#Okay I'm going to stop now and go work on one of the many many other projects I've got in store

[rinsnumber1fan]

When they accidently hit you...

Includes: rin itoshi, sae itoshi, isagi yoichi, Michael kaiser

Itoshi Rin:

He was just looking for his book that he left on the top shelf, just to make sure that you don't steal it and hide it to annoy him.

You stood right by his side where he had his arm stretched all the way up to the top shelf on his room to find the book. "Rin, I feel like eating some Chinese food today-" you said, fidgeting as you stood by his side.

He gave you a side long glance and grabbed the book, and when he tried to put his arms back to his side, his elbow hit your face.

His eyes widened immidiently and he panicked, "a-are you okay?!" He said, looking down at you who covered your face and winced in pain.

Rin quickly looked to his left and right as if something were to appear and he quickly stepped back, "I'll go get you some-" you grab his hand, "that was... amazing."

Rin blinked..

"What?" He asked as if hoping you didn't mean what you said.

You pulled your hand away from your nose which felt broken because of his elbow, "that was... amazing, do it again." You said with a slight head tilt.

"You.. want me to- to.. hit you..?" He asked as if in confusion.

"Yeah but like really mean it!"

"Nope, no. I'm not doing this-"

He tried to run away and you captured him. Hugging him from behind, "I always knew getting hit by you would be amazing-" his cheeks turn red and he almost dies.

Itoshi sae:

Sae was at a party and he was allowed to bring one person and he bought you the only one he could tolerate.

Sae stood in the main area filled with glitter and RGB lights trying not to interact but these girls were making it pretty difficult for him..

You stood by his side trying your best to be professional while a bunch of girls throw themselves at him bacically.

The blonde twirls her hair, "so you're good at working with balls huh? Me too... kinda.." she tilts her head. It didn't take a genius to recognize what she was trying to say. You kept your mouth zipped but then a few other girls join in.

"Did you know im the shortest girl in this party?"

"I heard you like athletic women! Well I can play with balls too."

Your eye visibly twitched. Sae didn't really say anything just stared off in space with an irritated frown on his face.

But when he feels one of the girls resting her head on his shoulder,

He feels disgusting.

He puts a hand on that woman's head and pushes her off of him harshly.

"Don't you ever fucking dare to-" he immidiently regrets it, noticing the person he just pushed was you.

You looked up at him and he paused and froze for a moment his eyes remained wide, "im sorry- i- didnt-" you licked your bottom lip. "Uh no.. sorry I shouldve.. considered you were already overwhelmed by the-" he grabs your face gently and plants a kiss on your forehead.

"If I ever do that ever again, just kill me, okay?" Sae says, looking at you dead in the eye but more emotion than he's ever shown before.

He's just that scared of hurting someone he loves.

Michael Kaiser:

"Okay and how many times do I have to explain it for your dumb little brain to understand that-" "HEY IM NOT DUMB!" You shouted as kaiser sighed, glancing at all the notebooks and books scattered over your desk.

"You want tutoring, and I'm giving you tutoring. so, stop being lazy and hurry up and solve it." He pressed the pen against the paper roughly.

You pouted and reluctantly grab the pen from his hands, starting to solve the whole problem. "I've been at it for five hours-" "just five hours? I practice soccer for 15 hours every day."

You blinked at the man.

"There's no way you actually-"

"Shut it-"

You obliged and continued.

You got the same problem wrong after like three tries and once again now.

Kaisers brow twitched, "how many times do I have to-" he accidently held your arm a bit too tightly, losing control of his anger.

You winced in pain.

He paused for a moment and quickly let go, he didn't apologize though. Not untill you pouted and your voice was wobbling and your eyes had tears in them. Kaiser sighed in annoyance, or feigning annoyance "are you kidding.. me..?" He glanced at you and for a moment felt a pang in his heart.

"You hurt me!" You announced, although it didn't hurt at all you just wanted to make a show because you loved making kaiser feel bad.

"I didn't even do it that hard!! Okay.. fine.. I'm sorry.." He murmured, grabbing your hand in his and planting a kiss over your knuckles. "Pretty?" He tilts his head and you pouted, only to kiss his cheek back

And then give him the best head ever later.

Isagi yoichi:

Isagi was alone, or so he thought. Watching a movie late at night, a horror one thinking he needed a change, and then you sneaked up behind him. You placed a hand on his shoulders and shouted "BOO!"

The moment his hand collided with your face you knew it was over.

He slapped rhe shit out of you and threw you down to the floor.

Leaving a red print on your cheek.

"Oh my God! You scared the life out of me!! A-are you okay?!" Isagi yelled as he glanced at you on the floor.

You totally deserved it but isagi wasn't the type to admit that.

You lift yout head slowly and smile at him with blood running down your nose. "OH MY GOD!! IM TAKING YOU TO THE HOSPITAL!!!" He grabs you and runs.

"I-isagi wait!! Its no- I'm fine!!"

And you had to get nose surgery after that.

Happy ending

PKEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IM ASCENSINF PLS LEAVE A OCMMENT PLSPLSPLSPLS

[bitterreid]

🐛 Choose the latter, choose the latter 🐛

Summary: Your dad has a fondness for vintage cars. You have a fondness for his mechanic. A collection of times you run into Hawkins' resident freak-turned-car-mechanic and can't seem to stay away from him.

Wordcount: 4.1k (fluff/smut)

Contains: fem!reader x mechanic!Eddie, teasingggg, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, eddie being down bad, incorrect car facts probably, woops 

A/N: This came to me in a vision, def let me know if anyone wants a part two because I loved making this and I have more ideas for this pairing, title is from Finn's song which is a BANGER, also, am I developing a mechanic kink? Is that a thing? Does anyone else share this? It's starting to become a problem lol

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"You sure you need me today, Wayne? It's like, 700 degrees out." Eddie simply did not care enough to conceal the whining tone in his voice, already feeling the way his clothes stuck to his skin. 

"Stop complaining and be grateful you got a job at all, kid." Wayne tossed over his shoulder, used to Eddie's constant chatter by now.

"No, of course, yeah, yeah, but you see this? The soles of my shoes are melting into the pavement," Eddie clumsily put his foot in the air - soles completely intact - to show Wayne, who did not turn around. 

Slightly begrudged, Eddie continued his sulking pace. Not that he really minded his job, after all.

"Remember," Wayne said as he pushed the big doors to the garage open, "I need you to be on your best behaviour today. No antics, you get me?"

"Oh I got you," Eddie quips absentmindedly, too taken aback by the legion of vintage cars that awaited them. "These are all property of your supposed childhood friend? What is he? A mob boss or something?"

Wayne rolled his eyes, "Just a businessman, Eddie, and I mean it, no standing around either, he's been a customer for almost twenty years now, and I'd like to keep it that way. I even held his daughter when she was a baby, this is not someone you want to disappoint."

But Eddie was lost in the shiny contours of the expensive cars, trying to calculate just how much cash was gathered in this room alone. 

"Oh and make sure to keep an eye out for the neighbourhood kids, they like to sneak looks inside, so don't let them in, understand?" Wayne got no answer, "Eddie?"

"Yeah, yeah, let no one in, I'm not a toddler you leave home alone for the first time I'll be fine." He waved Wayne away, perusing through the rows of cars.

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Half way through the day, the first kids popped up at the large doors. At first Eddie just heard giggles, then whispers, then he saw three little heads poke through the doorway, eyes twinkling in the bright sunlight.

"No, nu-uh, out, you three!" He felt like an old man yelling for children to get off his lawn. But it worked, the kids scurried away again, giggling and screeching in the process.

Eddie wiped the sweat off his brow, again, as he had done every ten minutes since he had gotten here. He was eternally grateful for the faint breeze every once in a while, but the white tank top he was donning was - besides smeared with oil - now also almost drenched. Great. Just as he was about to bend back over the 1957 Porsche, he heard more footsteps approaching. Wayne had left to go get them some lunch in the supermarket down the street, leaving Eddie to deal with the greedy little onlookers all on his own, but he was getting tired of scaring them away.

"Just go already! How many more times do I-" his tirade halted when he turned around to find you. Huh, he thought, okay, not the normal crowd, but he wasn't one to judge. "Um, sorry, you can't be in here."

You cocked your head at him, cherry lollypop between your lips, your summer dress faintly blowing in the wind. "I can't?"

Eddie was somewhat taken aback. "This is private property" was his lame response, which even sounded unconvincing to his own ears.

"Is that so?" you replied idly, stalking forward and running your fingers over the hood of one of the cars. 

Eddie surged forward, "Hey! You can't just-" he grabbed your wrist, not hard, just to keep you away from the precious cars left in his care. All you did was smile up at him, completely unbothered.

Eddie was stunned, like all the files in his mind had been corrupted, and in pure desperation threw it back onto the old guy lecturing kids, "Listen here, missy," (missy, really, Eddie?) "You can't just barge in here, okay? I'm gonna need to ask you to leave, respectfully."

The cheshire cat grin on your face only grew at his words, "Ooh, respectfully? Well, if you ask so nicely…" Your tone was teasing, all drawn-out and suspiciously sweet. "I guess I'll see you around, then…"

"Eddie," he supplied, partly against his better judgement.

"See ya, Eddie." And then you were gone.

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"Wayne, I already know what you're going to say, but can I test-drive one of these babies?" Eddie harboured no hopes that the answer would be yes - ever - but daydreaming never hurt anyone.

All he got back from his uncle was a deadpan stare and a raised brow.

"Right, right." 

I was the next day, still doing check-ups on the cars, whose drivers' seats seemed to glint alluringly at him every time he popped their hoods. 

"Did I tell you about that girl who came by yesterday? That was weird,"

"Eddie. You've told me several times now, I think I get it." Wayne was changing the oil on one of the Ferrari's, wondering for the umpteenth time why, again, he had hired his own nephew?  

"Oh, right. Right." Eddie couldn't seem to get you out of his head, the way you had been so unfazed, your eyes trained on him the whole time, there was an undeniable pull towards the idea of you. See you around, you had said. Faintly, somewhere, Eddie hoped it was true. 

And it was.

Around noon, once again, you appeared in the door opening, this time with a different coloured lollypop and a dog circling your feet. Eddie took in the sight of you, radiant in the contrasting light of the doorway, but it wasn't him you were looking at.

"Mister Munson!" you exclaimed, a bright, honest smile taking over your features.

"Sweetheart, hey, how you been?" Wayne wiped his hands on a rag and came over to you, smiling almost affectionately.

"Not too bad, just making sure I don't melt, you know, in this weather. How about you? I see you brought help this year?"

"I'm good, honey, thanks, yeah, this is my nephew, Eddie." he gestured vaguely in Eddie's direction.

"Nice to meet you, Eddie," your smile was coy and well-practiced, with a glint of mischief behind your eyes that Wayne didn't seem to notice at all when he tumbled into a slew of questions, keeping you entertained. 

 "Tell me, how's your father, how are you finding college? Are you home all summer?" 

Eddie was gobsmacked. Could it be that he had commanded you to leave your own garage? Your own house? Oh how he wished the floor would grow teeth and swallow him right about now. Instead, he busied himself with polishing the same mirror roughly eleven times over, not so subtly eavesdropping on your conversation. 

"So, I'll be heading off now, gotta take this one out for a walk," you scratched the dog behind her ear, "See you later, Mr. Munson," you looked over your shoulder, smiling sweetly "and bye, Eddie." All Eddie could muster was an impressively fake smile until you rounded the corner.

"Wayne!!" Eddie exclaimed, throwing his dirty rag at his uncle, "what the fuck??"

"Hey!" Wayne scrambled to swat the rag away, "what now-"

"That's the girl! The girl that came by! The girl that I sent away!"

Wayne could hardly suppress his smile, "You sent the daughter of the owner away? Nice, Ed, real classy."

Eddie raised his hands in desperation, "You said his daughter was a baby!"

"Boy, I said I held her as a baby! Years ago! That's what you get for never listening to me," Wayne snickered.

Eddie groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I called her missy."

At that, Wayne couldn't help but properly burst out laughing, "Missy?! Well, you have only yourself for that one, don't ya?" This earned him another rag to his face.

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That afternoon, heat almost unbearable in the garage, Wayne had a plan.

"Eddie, fetch some water, will ya?"

"Water, from where? The store?"

"Nope," Wayne answered, barely looking up from the screw he was fastening, "the kitchen."

Eddie stood up straight, "The kitchen? You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"Why do you want to punish me, Wayne?"

"Boy, it's just some water, go fetch."

"I'm not a dog," Eddie mumbled as he wiped his hands and attempted to fix his untamed curls in the reflection of one of the windows. He stalked out of the garage and rounded the corner into your backyard. They had been given permission to help themselves to anything they needed, but normally Eddie made Wayde grab him stuff. Not that he was scared of you, or anything.

He climbed up the steps to your backdoor, looking down at his oil-smeared outfit that clashed starkly with the light blue kitchen tiles coming into view. If he was lucky, he would be in and out before anyone noticed him. He just had to find the cabinet you kept your cups in and get some water and he'd be a free man. Only, which cabinet?

This kitchen was about seven times as big as his own, with about seven times as many cabinets, which made the guess, somewhat… impossible. So he started opening doors, and shutting them as silently as possible after the so manieth cupboard of only decorative plates. (How many decorative plates could one family need?)

He was almost getting desperate, nearing the end of the row of doors, thinking maybe fancy people didn't use cups? Until he finally found them, shiny and sparkling. He grabbed the first one he saw, finally turning around towards the tap and-

"Jesus- oh my god, what the-" You were smiling at him from the other side of the room, languidly draped against the doorframe.

You cleared your throat, putting on fake wide eyes, "Um, sorry, you can't be in here."

"I, um, I just needed to get some wat-" he barely managed.

"This is private property" you mocked, a smile seeping through your tone. The twinkle in your eyes was what finally betrayed your agenda to him.

"Ahh, ha ha, real clever, I get it." he turned the glass over in his hands, trying to will his nerves away.

"Took you long enough," you chirped, pushing yourself off the doorpost and strolling towards him. "Thirsty?"

"Yeah, um, no, it's, it's for Wayne," could he sound any more like a middle schooler that got caught red-handed?

"Aah, then you'd want this," you said, pulling open the doors of your giant refrigerator and producing a bottle of sparkling water, "he likes this one the best." 

Eddie had never seen the drink before, probably too fancy to keep around in the trailer, "Thanks," he mumbled, taking the blue bottle from you.

"No worries," you started backing away into the doorframe you had come from again, while Eddie grew faintly more aware of a feeling blooming in his chest that somehow wanted you to stay. "Just, yell if you need anything else, alright?" 

And then you were gone. Again. The smile on your lips lingered in Eddie's mind for longer than he'd care to admit.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The next day, Eddie was determined to strike up a real conversation with you. Preferably one where he didn't scold you like a mean teacher or came off extremely clueless, if possible. But the day rolled by, and no sign of you. He even volunteered to get more water in the kitchen, hoping to run into you, but to no avail.

He had all but lost hope, until he spotted you in the garden. You were sitting at the far end, reading a book at a picnic table underneath a wooden arch covered in flowers. You were a vision, in your short shorts and the soft sunlight on your face, you could have stepped into any of those mushy romance movies Eddie pretended not to like. 

"Hey, Wayne, you go ahead and leave without me, alright?" Eddie said, hoping to sound casual.

