we never properly introduced ourselves. I’m Remmick, your new neighbor.” His eyes flicked briefly to the house behind her, his gaze soft but calculating, as though reading the space between them.

Liana blinked, taken off guard by the sudden appearance of this man at her door, the same one she’d seen through the window earlier. Her stomach tightened, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say.

“Oh,” she finally stammered, forcing herself to sound composed. “I’m Liana. Nice to meet you.”

Her heart skipped in her chest, but she tried to focus on the casualness of the moment, forcing herself to stay calm. “We haven’t had a chance to say hello yet.”

Remmick’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his eyes briefly scanning her face, studying her in a way that made her feel seen. It felt odd, but not unpleasant—like someone paying attention to the details that others might overlook.

“I thought I should introduce myself before the whole neighborhood gets to know me,” he said with a half-smile. “Plus, I could use some help with figuring out where the best place is to grab some food around here. Any recommendations?”

Liana hesitated, her mind racing. Should she invite him inside? Offer to help him settle in? Would it be too forward?

But before she could respond, her husband appeared at the door, walking down the hallway from the living room. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure why she was talking to the neighbor. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“This is Remmick,” Liana said, trying to keep her voice steady, feeling an odd lump in her throat. “He just moved in next door.”

Her husband’s response was distant at best, just a quick nod of acknowledgment before he turned back to head inside. No introduction, no real interest in either of them. And that was the moment it hit her.

She had been standing here, so eager to engage with Remmick, so hungry for something, anything that felt real. But the person she’d once shared everything with hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the new man who’d just entered their lives. The realization cut deeper than it should have.

Liana took a breath, ready to change the subject, but then something clicked. She had caught the slight lilt in Remmick’s voice, that rhythm of his words, something that reminded her of conversations she’d overheard in the past, something distinctly different from the local cadence.

She tilted her head, her curiosity bubbling to the surface. “Are you Irish?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Remmick blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden question. He blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I am,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “From Dublin. How’d you know?”

Liana smirked, crossing her arms. “It’s the accent,” she said, a little more confidently now. “I’m not an expert or anything, but it’s hard to miss.”

His grin widened, the light in his eyes flickering with something that felt warm, inviting. “Fair enough. I suppose it’s a bit more obvious when I’m actually speaking, huh?”

Liana laughed lightly, feeling the tension ease just a little. For the first time that day, she didn’t feel like she was just playing a part. She wasn’t pretending to be something she wasn’t for her husband’s sake. Remmick had cut through the usual static, just by being himself. And, damn, that felt good.

Her husband, now standing at the doorway, cleared his throat, but Liana didn’t look his way. She didn’t need to. She didn’t want to.

“Well,” Liana said, shaking her head slightly, “if you ever want some recommendations, I’m happy to help. I know all the good spots around here.”

Remmick’s eyes softened, his voice lowering just a little. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said with a sincerity that caught her off guard. “Tomorrow then?”

Liana nodded, feeling something in her chest twist as she gave a slight smile. “Tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, the brief, fleeting moment they shared lingered in her mind. His presence had felt real, something tangible in the midst of all the quiet that had taken over her life. She closed the door behind her, standing there for a long moment before she shook her head, pushing away the thoughts that kept resurfacing.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the second she turned around, there he was—leaned against the counter like he hadn’t just acted like a damn ghost five minutes ago.

Liana crossed her arms. “You know you could’ve tried to engage with him.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t know meetin’ new folks was at the top of my to-do list.”

She gave him a look. “He’s our neighbor, not a stray dog. You could’ve said something. Shown the man you got some sense.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Right. Never are.”

He sighed, already pushing off the counter like he was done. Like that was the end of it. “You’re reading too deep into it, Li. It’s not that serious.”

“It is when it’s every damn thing,” she said, heat in her voice now. “Not just today. Every day. You been walking around like you don’t live here. Like I don’t live here.”

He stopped in the hallway, didn’t even turn around. “Ain’t like I asked for all this.”

Liana paused mid-step, her back toward him, hand still on the fridge door. She turned slowly, squinting. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, all tired breath and no eye contact. “Just sayin’. I ain’t the one asked you to fold my shit or play hostess or act like this house is some damn showpiece. You the one doin’ all that.”

Her mouth parted, and for a second, she couldn’t even speak. The words hit her in the chest like a slap.

“I’m sorry—what?” she said, voice sharper now. “You act like I’m out here beggin’ for gold stars. I do it ‘cause it’s what you’re supposed to do for someone you love. But I ain’t seen you lift a damn finger or even thank me in—God knows how long.”

He finally looked up, his face set. “You act like I’m the villain every time I breathe.”

“Nah,” she said, stepping closer, fire rising now, “you act like you don’t even see me. Like I’m some ghost floatin’ through this house, just cookin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of shit—and for what? So you can keep pretendin’ like that accident didn’t mess us both up?”

He flinched at that, but she didn’t stop.

“It’s been almost a year. A year, and you still shut down on me like I’m askin’ you to relive the whole thing every time I try to talk.”

He set the towel down with a sharp flick. “I talk to people.”

“Yeah,” she snapped, “everybody but me.”

The silence between them crackled—loud, hot, stifling.

She crossed her arms. “No. You just let me stand there, lookin’ stupid, tryna be polite while you can’t even fake interest in someone new movin’ next door. God forbid you pretend to give a damn about something.”

He scoffed and turned away, and Liana stood there, jaw tight, pulse hammering. She wasn’t yelling. But she felt like she could’ve.

Like her whole body was one deep breath away from breaking.

