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cascathebranded · 1 month ago

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another one thank you! ☝️

Flowers in Bloom

Chapter 1: Party

Next: https://www.tumblr.com/mazahua-baddie/787080867926409216/flowers-in-bloom?source=share

“CORNBREAD!” It was Annie. “GET YO ASS IN HERE OR THE FOOD GONNA GET COLD!”

Today was my brother Hernan’s birthday. Annie and my mom had whipped up a delicious meal and sides in the kitchen while Stack and Ramiro were in charge of the grill. My dad and Smoke went on a beer run.

Mary and my cousin, Laurel, had gone to get the cake. My little cousins were running around. Sammie, Pearline, and my other cousin, Jamie, had gone to get Hernan from his soccer game.

“I'M COMING MISS ANNIE!” Cornbread had a big aluminum tray of BBQ spare ribs in his hands.

I was stirring the stuff for the potato salad together. My brother and Stack grilled leg quarters, flanked ribs, spare ribs, hot dogs, and some pork chops on the grills. She was cutting up nopales for a salad. Patricia was making the desserts.

Annie put down a tray of baked beans on the buffet table. Cornbread set down the ribs on the table at the same time. I watched as Mary got out of the car holding the cake box.

“I'm glad y'all ordered this cake ahead of time, some crazy hag was trying to get the girl at the bakery to sell it to her.” Mary shook her head. Laurel beelined for the fridge.

“That's wild.” Annie shakes her head as Laurel opens the fridge for Mary to put the cake in.

“Yeah, it is.” Mary shook her head. “I was about to fight her ass.”

“I got all the hot dogs finished.” Stack spoke with pride as he walked in with the tray full of slightly burned hot dogs. “And I burnt them a little since I know we all like them cooked like that.”

“Hell yeah.” Mary smiled.

“Uncle Stack!” Minnie, Annie and Smoke’s daughter, ran into the living room. “I hungry!”

“Hold on, baby, food's almost ready.” Stack chuckled. Ramiro bought the remainder of the flank ribs and chicken as my mom placed the rice and nopales on the table. Smoke was putting ice in the cooler while my Dad was putting beers in them. .

“It smells mighty good in here.” Delta walked in with the paper plates and cups.

“Thanks.” Annie smiled. “Couldn't have done without these ladies and the men over there.”

The door opened to Pearline, Jamie, Sammie, and Hernan.

“Happy birthday!” We all exclaimed. Hernan smiled at us.

“This was why y'all didn’t want me at the house today!” He exclaimed.

“Yeah, how else would we celebrate the day Mom and Dad found you in the dumpster?” Ramiro chuckled. Patricia laid down a tray of banana pudding by the end of the table and then a strawberry shortcake.

“By throwing me a party like you just did. Didn't y'all find him in the milpas (three sisters patch which is corn, beans, and squash) by the haunted bridge back home?” Hernan nodded towards Ramiro.

“Nah, that was Violet. I'm their only kid.” Ramiro grinned.

“Nah, your real parents sold you for a kilo of tortillas.” I giggled.

“Ya, peleoneros.” (Stop fighting) My mom told us. “No fighting before a meal.”

“Fine.” Ramiro smiled. We all got in a line to serve ourselves. Cornbread's wife entered with Patricia and Ramiro's kids, her own kids, and my other aunt and uncles arrived.

“Hey!” My aunt Beatriz, Laurel's aunt, held a box. “We got here just in time.”

“Sure did, we were about to eat all the food.” Cornbread chuckled as he was serving himself. I served myself some chicken, ribs, nopales, beans, and macaroni salad.

“Oh we wouldn't miss out on Nelida or Annie's cooking at all. Or one of Pati's delicious desserts.” My aunt smiled as she got a plate. Smoke was feeding Minnie the inside of a dinner roll.

The food was delicious, as usual.

“So, what do you think of your new job at the botanical gardens, Violet?” Pearline asked me.

“I love it. I get to talk about plants all day and walk around.” I smiled at her. “I love the poison plant and the medicinal area but then I have to pretend I don't see that the older ladies aren't stealing shoots or leaves.”

“I bet.” Pearline sighed. “My grandma used to have these beautiful azalea bushes out in the front of her house. That used to be our favorite hiding spot when we were kids.”