Wayne glanced up from packing his things, inquisitively at first, but then he spotted you. "Sure, kid. Just one word of advice-"

Eddie groaned in anticipation of the words to come.

"Don't call her missy, alright?" a grin taking over his face.

"Yeah, yeah, thanks, I'll try for sure." Eddie rushed away from his uncle, checking his appearance one more time in one the windows of a particularly shiny Mustang. He looked like he just worked an entire day in unbearable heat, which he did, so at least that checked out, but it would have to do. He slowed his walk, tried his best for casual, and strolled up to you in your large, well-kept garden.

"Hey there," he said, alerting you of his presence, and slid onto the bench opposite you.

You looked up from your book, not startled at all, Eddie noted, and smiled at him, "Hi." 

Eddie smiled back, already scrambling for words, swallowing hard at the sight of you, framed inside a border of roses.

But conversation seemed to come easily to you. "So, which of the cars have you been dreaming of stealing the most?"

Eddie let out a surprised laugh at that.

"I bet it was the red Porsche, or the Black Corvette?" You raised your eyebrow, "or are you more of a convertible type, Eddie?" 

"Aah, you got me," he threw his hands up in surrender.

"Hmh, then I bet you'd like, the dark green one," you snapped your fingers, "the uh, um, what's it called?" 

"The 1955 Ford Thunderbird, with the 312 cubic inch Y-block V8 motor," Eddie blurted out, too enamoured with the car to curb his enthusiasm. 

"That's right," your smile widened, "See, I got you all figured out."

Oh, Eddie was in looooveee. And very much unable to play anything cool, ever, though he was willing to die trying. "And you? Any favourites you'd run away with?"

"Oh, I'm not really a car kinda girl, only really know what my dad tells me about them."

"Oh really? But I bet you have a favourite, right?" He was trying to throw all of his charm in the ring.

"Hmm," you pondered his question, "I guess I have a soft sport for the Porsche, the light blue one?" 

"The 911 T? Good choice, good choice, a lady with taste."

You laughed at that, "Yeah, you know how cars kind of have a face?"

"I, um, I can't say I do?" but he was intrigued by where this was going.

"Yeah you do, the headlights are the eyes, the bumper is the mouth, and that one just looks, kind? I don't know," your laugh was getting bashful now, almost shy, "Maybe I'm talking nonsense."

"No! No, I see it, sure, you're right, even, very friendly car. Real sweetheart." You swatted at his arm, only making his lopsided grin more fond. "No, I mean it, didn't even give me any trouble during its check-up."

"Isn't it exhausting, all these long days in this heat?" You asked.

"Eh," Eddie waved his fingers, "had better days, but it's alright, honest work, you know."

You nodded, "Seems like hard work… you must be tired." Your eyes were flicking over his body now, but your smile remained kind and compassionate.

"I mean, well, yeah, kinda…" Eddie was slowly getting flustered by your attention.

"Working with your hands all day, can't be easy…" you trailed off, fidgeting with the edge of your book, "You know, I admire that, the craft, I mean." You slowly stood up, abandoning your book and walking around the table.

Eddie swallowed hard, trying to stay cool and collected, as he couldn't tell where this was going for the life of him. 

You came to a halt behind Eddie, still musing aloud, "Not afraid to get your hands dirty, and, you have to be quite strong… right?" 

You trailed your fingertips over his exposed upper arm, just like how you had done to the car a few days ago, but this time, Eddie didn't stop you. Instead, he inhaled sharply, tracking your movements with his eyes. 

"Right, Eddie? I bet you're really strong, carrying all those things, lifting the tires…" You bent down, your face nearing his ear, to whisper, "I bet you work really hard, Eddie, and I think- " your lips grazed the shell of his ear and Eddie thought he might faint on the spot, "I think you deserve a reward for that."

Eddie felt a shiver run down his spine at your words, his eyelids fluttering to stay open. Your hands were on his shoulders now, while your lips dragged over the hot skin of his neck. Sparks ignited all over his body upon the soft contact, rendering him speechless.

"Right, Eddie? Don't you think you deserve to be spoiled a little? For all your hard work?" You planted small kisses all over his neck, and when his head tipped back - involuntarily - you moved on to the column of his throat. Not satisfied with his lack of response, you purred his name again, "Eddie?", which poured oil on the flames igniting in his belly.

"Y- yeah, I do." His voice was hoarse, even to his own ears.

You smiled against his skin, satisfied with his reply, "That's right, so do you want me to take care of you, Eddie? Spoil you? Hmm?" Your voice was velvet to the touch, the words curling around him in an intoxicating spiral.

"Yeah, yeah, I- I do," his mumbling was interrupted by a low groan that left his throat as you planted hot, open mouthed kisses on his jaw. He was pretty sure he was in heaven.

"Turn around then," was all you said, and Eddie couldn't obey you any faster, swinging his legs over the bench to face you, no doubt red-cheeked and with dazed eyes. And you, you were a vision. So innocent looking, just standing there with your sweet smile and your gorgeous legs, looking at him, of all people. 

Then, you slowly, ever so slowly, got on your knees in front of him. And oh god. Eddie thought he might lose it, might wake up from this daydream, might get told this was all a cruel joke, but the way you held his eyes as you sank down, this was his ultimate wet dream come true right before his eyes. He swallowed, by lack of anything else to do, as 'casual' had gone out the window a long time ago. 

You looked so pretty sitting in between his spread legs, Eddie almost felt the need to stop you right there and ask to take a picture. But he didn't, because you were reaching your hands up to his belt now, carefully unbuckling it. The metal sounds of the clasps sounded out of place between the twittering birds in your garden, but Eddie couldn't care less, so entirely enveloped by your gentle stare and careful hands.

"May I, Eddie?" you asked, voice still as sweet as ever.

All he could do was nod, vigorously, and lift his hips to help you slide his jeans down his legs. He was hard. Of course he was, who could blame him? He had been living out his own personal wildest fantasies for the last ten minutes. 

His breath hitched once more when your lips got closer to his length, but instead you attacked his thighs, planting sweet, soft kisses on the pale skin there. You were driving him wild, insane, mad, deranged, you name it. All of it the work of your plush lips on his skin.

Suddenly, a clear thought made its way through the fog in his brain "W- what about your parents?" There was a clear wobble to his voice, but he was under strict instructions from Wayne not to screw this up. 

You laughed a little, maybe at his question, maybe at his disheleveld state, "Out of town, Eddie, don't worry." 

"Oh," he swallowed thickly, "right, yeah. Neighbours?" 

"What neighbours?" you giggled, as indeed, your house was located far away from the rest of the town.

"Right, right," he couldn't think straight with your lips so close to his aching dick that was straining his boxers by now. 

You smoothed your hands up and down his legs, "Relax, Eddie, lay back, let me take care of you, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah…" he tried to chill, but the mix of nerves, butterflies and arousal in his stomach was a hard one to swallow. All of his efforts, though, went completely out the window as soon as you grabbed his dick through the fabric. A sinful, drawn out moan immediately escaped his lips upon the first experimental stroke you gave.

You giggled quietly, a matching heat catching on your cheeks as you leaned forwards and licked his leaking tip through his boxers. Another sound escaped him, and he was sure by now his mouth was hanging open, bewitched by the (un)holy sight before him.

"You like that, Eddie?" you purred, slowly working his dick over.

"Y- yeah, oh fuck, yeah."

"Good," you said as you finally hooked your fingers behind the waistband, pulling his boxers down. "Be as loud as you want, by the way, I think it's really hot."

The compliment, paired with the casual way you said it, made the burn on Eddie's cheeks even brighter, the blush now creeping down his chest as well. You looked absolutely angelic, and yet absolutely sinful, the way your beautiful face was framed between his thighs now, and your delicate hand wrapped around his dick. 

When you licked up his shaft for the first time, fire sparked right through his entire body, igniting something stronger, deeper, than he had ever felt before. Your tongue wrapped around his head next, while it glided between your soft, plush lips. Eddie was so gone, groaning in pleasure with every stroke. 

You worked up a steady rhythm, your mouth as warm and intoxicating as your touch. The way you looked up at him, all innocent and pretty, made Eddie's insides swoop, drawing a high-pitched whine from his which he didn't know he was capable of. 

His eyes wanted to roll back into his skull, but he fought to keep them open, not wanting to miss a single second. He carefully weaved his fingers through your hair, not so much steering you as just going along with your movements, craving more contact. "This okay?" he asked, voice raspy and deep.

You hummed around his dick, sending shivers of pleasure through Eddie's body. He was sure you'd be the death of him. 

Eddie was getting closer, though he tried to hold off from finishing for as long as possible, both to save his ego and to savour every last second of this moment. But your skilled movements and honestly just the mere sight of you kneeled between his legs alone made it extremely hard on him. 

His moans became breathier, and he knew that he was getting close. His heart was pounding in his chest, the muscles in his abdomen were flexing tight, and pleasure was clouding his brain to the point that the only thing that existed in the whole universe for him were you, and the way you looked, and felt around him.

"Fuck, fuck, sweetheart," he moaned the words rather than said them, "Oh, fuck, I'm so- so close." But you didn't stop. On the contrary, you kept going, even faster, sucking the head exactly the way he liked it. "Oh god, jesus, fuck," all kinds of profanities tumbled from hsi lips, feeling his high rapidly approaching. You looked up at him one final time, your big eyes locking onto his, and that's what did him in.

His orgasm crashed over him in burning, white- hot waves of pleasure, making him moan out your name over and over as he finished. His hands were still in your hair, feeling the way you carefully worked him through his high. When he opened his eyes again, he saw you wipe your mouth, a satisfied smile on your face.

Eddie was still beyond dishevelled, completely out of it, you name it. He watched you with wide eyes and pink cheeks as he caught his breath, still half in disbelief about what just happened. 

You licked your lips, still kneeling before him, "Was that good?" 

"Good? Good?" (Eddie's brain had stopped working like half an hour ago) "Sweetheart, 'good' would be the understatement of the century." He brushed your hair behind your ear, "That was, fuck, that was like, the best moment of my life." 

You laughed at that, finally standing up and dusting off your knees, "Ah, don't flatter me, Munson." Your smile was bright and warm, and Eddie found himself in deep, deep trouble. 

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I am but a humble fanfic writer and i beg for your feedback guys :))))))) xxxxxxxx + If anyone has requests, tell meeeee, and lmk if I should make this a series :))))

[flixpii]

Never Not Yours (i)

part one

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.1k

link to part two

A/N : Okay...the full thing is 30.2k, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Originally, I was going to do three parts, but after rereading it so many times, I couldn't find a good way to cut it. Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : set in the south—reader meets a quiet, strange man with a past he doesn’t talk about. there’s tension, something off beneath the surface, but something tender too. it’s emotional, kinda eerie, lots of yearning. just trust where it takes you.

He's had those fuckass clothes for a while (don't ask)

warnings (MDNI 18+ because of eventual smut) : takes place before the events of the movie, fluff remmick is lowkey domestic, intense yearning, blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, sexual content (no actual smut until second part), emotional manipulation, angst, religious themes & questioning of faith, themes of loss & abandonment, mind-link shit

----

The wind moves gently across the porch, stirring the leaves like restless dancers. They skitter across the worn wooden planks, some catching under your bare heels before your broom shoos them off with a dull scrape. Each sweep is slow, thoughtful—like a rhythm only your body knows, passed down through the quiet motions of women before you.

A hum curls in your throat, soft and easy, the kind you don’t notice until it fills the silence around you. It floats into the evening air, joining the sound of crickets and the far-off rustle of the trees, like it belongs there.

You had been gone all day—your hands busy beneath the oil-lantern light of your father’s shop, serving regulars with familiar smiles and strangers with careful ones. Your brother hadn’t stirred from bed since morning, fever-warm and muttering in his sleep. With your father needing help and your brother too weak to stand, everything else had fallen on you.

And while you were gone, the house waited.

Chores collected in corners like dust and shadows. The garden sat thirsty. The porch gathered leaves.

So now, beneath the soft hush of nightfall, you work. The moon has begun to rise—silver and swollen, casting light across the steps in pale slants. Its glow kisses the back of your neck as you move, cool against the heat still lingering on your skin from the day.

It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just still.

As your hum carries on, low and steady like an old lullaby, your eyes fall shut for just a moment. The cool air draws into your lungs—clean and earthy, touched faintly by woodsmoke drifting from some distant hearth. The chill soothes the warmth clinging to your cheeks, to the back of your neck. It’s the kind of night air that settles deep in your chest, makes you feel something like peaceful. Almost.

Your hands don’t still, and neither do your feet. They keep sweeping, shuffling, nudging away the dry leaves and twigs that gathered like whispers on the porch. But your mind—your mind begins to wander. Carried off by your hum, by the quiet rhythm of your body.

Then—

A crack.

Sharp, brittle.

Your hum stops.

It came from the woods.

Dense, shadow-thick woods. The kind that swallowed up the last of the sun and didn’t give it back until morning. The kind your father always warned you not to stare into for too long after dusk.

Your eyes blink open, slow. No real fear yet. Just awareness. Curiosity. You’ve heard worse on this porch before. Possums. Raccoons. The occasional stray dog poking through the garden fence.

Still, you pause—broom held mid-sweep—listening.

Another sound.

Closer this time.

You frown and move toward the edge of the porch, the old rail creaking beneath your hand as you lean slightly over it.

Then, from behind a cluster of bushes, a small armadillo scurries out, its claws clicking softly against the dirt as it barrels forward in a panic.

You exhale through a laugh, voice spilling out light and worn.

“You damn animals.���

It’s not angry. Just tired amusement. The kind of thing you say when your nerves were quicker than your logic.

You almost laugh at yourself—almost—already shaping the words in your mouth, something about being a scaredy cat. But then—

Something shifts.

Not a sound this time. A presence. A weight entering the air to your left.

You feel it before you see it. The way stillness deepens. The way the hairs on your arms lift without reason.

Your body reacts before your mind does—snapping back a step with a sharp inhale. The broom handle is tight in your grip, your knuckles aching white.

Then a voice, smooth and low, cuts through the hush.

“Sorry. Ain’t mean to scare ya.”

Your breath stumbles. That voice—there’s nothing unusual about it. Not really. But something in the way it lands sits wrong. Not cruel. Not threatening. Just… off. Like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.

“‘Ain’t mean to scare me’?” you echo, breath catching on a laugh that’s more tension than humor. “You appeared outta goddamn nowhere.”

You’re still staring, still breathing like your lungs forgot how for a moment. He nods, and in that subtle movement, you get a clearer look.

He stands a few feet away in the moonlight, his features finally sharpening in the silver wash of it. Dark pants hang loose over worn boots, held up by thick suspenders. The pale blue of his button-up looks nearly gray beneath the night sky, its collar undone just enough to show the soft white edge of a sleeveless undershirt beneath. Dark coat encases his body.

His hair is brown and cropped short, but loose curls fall just enough to kiss his forehead. And his eyes—dark, almost black in the moonlight—don’t leave your face. They study you the way someone studies a flame: close enough to feel the heat but never quite blinking.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says again, and this time, your eyes catch on the shape of his mouth.

His teeth flash faintly in the low light—mostly straight, mostly normal. But there’s something… different. A few crooked edges. One or two that seem longer. Sharper. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make your stomach turn oddly, like you’ve just remembered a name you never learned.

“You need something?” you ask, voice steady but edged with something dry. “Or do you regularly stand outside women’s homes like some creep?”