Silence. Again. The same kind that had been filling their house for months—thick, choking silence. The kind that said everything without saying a word.

She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m not gon’ keep beggin’ you to show up.”

And with that, she turned away, jaw tight, eyes stinging. She didn’t even realize her feet had taken her out the kitchen to the living room and right back to the window until her hand was already moving the blinds.

And there he was.

Remmick. On his porch, sipping something from a mug, arms folded like he was thinking deep about something.

Liana exhaled, low and slow. “Mm,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling just a little. “My goodness that man is fine…”

Then she caught herself, straightened up. “Girl, get it together.”

——————

That night, Liana went to bed without another word. No resolution. No warmth on her side of the bed. Just the hum of the ceiling fan above her and the dry, distant sound of crickets chirping through the open window. Her husband hadn’t even bothered to say goodnight. But then again, he rarely did anymore.

She lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, eyes dry. Nothing left to cry about.

The next morning, sunlight pushed through the gauzy curtains in long, golden strokes. Liana stirred beneath the covers, body heavy, mind numb. But the rhythm of routine—the one she’d lived in for years now—eventually tugged her out of bed.

She made the bed first, corners tight like her mama taught her. Dusted the shelves in the hallway, wiped down the kitchen counters, watered the thirsty plants that sagged in their terracotta pots. The bathroom faucet still squeaked when she turned it on, and she made a quiet note to remind him to fix it. Again. Though she knew he wouldn’t.

By the time she got to folding laundry, the heat had already settled into the house like an uninvited guest—thick and slow. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and made her way to the bathroom.

She took a lukewarm shower, letting the water slide over her skin and wash away the sour taste of yesterday. She took her time—washed gently, scrubbed her skin soft, brushed her teeth until her mouth felt fresh again. She oiled her scalp and moisturized her legs with cocoa butter, letting the scent rise like something holy.

Her box braids—neat, waist-length, and dark as coffee beans—were gathered up into a high ponytail to keep them off her neck. No fuss, just practical. She checked the mirror once, then turned away.

She didn’t bother dressing up. It was too damn hot for all that. She slipped into a faded ribbed tank the color of sage and a pair of soft, worn-in denim shorts. The kind that hugged her hips without trying too hard. Her gold hoops went in out of habit. A swipe of gloss to keep her lips from cracking. That was it.

Liana slid into her sandals, grabbed her canvas tote from the hook by the door, and stepped out into the sun.

The air hit her like a wall—thick, buzzing, the kind of southern heat that made you feel like you were walking through molasses. The town was still waking up. A few folks already out on porches, rocking slow, sipping sweet tea from mason jars, flies buzzing lazily around them like they’d made peace with the annoyance.

She climbed into her car and rolled the windows down, letting the wind touch her face as she eased onto the road. The radio played low—some old soul tune humming through the speakers. She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular. Maybe the market. Maybe the café where the cobbler tasted like something her grandma used to pull from the oven with bare hands.

Anywhere that gave her space. That let her move without questions.

And as the streets rolled by—storefronts she knew by heart, sidewalks cracked by time—Liana felt it settle in her bones

She wasn’t in a rush. Not today.

The place was small, cozy, the kind of spot with real wood tables and sunlight that warmed your skin through the front windows. A little chalkboard by the door read “Peach Cobbler’s back.”

And then, she saw him.

Remmick.

Liana smiled to herself.

He was posted up at one of the tables on the patio, coffee in hand, shades on, leaning back like he’d been waiting on her and didn’t mind one bit.

“You punctual or just greedy?” she asked as she walked up.

He grinned without missing a beat. “Little of both. You came, though. That’s what matters.”

“I said I’d take you,” she said, pulling out the chair across from him. “I ain’t in the habit of sayin’ things I don’t mean.”

He raised his cup in a small toast. “Duly noted.”

She ordered her coffee and a biscuit from inside, then came back out to join him, settling in with a soft exhale. The morning sun was bright but not unbearable yet, and a slight breeze stirred the air just enough to make it tolerable.

“So,” he said, sipping. “You the type to start with breakfast or dessert first?”

She tilted her head. “Ain’t even ten yet and you talkin’ cobbler?”

“I’m just sayin’—priorities.”

She laughed, warm and real. “We gon’ do both. But we’re startin’ here, ‘cause this biscuit about to change your life.”

He leaned in like he was ready for the sermon. “That so?”

“Trust me,” she said, breaking the biscuit in half. “This right here? It’s strawberry jam with hazelnut spread.”

Remmick leaned back in his chair, giving the biscuit a skeptical once-over like it might bite him first. “Strawberry jam and hazelnut?” he repeated, tone flat.

Liana didn’t flinch. Just tore off her piece and popped it in her mouth. “Trust me. You’ll live.”

He snorted, still staring at it. “You sure? Sounds like somethin’ a kid made by accident.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

He finally took a bite—hesitant at first, then slower as the taste hit. He chewed in silence, chewing like he didn’t wanna admit it was good. Then, with a deadpan shake of his head

“…Nah, that’s proper, that is.”

Liana smirked. “Mhm. Thought so.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still chewing. “Still sounds mad, though. You ever think maybe you got strange taste?”

“Only when I’m dealin’ with you.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—low, rough, honest. He leaned in, elbow on the table. “Yeah? Could be worse.”

They shared their food, passed bites back and forth, talked in between sips of coffee. She told him about her favorite hidden spots in town, the ones tourists didn’t know to ask about. He listened, not just hearing her but paying attention—and that felt rare.

Every now and then, his knee bumped hers under the table. Not on purpose, but not exactly by accident, either.