“My grandparents had a big pomegranate bush back home. Great hiding spot.” Ramiro told her. “Also free snacks.”

“What do they taste like?” Pearline asked him.

“Tart. But kind of sweet too.” I told her. “I love mixing the juice with green tea.”

“Interesting.” Pearline says before he leans against Sammie. “What about you, Hernan? How's work going?”

“Great, I'm sure we're winning that case against the property owner.”

“Good. When are y'all gonna head over to the Juke Joint again?” Smoke asked us as Annie was sitting near to him, holding his free hand.

“Soon. I have to find someone to watch over the restaurant for the night.” Ramiro sighed as he put his fork down.

“Just get Sally to do it. She's always begging for extra shifts anyway.” Patricia nudged him. “Besides, we could use a break. What's the worst that could happen?”

“You're right. Also are you guys doing anything for the Renaissance fair this year?” Ramiro asked Smoke.

“We thought about it. We are.” Annie smiled. Oh hell yeah. I'm down for that. But that brings up the question. What exactly are we doing there?

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cascathebranded · 1 month ago

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reposting for later 😜

- it's you again -

✧ pairing: remmick x f!vampire/healer!reader

✧ summary: you're a lone vampire living out in the arid border city of el paso, healing and helping its people. until one normal night, a love that had burned and broke, ultimately finds its way back to you. your maker once left you in ash. now, you make him beg at your door.

✧ genre: southern gothic romance, past betrayal, slight angst, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end of it

✧ warnings: explicit content soon/18+, yearning, obsession, bit of jealousy, client flirts w/ reader, implied stalking i guess. remmick's pathetic here. btw, reader is a woc & latina. and if this does well, i'll post part 2, which contains the smut.

✧ word count: 2.9k

✧ author's note: i'm like sweating balls, i haven't written a fic in FOREVER. pls be gentle w me y'all, i may be a bit rusty. AND thank u sm @hatethysinner for beta reading ;; also, yes, rem ain't tall by most ppl's standards, but when you're surrounded by your people (mexicans) everyday, i consider him tall LMFAOO anyways, the events of sinners didn't happen, everyone's safe n sound. and i know vamps need an invitation to someone's home, but it only applies to humans. remmick doesn't need permission, but he sure as hell wants it from you again.

El Paso, Texas - 1932

☾

It had been a long day for you.

The late desert afternoon had breathed dry, its heat clinging to adobe walls, carrying the faintest hint of dust and creosote on the cracked window panes.

Your botánica sat connected beside your home, its painted sign faded but unmistakable.

CURACIONES - LIMPIAS - REMEDIOS

Safe inside, you watched the sun set just low enough to take back its gold glow through the glass, eventual darkness crawling across the terracotta tile of your floor.

Dried herbs hung from the ceiling like blessings.

Usually, a vampire like you would sleep during the day, but you had quite the number of patients coming in and out when the sun glared. Not that you minded, of course, you liked what you did, but it had taken some adjustment to the schedule.

And either way, you fed earlier.

You let out a sigh, until the bell above your door chimed low.

The smell of sage, sweat, and copper cuts through the heat.

You already knew who it was.

You didn’t look up at first, having to rinse dried rue and tobacco leaves in a chipped bowl, your hands steady, face unreadable. You had heard his boots and smelled the iron tang of blood before you saw it. Thick steps across the tiles, heavier than the last time. Always heavier.

The silence after the bell stretched, then ended with a familiar voice—deep, slow, always trying too hard to sound casual.

“Afternoon, señora.”

“Mr. Cabrera,” you answered, still not turning. “Did you come here to flirt again?”

The man, named Agustín Cabrera, was apparently a cattle rancher who frequently visited you for his injuries at the ranch. He always had a new one to show off every couple of weeks.

He’d come through your door and give you a somewhat embarrassed look.

You weren’t sure if he was just that bad of a livestock handler, or if he just tries to get hurt in order to see you often.

Stupid, but you’d admire the determination if you fancied him the way he fancied you.

“Wasn’t plannin’ to. Swear it.” A pause. “Well, not much, anyhow.”

You finally turned.

He still had the same dusty hat, same leather boots worn soft at the ankles, and the same self-satisfied tilt of the chin. And of course, an injury. This time his forearm, wrapped in a dirty handkerchief, crimson seeping through.

The gums of where your fangs lay ached at the common temptation from it.