The words leave you too fast.

Your tone isn’t sharp—more exasperated than anything—but as soon as they’re out, a cold flush rises up your neck. You shouldn’t’ve said it. Not like that. You know better.

You’ve heard too many stories.

Women who spoke with less nerve than you, and still ended up with bruises blooming along their jaws. Girls who went missing after speaking too plainly. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face from shifting, but it’s there—the flicker of regret in your eyes, in the way you grip your broom a little tighter.

But then, he lets out a low chuckle. Quiet. Unbothered.

It rumbles from his chest like he actually found your words funny, not threatening. The sound unwinds some of the tension in your ribs, loosening your shoulders just enough to let breath flow easy again.

He has humor, you think. That’s something.

Still, you don’t look away. You keep your eyes on him, even as he brushes at his coat—though you’re almost certain there’s no real dust there. Just a motion. Something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“I was just passin’ by,” he says, his tone smooth again, a little slower now. “Heard your humming. Sounded nice.”

His voice dips a little at the end, not like a compliment, not quite—but something close. Something softer. Like the words held a memory.

You say nothing, not yet. Just study him.

The way the moonlight shapes him now feels different than a moment ago. He’s not moving toward you. Not threatening. But there’s something deliberate in his stillness. In how his eyes take you in again—slower this time. Not rude. Not leering.

Just… like he’s remembering.

Then he says it, almost like he’s answering your thoughts.

“You kinda remind me of someone.”

\\\\\\\\

“Who?”

The question slips from your lips before you can think twice, quiet but sharp with curiosity. Your fingers freeze mid-stroke, the piece of charcoal in your hand stuttering against the paper and smudging the corner of your sketch. A rough breath pushes from your nose.

‘A man out near the riverbank.’

His voice threads through your mind—low, calm, almost casual in the way he says it. But the words land heavy. You shake your head gently, trying to keep them from sinking too deep, to keep your focus grounded here, now.

“Remmick…” you murmur, a note of warning in your tone, or maybe worry.

‘I know.’

A pause stretches in the space between your thoughts and his voice, like a breath being held.

‘He deserved it, ya know? He couldn’t—wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

Your eyes narrow without meaning to. You glance up at the sun dipping low in the sky. Even as it sinks toward the treetops, its light still burns hot and bright, stinging your eyes until you wince and look away. Your gaze falls back to the page in your lap, to the lines your charcoal had drawn.

You don’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to.

‘Still there?’

The voice comes again—gentler this time. Like he’s leaning closer, brushing the words he spoke through the strands of your mind instead of speaking it aloud any longer.

Your lips tug, just slightly, into a crooked smile.

“You miss my voice already?”

There’s another pause. And then another.

The charcoal dust clings to your fingertips as you drag the side of your hand across the paper, wiping away excess and softening the shadows. A breeze slips past the open window, stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

‘I miss you.’

Those words come softer. Rawer. They settle into you like warm hands sliding around your middle, like something deeper than sound curling low in your chest.

You let out a slow breath—didn’t even know you were holding it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whisper.

‘I wish I was there now.’

His voice is a whisper now, like it’s being carried from far off and wrapped in something aching.

You rub the back of your nose with the heel of your charcoal-coated hand, leaving a smudge behind.

“You just gotta wait a little more, yeah?” you murmur, turning the paper slowly, holding it up in the late light.

The sketch is rough, but it holds something of him in it. Something of how he lingers in your mind even when you try to focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

He doesn’t answer this time. But you don’t need words to feel it. It moves through the tether between you—an almost tangible pulse. Warm, steady, full.

Devotion.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time a knock echoes through your small home—sharp, but not rushed. Measured. Expectant.

For nearly an hour now, you haven’t moved much, just shifting from chair to window to doorway and back again. The sketch rests across your lap, its edges curled slightly beneath your fingertips. You’ve wiped your hands on your apron more than once, but faint stains of charcoal still cling beneath your nails and settle into the grooves of your knuckles—proof of time spent trying to capture something delicate. Something he might see and recognize as his.

God, you hope he understands it.

Not just the way the lines curve or how the shadows fall—but what lives in the stillness between them. You drew it slow, with smudged fingertips and patient strokes, not to capture detail but memory. A moment stilled.

You hope he doesn’t look at it for what it is, but for what it offers. For what you can’t give him with your hands or your words.

Another knock sounds, and your head lifts.

You don’t call out. You don’t rush. You rise slowly from your seat, your nightgown whispering against your skin as it sways around your ankles. Bare feet pad across the wooden floor, each step unhurried. He’s already here. You can feel it in your chest before your hand even reaches the door.

Then his voice slides through the wood—warm, easy, touched with teasing.

“Gonna make me wait all night?”

There’s no pressure in it. No impatience. Just the lazy drawl of a man who already knows your answer. A man who feels your presence the same way you feel his—always, even before your fingers meet the doorknob.

Your lips curve. You let your voice rise in reply, light and falsely thoughtful.

“I don’t know… I’m thinkin’ on it.”

A pause follows. Still and comfortable. The kind that stretches sweet between two people whose bond was sealed long before this moment.

Your fingers close around the doorknob and twist it slow.

The door creaks open, and you lean into the frame with a crooked smile, eyes catching his shape in the porch light.

“Well, hello, sir,” you murmur, voice thick like honey over gravel. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house?”

He stands just beyond the threshold, dusk outlining his form in soft shadows. His mouth quirks with a grin as he tilts his head slightly.

“Ma’am, I just came by to warn you—there’s a wild animal prowlin’ around out here.”

You blink, playing along, smile growing wider.

“Oh? Should I be afraid?”

You don’t get the chance to finish the tease.

He moves forward in a fluid, practiced motion, arms sliding around your waist. You yelp through a breathless laugh as he lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. Your toes skim the floor once, twice, before you’re fully cradled in his arms.

“They say,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “the animal’s got a thing for women who keep it on its toes.”

His breath is warm. His hold is steady. And you melt into him without thought—like muscle remembers before the mind catches up.

Then his mouth lowers to the tender skin beneath your ear, pressing a deliberate, lingering kiss.

Followed by a faint scrape of teeth.

“It also likes to bite,” he whispers, every word drawn out slow, letting them sink into your skin like heat.

You laugh, breath catching on a sound you didn’t mean to let slip, arms curling tight around his shoulders. 

“I think I’ll keep it,” you whisper, grinning against his throat.

And you swear—you feel him smile, too.

The night deepens around you, slow and quiet. The oil lamp flickers low on the side table, casting warm golden light across the room, leaving the edges in shadow. The kind of light that makes everything feel gentler—closer.

You’re curled into him on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wound around your waist with a familiar weight as his back rests against the arm. His breath brushes the crown of your head. Steady. Calm. His fingers rest lazily against your stomach, and your own hand fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, folding the fabric, then unfolding it again.

“I still remember the first night we met,” he says, his voice low and slow, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound of it thrums through your back—warm and vibrating through the bones of you like a soft drumbeat.

You let out a playful, exaggerated sigh. “You bring this up every other week.”

He lets his chin settle atop your head. A soft, absent motion that makes you smile despite yourself.

“It’s adorable,” he murmurs.

“You scared me half to death,” you remind him, voice tilting up into something mockingly indignant.

He only shrugs behind you, his laugh rolling low from his throat. No apology. Just amusement.

Silence drapes over you for a moment, long enough for the house to settle around you. The wood creaks softly, and the outside hum of insects builds and fades with the wind. You sink deeper into him, the beat of your heart quieting against the shape of his.

Then his voice slips out again—lower now. Different. Threaded with something distant and fond.

“Do you know what really sticks with me?”

You hum, barely a sound, your hand still tugging gently at the edge of his sleeve.

“The second night.”

You groan, the sound full of heat and laughter, your spine stiffening against his chest. “Not this again…”

“I just had to interrupt your performance with the squirrels,” he chuckles, voice full of the grin you don’t need to see to know is there.

“They were trying to take the bird’s food,” you argue, a hint of pride in your voice.

“You practically chased them off with a broom,” he teases, drawing circles against your collarbone with the tip of his finger. “I swear your father had to come help you.”

Your breath hitches with the motion of his touch, but you still manage a scoff. “You stood there like some creep,” you mutter, turning slightly to glance back at him. “You could’ve at least been a gentleman and helped.”

He laughs again—louder this time, but not harsh. It fades slowly as he looks at you, something quieter blooming behind his eyes. His gaze holds yours, soft and still.

“Do you remember the third night?” he asks, voice lower, more careful now.

You watch him for a beat, the memory flickering behind your eyes like a distant spark.

Then you nod—slow, certain—and turn back into his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

An owl calls from the trees above, its song low and long, echoing gently across the yard like a lullaby meant only for the night. The grass beneath your bare feet is cool, still damp from the afternoon rain, and freshly cut—sharp and green-smelling as it brushes against your ankles.

You move with the wind, not to any melody made by man, but to the soft, layered rhythm of the night. The hum of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the breath of the earth beneath you.

Your eyes are closed.

Your hands sweep through the air—out, behind, above—fingertips carving patterns through nothing. The energy of it all coils in your belly and unfurls through your limbs like light, like water. It pulses through you, ancient and steady. You don’t dance to be seen. You dance to be felt.

And still—he sees you.

He stands at the edge of the yard, silent in the shadows.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. But you feel him. The weight of him. The awareness. The way his presence folds into the air like heat rising off stone. It doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t stop you. You’re too far gone in the rhythm to care. You dance as if he isn’t there—because in truth, everything in that moment belongs to something older than either of you.

But when you do finally stop, breath feathering from your lips, you turn your head slowly—and he’s still watching.

His mouth is parted slightly. His eyes are dark, drawn in, like they’re trying to memorize what they just witnessed. Like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed and full—like anything louder might shatter the air between you.

The words curl around your ribs, nest there. A stranger’s compliment shouldn’t warm you like this. Not on the third night of him appearing without warning. Not after the way your father squinted suspiciously at him from the porch light the evening before.

And yet—

“I know,” you reply softly, gaze pulling toward the moon overhead. Its light turns your skin pale silver, glinting off your cheeks and collarbones.

Behind you, he lets out a quiet sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. Barely audible. But it reaches you all the same.

You turn then. Finally look at him. Really look.

And what you see in his eyes stops you.

Not hunger. Not mischief. Not charm.

But something older.

Something searching.

“Beautiful.”

His voice breaks the quiet with a tone that feels almost sacred, and the word lands like a ripple through still water—pulling you gently out of the memory you’d been floating in.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers pause against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words slipping out too fast, too sudden.

Behind you, Remmick shifts, his head tilting slightly. He hums, a soft note of confusion, the sound curling into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“What you sorry for?”

You look down, eyes falling to the hand still idly fussing with the cuff of his shirt—folding it, smoothing it, folding it again. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you catch yourself.

“For not bein’ able to bring them back,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat more than you expected. “Your family.”

You feel it the moment it hits him—his body tenses behind you, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He doesn’t speak right away.

But before he can gather something to say, you’re turning, twisting in his arms to face him. The words tumble out fast, too full, too heavy to hold back.

“Maybe I wasn’t what you were looking for—maybe I—”

“No.”

It cuts through clean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

Just certain.

His hand closes around yours, fingers wrapping tight—not desperate, just firm. Grounding. His eyes search yours, and his head shakes once, like he’s banishing the thought from both of you before it can settle.

“You are what I was looking for.”

He says it like a vow.

And then, softer—softer than anything else he’s said tonight, as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and his brow draws slightly:

“Love, I’m so happy to have found you.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It holds.

And when you breathe again, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself believe it.

“I have somethin’ for—somethin’ to show you.”

The words stumble out, your breath catching in your chest as you untangle yourself from him. A rush of nerves spikes through you, making your hands shake as they hover for a moment before finding their purpose. Your feet carry you over to the dining room table, where the sketch waits, neatly folded and lying there like something fragile.

You glance back over your shoulder at him, catching the way he watches you, still lounging on the couch but sitting straighter now, his feet brushing the floor.

“What is it?” His voice is low, but his eyes are full of something—something expectant, even intrigued.

“It’s just a little drawing,” you murmur, the paper suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands as you move back towards him.

His brow arches, eyes flicking to the ink stains along your fingertips.

“Is that why your fingers look like you’ve been diggin’ in ink?”

You swat his arm gently, a soft laugh escaping you as you push the nervousness from your throat. “It’s small—honestly—it’s nothing big. But I wanted to give you a clear, or as clear as it can get, image.”

You sit next to him on the couch and extend it toward him, heart thudding in your chest.

He takes it slowly, his brows furrowing slightly as he studies the sketch. His eyes trace the strokes and shadows, lingering on the curves of the lines, as if trying to piece together the story you’ve captured. The silence between you both feels thick, heavy with anticipation, and you brace yourself for a reaction you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But then, his gaze shifts back to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are dark, a quiet storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, curiosity, but most of all, longing. Desperate longing.

It hits you all at once, like a soft blow to the chest, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t drawn it at all. You almost regret giving him this piece of you, this representation of something he can never have in the same way again.

But then, before you can pull back, before the doubt can settle in, he leans forward. The paper still in his hands, not forgotten for a moment as his lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, the kind that pulls at your soul as much as it pulls at your body. Your hand rises instinctively to cup his cheek, the cool of his skin grounding you in this moment. You melt into him, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as his touch deepens the kiss.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast.

“The sun,” he whispers, the words barely audible but laced with something raw—something that echoes in your own chest.

———————

It’s been twelve full moons since the night you gave him the sun.

Since you handed him something he hadn’t seen in so long and watched it catch in his throat. The sun—captured in your lines, your hands, your memory. A light he could never touch again, offered to him through you.

Now, the nights are quieter, warmer.

And now, even after all these months, he touches you like that moment never left him.

“Remmick…”

Your voice spills out in a breath, soft and undone, as his lips press against your neck again and again—slow, lingering kisses that melt into the hollow of your throat and the curve of your collarbone. He’s kneeling between your parted thighs, the weight of him grounding you, steadying you.

Your hand is tangled in his hair, the dark locks soft against your fingers as they tighten just slightly. He groans at the feeling, low and deep, like it stirs something in him he never meant to let loose.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, light and quick—but it catches, twists, becomes something else entirely when his mouth opens against the spot just beneath your chin and he sucks gently, leaving a mark that makes your toes curl.

One of his hands grips your hip, firm but worshipful. The other guides your leg higher, wrapping your thigh around his waist. You can feel the flex of his muscles through the fabric of your clothes—always clothed, always drawn out like this, as if undressing fully would tip the balance into something neither of you could undo.

He moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones as your hand tightens in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch.

His tongue drags a slow line up the length of your throat—hot, wet, lingering—until it reaches the corner of your mouth. He kisses you there, not quite on your lips. Just close enough to make you shudder.

Your thighs tighten around him, urging him forward.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, panting softly now, your voice thick with need that’s become almost ritual.

Remmick’s eyes shift—darker now, pupils dilated, hunger swimming through them, but not for flesh. For this. For you.

He brings his wrist up to his mouth and bites. Not gently. His fangs tear into the skin with practiced force, piercing just deep enough to make the blood run freely. Thick, dark, it begins to fall—hot drops staining the front of your dress.

You don’t wait. You never do.

You grasp his wrist and pull it to your mouth, lips parting as you begin to drink.

Slowly.