They stayed longer than planned. The sun climbed higher. Her coffee got cold. But she didn’t rush. Neither did he.

Eventually, she glanced at the time. “Alright, next spot ain’t too far. You still got room?”

He stood with that slow, easy confidence of his. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

And just like that, they walked off down the sidewalk together, the summer heat curling around them, the day just beginning.

✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿

⋆˚✿ y’all come back now ✿˚⋆

[bluesworldd]

sammy really bust remmick till the white meat showed and all he said was “SHIT” 😭

[bluesworldd]

THE LAST OF US, and the israeli themes surrounding it

i'm very glad that people were able to see one of the previous things i published, where i complied a series of links that you can use to learn more of what's going on in gaza, how you can help, places you need to boycott, etc. however, at the end of the post, there is a large part of it that is DIRECTLY meant for people who play or watch the last of us, or play the last of us 2.

the last of us 2 in specific is not at all elusive in displaying the chilling themes we are seeing before us today. what boggles my mind, is that a select few individuals are choosing to keep publishing fics, reblogging them, uploading content that has NOTHING to do with what's going on, etc. also, you can't reblog one thing about palestine and claim that you care, then flood your account or people's home pages in fanfiction, especially during a media blackout. it just doesn't work like that.

i took the time to make a post discussing all of the israeli/palestinian themes that the games as a whole, but mainly the second one, display. if you are my mutual, a friend, a fan of my work, or a fan of the game or show, then i 100% demand you read this. if you can read fics for hours, you can spend time to read a post discussing the universe those very fics came from.

a lot of us are now aware of the last of us's nature in regards to the ongoing conflict, but not many people know the specifics of it. after seeing this post last night (the person who made this, you are an angel), i decided to take the time to dive into the specifics of the last of us 2's israeli nature, on a logical level, but also a moral level, using a list of sources to help me along, which will be linked at the end of this post. i will link the sources along the way so you know which sources i got my information from.

regardless of if this changes anyone's mind about ignoring the media blackout, or not giving a fuck about what's going on period, know this: regardless of how you feel, regardless of what you believe, from the river to the see, palestine will be free. at this fucking point, the people who are on the right side will keep speaking out and spreading awareness, regardless if you are here to do it with us. that's it. now, let's get into this.

UPCOMING DISCUSSIONS: neil druckmann, the last of us 1, the last of us 2, the last of us show and zionism in the show's cast, boycotting the game and show, and conclusion

NEIL DRUCKMANN

45-year-old neil druckmann, who was the co-director and co-writer for the last of us 2, was born in tel aviv, israel in 1978. according to the above source, druckmann was raised in a settlement in the west bank, where he was surrounded by violence on a daily basis. comics, movies, and most of all, video games, became an escape for him as a child, before he and his family moved to miami when he was 10 years old.

to water down the full story that you can, again, read here, druckmann went to college to major in criminology. however, when he was in college, druckmann took a compsci course, that later lead to his major becoming coding as opposed to criminology. soon after, he knew he wanted a career that related to one thing: video games.

in the summer of 2013, the last of us part 1 was released, and it was renowned as one of best video games to have ever been made. in 2020, druckmann and nd released the last of us part 2, followed by the 2022 release of HBO's show based on the first video game. druckmann played a huge part on set, being not only the co-creator and co-writer of the show, but also having directed an episode himself. druckmann will remain involved in the second season of the show.

bringing up neil druckmann’s background is a crucial aspect of what’s upcoming in this post, hence why i wanted to discuss it at all. druckmann growing up in israel is one of the sole reasons the last of us was ever made at all, and not only that: it is the reason why the second game is the way it is, because neil druckmann planted his israeli ideologies right into it.

so, let’s speak on it.

THE LAST OF US 1

on the official the last of us podcast, neil druckmann himself discussed the last of us' link to the israeli-palestinian conflict. the general consensus was that people will go ridiculously far for the people that they love. this idea of druckmann's was revealed when he discussed the first time the main character of the first game, joel miller, kills somebody to keep his daughter, sarah, safe from harm. this is one of the first scenes in the game prior to the time jump, where the pair's neighbor becomes infected, and attacks them. joel uses a gun to kill him so that the neighbor doesn't harm sarah.

the following is a quote i would like to copy from this link word for word: "Druckmann said he follows "a lot of Israeli politics" and compared the incident to Israel's release of hundreds of Palestinians prisoners in exchange for the captured Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit in 2011."

the plot of the first game, as neil druckmann explained, is based around a moral dilemma. he discusses how if joel had to kill a man to save a random kid, would he have done it? druckmann himself says, "but when it was his tribe, his daughter, there was no question about what he was going to do."

while the first game, in my opinion, isn't as heavily centered around israeli themes as the second game is, regardless, it is heavily crucial to note that the basis of the first game derived from a real-life incident involving israel and palestine, where hundreds of palestinian people were released from imprisonment, all in exchange for one israeli soldier. in the second game, the israeli-palestinian themes, if you look closely enough, scream out at you. let's talk about it.