You brushed it off and crossed your arms, brows furrowing at the man standing in front of you. “Did the fence try to kiss you again?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Wild colt got loose. Tried to be the hero. Y’could see how that worked f’me.”

You walked over to him slowly, your sandals sounding across the tile. “A horse,” you say flatly, not entirely convinced.

“A fast one.”

“You’re slower every time you come limping in my store.”

Agustín shrugged. “Could be I’m gettin’ older.”

“Could be you’re inventing excuses.” You huffed, then pointed to the back room. He moved without complaint.

The air in the botánica was thick with dried herbs: epazote, yerba buena, cinnamon bark, and candles that burned all day without ever being lit.

You tied your hair back in a loose knot, rolled up the sleeves of your blouse. “Shirt off.”

He blinked. “Didn’t think we were there yet.”

You met his gaze, scoffing at him with a hint of amusement laced. “You want me to clean the wound or just give you something to drink and wish you luck?”

He grinned and unbuttoned slowly, watching you the whole time.

You ignored it and pulled a stool beside him, then gathered clean gauze, a small bottle of mezcal for sterilizing, and a bone-handled pair of shears.

“You get a thrill out of this?” you ask, dabbing the wound.

He flinched from that. “The pain?”

“No. Me patching you up while you pant like a dog.”

He grinned. “Depends on the view.”

Unsurprised, you hum, then tighten the cloth around his bicep. He groaned, not entirely from the pressure.

“Goddamn, you always tie it like you mean it?”

You leaned close, your voice velvet and blade alike. “I do mean it.”

His smile slipped for a moment.

You dipped a cloth in the mezcal and cleaned the wound gently. “What are you doing here, Cabrera, really?”

“You know I work south of the rail line,” he answered, as if that’d convince you any better.

“You could see any doctor in this city, any nurse.”

“But they don’t make tea with scorpionweed and basil.” He gestured towards the simmering kettle on the back burner. “And they sure don’t smell like roses after rain, neither.”

You stilled slightly, then slowly looked up at him. “You’re bleeding on my floor and still trying to charm your way into something that’s not yours.”

“Maybe I just like your company.”

“Maybe you like chasing things you’ll never catch.”

Agustín chuckled, but softer now. “I don’t mind the chase.”

“Then enjoy limping home alone.”

You stood, tossing the bloodied cloth into a nearby bowl. Your hands moved with swift purpose, wrapping, tying, knotting.

“You always this mean to men who pay you in compliments?”

“I ain’t mean,” you corrected, glancing up at him. “I just don’t waste sweetness on men who fake injuries.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I fake this?”

You tilted your head, giving him a knowing look, scoffing. “Ay, you work cattle, you mend fences, but ain’t dirt under your nails. No fresh calluses. Your boots are polished, but your arm’s bleeding.”

You leaned in, close enough that he caught the scent of jasmine on your throat.

“You think I don’t see through it?”

For a moment, Agustín was quiet. Then, “Maybe I just wanted to see your face.”

“Mm, well,” you sighed flatly, “here it is. Hope it was worth the limp.”

He laughed, genuine this time, low and rough.

“You’re something,” he murmured your name.

“So I’ve been told,” you chuckle softly.

He watched you as you cleaned your tools. “You ever let anyone in, or do you just stitch people shut and send them out the door?”

You didn’t answer right away, standing by the shelf of tinctures, back to him. Your fingers traced the label of a cobalt glass bottle.

“I let in those who don’t ask for more than I’m offering.”

“And what’s that today, morena?”

“A stitched wound, a clean bandage. Nothing else.” You turned, now facing him again.

He hummed amusingly, standing up slowly, and placed his hat back on his head, tilting it to you. “Well, gracias, señora.”

“Three days,” you reply. “If it gets red, hot, or smells like death, come back.”

Though you hoped he wouldn’t, hoped he’d give up this chase and finally have his wounds fixed elsewhere. Find himself a pretty nurse, maybe.

“And if it doesn’t?” He asked, walking to the entrance door.

“Then count yourself lucky.”

He hesitated in the doorway, looking at you over his shoulder. “You ever get tired of being alone in here?” He asked you.

You glanced at him, meeting his dark eyes with your own. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re not?”

For once, he had no comeback to give you this time, relenting finally.

The bell above the door jingled softly as it shut behind him.