His blood pours across your tongue like smoke—rich, metallic, ancient. It coils down your throat, and you moan around his wrist, hips pressing down against him in a slow grind that sends heat lacing up your spine.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t kill. Not like it should.

His blood was meant to destroy—corrode, rot from the inside out. To anyone else, it would have been poison. But to you?

It settles like firelight in your chest.

No one, not even Remmick, understands it. How your body takes his blood and lives. Hungers for it. How it makes your senses crackle and your thoughts slip sideways into his.

He watches you now, still holding your leg in place, his wrist slack in your grip as you drink. His mouth parts slightly in awe, eyes half-lidded.

It’s not just the pleasure of it—it’s the connection.

A tether forged in something older than touch.

And as the blood pulses through your veins like a slow current, you feel the familiar shift begin.

The world stills at the edges.

Your breath synchronizes with his.

And then—faintly—like a whisper in a dream—

‘Can you hear me?��

The words aren’t spoken.

They’re felt.

From somewhere inside.

From him.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his body, lips still pressed to his skin.

‘Always.’

You don’t stop drinking right away.

You stay there, lips pressed to his wrist, your breath ghosting hot against his skin with each swallow. His blood fills your mouth in steady waves, pulsing with something ancient and strange, tasting of earth and copper and thunderclouds ready to break. It spreads through your limbs like warmth pulled from the deepest part of a hearth.

You can feel the weight of him above you—his chest heaving slowly, his arm trembling just faintly in your grip. He’s watching you, you know he is. You feel it in the way his hand tightens on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself. His hips shift closer, slow, a near-imperceptible grind that tells you he’s just as drunk on this as you are.

Your body shivers in response, the sensation of him—his scent, his heat, the deep thrum of his power—curling into you, winding itself around your breath like a silk thread being pulled tighter and tighter.

Finally, you release his wrist with one last lick, blood still slicking your lips, glowing faintly in the lamplight. You press your face to the inside of his arm, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the quiet of your joined bodies settle back in.

He exhales slowly, forehead lowering to rest against yours.

“Every time,” he whispers, voice roughened, breath warm against your cheek. “It never gets easier, needing you like this.”

You smile, lips brushing against his skin.

“I don’t want it to get easier.”

Your hand, still tangled in his hair, slips down to cup the side of his face. His stubble grazes your palm. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His free arm slides around your back, holding you fully, folding you into him like he wants to memorize every inch of your shape.

You tilt your head, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The kiss is slow. Saturated. It tastes faintly of blood and something far sweeter—familiar, claiming, home. He groans softly against your lips, his body sinking deeper between your thighs as if he could disappear inside you if he just moved close enough.

Your bodies don’t rush.

You never do.

This has always been about something more than hunger. More than flesh.

It’s about the space between the blood and the breath.

It’s about the way his fingers tremble when they trace the curve of your back through your dress. About the way your mouth parts for him even before he asks. About how his voice breaks just slightly when he murmurs your name like a prayer, spoken only for you.

Your legs curl tighter around his waist.

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And for a long, suspended moment, you just exist like that—pressed together, pulsing with the same rhythm, your minds still softly tangled in that shared tether.

His mouth parts from yours, slow and reluctant, as though breaking the kiss costs him something. But then he’s lowering—pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin at the top of your chest, where your collar dips just below your throat. Each kiss grows messier, wetter, trailing heat in their wake as his breath thickens against your skin.

You feel his lips move back up, soft and deliberate, until he’s at your throat again. He sucks gently on the flesh there—right where your pulse flutters closest to the surface—and your head tips back instinctively, a moan slipping from your mouth, low and unguarded.

You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation, the way his mouth worships you like you’re sacred. You melt into it, hips rising just slightly, your whole body humming.

Until—

A pressure.

A shift.

A sharpness.

It presses, faint at first, then firmer. Something cold, glancing the curve of your neck.

“Remmick?”

Your voice is a breath at first, confused but not panicked. Not yet.

But then you feel it again—definite now—the unmistakable drag of a fang against your skin. Not playful. Not soft. A warning. A threat.

“Remmick,” you say louder this time, a tremor threading through your voice.

No answer.

Only a low growl—feral and guttural—rising from his chest.

Your heart stutters.

You push at his chest, sudden and firm. “Remmick—!”

His body jerks back as if he’s been doused in cold water, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes, once half-lidded with desire, now burn red—crimson—staring past you, unseeing, his breath ragged and uneven. But as you stare, you see the color begin to fade—slowly, then all at once—retreating like a tide.

You sit up, the moment shattered. The air between you now cracked and sharp.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sleeve of your dress, fingers fumbling. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths as the last of the heat bleeds from your skin and leaves something colder in its place.

His mouth is parted. He looks dazed—like he’s just woken from something he didn’t want to be in. His gaze finally meets yours, and what you see there is no longer hunger.

It’s guilt.

And fear.

And something else he’s too afraid to name.

The room is quiet—too quiet.

Just the sound of your breath, ragged and quick in your chest. Just the soft ticking of the old wall clock, the distant chirp of crickets outside the window. The warmth from the oil lamp still glows, but it doesn’t reach your skin like it did before.

You stare at him.

And he stares at you.

Neither of you moves. For a long, trembling moment, you’re both frozen in the wreckage of what almost happened.

Then—he shifts.

Only slightly. A small movement forward, the start of reaching out.

But your body responds before your mind can soften it. You tense, your spine pulling back like a thread snapped tight. It’s not dramatic. Not a jolt. But enough. Enough for him to see it.

He freezes mid-reach, then withdraws—slowly, deliberately—his hands falling to his thighs. He nods once to himself, almost like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask.

With a heavy breath, he lowers himself to the floor, sitting back against the foot of the couch. His legs stretch out in front of him, shoulders hunched, head bowed. One hand comes up to rub over his face, dragging from brow to jaw like he’s trying to wipe away the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse. His fingers dig into his temples. “Fuck, fuck—”

You watch him. From where you sit. From the place where his touch had just been.

He curses again, quieter this time. Not angry. Not cruel. Just broken. Cursing himself, not the world.

And you feel something shift in your chest—not the fear, not yet. But the knowing. The understanding.

So you move.

Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet. The hem of your dress brushes your knees as you walk, cautious and bare-footed, toward where he sits in shadow. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear you coming until you’re already there.

When he does lift his eyes, it’s quick, almost reflexive.

And still—you flinch.

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of muscle, a pull at your shoulders. You don’t mean to. But it’s there.

And he sees it. All of it.

The guilt that floods his face is instant, undeniable. Like something in him collapses. He turns his head slightly as if to hide, like he doesn’t want you to see the part of him he’s just shown.

But you kneel anyway.

You sink down in front of him, the floor cold beneath your knees, and you reach out.

Your hands come up slow, hesitant—but sure. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

His eyes flicker up, full of something wild and wounded. He opens his mouth—and the words fall out in a rush, cracked and frantic.

“I’m sorry—”

His breath shakes.

“I didn’t mean—”

He swallows hard.

“I would never—God, I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh…”

Your voice breaks through softly, warm and steady.

You press your forehead to his.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. But he closes his eyes, and he lets you hold him anyway.

And for now, that’s enough.

Minutes pass, but they stretch long and aching, like time itself is unsure how to move forward.

You’re both seated on the couch, the air between you thick with what almost happened. Close enough to reach for each other, but neither of you does. Not yet.

You sit still, your knees drawn in slightly, eyes on the floor. Remmick leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers twitching at his knees.

Every few minutes, he swipes at his pant leg—dusting off nothing. Just a nervous habit. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times across three years. He does it when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s scared he’s hurt you, when his guilt starts to choke the words in his throat.

“You didn’t mean it,” you say softly, trying to fill the silence with something true.

But he cuts across your words—not sharp, not cruel. Just quiet. Defeated.

“It still happened.”

His voice settles into the room like a stone dropped in still water.

You don’t respond right away. Because you can’t lie—it did happen. This isn’t the first time. You’ve been here before. These moments where the instinct in him overwhelms the man you know. When something ancient stirs in his blood and almost—almost—makes him forget who you are.

Who he is.

And still… you stay.

Because it is instinct. Because it’s him. Because he’s tried so hard to be gentle, to be careful with you, to never take more than you offer.

But your humanity doesn’t always understand.

There are flashes. Of fear. Of your body screaming to move, to run. Even when your heart knows better.

Your hand rises slowly, brushing off your shoulder—not because anything is there, but because your body needs something to do, a motion to match the quiet storm inside you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Remmick watching you. Just barely. Just for a second. Like he’s afraid to look too long.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly, still brushing at nothing.

Your voice trembles—but not with fear.

“I promise.”

That part is steadier. More certain. Like you’re not just telling him, but yourself too.

He turns to look at you, eyes catching yours for a brief, flickering second. Then he leans back into the couch again, sighing as he drags both hands up over his face and into his hair.

His elbows rest wide, shoulders curling in, and for a moment he looks less like the creature who nearly lost control—and more like a man unraveling under the weight of being that creature at all.

There’s another beat of silence.

Heavy.

Full.

But not suffocating.

And then—you move.

You shift slowly, inching closer, careful not to startle him, not to break the fragile calm settling between you. His hands are still tangled in his hair when you press your body flush to his side, your knees drawing up gently to rest near his thigh. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the weight of it soft but certain.

He tenses.

He always does, after things like this. After the hunger, the loss of control. Like he’s afraid your touch might break him. Or that he doesn’t deserve to be held after what nearly happened.

But when you exhale—a long, steady breath that says I’m still here—he softens.

Slowly, his shoulders lower. His body eases against yours. And then his chin dips to rest on the top of your head, the warmth of him grounding you both.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

Then his eyes fall to your chest.

To the thin gold chain and the small cross nestled in the hollow between your collarbones.

His fingers move before his voice does, brushing lightly against your skin. He picks it up with careful hands, like it might burn him.

“Why do you still wear this?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting across the little symbol. The question isn’t mocking. It’s softer than that. Almost confused.

You shrug, barely a motion, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” you say softly, “it’s better to be comforted by the familiarity of it… than to sit in the discomfort of knowing you were raised by people who heel to an if.”

His thumb keeps moving over the metal, slow and thoughtful.

Then—quietly—he asks, “Even after what happened?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away.

You feel the memory press up behind your ribs, the way some people spoke for God while hurting you in his name. But you shake your head, voice gentle but certain.

Your voice is quieter now, but not weak.

“I can’t blame God for the actions of men.”

Remmick lets the cross slip from his fingers.

“They’re his creations, though,” he says. Not accusing—just flat. Like stating a flaw in a story he’s never quite believed.

You pause. Your body shifts just slightly to glance at him.

His eyes aren’t sharp. But they aren’t soft, either. They look like someone who’s stood too long in the rain of something he used to want to believe in.

“Where is this coming from, Remmick?” you ask, reaching to touch the necklace again, your fingers now resting where his had been.

He’s quiet. Then his gaze meets yours.

“Because I’m not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Not what?”

His throat bobs, and he exhales through his nose before answering.

“Holy.”

The word leaves his mouth like something unwanted. Like it tastes wrong.

You shake your head without hesitation, leaning back into him, fingers curling at the side of his shirt.

“I ain’t ask for holy.”

There’s a pause.

Then his arm slides around your waist, drawing you close—not fast, not rough, but sure. His hand rests flat against your back, and he holds you like you’re the only thing left in a world that never offered him much to believe in.

The room settles around you again, the stillness no longer tense, but warm in its hush. The lamplight flickers low, casting soft gold across the floorboards, the corners of the room melting into shadow.

Remmick doesn’t speak, and neither do you.

He just holds you.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting along your spine, fingers splayed wide, keeping you close like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. Your cheek presses to his chest—cool and still beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s no rhythm to lull you, no beat beneath your ear.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve long since stopped searching for it.

His stillness is its own kind of comfort.

The way he holds you, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter yours—it tells you more than a pulse ever could.

Your fingers fidget lightly with the hem of his shirt, not out of nerves but instinct. He shifts just enough to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you in a quiet offering. His movements are careful. As if he thinks too much noise might startle the moment away.

“You always run cold at night,” he murmurs, just above your ear.

“I do not,” you whisper back, half a smile in your voice.

He hums in amusement, dipping his head slightly to press a kiss into your hair. Not rushed. Not wanting anything. Just the kind of kiss someone gives when they think no one else is watching.

Your breath begins to slow.

Your hand, once gently moving across his chest, grows still. He feels the change in you almost immediately—how your weight softens against him, how your fingers twitch once, then relax completely. Your body melts into his side, trusting, safe.

And he stays still.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he wanted. Not anymore. 

He just watches.

The way your face tips toward him, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. The cross glinting faintly against your skin as the lamplight burns itself out.

His hand strokes once down your back, slow and steady. A silent promise. A grounding.

He doesn’t dare move.

Because this—the weight of you against him, the quiet peace that followed the chaos—is something he doesn’t ever take lightly.

And though the house has fallen silent and your breath is deep with sleep, Remmick remains awake, holding you like you’re still asking to be protected.

———————

“I can’t stay here.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—sharp, absolute.

You chase after him, feet bare against the old wooden floor as he moves too fast, too frenzied, like if he stops for even a second, he’ll fall apart. Your hand brushes the edge of his shirt, just barely, but he’s already beyond your reach.

“Remmick—wait,” you call, breath catching, the words tumbling over themselves. “Can’t we just talk about it?”

He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look at you. His voice rises, tight with frustration and something dangerously close to despair.

“I need to get out. I need to find someone—someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can help.”

“Help with what?” your voice breaks slightly. “You said it didn’t matter anymore. You said no one could conjure them, that it was impossible—”

“We have talked,” he snaps, spinning to face you. And when he says your name—he says it in a tone you’ve never heard from him. Not even when you were fighting. Not even when you were afraid.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He sees it—the way you recoil just slightly, how your fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for him or pull back entirely. And still, you try. You step forward, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“You said it didn’t matter anymore,” you plead, anger bubbling up beneath the desperation now. “You said you couldn’t find anyone who could conjure them, and we—we moved on, Remmick! We—”

Your voice shakes. You hate the way it does. You hate the way your chest aches from chasing him, not just through the house, but through the months that led to this.

He turns to you fully now, eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hair—longer now, pinned back in a way that’s already half-fallen from place. There’s something about your appearance that makes him still. Like he’s seeing not just the person in front of him, but all the time you’ve weathered together. All the nights. All the blood. All the silence.

He says your name again.

Softer.

And then he closes his eyes.

“I tried,” he breathes, voice quiet, almost tender in its regret. “I really did.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re empty of hope.

“But being with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “It reminds me of the part of me that still wishes I was human. That part that wishes I could connect with people again.”

You flinch, like you’ve been struck. But you don’t back down.

“You connected with me,” you say sharply, your hand flying up in disbelief, gesturing to your own chest. “You said that. You said I made you feel like—like you were still something.”

He breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched. And then—

A pause.

A beat that goes on too long.

Too heavy.

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours.

“That was a mistake.”

The silence that follows is loud. Deafening.

You stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to take it back.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, full of that distant kind of grief that’s been killing him slowly long before this moment.

Another long beat of silence.

The kind that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that makes the room feel smaller, heavier—like the walls are listening, holding their breath along with you.

Your vision blurs slightly. Tears swell hot at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You won’t. Not in front of him. Not after this.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, voice trembling as you force the words out.

“How dare you?”