THE LAST OF US 2

"There is a common saying that if you seek revenge, you should dig two graves. Playing The Last of Us Part II is like being made to dig those graves with your teeth (Zacny)."

nd's 2022 the last of us part II is described down to the last letter in the above quote, albeit the game's utterly obvious israeli nature. in this post, the creator, rob zacny, goes on to discuss the game's theme of a "cycle of violence," and how the game reminds you in each grotesque encounter of the cruel ideology behind that. due to what occurs in the last of us 1, joel, basically, reaps what he sows when he is murdered for killing a surgeon who, along w/the group said surgeon was a member of, the fireflies, was planning to perform surgery on ellie, who joel had since grown close to, in search of a cure for the infection that has plagued their world for decades. four years later, the second playable character in the game, who is introduced in the first half hour or so, abby anderson, kills joel to avenge the surgeon who was murdered, who happened to be her father. from the. on, the game follows what, again, can only be described as a "cycle of violence." joel kills abby's dad, abby kills joel, ellie kills all of abby's friends, aims to kill abby in the final battle of the game, but spares abby when ellie's conscious morally attacks her for her decisions.

throughout the 24 odd hour gameplay, the player is allowed to play as ellie and abby, abby's parts of the game being arguably longer than ellie's. the idea this, i believe, is meant to introduce, is one of perspective: the player is meant to be loyal to joel miller once the first game has been finished, so when he is killed, they are inclined to make abby pay for it. however, abby's perspective, both in the past and as the present course of the game goes on, is meant to make the player understand why she did what she did. thus, the moral: there are no good guys in this game. every person is as equally bad as the following, and no one is innocent. however, when we consider the israeli-palestinian nature of this ideology and how it is presented in the last of us part 2, it simply doesn't work like this.

“I suspect that some players, if they consciously clock the parallels at all, will think The Last of Us Part II is taking a balanced and fair perspective on that conflict, humanizing and exposing flaws in both sides of its in-game analogues. But as someone who grew up in Israel, I recognized a familiar, firmly Israeli way of seeing and explaining the conflict which tries to appear evenhanded and even enlightened, but in practice marginalizes Palestinian experience in a manner that perpetuates a horrific status quo (Maiberg).”

when discussing the last of us part 2’s plot, one could 100% argue that there really aren’t good guys on the dual sides of the game. if you compare ellie and abby, you know that ellie went on a murder frenzy to get revenge on abby for killing joel. on abby’s side of it all, you know that abby wasn’t all that great before coming across lev and yara, and even then, she killed people to do what everyone in said world aims to do: survive. prior to finding lev and yara, abby had killed numerous people before, and did, as the player sees, handle joel very cruelly before she ended up killing him. here’s one more example, one that’s more random (but it’s simply to compare abby vs. ellie’s people, if you will): joel and manny. joel went on a cross country murder spree to keep ellie safe, and killed a building full of people at the end of the game to save her life. in regards to manny, if you recall a discussion that manny and mel had in the beginning of abby’s parts of the game, the pair are discussing a happening where a group aside from the wlf, the seraphites (which we will discuss later) attacked them because the wlf killed children who were a part of their (the seraphite’s) group. manny voiced how he would prefer to keep their people safe (the wlf), and challenges mel, implying that those “kids” weren’t really kids, because they were the ones who attacked their guys (the wlf) in the first place. as a general consensus, manny kills several people throughout the course of the game, which can be inferred or seen by the player, making him, for the sake of what i’m getting at, a bad guy.

we see in the game how ellie and abby’s people are unanimously bad. the last of us is set in a world where laws and morals are thrown out the window for the sake of survival, so this is no surprise. however, this dual perspective, “no bad guy,” ideology simply doesn’t apply in the world today. you may compare ellie vs. abby, or joel vs. manny, or bring in more characters in the game, such as tommy, nora, etc, claiming that all parties are bad. that makes perfect sense. but think about it like this: if this is meant to represent the israeli-palestinian perspective, and i give you the scenario of a five-year-old child versus a full-grown IDF soldier, what would you say? isn’t there an obvious answer as to who is in the wrong and who’s not? maiberg is 100% right in claiming that the game marginalizes the real-life palestinian experience. abby, ellie, joel, manny, etc, are not real people. but the thousands of innocent children who have been killed for the ridiculousness and inhumane israeli regime are. you can’t say each side is equal in awfulness, not when one side is full of innocent men, women, and children, some of which could never make it into a year of their loves. not when if one side pauses their battle, there would be a ceasefire, but if the converse pauses their battle, they would all be dead.

“And then they cheered afterward,” Druckmann, who grew up in Israel, recalls. “It was the cheering that was really chilling to me. … In my mind, I thought, ‘Oh, man, if I could just push a button and kill all these people that committed this horrible act, I would make them feel the same pain that they inflicted on these people.’"

remember how i said discussing neil druckmann's background was crucial? it is. druckmann, who, again, was born in israel, told the Washington Post that the game's cynical themes of revenge and suffering is linked to the 2000 killing of two israeli soldiers (tw, lynching), who were killed by a mob (maiberg). allegedly, some of the incident was remembered in film, that druckmann watched, and in his interview, he explained his angry nature that came about in response to the video, and how he desired vengeance.

the last of us part 2 is mainly set in seattle, washington, where secondary main character, abby anderson, resides in with a militia group named the wlf (which we will also delve into later, alongside the seraphites). maiberg brings out how seattle, on a visual and mechanical level, is based around "a series of checkpoints, security walls, and barriers (Maiberg)." he notes: "[seattle] looks almost exactly like the tall, precast concrete barriers and watch towers Israel started building through the West Bank in 2000." here are side by side images for comparison:

now that we’ve discussed this, let us discuss one of most prevalent aspects of abby’s part of the story: the wlf, and the seraphites. the seraphites are a religious group, nicknamed “the scars” due to the scars the members of said group carve into their faces to display their membership, who the wlf, a makeshift militia group, runs into conflict with following the fall of FEDRA, the country’s former military. in a note in the game, a fedra commander explains that the city of seattle has been lost to the wolves (the wlf), who he names as terrorists. maiberg brings out the following: “Here, there are parallels to early Zionist organisations that fought British rule in the region. These organizations were also described as terrorists, and leaders of those organizations later became leaders in Israel, much like how Isaac, the leader of the Wolves, came to control Seattle. Other in-game notes, scenes of urban ambushes, and the bodies of executed FEDRA officers laboriously walk the player through the cliche "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter (Maiberg).”

maiberg also discusses a series of manners in which the fictional seraphites resemble real-life palestinians. here are the three ways he specifically discusses in his original post, but there are much more:

“The same note from the Seattle FEDRA commander that bitterly says the Wolves are in charge explains that it's now their responsibility to not only feed and shelter the people of Seattle, but deal with the "religious fanatics," referring to the Scars.