You exhaled, long and deep. You then turned back to the sink, rinsing your hands in silence.

Behind you, the candle in the corner flared a little brighter.

Then steadied.

Outside, far across–beneath the vast shade of a live oak tree, a man watched.

Though he had seen enough.

The rancher with the bloodied arm. The slow smiles, the laughter. The way your hand had lingered when you tied the knot in his bandage.

You had touched him, touched him gently. A kindness Remmick had not felt in years.

Something bitter bloomed in his mouth. Jealousy was not a feeling he often entertained, but this was not mere envy—no. No, this was longing twisted into something sharp.

The wind kicked up dust.

He could smell you even across from where he was—your scent of florals and fever and salt.

His jaw clenched. He had searched years for you.

And here you were, with a man who did not deserve even your scorn.

He stepped into the dusty pathway, boots crunching gravel as he went.

Right to your front door.

You sat in your kitchen, the kettle hissing just before the boil. The scent of guava leaf and cinnamon clung to the air like memory. Your sleeves were still rolled from earlier, a thin smudge of dried blood beneath your right thumb was there—a remnant of Agustín’s latest excuse to see you. He’d left with a stupid grin and a half-healed wound. You hadn’t rolled your eyes, but you’d thought about it.

Then, a knock.

It wasn’t loud or frantic, wasn’t urgent in its sound. Just three slow raps to the door, patient as death itself.

You stiffened. You couldn’t feel the strong heartbeats of a person outside, blood pumping, lungs expanding. You drew a breath, drawn slow. The weight behind it wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

You crossed the floor, footsteps nearly silent on the old tile. You didn’t bother looking through the peephole. You knew.

You placed a hand on the handle, and pulled.

The door creaked open.

Remmick.

Your maker… your once-was lover stood there in front of your eyes. Tall, lean, and pale, curled brown bangs hanging down just above his brows.

He wore a button-up shirt of the lightest blue shade, with the sleeves rolled up, and suspenders crossing his shoulders, holding up dark high-waisted pants. The glint of the metal of his belt buckle caught your attention, but you brought your eyes back on him immediately.

And his collar was open enough to show a white undershirt and a thin gold chain sitting on his neck, a slight shimmer catching where sweat had gathered.

You breathed out softly through your nose.

Time hadn’t touched him.

Neither did it touch you.

Your blouse stuck to the curve of your back in the heat, its collar lightly loosened to show the brown skin at your collarbone. And the scarf you wore, knotted neatly beneath your throat, fluttered as you shifted.

Remmick’s eyes found yours like a dying man finding water. Wide and unblinking. Hungry and desperate in a way that had nothing to do with blood.

His voice murmured your name, southern drawl loose on his tongue. You hated the way you liked it when he said it.

He exhaled then, and it was almost a laugh. Almost. His expression shifted.

“I saw the rancher leave.”

You said nothing at first.

Your gaze dragged over him like a knife. His cheeks were slightly hollowed, jaw tight. But it was his eyes—those pale blue, aching eyes—that looked the most starved.

Yet those were his first words to you in god knows how many years?

You took it in with a cruel sort of patience. You’d grin if you didn’t have the restraint.

Your voice, when it came, was low. Smooth. Like smoke curling against glass.

“And?” Your head tilted curiously.

His voice sharpened. “He visits often.” He said it like a fact, not a question, and you began to wonder if he’s been watching you.

But your smile crept, slow and feline. “Agustín gets hurt a lot. Or so he says.”

Remmick’s jaw clenched.

Your eyes subtly narrowed at that and you hummed, amused by his reaction. “Are you jealous?”

No matter how many years pass by, this damn vampire still manages to stay the same man as before.

So, as expected, he didn’t answer you, but his eyes said everything for you.

“You’re ridiculous.”

His throat finally worked. “Let me in, darlin’.”

“You don’t need an invitation. Not anymore.”

He almost flinched at that. You were right. You were equals now. Fangs and all. But still—he waited.

“I know,” he said. “But I want one.”

You leaned against the doorway, one arm resting high on the frame. The movement pulled your blouse taut across your chest, and Remmick’s eyes, desperate and haunted, fell to the curve of your shoulder. The way your sleeves clung to your skin. You caught the shift in his gaze and didn’t shy from it.

You let him look. Let him want.