His eyes snap to yours, startled—not by the volume, but by the weight of it.

You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides to keep from shaking. He glances away, quickly—like looking at you is suddenly too much—but you don’t give him the out.

“How dare you say that,” you repeat, louder this time, voice cracking beneath the fury that rises like a wave behind your ribs, “after everything we’ve been through?”

He turns back, but you’re already staring him down, eyes wet and burning, teeth gritted so tight your whole body aches with it.

“You think you can just throw all this away? Call it a mistake?” Your voice quivers, but it doesn’t falter. “We survived things together. You shared blood. We—” you stop yourself, shoulders trembling as your breath comes fast and shallow. “Don’t you dare rewrite what we had just because you’re scared.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

And all you can do is stand there, every part of you pulled tight like a thread about to snap, holding on for dear life just to keep from crumbling at his feet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until he turns his back on you.

That simple motion—silent, final—makes something inside you break.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a slow, spreading crack through the center of your chest.

Your throat tightens. Your limbs go cold. You press your lips together hard, trying to stop the trembling in your jaw. But your eyes burn, and your vision sways, and something deep inside starts to unravel like thread being pulled from the hem of something sacred.

He’s facing the door now. Ready to leave you in ruins.

“Look at me,” you say, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move.

Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl against your sides, and you take a step toward him, your voice rising—

“Remmick, look at me.”

He turns.

Fast. Too fast. Like he’s been waiting to snap.

You flinch before you can stop yourself, instinct pulling your body backward a half-step.

And that’s when he says it.

“You aren’t special.”

The words are plain. Cold.

His eyes don’t blink, don’t soften. They bore into you like he’s trying to make you believe it—like he needs you to.

“You weren’t special enough to conjure them,” he spits, voice stripped of all the softness it used to hold for you. “All this time, all this blood, all this hope—and it was wasted. On you.”

You feel the breath knock out of you, a rush of silence ringing in your ears. It’s like your body hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart just heard.

And then he says it.

“Meeting you was a mistake.”

Your face crumples—just a flicker. You try to hide it. Try to stand tall. But the ache comes too fast. Too deep.

He stares at you. Daring you to fight it. Daring you to say he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know he’s already won.

Because he’s broken the one thing that held you both together.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

The words hang between you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to clear. He watches you—still, unreadable—but something shifts.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

It passes through his face too quickly, but you catch it—guilt. The barest crack in the mask. A subtle falter in the set of his jaw. The tiniest twitch of something human behind his eyes. Something that wants to take the words back.

But then he straightens. Withdraws.

His shoulders pull back, chin lifts slightly, and the mask returns. Cold. Detached. It slips back over his face like armor—like he needs it to stand here and not fall apart.

You stare at him, still frozen, your breath caught so tightly in your chest it hurts.

And then, finally—you exhale.

A soft, trembling sound escapes your lips, the breath breaking as it leaves you. It unravels into a quiet cry—small, raw, but cutting straight through the hollow ache inside you.

Your knees don’t give out. Your voice doesn’t rise.

You just… break, quietly.

The tears fall before you can stop them, hot and unrelenting. They spill down your cheeks like something you’ve been holding back for far too long, and your hand comes up—uselessly—to catch them. But they keep coming.

You’re not sobbing.

You’re just grieving.

Grieving what he just said.

Grieving that he meant it.

Grieving the part of him that once held you like you were the only thing keeping him in this world.

You take a step back.

Just one.

But it says everything. The distance grows in more ways than one—and for a breath, you see it in his eyes. The way they flicker. The way his fingers twitch. Like he’s about to follow you.

For a split second, it looks like Remmick might reach out—might step forward.

But he doesn’t.

He stills himself. Draws his hand into a fist at his side. Locks his body in place like it’s the only way he can keep from unraveling.

You stare at him through the blur of tears. Your breath is uneven, your chest tight with every word he’s thrown at you, and still—still—you look at him like you’re trying to see past all of it. Like you’re still trying to find him underneath the cruelty.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower. Less certain.

“I meant what I said,” he tells you.

But it lacks the venom now. The edge has dulled. There’s something buried beneath it—something fragile. And he tries to hide it, tightening his jaw, avoiding your eyes. It’s the kind of lie someone tells when they need it to be true. When the alternative would break them.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, wiping away the tears, though the dampness clings to your skin. Your eyes don’t leave him.

And then, after a long, aching silence, you say it:

“Turn me.”

His eyes widen. His head jerks slightly, like he misheard you. For the first time since he turned away, his composure shatters just a little.

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head like the word itself might undo something. “No.”

But you’re already stepping forward. Slow. Certain. The pain in your chest rising like a tide.

You close the space between you until you’re right there—nearly brushing against him, close enough to feel the cold tension radiating off his body, close enough to make him hold his breath.

“Turn me,” you repeat, firmer now, eyes locking with his. “Do it—so you won’t leave.”

His face twists. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, I do.”

Your voice doesn’t shake now.

“Because I know you, Remmick. I know what this is. You don’t mean what you said. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, because you think you’re protecting me—but I see you.”

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, stunned, struggling to hide the storm behind his eyes.

“And yes,” your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge, “your words hurt me. But I’m still here.”

You lift your chin, breath shallow. “So if this is the only way you’ll stay—then do it.”

Remmick shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with something wild and frayed.

“No,” he mutters, barely more than breath. “No.”

But you press closer to him anyway.

You’re almost flush against his chest now, breath mingling with his, your hands reaching for the front of his coat—gripping the worn fabric in tight fists, like if you hold hard enough, he won’t disappear.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracked, raw. “Remmick, please—just turn me. Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this—don’t say those things if you don’t mean them.”

His hands twitch at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. He looks down at you, expression dark, unreadable—but there’s something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he says again, louder this time, harsher. “No.”

He moves—tries to back away—but your grip tightens, frantic now, fingers curled tight in his coat like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you let go.

And then the sobs come.

They ripple through you like a storm, wracking your body as your knees almost buckle beneath the weight of everything—his words, his distance, the unbearable ache of loving someone who keeps pulling away.

“Please,” you choke again. “Please…”

Your voice crumbles. You’re not begging for the turning anymore—you’re begging for him. For the Remmick who held you at night. Who pressed kisses to your shoulder while you slept. Who whispered that you made him feel alive again.

And that’s what shatters him.

His face crumples—just for a second—and then his hands are on yours, trembling.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I won’t.”

He grips your wrists gently but firmly, peeling your hands from his coat with heartbreaking care, as though touching you too harshly might undo you completely.

“I won’t do that to you,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, swimming with sorrow. “I won’t damn you.”

His words tremble. His hands linger on your wrists even after he’s pulled them free.

His grip on your wrists lingers, trembling, as if some part of him doesn’t want to let go.

But he does.

He peels away from you slowly, like it hurts to break the contact. Your hands fall limply to your sides, empty now. Cold. His touch still clings to your skin even as he steps back, gaze flickering down before he forces himself to look away entirely.

You stumble a step after him.

“Remmick—” your voice is barely there. A breathless sob tangled in his name.

But he turns his back to you.

One hand rakes through his hair, gripping the strands tightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of himself. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he breathes heavy through his nose—too steady for a man this undone.

You stand there, frozen in place, a hollow thing trying to find footing on a crumbling floor.

“Remmick,” you say again, louder, more fractured, the plea cracking down the middle.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back.

He moves toward the door, each step sharp, deliberate. You want to run to him, to grab him again—but your body won’t move. It’s locked in place by too much—rage, grief, love, disbelief—too much.

He reaches the door, and his hand clamps down on the knob so hard it groans beneath his grip.

Metal warps under his palm, the shape bending slightly from the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He could stay.

He wants to.

But if he does, he won’t leave at all. And that terrifies him more than the sound of your voice breaking behind him.

With a harsh exhale, he yanks the door open.

Outside, the night air spills in—cold and wide and merciless. He stands there for a moment, held still by something invisible. He hesitates.

Just one second.

The ache in his chest blooms again. A bloom with no heartbeat, no blood. Just hollow space where your voice used to echo inside him.

But then—he steps forward.

Down the porch stairs. Into the dark.

And as the distance grows, he tries—tries—to drown out the sound of you crying behind him.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body is still frozen in place, chest heaving with sobs that feel too big for your ribs, too old to cry. Your hands tremble at your sides—empty, aching, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

Then, like instinct—like the last spark of hope clinging to a thread—you reach for him the only way you still can.

Through the link.

‘Remmick…’

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t need to. You close your eyes, press your hand to your chest, and focus everything—everything—on him. The ache. The longing. The sharp panic rising as his presence starts to feel distant.

‘Please… come back.’

No answer.

You try again, harder this time, your mind pushing past the pain, straining through the space between you.

‘Remmick, please. Don’t do this.’

Still—nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not even the faint echo of thought.

You feel him.

You feel him walking away. Each step pulling the tether tighter, drawing it out like a thread unraveling at the seams. He’s walking into the woods now, into the dark, and you can feel the earth swallowing his presence inch by inch.

‘Answer me,’ you plead, the thought barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

He doesn’t.

He keeps walking.

And as he moves deeper into the trees, your link with him—so often warm, so steady it felt like breath—begins to fade.

Fainter.

Fainter still.

Like fog slipping through your fingers.

You press your forehead to the wall beside the door, tears spilling again, lips parted in a silent gasp.

There is nothing now.

Just the dark.

Just the cold.

And the silence where his voice used to be.

———————

Your feet brush against each other beneath the quilt as you tug it higher up your shoulder, chasing warmth that never quite stays. The winter air creeps in through the cracks in the wood, biting at your arms, your neck, anywhere the blanket doesn’t reach.

You nestle deeper into the bed, letting the stillness settle over you. It’s a familiar kind of cold now. Quiet. Lonely, but bearable.

Your eyes grow heavy, breath evening out as sleep pulls at you.

Your hand rises absently to scratch your scalp—fingers dragging through the short strands before you wince, quickly remembering that you’d cut it just the morning before. A change. Something new. Something yours.

But then—

A cry.

Loud. Restless. Piercing.

You bolt upright, rubbing at your eyes as your feet find the floor, already moving.

The old boards groan beneath your steps as you hurry down the hall, the sound of her cries swelling with each stride, high and sharp and full of tiny, desperate frustration.

You push open the door to the guest room.

The soft glow from the lamp you’d left on filters across the bassinet—your sister’s, now yours for the week since she dropped off your niece. Just until she sorted some things out. You’d said yes before you could even think twice. 

The baby’s cries fill the room now, bouncing off the walls in wild, wordless protest. You step forward, peering into the bassinet, and there she is—flushed-cheeked and determined, trying to shove her fist into her mouth.

“Girl,” you murmur, exasperation bleeding into affection as you tilt your head and reach in, “you a handful.”

She wriggles as you lift her, her little body warm against yours. The moment she’s in your arms, her cries soften to hiccupped whimpers, mouth still working, cheeks damp. One tiny fist rubs beneath her eye, and she lets out a pitiful little sigh that nearly breaks your heart.

Your feet carry you back down the hall without needing to think, swaying with her as you walk.

You move through the kitchen with practiced ease, one hand on the bottle, the other keeping her tucked close, even as she squirms.

The quiet of the house wraps around you again.

Not the same quiet it used to be.

Not the same ache.

But quieter still.

You bounce her gently against your hip as the bottle warms in the pot of water on the stove, her head tucked under your chin, cheeks flushed with the aftershock of her crying fit. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of a single hanging bulb that hums softly above.

Outside, the wind groans low against the windows.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.

You press a kiss to the baby’s head, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath, the kind of words meant only for soothing, not meaning. Her small fingers clutch at the collar of your nightshirt, still rubbing at her face now and then, whimpering with discomfort, but quieter now. Contained.

You sway with her, barefoot on the chilled wood floor. It creaks beneath you with each step. Familiar. Lived-in.

But something about the quiet feels different tonight. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

The wind shifts again, brushing against the side of the house like fingers trailing across old wood. You glance toward the window, frowning faintly, but don’t stop moving.

“You don’t even like the cold,” you whisper to the baby, rocking side to side. “Don’t know why your mama insisted on that thin little blanket…”

Your voice trails off as your eyes linger on the dark glass of the window.

There’s nothing there.

Just your reflection. You and her. The slow rise and fall of her breath against your chest. The soft flicker of the light swinging just slightly above.

Still—you find yourself listening harder.

To the house.

To the air.

To the quiet between sounds.

The bottle clicks lightly against the side of the pot as you reach for it. You test the heat on your wrist, then bring it to her lips. She latches, her little mouth greedy, like she hadn’t just cried the walls down.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Steady.

But you don’t stop watching the window.

There’s something in your chest—nothing sharp yet, just a whisper in the gut. Like being watched. Like the moment just before thunder. A pressure that builds but hasn’t broken.

You shake your head.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Not since—

You blink. Your fingers brush over the back of the baby’s head. Her eyes flutter closed slowly as she suckles.

You stare into the window a second longer.

Just your reflection.

Just the wind.

But your fingers curl tighter around her.

And you don’t move far from the stove.

Her tiny breaths come slower now.

The bottle hangs at an angle in your hand as her mouth relaxes around the nipple, no longer sucking. Just resting. The tension in her little body has gone limp with sleep, one arm flopped across your chest, the other curled under her chin. Her lashes flutter once, then still.

You watch her.

Your niece.

Small and warm in your arms, her cheek nestled just over your heart. It calms you—being her anchor. Being needed, even in the quiet. Even when your own heart has been patchwork ever since he left.

You sigh and gently ease the bottle from her mouth, slow enough not to wake her. It comes free with a faint pop, and you hold it loosely in your hand, cradling her a little closer with the other. Her lips twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s still dreaming of something sweet.

You press another kiss to her temple and begin to turn, shifting your weight toward the fridge.

Then—you freeze.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

Remmick.

The air leaves your lungs so quietly you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, tall and still and real, like he never left. Like he could’ve always been there, just at the edge of a memory, just out of reach.

The low light from the overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting soft shadows across his face, half of him cloaked in darkness. His eyes are locked on you—not the baby. Not the bottle. You.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe not older—just tired. Worn. His clothes are damp at the hem, boots mud-dusted from the woods. The air around him is cold.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bottle dangles in your hand.

The baby sighs in her sleep.

And all you can do is stare, heart stuttering in your chest like it’s trying to remember how to feel everything it buried.

He doesn’t speak.

And God, you’re not even sure if he’s here to.

But he’s here.

Your lips part—

But nothing comes out.

The words catch in your throat, stuck behind the tide of disbelief and something deeper, something aching. Your gaze stays locked on him, searching for a reason, for any kind of explanation etched into his face.

But Remmick only stares.

His eyes, once soft only for you, now guarded, flicker downward to the bundle in your arms. His expression doesn’t shift, not fully—just enough to register something unreadable.

“…She yours?”

It takes you a moment to process the question. Not because it’s complicated. But because he asked it. Because he is standing there, like he didn’t disappear without a word—like two years didn’t pass in silence.

A scoff escapes before you can catch it. Sharp, tired, disbelieving.

“You’ve been gone, what—two years,” you say, voice low and tight as you rock the sleeping baby in your arms. “And you show up asking if I got knocked up?”

The bitterness is subtle, tucked beneath a layer of false steadiness, but it’s there. Your fingers tighten slightly on the bottle in your hand.

You try to sound even. Indifferent.