Later in the game, Ellie finds a location called "Martyr Gate," where the Scars' spiritual leader apparently died, indicating a religious significance of a specific and disputed location, and emphasizing the notion of martyrdom as central to their culture.

The Scars are able to get around Wolf patrols and various barriers around the city via an elaborate, secret system of bridges between skyscrapers. These function as a kind of flipped version of the underground tunnels Palestinians use to bypass Israeli blockades and other means of limiting free movement in order to get supplies and carry out attacks on Israel.”

one more post i would like to link is this one, the very reason i decided to make this in the first place. it captures the zionism in the last of us 2, along with the wlf vs. seraphite conflict, perfectly. i very much recommend you read it, as it explains it much better than i can.

the general consensus is this: the idea that the seraphites are equally as bad as the wlf, which implies that palestinians are equally as bad as israelis, simply doesn’t apply in 2024. as i said before: what is so vile and cruel about a newborn baby? a pregnant woman? an innocent man? NOTHING. part of the reason the last of us captures this so poorly is due to the apocalyptic nature of the world the game is set in. obviously, people would go rogue of their lives were put in peril by not only animalistic infected beings, but also humans. however, we live in a real world where laws and morals do, in fact, apply. this isn’t a video game where those are simply discarded. what the wlf and the seraphites did to each other in the last of us 2 could be any other day for them: but what israel is doing to palestine right now is a war crime, a genocide, and plainly vile.

THE LAST OF US SHOW, and zionism in the show’s cast

i don’t think i need to spend a lot of time here, because if you have made it this far, you are well aware of the real nature of the last of us and the last of us 2 already, so you must understand that the show is HBO’s take on the game’s story (which, need i remind you show-wise and game-wise, neil druckmann played a huge part in). i simply bring it up so that people are aware of the fact that the 2022 show is ALSO linked to the ongoing conflict, and the cast is a major part of that (however, if anyone would like me to delve deeper into the show, let me know, and i 100% will).

for the following season which is a sequel to the last, theorized to center around the happenings of the last of us 2, members who are set to play a few crucial characters in the game have been announced. this includes isabela merced, who will play dina woodward, ellie’s romantic partner for most of the game, alongside kaitlyn dever, who will play abby anderson.

many people freaked out when they realized kaitlyn dever will be playing abby, but not for the reason they should have been. if you are a last of us fan, you are well aware that abby’s muscles are a central aspect of her persona. yet, kaitlyn dever is on the skinnier side, and according to some, does not resemble abby.

but this is not the issue that is most crucial to discuss here.

kaitlyn dever is a zionist, and so is isabela merced (i am under the impression that both of these claims are true, but i had trouble finding a source i deemed reliable enough to link here. if i do, however, i will). now, while i’m not here to riddle you with conspiracy theories, people believe this (zionism) is the reason kaitlyn dever in specific got the role of abby anderson (there is a separate actress, shannon berry, who more closely resembles abby, but made a post in solidarity with palestine. this is theorized to be the reason why she didn’t get the part, and why kaitlyn dever was announced shortly after this particular actress made said post). let us not also forget that ellie’s actor, bella ramsey, is also in support of israel, which can be seen here.

all of the previously provided information brings me to my final part of this post: boycotting the games, and boycotting the show.

BOYCOTTING THE GAME AND SHOW

i could go on and on about why this is so crucial, but we would be here forever. however, i’m going to paste in what i wrote in this post surrounding the topic of boycotting, as i personally believe i got it down quite well in regards to the last of us (the show and game). it reads:

"DO NOT BUY TLOU, TLOU REMASTERED, TLOU2, TLOU2 REMASTERED, OR ANY GAME FROM ND! neil druckmann has donated money to the IDF in the past. & where do you think he’s getting his money from? yeah, you got that. watch gameplays, pirate these games, or buy them secondhand. several shops sell used games. & for those of you who went and purchased the game anyway, knowing about all of this? fuck you.

if you think your $10 doesn’t matter, then think about this: okay, one person spends $10 on the game. whatever. but when 100,000 people do it? that’s a million dollars, going into the hands of a zionist, who is using YOUR money to help kill innocent men, women, and children. put that in your pipe and smoke it.

it is not just the games you need to boycott. HBO’S show also needs to be. follow this link to learn of more movies and shows you need to boycott, & the reasons why, including the last of us. let’s also not forget that dina & abby’s actresses are in support of israel, and BELLA RAMSEY, ellie’s actress, has also shown support.

boycott. the fucking. show. there are a million websites where you can pirate it, so you are not giving any of your support to it. resist."

what it comes down to is this: purchasing the game or watching the show directly from nd or HBO is not a must. spreading awareness and speaking out about palestine is. you are more than capable of not purchasing the game, or watching playthroughs, or buying the game secondhand, etc. you are more than capable of pirating the hbo show so that money is not made off of your engagement. it's not that difficult. i have said it once, and i will say it again: boycotting is a form of resistance, and that is the least we can do for those suffering in gaza as you read this. resist. people openly admitting that they went and purchased the game anyway simply make me sick. i hope you know what an awful thing to brag about that is, and how despicable of a human it makes you.