You arched a brow. “All these years, and you come crawling.”

“I didn’t crawl.” He retorted flatly, eyes flitting back to yours.

“You sure as hell are close to it, though.”

He huffed a bitter laugh, eyes falling shut for a breath, then reopening with a flicker of anger—no, of shame. He wouldn’t meet your dark gaze now. Instead, he stared at the edge of your scarf, at the soft hollow where your throat began.

“I looked for you,” he said. “Everywhere.”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

He bristled at that.

The silence stretched long between you two, taut. He shifted his weight on the porch like a schoolboy made small by your calm. And you watched him. Always watching.

“You think I should forgive you because you now gained the courage to step up on my doorstep out of nowhere, hm?” You gestured to the wooden floor underneath his boots.

“No.” His voice cracked. “I don’t think you should forgive me at all. F’any of it.”

That stopped you, just for a moment. The cruelty in you faded slightly. Didn’t soften, but tilted. Studying him from a different angle.

You narrowed your eyes. “You left me like nothing and suddenly decided to look for me?

“No. You turned me.” You glared.

“You don’t get to want me.”

But the words rang hollow, because a part of you did want him. You always had, and the hate for that fact faded within you.

And you think he knew that.

The vampire’s eyes drifted from your face, down to the ground he stood upon. You were surprised he even had the ability to look somewhat ashamed. Then his head lifted level to yours.

Remmick stepped closer, the brown-reddishness of his hair catching the moonlight. The silver of it traced his face, the wear in his bones. And when he spoke, it was softer than before. Almost reverent.

“I never stopped,” he whispered. “Wantin’ you.”

He didn’t let you respond, didn’t let you get the chance of opening your mouth to speak.

“You want me to get on my knees and beg? Is that it? Cause, darlin’, I swear ‘fore you, I will. I will, baby, believe me. I won't leave you this time, if you'll let me."

You stared at him, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Your name whispered to you, like the soft breeze of the Texas air. “Please.”

He stepped closer now, slow, cautious, like he was afraid if he took another, you’d reject him completely. Then, he was on his knees.

Just like he said.

“Begging, really?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.

“Yes, if that’s what it takes.” He breathed, his words urgent and wretched.

“I need to see you. Talk to you. I need—”

“You need,” you repeated, voice mocking and sharp. “And what do you need, Remmick?”

“You, baby, I need you.”

And the way he said it to you… You sighed.

Silence once again. It stretched between y’all, thick and pulsing.

“You’re pathetic.” You clipped.

He nodded. “Yes, yes, I am, only f’you, darlin’. Only you.” And he watched as you stepped forward, shadow falling over him. He took in the darkness. Took in you.

Remmick looked up like a starving man before a feast.

You tilted your head. “Tell me. Say it.”

He stayed locked on you, his gaze silently questioning what you had voiced him.

“Say that you missed me. That your hands ached to touch me, that you dreamed of my scent, my skin, my teeth at your throat.”

“Say it.”

His breath caught, then—

“I missed you. I missed the way your fingers left ghosts on my chest. I missed your skin 'gainst mine, your scent that clung to your sheets. I missed your mouth, the feel n'taste of it like nothing I ever had.” His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, as if the words had taken the air straight out of his lungs. His expression creased with something caught between restraint and desperation. The column of muscle at his neck tightened each time he swallowed back more than he dared say.

His eyes, akin to a storm at sea, didn’t stray from you. They flickered over your mouth, then your hands, then lower still, but always returned to your face, as if looking too long at anything else would undo him.

“Please.”

There was something fractured in him now, something raw and worshipful. His jaw flexed, his fingers curled slightly at his sides, knuckles pale, like he wanted to hold back the need to reach for you again, fearful that it would split you both open.

Cedar smoke and blood. Hint of rain.

A flash of teeth from you, not a smile, but close.

You lowered yourself to his level. Your hand held the side of his face and cupped it like a lover would, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

He felt the soft prick of your sharpened claw on his skin.

Remmick leaned to your touch like nothing ever before. Yearning for it. Desperate. Wanting. Needy.

“You want me to ruin you, Remmick?”

“I want it more than breath, sweetheart.”

You hummed, then rose, your hand going to brush against the door. Then, slowly, you stepped aside.

“You always did talk pretty."

✧ tagging: @slenderclaw

liked this work? comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]

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