But the truth is, the weight of him being back—just standing there like the past didn’t happen—is pressing on your chest like a hand. And you’re doing everything you can not to fold beneath it.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

Just watches you with those dark eyes, unreadable in the low light, like he’s still catching up to the sight of you. Of what he left behind.

And maybe, just maybe, what he’s already regretting.

When he doesn’t answer, something in you shifts.

Breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But in pieces—one word at a time.

“You don’t get to ask questions like that,” you say, still low, still sharp, but your voice thins with every breath. “You don’t get to show up after years—after walking away from me, from everything—and act like you still have any right to know what’s mine.”

He stays still.

Silent.

Watching.

“You left me begging,” you whisper, your arms tightening around the baby now asleep against your chest. “I begged you not to go. I told you I wasn’t scared. That I was still here, and you—you just turned your back like none of it mattered.”

Your words grow quicker, more desperate.

“I tried to call to you—through the link—we shared that. I tried every night for weeks. You didn’t answer. Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word.

Just watches.

And that’s what finally makes something snap.

“Say something, damn it!” you nearly shout, but the sound trembles with pain more than rage. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost in my kitchen—like you didn’t rip me apart and vanish like I was nothing!”

Your voice breaks completely now. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting again despite all the tears you thought you’d already spent on him.

And still—he says nothing.

But he moves.

Quiet. Intentional.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you. Reflexively, you take a step back, shaking your head.

“No—Remmick, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.”

But he keeps coming.

Until he’s standing right in front of you, the baby nestled safe between your arms and your chest, sleeping through the weight of everything around her. His presence so close, you can feel the cool air that always clings to him pressing against your heat.

Then—slowly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter beneath it—he lifts a hand.

You don’t stop him. You want to. You think you should.

But you don’t.

And when his palm finally meets your cheek—his thumb brushing softly beneath your eye—your entire body caves inward.

Not physically.

Not visibly.

But everything inside you folds.

You melt into his touch like you were made to. Like nothing’s ever felt more real, more grounding, more right—even now. Even after everything.

Your eyes close. Just for a second.

The quiet between you hums like a wound.

His hand stays at your cheek, steady, thumb grazing the corner where your last tear dried. Your eyes stay closed, not because you trust him—but because the moment you open them, you’ll have to feel everything all over again.

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

He breathes out, slower.

Then—

He speaks.

���I’m sorry.”

Two words.

So small.

So late.

Your eyes snap open.

You pull back—not far, not entirely—but just enough to see him. Really see him. His face is drawn, tired. Not just from time. From regret.

You part your lips. The words rise fast in your throat, fueled by every long night, every unanswered cry, every bitter second he left you alone with all that love and nowhere to put it.

“Your sorry doesn’t mat—”

“I know.”

He says it before you can finish, the words low and plain.

Not defensive.

Not performative.

Just… true.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment, the rest of the sentence dissolving on your tongue. There’s something gutting about the way he says it—how fast it comes, how quietly.

He knows.

He knows he can’t fix it.

He knows it’s not enough.

He knows he left something in you that never stopped aching.

And somehow, that hurts worse than if he’d tried to argue.

You stand there in his grasp, his hand still at your cheek, eyes searching yours with that old ache—the one you used to know so well. The silence lingers again, thick and full of everything unsaid. And then—

Your voice cuts through it, quiet but steady.

“…Why are you back?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you feel the tension ripple through his fingers, still resting lightly against your skin.

He hesitates. You can see it—the way his jaw works, how his eyes lower to the floor between you. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. That he’ll leave you in the dark all over again.

But then, just barely above a whisper—

“I think I’ve found someone.”

He looks at you again. “Some people. Who might be able to help.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once, slowly, the motion tight and mechanical. And before the silence can grow unbearable again, you let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—bitter and tired.

“That’s good for you,” you murmur.

And then, you move.

You turn your face from his hand and gently pull your head out of his touch. The loss of his presence against your cheek feels colder than it should, but you ignore it. You shift the baby in your arms, her little body warm and boneless against yours, one tiny fist curled near her mouth.

“You should leave,” you say softly, not cruel, not even angry. Just… done.

You take a step toward the hallway.

But his hand finds your wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you. To ask without words.

“Don’t,” you say, voice barely audible.

But before either of you can move again—

Your niece lets out a small, whimpering sound.

A soft whine, pained and restless, as she begins to stir against your shoulder. Her gums, still tender from teething, are clearly giving her grief again. You instinctively bounce her, soothing.

But it’s the sound—that tiny, human ache—that breaks him.

You feel it.

Something changes.

You glance back, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion, only to find Remmick… crumbling.

His expression falls apart all at once—like a dam finally giving in. His eyes close, jaw clenching as he sucks in a breath too shaky to steady. His shoulders drop, and he lets go of your wrist like it burns.

“Remmick—?” you start, brow furrowing.

But he’s already there—standing in the ruins of whatever wall he’d tried to keep between you. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, voice breaking in the back of his throat.

“I shouldn’t’ve come back,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I thought—I thought I could just come in, tell you what I found, and walk away again.”

His eyes meet yours, red-rimmed, wet.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

You don’t move.

You feel the tremble in him, the rawness beginning to leak out of every word, but you don’t step forward. You keep your distance—not out of punishment, but because if you move now, if you let yourself soften, you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

He’s the one breaking this time.

And you’ve broken enough.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” he says again, voice thin and cracking, like he’s choking on the very thing he’s fought so long to suppress.

You say nothing.

Your arms tighten just slightly around your niece, who shifts again with a small whine before nestling back into your shoulder. The quiet hum of her small discomfort is the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

Remmick’s hands shake as he pushes them into his hair, like he’s trying to rip the feeling out of his skull.

“I thought I could handle it,” he goes on, his voice a hushed blur. “Thought I could just see you, tell you what I found, and leave. Be… grateful, even. That you moved on. That you looked okay.”

You blink, your stare sharp.

“I’m not okay,” you say simply.

He freezes at that.

“I wake up every night thinking I’m still waiting for your voice in my head. Still hoping you’ll answer. I spent months checking the woods for you like a fool. I tried to forget you, and every time I thought I had—I’d dream of you.”

Your breath hitches, but you keep your tone even. You don’t raise your voice.

“I am not okay,” you repeat, softer now. “But I lived.”

Remmick looks at you like you’ve just slapped him, and maybe, in a way, you have.

He nods slowly, eyes lowered.

“You should go,” you say again. Not unkind. But firm. “You said what you came here to say.”

His mouth opens—but no sound comes.

For once, he doesn’t argue.

He just stands there in the kitchen he once haunted, in the silence he left behind.

And you don’t reach for him.

You don’t fold this time.

Because you’re still bleeding from the last time you did.

He doesn’t follow you.

You don’t even hear him move.

Just the quiet behind you, the kind that settles in when someone’s made the choice to stay still instead of chasing after what’s slipping away.

You walk back to the guest room without a word, her small body pressed close to yours, the way babies always seemed to mold themselves into you like they trusted you with every part of them. She stirs, lips parting in a sleep-heavy pout, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

You kneel beside the bassinet and lay her down gently, smoothing your hand over her soft curls, fixing the thin blanket to cover her—tucked just enough to keep her warm, loose enough not to make her squirm. The room is quiet but not empty. It is full of her steady breathing, of your own heartbeat finally slowing, of the warmth that lingers in your chest even through the ache.

Then you leave her.

Walk through the halls that still hold a whisper of his presence, as if the walls remember his shape, his shadow, even when he is gone.

And when you make it back to your bed, you don’t hesitate.

You slump into it—face buried in the pillow, arms limp at your sides—and let a few tears finally slip free. No heaving sobs. No gasps for breath. Just a quiet spill of sorrow that doesn’t ask for permission.

You can’t feel him anymore.

That connection, that strange tether that once ran like a livewire between your ribs—it has gone still. And you know, without needing to check, that he isn’t here anymore.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.

That’s the cruelest part of loving someone like him.

They always return just when you’d started to believe they never would.

And as you drift off to sleep,

you dream.

It begins with the sound of wind—soft and low, brushing through tall grass that doesn’t exist anywhere near your home. The air is warm here, golden. Drenched in late-afternoon sunlight that sways with the trees like it’s dancing. Everything glows. Even the shadows.

You stand barefoot in the middle of a field you don’t recognize. But somehow, it feels familiar. Like something from a childhood you never lived. The sky is streaked with honeyed orange and rose-colored clouds, and the breeze hums low, tugging at your dress like it’s trying to guide you somewhere.

You turn slowly—

And he’s already there.

Remmick stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat you’ve never seen him wear, his expression unreadable but softer than he’s ever looked. His hair is a little longer. His eyes… not quite the same. Warmer. Human.

You want to speak, but your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Because he’s already moving toward you, quiet steps through the grass that doesn’t bend beneath him.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away.

He just looks.

Looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to memorize you again. Your face. Your mouth. The soft glint of your necklace as it catches the dying sun.

And then—he lifts a hand. Presses the back of it to your cheek.

It’s warm. He’s warm.

His thumb runs beneath your eye, so gently it makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice barely above the breeze. “That I could miss something before it ever left me.”

You close your eyes.

It’s a dream. You know it.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not a vampire here. Not a shadow. Not a man made of memory and regret.

He’s just him.

And for a moment, just long enough, you let yourself lean forward—

And rest your forehead to his.

Your forehead rests against his, breath mingling. It’s soft. Still. Timeless.

But the warmth of his hand begins to fade.

Not suddenly. Gently—like dusk rolling over daylight.

And before you can stop it, the field dissolves beneath your feet. The grass melts into wooden planks. The orange sky darkens into candlelight flickering against old wallpaper. And your bare feet… they touch floorboards you recognize.

The dream has shifted.

But it hasn’t abandoned you.

You know this place.

Your sitting room.

The one before the wallpaper peeled and before winter made everything too quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed to the couch. Remmick is across from you, legs sprawled out, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders hanging at his hips. There’s a record spinning low in the background, some jazz tune that always made your foot tap.

He’s smiling. Really smiling.

That rare, crooked grin that used to only appear when he was completely unguarded. When he forgot to be what the world turned him into.

“You gonna play fair this time?” you hear yourself say, younger, teasing.

He narrows his eyes at the worn deck of cards in his hands. “I always play fair.”

“You cheat like you’re allergic to honesty.”

“And yet,” he says, laying a card down with a flourish, “you keep comin’ back to lose.”

You’re laughing now. The sound echoes in your dream like it’s something sacred.

Then—he leans forward. His eyes drop from your eyes to your lips. The moment stretches.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“I don’t care about the cards.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing yours as he plucks a stray card from your lap.

“I just like watchin’ you laugh.”

Your dream self softens. You remember this night. The scent of warm wood. The way his fingers ghosted over yours longer than necessary. The way he kissed you an hour later like it was a confession he didn’t have words for yet.

You blink—and it’s like the moment folds in on itself.

The music distorts. The candle flickers once—

Then dies.

You’re left in silence.

And slowly, your dream-self turns to find the room empty.

No Remmick. No warmth.

Just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to speak into the quiet.

The room around you stills—dim, waiting. You expect to wake up now, maybe with that ache in your chest again. That emptiness that always followed dreams of him.

But instead, you feel it shift again.

Not the space. Not the light.

You.

It begins in your chest, like a second breath filling your lungs. A memory rising not from your mind, but from your body. A sensation before a thought.

And then you’re there.

Not in a room this time, but in the woods just behind your home. Summer hangs thick in the air—humid and fragrant, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It’s night, but the moon is full. Bright enough to see the glint of his eyes across from you.

He’s standing close. Too close.

Your fingers hover just above the cut on his wrist.

“I told you,” Remmick says, voice quiet, not angry, “it’s not safe.”

You remember this.

Not just the words. The pull.

Your dream-self looks up at him, gaze steady. “You told me everything about you wasn’t safe. But I’m still here, ain’t I?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You reach for his arm before he can stop you, fingers brushing the blood that beads along the open wound. It’s still fresh—dark, and viscous, and wrong in color—but you’re already bringing it to your mouth.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

But it’s too late.

You taste him.

The blood is bitter at first. Cold and alive in a way that makes your tongue go numb. It slides down your throat like fire threaded with frost. And then—it happens.

The world bends.

Not violently. Not with force.

But like silk pulled tight over your ears, like your body isn’t yours anymore. The trees go silent. The wind cuts off. And your breath—

You gasp.

Your hands go out to steady yourself but he’s already there, catching you before your knees buckle.

And in the space of a blink, you’re in him.

Not in his body—but in his mind.

You see flashes.

A house fire. A laugh.

Hands reaching for him and pulling away in the same breath.

A name he hasn’t said aloud in years.

Your own face.

And you feel him—

The grief, ancient and echoing.

The hunger he’s tried to chain.

The fear that you’ll vanish like everyone else before you.

It crashes into you.

He sees your thoughts, too—your quiet wondering, your ache, your stubborn belief that he could still be loved.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, breathing like he’s just surfaced from underwater. You sway, dazed, a smear of his blood still wet on your bottom lip.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You linked us.”

You blink slowly, heart rattling in your ribs.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And yet—

You both know something sacred just snapped into place.

You remember the way he touched your face afterward—like it was a thing he’d dreamt and didn’t believe could be real.

You remember how you didn’t sleep that night.

You just listened—to the new quiet that settled between your thoughts.

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

wc: 1.6k a/n: I listened to the kpop demon hunters soundtrack while writing this. Soda Pop has me in it's CLUTCHES. Bruce is a softie in this chapter bc me and my daddy issues say so. Also Christy? She's my irl therapist and we LOVE her here okay? prev: denial next: bargaining

Stage three: Anger

Jason sat on the couch, his worn journal in his hands. Despite only being written in a few times he continuously toyed with the edges of the paper - fraying them. He stares out the window, his mind a jumbled mess. He just got off the phone with Bruce and now he was in a worse mood than when he had woken up.

hi I miss you

it's the 17th. B just called. Wish you could've been here to hear it. Think he was guilt tripping me. Told me it's been almost a month since I've been to the manor. What does it even matter?

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

I can't. Feels like it gets harder every time I go over there. Yeah it's been a few months since

Between the call with Bruce and remembering your death, your funeral, the tombstone Bruce had placed for you in the family cemetery on the manor grounds Jason was at the end of his rope for the day. 

“Fuck!” 

It's loud, angry. Something that would have made you jump - he hates himself for it. His notebook flies across the room and smacks against the wall. His pen is broken in half. As he stands from the couch he pushes the coffee table out of the way with his foot, hitting the tv stand knocking over a picture frame.

The sound of broken glass makes Jason stop. It's like his heart is breaking all over again. It hurts. He feels his heart skip a painful beat, he feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Stop it!” You yell at him from the bedroom door.

It had started as such a stupid argument. So many little things during that day that resulted in heightened frustration between the two of you. 

“Don't tell me to stop. I didn't fucking do anything.” Jason snaps at you and you stare at him in disbelief for a split second before your expression turns hurt.

Jason knew he had some anger issues he needed to work on and he hated that he was taking it out on you even if it was subconscious. He hated himself for it.

“You're in here slamming stuff for no reason!” You shoot back when he tells you he hasn't done anything.

“Oh, boo-hoo.” Jason grumbles as he rolls his eyes. He can't stand the way he's treating you but he can't stop it.

“Jesus Christ, I can't have sunshine comin' outta my ass every second of the day for you. Fuck, you're so sensitive sometimes, you know that?”