CONCLUSION

there's so much to discuss when it comes down to this topic, and it's possible that in the future, i will make a second part to this. however, for now, i really hope this does suffice. i believe lnowing of the game's israeli nature is a step. but knowing the specifics is a leap, one that i need everyone engaged in this fandom to take, hence why i wanted to make this post at all.

i'm not saying anyone needs to quit liking the games or the show or whatever. i'm not saying you need to delete or throw away a game you spent $60 on. i've seen so many people who are way too dense to understand that. what i'm saying is that it's crucial you are at least AWARE of the content you are consuming. aware of why it even came about at all.

in my opinion, you can't separate the game from the roots. but you can remain aware of the inner workings of this world you've grown to love. you can keep spreading awareness about it, and you can do right by the people in gaza by discussing the ongoing genocide, and using your voice as much as you can.

i'm so lucky to have been able to gain a following on here in such a short amount of time, even if that following has gone up and down because i've chosen to post more about palestine as opposed to my previous content (granted, that fact won't deter me at all). keep reblogging. keep speaking up. keep using your voices. the people in gaza need us. be there for them.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE 🇵🇸🍉.

LINKS AND RESOURCES:

neil druckmann | the official the last of us podcast | the not so hidden israeli politics of the last of us 2, by emanuel maiberg (i highly recommend you read the full post. it discusses several crucial details i didn't discuss in this post) | galid shalit prisoner exchange | 'The Last of Us Part II' Is a Grim and Bloody Spectacle, but a Poor Sequel | Veiling Colonial Violence: The Last of Us Part II, Israel and the Erasure of Power (full disclosure, i did not read the full post. i merely needed the quote in the very beginning of it) | zionism in tlou2 | isabela merced | kaitlyn dever | bella ramsey's support of israel

PALESTINE LINKS

—

[bluesworldd]

FREE PALESTINE:

LINKS AND RESOURCES

as a fanfiction writer, even though i am just a small account, it is important to me that my readers understand which side of humanity I stand with. down below a list of links you can visit where you are able to donate, and links that provide information and updates on palestine.

DONATE

donate to tell us representatives and biden to call for a ceasefire.

heal gaza's children.

medical aid for palestine.

donate one time or monthly to help gaza.

IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO MAKE A PHONE CALL, TEXT "resist" TO 50409. IT IS A BOT THAT WILL HELP YOU WRITE A LETTER TO SEND TO CONGRESS.

STAY UPDATED:

r/Palestine (REDDIT)

TIMES OF GAZA (X)

Palestine News (X)

Eye on Palestine (INSTAGRAM)

INSTAGRAM ACCOUNTS YOU SHOULD FOLLOW:

BLUE EYE SAMURAI

and michael green, the co-creator of the show.

let us consider what blue eye samurai is about. it is disappointing to say that a show about anti-colonialism is created by a person who supports the active genocide against palestine.

here are screenshots of him posting and retweeting israel propaganda:

if you still want to watch it, then 🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️ it! there is a ton of websites just for that, and it takes one search.

THE LAST OF US

and neil druckmann, the creator of the game.

neil druckmann is an avid supporter of the occupation of palestine. it has also come to my attention that the last of us 2 was inspired by the genocide, the game providing caricatures to mock the ethnic cleansing of palestinians.

here are screenshots that provided me with this information:

if you still want to play any of the naughty dog games, then buy it secondhand. try finding the games on etsy or mercari.

that is all the information i have right now for these two pieces of medias. since i write fanfiction for mizu, ellie and abby, it is important that i know where humanity stands for these characters' creators. if you like reading my fanfics, i need you to be on the same page with me otherwise i really don't want you near me. no more excuses, be aware and alert when it comes to the medias you consume.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE.

[bluesworldd]

Post for my 📌. There is no neutrality when it comes to the lives lost of over 25,000 innocent defenseless people.

—- 🍉🍉🍉🕊

How to donate E-Sim cards to Gaza!

https://x.com/sofidilla/status/1721335795330822473?s=46&t=SeTsXN4-9GDBCQ8c6q4vbw

[bluesworldd]

CALLING ALL FANFICTION AUTHORS!

please reblog this. i've talked about this twice before, but obviously not everyone has seen it. i am calling for anyone who writes fanfiction or posts about a certain game/show/universe in any connective manner to please, please- PLEASE, copy this memo below comprising links to supporting palestine, education on the situation in gaza, and a must-need for those who engage in TLOU tumblr; links regarding the creators (neil druckmann) zionism, and how the plot of tlou2 is based on the israeli occupation of palestine. i don't care if what you write seems "insignificant" or "small" in the grouping of larger fics. no. everything that is not related to palestine in any form NEEDS these links. because, when we stray away from reblogging, or writing up our own posts in support of palestine/sharing journalists stories/etc. even for a SINGLE piece of writing, we could be missing people who are unaware (which, shouldn't be the case atp, but..) and fucking especially because in these fandoms, fics are the most popular thing. not reblogs about palestine, unfortunately; there are so many fanfiction accounts who very clearly don't give a fuck about the whole situation, seeping in silence, posting fics during strikes, not taking accountability for it now, so on and so forth. please, for the love of all that is good- CALL THEM OUT! people gaining hundreds of notes, tens of reblogs, supportive comments on a post that completely disregards what is happening SO BOLDLY right now, should irk you. i swear, if i see one more fuckass "i didn't know!" apology from an author who is CONSTANTLY on tumblr, REGULARLY posting fanfiction, i'm going to fucking lose it. if you are on tumblr to begin with, being this active- you have time to reblog. actually, educating yourself and reblogging is way quicker than writing up fanfiction of any length. are you fucking kidding me? you are laughable. comical, not real, and i have nay an ounce of respect for you. ever. but besdies that; the memo. i want everyone to copy this, or make something similar. put this above your summaries, authors note, whatever comes before the writing. every post you make should link back to supporting palestine, cause you never know how many eyes it will reach. it could change a lot of things. on pc, i believe copying it completely will preserve the links, but i'm not sure if mobile will. again. do whatever you can to add it. don't be lazy. put this in ur masterlists/navigation too.

for all fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

for tlou fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

you may add what is necessary, i wanted to keep it short for attention span sakes, and to avoid people skipping it entirely, and so on. i may edit these, fix up anything, but again, if you're using them you can edit them however. as long as you are linking anything in general, that is what matters. thank you, love from aestra. from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

[bluesworldd]

🇵🇸 palestine, the world roots for you.

my lovely friends, i’m sure it’s obvious that i historically have only used this app to only post + sometimes read before dipping. it is important that we keep talking about palestine. i do not want to have that mistaken as silence. we can’t fail palestine anymore. we shouldn’t still be. it free + easy to speak up. israel wants you to be silent. do not let israel silence the atrocities they commit.

mohammed smiry tweets updates frequently. i am sure you all know about bisan by now. have some money? donate an esim or to the children’s fund. ++ u can do some (free!) learning ! :)

[bluesworldd]

hey pookies, school has actually been killing me but i just gotta thug it out. winter break in 2 days so u will definitely see something coming soon, ive really been cooking😹 its only gonna be two fics BUT one of them is pretty long me thinks. also since its winter i wanna do a semi winter marathon…..idk if i will go through with it but we will see🌚 anyways love yall see u soon😙

[bluesworldd]

WAYS WE CAN HELP PALESTINE:

as of 9am today, 8131 palestinians were killed, 20438 are injured and 1.4 million have been displaced. it’s important for all of us to help palestine in as many ways as we can.

i also cannot stress how much just spreading awareness in general can help. staying silent because of your discomfort is not an excuse to sit by while a genocide takes place. when we learn about these events in history we often think “how was this allowed to happen?” but that’s exactly what’s happening now and it’s our responsibility to not sit by and let an entire country be wiped out. i will continue adding more ways to help to this post and i’d really appreciate it if anyone can spread this as much as possible.

it’s important to get educated on everything going on in palestine right now, here are some sources that could help!

decolonize palestine - made by two palestinians, answers a lot of questions regarding everything right now (including debunking a lot of myths from biased news stations) and provides a lot of historical context.

list of documentaries to watch if you want to gain further knowledge

list of accounts to follow on twitter that can also provide information

linktree with information

you can also donate to organisations! even if you can’t donate tons of money, you can help by spreading these links so others can also try to donate!

also important to note that you should try not to donate to UN organisations, they won’t truly help palestine, the ones listed do work on the ground

red crescent

PCRF

MAP

doctors w/o borders

palestinian social fund

palestinian in pain launch good

this website is free and uses ad revenue for donations, all you need to do is click it once daily!

some more places you can donate to and some more

boycotting will also help!! also some of the kpop idols we stan have brand deals with ones that support 🇮🇱 so please let’s not interact with their posts with those brands

list from BDS of companies to boycott

signing petitions!

write to representatives and demand they retract their support of 🇮🇱

ways to contact local governments about helping palestine

if you’re in the uk here’s a link to contact your local MP

change org ceasefire petition

Text "CEASEFIRE" to 51905 if you live in America. The link provided leads you to a page to sign and call for a ceasefire once the goal is met. They are so close to meeting its goal!!

here's a link that lets you send a letter directly to your state representatives

here are some threads that will also give you ways to help.

thread of things we can do to help palestine

HOW TO HELP PALESTINE!! resources and links to other threads on how to donate and spread awareness of what's happening in palestine currently!!! a thread 🧵

here’s what we know, and links to donate to help aid palestinians, a thread:

Here is a list of list of resources and people you can follow to educate yourself on what’s going on in Palestine RIGHT NOW🇵🇸

Ways US, Canada, and UK residents can reach out to their state representatives and MPs to call for ceasefire in Gaza:

[bluesworldd]

PT1. Infunami !

↳ pairings: miles 42 x reader

↳ cw/tw: cursing, like 70% proofread, miles going through it, pet names: my love.

↳ genre: angst.

↳ synopsis: miles missed one too many dates and the truth comes out. poor miles

↳ blue says: lets just act like i didn’t disappear for a few months, thanks! enjoy

spoilers ahead !

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fuck

…fuckkkkk

10 missed calls…

miles rushed to get his suit off. fuck how many times has this been? he couldn’t help but think. five..? no five was to little… maybe 10? quickly he called the familiar number.