You stop.

Jason stops.

Your disappointed scowl falters and your lips pull downward into a trembling frown. You've both said worse to each other before, more scathing biting insults. There was just something about this time that hurt.

Jason sees the way your eyes turn glassy with tears and the way you begin to frown. That's all it takes for all of his anger and frustration to completely melt away. He rubs his hand down his face and sighs.

“Baby, I'm sorry-”

You shake your head to stop him. You know that if you try to talk now you'll end up crying.

“No, no, please. Baby,” he takes a step forward and you take one back, making him stop in his tracks. He stares at you like you just burned him. With his mouth parted he watches as you turn and close the bedroom door behind you. It only takes him a second to register what happened.

He doesn't try to open the door knowing that if it was locked he might as well just rip his heart out of his chest and let you physically step on it in front of him. Instead he stands in front of the door with one tentative hand on the handle.

“Baby, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it. I'm sorry for being such an asshole.” He begs for your forgiveness through the door.

You stay silent. You know you need space, he knows you need space but he also has a codependency issue that makes it hard for him to stay away from you.

Jason's not sure if minutes or hours pass by. All he knows is his back hurts and his legs are stiff from sitting on the hardwood floor with his back to the door. Waiting silently for you to come out. Silently listening to you sniffle and cry, dying a little bit more inside knowing he can't do anything to comfort you yet.

But eventually you do. Slowly and quietly you open the door. You sniffle quietly and if you weren't still upset with a headache from crying you would've laughed at how ridiculous Jason looks as he scrambles to his feet.

“Hey,” your voice is hoarse and raspy from your much needed crying session.

“God, baby, I'm so sorry.” Jason whispers. He's on you immediately. Big strong arms wrap you in a warm hug. Jason sighs audibly in relief. He buries his face into the top of your head, eyes closing as he breathes you in. Your nose presses into his chest and you let him hug you, too tired to reciprocate just yet - wanting to soak in his warmth.

He repeats a flurry of “I'm sorry” and “I didn't mean it” against you. You can feel the way his heart thuds in his chest and you can feel your bottom lip tremble again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You're perfect. You're not too sensitive. I mean- okay. You are. But it's not a bad thing. I love that about you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, I'm so sorry. Please I'll do anything-” He was panicking because even though you've fought and argued before - as any couple does - he's never made you cry.

“I let my anger get the better of me, I should have never-”

“It's okay…” You interrupt him and turn your head to the side to rest your cheek against him, your ear against his heart. 

“No, it's not.” He kisses the top of your head.

You're quiet again, “Okay.. it's not… but we both weren't being the best. I'm sorry, too.”

“Don't apologize. Ever. You could shoot me and I'd never want you to apologize.”

Jason remembers how downright scared you looked that night when he slammed the kitchen drawer shut. He hates himself all over again. He walks over to the notebook and picks it up.

“Sorry…” he mutters. He's not sure if he's saying it absentmindedly to the notebook, himself, or you. Either way he exhales roughly and sits back on the couch. He looks over his journal entry and slowly gets back to it.

It's been a few months since I've been there. It's harder now with your headstone there. I wasn't at my best when Bruce had it put in. I was angry. You would have hated it. You were never afraid tho just gave me that damn disappointed look. That hurt more than anything. I <u>hated</u> that. I deserved it though I was such an asshole when I was mad

“What the fuck is that?” Jason asks as he stares out the floor to ceiling window. It's such a small thing, your tombstone being added to the family plot. But Jason notices immediately as he walks by, the way the number grew overnight.

“Hm?” Bruce hums as he positions himself near Jason.

“I said, what the fuck is that?” Jason's voice is laced with venom at this point.

Bruce finally inhales and opens his mouth to answer.

“Without my permission?” Jason asks with quiet outrage.

“I didn't know I needed your permission.” Bruce says quietly but firmly.

“Not even a warning?”

“She was part of the family-”

“Oh don't give me that shit!” Jason turns to Bruce with a look that could kill. “You didn't even ask! She didn't want to be buried, didn't want a headstone! That's why I put her in a fucking urn.”

Bruce is silent. Perhaps he was in the wrong on this one, he thought.

“What's it say, huh? Who'd you put her by?” Jason's breathing was ragged. He knew he was overreacting, deep down he knew, but with something so big to memorialize you - it made it all the more real to Jason.

“Al-” Bruce begins to answer but Jason cuts him off. He's crying. It's the first time he's cried in days but there's a small part of him that feels safe, comfortable, doing it in front of Bruce.

“Don't. Fucking don't-” Jason's voice cracks as he pushes Bruce's shoulder. “You shouldn't have-” He points a finger at Bruce. “She didn't fucking want-” Jason's crying now. Fat tears stream down his face, his eyes tired and heavy and red.

“Come here,” is all Bruce says softly, offering an open shoulder to Jason.

He stands defiantly for a second before his resolve finally crumbles. With a shaking sob he pulls Bruce into a bruising hug and cries into his shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce murmurs as he hugs his son.

“S’not fair,” Jason cries.

Christy says I'm doing better with managing my anger. I tried so hard for you. To be better. I'm so fucking sorry I didn't do it sooner. Or try harder. I think you would be proud of me. You always said you were but this time I know you would be

Jason wipes at a tear in the corner of his eye. He mumbles a curse under his breath and grabs his phone from his pocket. He can feel his emotions beginning to overwhelm him, he sees the warning signs now and knows how to cope. 

Maybe therapy isn't as stupid as he thought, he thinks.

He sends a text to Dick asking to meet him at the gym.

taglist: @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01 @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm

[rinsfanfics01]

I've had this idea since the breakup. Since no one else is going to write it I guess I will.

~

The thing is, they had talked about it. During that first coffee date, all those months ago. Buck and Tommy had decided to take a walk after finishing their coffees. He couldn't remember how the topic had come up, but he did remember telling him.

"Sometimes I say things, but they don't come out right." Buck had admitted, rubbing the back of his head. He could feel his face heat up and tried to avoid looking at the other man. Tommy had stayed quiet, so Buck did what he always did and rambled.

"It's not that I do it on purpose. I will be trying to say one thing but my brain goes too fast for my mouth to keep up. So I would be trying to tell you one thing but jump to the finish line without meaning to." He remembered so many times it had happened with Eddie. Where the other man thought he meant one thing and they ended up arguing over it. The lawsuit alone. Well, he tried to not remember that one.

"Okay, I can work with that." Tommy then said, bringing Buck back to the present.

"Yeah?" Buck asked, looking back at the other man. Tommy had a thoughtful look on his face. Maybe he was trying to come up with ideas on how to work with it. An unpleasant part in the back of his head suggested that he might be reconsidering.

"Have you ever heard of the color system?" Which, yeah. Buck had, but mostly in regard to kink. This didn't have much if anything to do with sex. Well, maybe sometimes it did, but he didn't want to talk about that.

"Yeah? Like green means go, yellow means pause, red means stop?" Buck snorted. Except, Tommy wasn't laughing. So he stopped and kept his attention on the other. What was he thinking?

"Exactly, we can use that. When you think I'm not understanding what you mean, or when your thoughts get to fast, you color out. We stop, then discuss." Tommy explained. Which was-nice? He'd never truly tried to find a way to help with this issue. He sorta expected that no one would have wanted to.

"Yeah-yeah, that works." Buck knew his face was probably cherry red at this point. Tommy reached and took his hand in his. Buck squeezed it, and he felt Tommy squeezing it back.

"Good." The older man hummed. Buck smiled back at him and gently bumped his shoulder into the other's.

"I mean, those colors work in other places too." Buck joked, making Tommy laugh.

They had used that system a few times. More so in the beginning of their relationship. Buck hadn't had to use it in a month or so now. So, it didn't surprise him that he hadn't thought about their arrangement until now.

"You wouldn't mean to, you wouldn't plan for it, but you'd end up breaking my heart." The words hit Buck like a bus. What did he mean by that? He loved Tommy. Why did he think he'd break his heart? "And I-I don't think that I could deal with that."

Buck had no clue what was happening right now. He tried to figure out where he went wrong. What did he not say that made them get here? Because if it was something he did say then they could fix jf. Well, maybe. It didn't help that Tommy looked devastated. He needed to fix this- he needed to stop this-

"I should go." Tommy said softly, standing up. Buck couldn't stop this. He needed to stop this. But Tommy kept on moving to the door. Which wasn't great. How could he stop this how-

"Wa-wait, wait- hey-hey-hey. Wait, did you just break up with me?" Buck asked. Thankfully that made the other man pause and turn. The hope he felt at the gesture didn't last.

"Yeah, I guess I did. Believe me I didn't see it coming either." Tommy sighed. "Shoulda known that parking spot was too good to be true."

Buck honestly felt his heart crumbling as he tried to think of anything to say. To make this stop. His brain scrambled with each pause. He needed Tommy to take control back and make things go right. But the other man wasn't doing it. Didn't he know this was one of those times Buck needed him to make things better?

"See you around Buck." Tommy whispered.

"Red." Buck said quickly, without thinking. When he didn't hear the door he repeated the word again.

"What?" He could hear Tommy say but by this point Buck had his eyes closed. The only thing he could think to do was grab onto his hair and repeat the word like it was a lifeline.

"Red-red-red-red!" With each time the word left his lips it raised in volume. He needed this to stop, why wasn't his daddy stopping?

"Hey-hey, what's wrong? You gotta talk to me, sweetheart." He could hear the other man say. His voice was soothing but it wasn't helping.

"Red means stop. You gotta stop. Red means stop." Buck tried his best to calm his own heart down but it wasn't too late. His brain was running on overtime and his system was shot. He needed his daddy to take control now.

[flofaiiry]

okay,, in regards to this post:

What if Jack is having a Whitaker kind of shift? He's been covered in far too many bodily fluids that were not his own, on multiple occasions throughout the span of his 12-hour shift.

He feels so yucky that he just takes a shower at the hospital before he leaves and gets in his beloved truck. idk if on-call rooms have like. en-suite bathrooms but let's just say they do!!

Jack doesn't bother to reserve the room or lock the door since he'll just be in and out, but apparently another employee had the same idea (I'm biased towards RNs and NPs, sue me) & they're so exhausted they don't notice or hear the shower running.

The RN/NP/whoever starts stripping out of their own soiled scrubs, just as Dr. Abbot opens the bathroom door, steam rolling out after him, with just a towel secured loosely around his waist...

brain goes brrr <33

OKAY YOU SENT THIS SO LONG AGO AND I COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABT IT AND HOW TO POSSIBLY DO IT JUSTICE????? anyways let me try.

imagine jack & peds nurse or something not er and she decides to use the emergency staff's on call room bcs they never have time to be in them anyways and they're usually empty so u go in one and start getting undressed then this absolute specimen of a man comes out half naked with a fucking entourage of steam like he's some god or something. you both apologize profusely and offer to leave so the other can have the room but somewhere in there he makes a comment about his day then you make one about yours and now somehow you're sitting on the tiny little bed next to this doctor you've never really seen and talking about everything and nothing and all things in between and then before u know it he's kissing you and taking the rest of your clothes off and mumbling something into the crook of your neck about needing stress relief and to be honest- even though you've just met this man- so do you!! so you tug off his little hospital issue towel and just let him stress ball the fuck out of u. u both fall asleep after that, your respective 12 hour shifts finally catching up to you and when you wake up he's just... gone :( but you refuse to let sex that good just walk out the door so you start using that on call room more often in hopes to catch him in there again and you do and then the post work hookups become a little routine!!

[riniworld]

I am in love with Aurelius, can't wait to read a sequel about him 🫣

intertwined souls

yandere!sorcerer oc x gn!reader

warnings|| illness. blood, alot of blood. major death. weird ritual?. not proofread!

reference|| you. i tried too hard to not put "them" somewhere so the sentence might sound slightly wrong

a/n|| do you know how many months have this ask been in the box? I'm so sorry i was thinking of an idea 🙏

english isn't my first language, please tell me if there is any spelling mistake so i can correct it.

cough. aurelius flinch. your condition is getting worse and worse by the minute, he tried potions, medicine, magic you name it, none of it worked, or made a slight difference. he knows this is the price you pay for his fault.

when he gave you the memory potion, he was well aware of the risks, who drank forbidden magic and came out healthy? he wish he could stop that, but he can't. he's too deep into this, if one month went without you taking the potion again, everything will fade, your memories will return, and worse you'll hate him for what he did, so he have to keep going, even if it hurt him more than how it hurt you now.

he turned off the fire and poured the soup into a bowl, it was a simple vegetable soup, something you can eat without tiring yourself with chewing, as well as it being healthy. he put the bowl on the tray and went upstairs to your room, with each step your heavy breathing sound became clearer and clearer, and now he really wish he can breath for you, so you don't have to be in that pain for something as simple as taking a breath.

he stopped at your door taking a breath, then put a smile on his face before he open the door slowly, the bed was in front of the door, so with a small crack he saw your form lying down, your head was turned to the opposite side, your chest was going up and down rapidly as you breath. his eyes fell with a pained look, he's causing this to you, he's the reason you're in this pain,yet he's so selfish he doesn't want to end it for you.

you turned around when you heard the sound of the door open, aurelius entered with this soft smile of his, the smile that you feel so safe seeing, and you smiled in return, because you don't want to make him worry, you don't want to feel like everything is crumbling, the pain you feel is hard to ignore, but you don't want to sink in it. acting like everything is okay is your coping mechanism in these rough days.

he put the tray on the nightstand beside the bed and pull a chair to sit beside it "how are you today?" he asks gently. you kept smiling at him as you answer "good." , he nod "not better...okay." his tone dropped a little and he reach for the soup bowl, taking a moment for himself to look away and calm a bit, he doesn't want to make this any harder on you than how it is.

you slowly lift yourself up, as soon as you sit straight you felt lightheaded and your vision blurred a little, but not wanting to worry aurelius you lean back against the wall without mentioning it.

he takes the bowl in his lap and started feeding you slowly and carefuly, the soup was soft, diffently a bit tasteless but edible nevertheless, he was never that good with cooking anything other than potions.

"is it too hot?" he asks suddenly, you're sure you didn't let any expression of discomfort out...have you?.

"uh..no." you shake your head. putting an innocent look on your face in case you had shown any sign of discomfort to set him off. he just nod and continue to feed you.

everything was going smoothly, like a cute pampering season from him, that is until you felt a lump in your throat and got into a fit of coughing, your body jerks forward from the force of the cough, you leaned to the side putting your hand over your mouth. dread filled aurelius to the brim as he put the bowl down and sat beside you, holding you lightly for you to not fall.

then you felt a liquid coming out your mouth, terrified you calm down and look into your palm, it was covered in red, blood was coming from your mouth and on the floor, panic seep into you, and you look up at aurelius, wanting reassurance or the safe feeling you always had when looking at him, but he was as terrified as you, or maybe even more.