…ring

…ring

“please leave a-”

fuck. miles had no clue on how he was going to comeback from this one.. its been six months since the two of you started dating and within those six months miles had only took you on about twenty-five dates (yes he counted). now hear him out, 1. the two of you are teenagers and its not much two teenagers can do. 2. it would be way more if you considered cuddling together in your room as a “date”. look miles wasn’t proud of it ok? he s been busy with school and the prowler stuff so hes had a lot on his plate and trust, he does love you, more than you think, but its been a rough couple of months and he cant even remember the last time hes had over six hours of sleep. But fuck it, that was besides the point, now he had to focus on trying to not lose the person he loves….again

quickly he sent a text.

hey..im so sorry about tonight.

he checked the time…only 10:25, you should still be awake. miles knows that because your a bit of a night howl and just like him its hard for you to get sleep most nights…but for different reasons.

anyways.

idk if your still up but if you are just know im coming over.

fuck..im sorry seriously

just please text me back…

after a minute of nothing, in more suitable clothes, miles quickly ran out of his window and straight to you place. ok morales think… maybe a gift? no. miles knows you better, he tried to do that last time and he quickly realized he couldn’t buy your affection back. man that was a shitty three weeks, you had ignored him for a long time before he was at your door for hours begging to talk with him.

miles waited on the sidewalk before a cab stopped near him. getting in he was consumed by his thoughts. so what then? will they even buy the being at work bullshit again?

“kid where to!?” quickly snapping out of his thoughts miles told the cab drive your street address. only 10:33…fuck where did the time go? recently time for miles seemed to be slipping away and fast. never a slow moment to catch his breath or sit down and focus. that seemed to always be the case, especially after…anyways. maybe he could just tell the truth? he chuckled silently to himself. yeah..like thats a fucking option.

“where here” “oh yeah thanks” pulling his wallet out he handed the driver a twenty and a five. “just keep the change” exiting the car miles immediately headed for the back of your apartment where your fire escape was. he couldn’t bother going to your front door, after 6 p.m, no visitors, or rather no boyfriends were allowed in, specifically your mothers orders.

ok morales, just pray you don’t lose your relationships tonight, worry about the rest later. after climbing to the fourth floor he was meet with your window. please be open, please be open, please be- he lifted up the window.

thank god. miles made sure you weren’t in your room before climbing in. ok…now or never. going over towards your door miles knew this was risky. on the off-chance that you mother was up he would be really fucked. before he could open the door someone opened it first.

…miles let out a sigh of relief as he saw your face.

“what the-?!”

he quickly grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the room, shutting the door behind him. “….fuck?” you let out a disappointed sigh. “miles..what are you doing here?” a trick question he knew that you knew he was here to apologize but he didn’t say that part out loud, being a smartass would get him nowhere. “look i am beyond sorry-” “yeah i know miles” damn he could hear the hurt in you voice. you had your back turned to him now, focusing on getting you vanity in order. “…if you allow me, i can make it up to you this weekend” “yeah, i know miles…” is that a yes or…? “so…what day do you want to-” “i can always trust that you’ll make it up to me miles but what after?” ok..what? “what do you mean my love?” sighing you turned around to face him again. you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes, quickly mumbling “why do i even bother”

“ok look miles ill um talk to you later ight? it’s getting late anyways” you made your was towards him trying to get to you door. miles stopped you. “fuck, look i know i fucked up but please dont shut me out” he went to grab your hand but you stepped back. yeah, im fucked. “just please hear me out…” “you’ve released ive been hearing you out four times this month right?!” you said, your tone slightly rising. “and im beyond grateful my love, seriously i am, but if you can just hear me out one more time i can explain” turning back around you went to sit down. “well the floors all yours morales” usually, in any other instance, petty comments like that would have pissed him off but he had no right to be upset as of this moment.

“right…ok, i was called in late today. my manager said it was important and i couldn’t just bail on him you know..?” you slightly chuckled. “even you don’t believe that miles” ok yeah thats fair. “just please let me make it up to you my love.” he took a small step towards you “i already said i know that you will” now he was just confused “yeah so what does that mean? you’re saying nothing and everything at the same time” “it means i know that you will make it up to me miles, you always do, but what about after?” “will anything change…?” you voice grew smaller. miles wanted to respond but practically couldn’t. the room was left silent before you spoke up again “right, if thats your final answer than i think you should just-” “no, no, no. i promise i can change, you just have to be…” you glared at him “right…look i couldn’t be more grateful to have you as mine and i seriously dont want to lose you, just please..”

…a silent pause filled the room.

“than tell me the truth” you replied quietly. another silent pause followed. miles couldn’t do that, or else he would definitely lose you. “i..i cant do that.” your face contorted in confusion with a bit of anger. “and why exactly cant you?” you two stared at each before you made up your own conclusions “i see, maybe your too busy entertaining someone else ?” you huffed out. bow it was time for miles to be confused. “what?? why would i-?” miles sighed “no of course not i would never and you know that!” “so than whats the problem miles?! why exactly can’t you tell me the truth?” your voice gradually got louder, your patience clearer at its end. “if i do than you’ll be upset with me, so upset that you’ll most definitely break up with me” miles said quietly, a slight wobble in his voice although it was still prominent enough for you to hear. now you couldn’t help but be concerned. miles rarely got emotional during intense fights between the two of you, thats not to say miles is emotionally unavailable, just that he always stayed cool under pressure and fights.

“miles i cant be more upset with you than i already am, plus im the one asking for the truth so i can’t be mad at you, no matter what it is” you were slowly walking up to him now. hoping to reinsure him. “ok…listen, i cant tell you the full truth but please know im being completely honest when i say that: most times when i cant make it to our dates its because of my work..” you two stared at each other, miles was unable to read your face, although if you asked him, you looked pretty conflicted. as if you were deciding if he was telling the truth or not. after a small pause you came to your conclusion. “you know what miles? if its so hard to just-“

“fuck, ok im the prowler does that help?!”

the room grew silent as before, neither of you uttering a single word.

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