"heck." he say and quickly turned you over to face him, his eyes searched your face frantically, he can use his magic and bring his medicine supplies here, but you don't know about magic and he can't risk it, his only choice is to leave you alone for a bit "I'll be right back okay? i won't be late wait for me, you'll be fine i promise." he say while standing up, his hands never left you until he was fully straight up, and then he hurried out the room in seconds.

you almost forget your panic while you see him acting like that, he's acting completely off, not the composed calm man you knew him for, you can swear he's about to just cry on the floor instead of you.

aurelius opens the drawers and cabinets messily as he gather everything he can find that he think is of use while repeatedly saying "I'll help you" over and over again desperately. it's not even five minutes yet when he storm into your room hands full.

you were calm now, no coughing but your mouth still smeared with a little blood, aurelius took a cloth from his bag and softly cleaned the edge of your mouth, his touch was light as a feather, you almost didn't feel any pressure.

then he gave you a glass of water and a bucket to rinse your mouth into it, now that's it's clean from the blood he can see inside it, looking for any sign of injury, bite, anything to not confirm his suspicion, but there was none, your mouth is as healthy as ever, he checks your heart, normal. he checks your body, no trace of anything abnormal....he is right, he knows exactly what is happening to you, but he was trying not ot acknowledge that, for the first time in his life, aurelius wish he was wrong, he wish he had done a mistake in inspecting you, he wish he was that terrible of a doctor that he can't know you're having a normal cureable illness.

but, in fact, it wasn't...the forbidden magic he's making you drink is rotting you from the inside, your body is breaking down from the inside, the only reason you're not feeling the pain might be related to a side effect of the potion.

"rest." with trembling hands he put you down on your back "you need to rest." he catches the suppressing fear in your eyes so he force himself to soften his voice "hey,it's okay." he ran his fingers through your hair "it's not serious, I'll take care of you, mhm? you trust me right?" his voice is full of affection, soothing in the best way, just what you wanted. you lean against his palm and close your eyes, he press his lips together in helplessness, no he can't take care of you, he can't do anything, it's either gaining your hate or your health, and he'll never choose the first even on his dead body.

he put a soft kiss on your forehead "I'll go to the clinic." he say and left you to sleep in peace, or he hopes you do.

shattered glass covered the clinic's floor, some of it had blood on it, in the corner sat aurelius, he clutched his hair tightly, he wouldn't care if he ripped it apart right now. tears streaming down his face as he looked at nothing,a truly pathetic scene.

he had tried everything, every potion he had learned, even created new ones, nothing seemed to work, he tried them on test subjects, he wouldn't give you something no one has tried before, he wouldn't risk making anything worse than it is.

but nothing is enough, NOTHING is working in his favor, he doesn't even want to imagine what's the next stage in your condition is.

he groaned in frustration and buried his face in his hands, then a sob came out, two...three..."I'm sorry." he whispered to no one, or maybe to you, "I'm sorry" again, but now his voice is more broken, "I'm sorry." and he drown in his guilt and helplessness, apologizing again and again, eventually no one could make what he is saying, his voice break with sobs and gasps as he realize he is, in fact, of no use now.

aurelius dragged himself back home when the night came, he's devastated if anyone saw him right now from the village they'll say they saw a ghost in the pitch black night.

the warm glow of the house's light made his chest ease a little, he let out a breath as he closed the door behind him, the house is silent, it's kind of refreshing—to enter without hearing you coughing violently or struggling to take a breath, his heart calmed at the thought of you sitting–sleeping–upstairs unbothered by anything.

he went to the bathroom to take a quick bath, cleaning himself from the scent of the herbs and the bitter smell, after half an hour he walked out, hair dripping and a towel in hand to dry it off while climbing upstairs to check on you, he dropped the towel around his neck and opened the door very slowly to not let any sound out.

there you were, sleeping peacefully, a sight to his sore eyes. he smiled to himself softly, it has been more than a month since the last time it was this peaceful–you were this peaceful. he wants to get in and sleep beside you, hold you, listen to your heartbeat, but he won't risk waking you up when you finally have your rest. "goodnight, love." he whisper to himself and closed the door carefully.

the morning was extra dewy today, the sun wasn't too bright or too hot, the birdsong filled the silent that was in the house, as much as aurelius was relieved, he couldn't help but find it strange that there was no sound coming from you, but then again you were always a heavy sleeper.

he took the breakfast tray and went to your room, you were still lying in the same position he left you in, confused he put the tray on the nightstand and sat beside you "darling?" he called, trying to wake you up.

"come on wake up, it's nearly noon now." a small smile planted on his face as he reached to shake you, but he paused as soon as he touched your bare arm..you were...cold...abnormally cold..

"love?" his voice was filled with dread, he doesn't even want to think right now, because his thoughts were all against him, his smile wavered, yet it didn't slip from his face, but you didn't move one bit, not an inch.

...it has been two hours now, aurelius was kneeling beside the bed, his hand holding your cold one tightly, his head buried into the mattress, he let out a small whimper "why didn't you wake up yet?" he asked, his voice is very weak "if my mother knew you're still sleeping in the late noon she'll get very disappointed." a bitter shaky chuckle escaped him, but it was quickly drowned by a choking sob "don't do this." he buried his face more into the mattress, as his cry grew louder and louder "please...don't do this, i just need one more chance." his hold tightened on your hand "don't leave me" he bearly got the words out, his throat is getting more tight by the second that breathing is hard "I'm sorry" he breathed out "don't leave me...i can't go on like this. please wake up, my love, come on, for me." he lift his head up and forced a crooked smile on his face "you must be very sleepy to sleep this deep, it's fine, I'll wait for you until you get enough sleep, I'll always be by your side right here."

four hours later,he's still in the same position, kneeling down beside the bed, this time he was eerily calm, but his shoulders were shaking slightly, his hold on your hand as tight as it was. suddenly he straighten up, his eyes were red and puffy from crying too much, he press his lips together in determation "I'll help you." he say and quickly stood up, gently he leaned down and left a soft kiss on your forehead "you'll come back to me."

the night was chilling in the dark forest, the cold air bit into his bones as he worked in the dirt, he was drawing something with his fingers, a circle that has strange shapes inside it, finally he poured something into the carvings he drew, he stepped a few steps away and opened the "forbidden magic" book. he started casting a spell, a circle similar to the one carved in the ground appeared around his extended arm, and as a result the circle in the ground started glowing a light shade of grey, the wind grew more violently as a form started to appear in the middle of the circle.

aurelius looked up at the creature that appeared in front of him in amusement, his eyes glimmered with admiration mixed with fear, the creature opened it's golden eyes and looked intensely at aurelius who freezed in his place "you...dared to wake me up from my slumber?" the creature spoke, its voice was hoarse and thick.

aurelius still widely looking at the thing, but he can't forget what he is here for, you. he straighten and put on a determined look "yes, i did."

the creature eyes grew more intense at that, it let out a breath from it's nose "what is that you want?" it spoke slowly, in the same terrifying voice.

aurelius took a step forward "your favor." he say confidently "grant my wish." he made sure to show the forbidden magic book clearly in his hand, it's the key to get it to listen to him.

the creature inspected him from head to toe, it seemed to think for a few minutes then finally "what will you give?"

"half my soul" aurelius said without hesitation, "that is a heavy price." the creature said. "i know, I'm willing to give my person half of my soul to bring back" he declare as he kept the intense eye contact with the thing in front of him, the creature let out a hum and closed it eyes again "you shall get what you desired." as soon as it said that a bright blinding light filled aurelius's vision and everything went silent.

he groaned as he begin to open his eyes, he stared as something that looked like a wooden roof...wooden roof? aurelius jolted up, the cover slipped down to his waist, he was at his house...his mother's house, quickly he hopped from his bed and made his way downstairs, he was met with his mother in the kitchen, she looked at him "good morning dear." she said with a warm smile, but it soon turned into confusion as she saw aurelius's stunned look.

before she can aske aurelius went back up stairs and opened your room's door, his breath stopped when he spotted you on the bed still sleeping, the sound of your breath was loud for him, how did he end up here? if his wish was granted shouldn't he be at your shared house? out of the village?

did he go back in time?.

[lynxiepancakes]

finally watched the bear s4

well i guess you could've guessed it by the many things i reposted lol. anyways, i have a looot to say (just keep in mind that some of the things im gonna say other tumblr posts said it one thousand times better than i did but yk!! just wanted to give my two cents)

i already had this doubt with s3 but with s4 i've become 90% certain that all the mental work/gymnastic done by the fandom when it comes to sydcarmy and other theories too, was either not intentional or scraped off as non important. i saw from s1 to s4 allegories and metaphors and color theory and composition DIE before my eyes just like character's growth and the development of the story/their bonds. they're growing stagnant, repeating past mistakes (which would be fine, relapsing is okay and human, but there's no reason to repeat this concept multiple times up to three whole seasons imo) and even the pacing felt wrong. what drew me in for the bear was the vibrancy of the kitchen, and even though toxic and absolutely dysfunctional, losing that intensity was absolutely a shame. the only moment i felt a sparkle of it back was with the scene of syd cooking with the purplish lights tbh.

like even the parallelism they tried to do between syd and carmy, like the nightmare scene, snow (syd) vs fire (carmy), were literally killed off the second for some god knows reason they HAD TO put richie there (example, the panic attaco behind the restaurant. that was something only syd and carmy had before they made it happen to richie too). This applies to the last episode too. it was literally going SO WELL it was so satisfying to finally see them talk it out and say all the things they didnt get to say for idk the whole fucking series, but for some reason they felt the need to let Richie in there and switch the topic up COMPLETELY. I'm not saying they did not have to have that conversation, they did - but it interrupted the flow, changed the pacing abruptly with no apparent reason and interrupted a chatartic moment for both the fans and the characters. like had you put it anywhere else i would've been interested in hearing what they had to say but precisely because they decided to had that moment after such an intense conversation between syd and carmy i got disinterested quickly. and also the sharing the cigarette moment oh so intimate between carmy and syd? nah now richie is in too so you can't call that ship content. do you realize what im talking about. im telling you they literally tried and kill off any shipping possibility for the sake of CONTINUING to push this clairecarmy plot that to be honest should've had its resolving in s3, but was smh prolonged to s4. and not only that but they try to show off our throat reasons as to why we are supposed to like claire (her being there for syd during her mbd, her being good with richie's kid) which to be honest only makes me dislike her more. the only moment i thought "omg she finally picked up her dignity off the ground" was when she interrupted the moment between her and carmy on the stairs and said that thing along the lines of "i hope you find your peace". literally they could've stopped it there, no longer show claire in the whole season and i would've been fine with her arc. instead they had to continue bringing her up and that shit was TIRING AF.

as someone else said but i can't remember whom, the fandom has just been able to pick up the breadcrumbs given to us and make actual stunning fics and fanarts because of their intelligence and creativity - but the fact they have been keeping it up with these mixed signals with no resolution, imo, is not because they're "building up the tension", but because they KNOW of the impact and how huge the sydcarmy side of the fandom is and are trying to not lose it while still pushing the narratives they actually want (aka clairecarmy). and im tired of playing along with this game. the story was good in s1. everything past it was unnecessary. they are trying to milk the cow for as long as possible because people are affectionated to the characters and will spend money to watch them - it has become another money machine with no actual interesting content in it. i can count on two hands the moments i felt meaningful from s2 to s4, and that is depressing. so, even though they clearly plan on doing a s5, im not going to watch it. its just not worth it. not if the whole time they give silly, superficial arcs to women (tina and natalie, like really?), not if they dont acknowledge what syd is going through (she still hasn't really opened up about how anxious and stressed out she is with anyone, and did not even actually reward her with a nominee like they did with marcus. like come on. all of a sudden six months in copenaghen and he's a prodigee?), not if i have to see claire on the screen for one more second, and not if they don't let carmy go to fucking therapy. that's what he needs not dropping the whole ass restaurant with debts and responsibilities on sydney's shoulders when it had always been his idea to make a new one.

to be honest i definitely have more to say but i still need to process everything so. anyways, just like i had said, i did well by not expecting anything. i was disappointed but not surprised.

[partyof4game]

Are you okay with angsty reaction asks?? IF you are okay with it how would the ros react if the mc dies in their arms after trying to protect them🥹 (feel sorry for the ros but I just love angst hehehe😈😈)

OK. I don't consider myself a very proficient angst writer, but I don't see the harm in trying. 😂 I'm going to assume that in this scenario they will be in a romantic relationship.

I'll put it under a cut just in case it's not someone's cup of tea and/or it's really bad. 😆

Jem holds your broken body close, desperately pouring mana into every injury. The broken neck, the gash across the chest, the collapsed lung. Never in his life had we wished he could wield a weapon until now — that he could've done more than stand by and watch this happen.

You give a little gasp, your hand clasping his, but no breath left for words, and he threads more and more of his own mana into you, begging you to come back to him. Don't leave him, please — he can see the moment when you lose the battle, the slow deflation of your chest, your fingers lax around his wrist.

But he can bring you back; that's why Melekoth granted him this power, isn't it? To save the one he loves? Because you should be breathing again now. His ears are ringing and his vision is fading from the lack of mana in his heart and his surroundings. If this power isn't for saving you... then why? Why...? Why do the Gods meddle in the lives of humans if not to grant Their chosen with the power they need?

Why do the Gods bother to exist at all? How could They... how could... How dare They.

Raena sobs as she holds you close, Jem on the other side magically stitching flesh together beneath his fingers. She can see you healing, the bleeding stopping, the bruises slowly fading, but the light in your eyes, that little spark she's always loved and admired — it's fading fast. She tried so hard, her arms weak from the effort of her bow-work, but it hadn't been enough to save you.

You reach up with the last of your strength and touch her cheek. "I love you," you whisper.

She buries her face into your shoulder, tears falling freely. "I love you, too. I love you so much. Don't go, don't go, please, I'm nothing without you. I can't go back to being nothing..."

"You... are... everything."

She watches you fade away, tears streaking down her face. She'll try to live up to your words... she'll try. But it's going to be so hard.

Vana crouches with you in one arm, the other supporting her tower shield, keeping you both hidden behind its metal fortress — the one that couldn't get to you in time, the fucking useless shield. Jem is trying to wedge his hands between her body and yours, desperately healing despite how obvious of a lost cause it is.

The winged lion that tormented this mountain is dead, but... but so is... No, she must protect you from anything else that might come along. A wandering wolf, a slime, a gust of wind... anything could make everything end right here, right now.

"Vana..." A feeble hand touches her neck. "I'm... sorry."

"Don't speak," she commands, trembling. "I am here."

She watches as you smile your last, eyes brimming with love and despair before seeing no more. Jem lays on the ground by her feet, having fainted from the effort, but Vana doesn't move, not for a long while. Until finally, finally, she sets your body down, laying your hands respectfully on your stomach.

And then the dam breaks, the one that has kept her together all her life. She screams, loud, long, feral, pulling and digging at the grass around your body, tears she's never dared cry dripping down her face. She's broken — she can never be whole again.

Linzel holds you lightly, as if he's afraid to touch you, to see the way you're broken in so many places, knowing deep down that it happened because he's too weak, underserving of the life he continues to live.

He should've known better, that his curse hadn't broken like in the stories. Your love was pure, but he tainted you instead of being cleansed.

"Not... your fault," you say, wheezing. His eyes dart across your body, holding Jem's stare for a moment as the healer bends down to exert more mana into your body. They both know you're not going to make it, but refuse to acknowledge it.

"Everything is my fault, loverling," he says, soft, tender, leaning down to brush his lips against your closing eyelids. "Forgive me when you are barred from the arms of your God, because I will be dragging you into the afterlife with me — when the time comes."

He watches you smile, pained and desperate, before you finally fade away, lifeless. It will be hard, to keep moving on, but he has a promise to keep, and he fully intends to drag your soul into the abyss with him.

Aslo does he best to hold you close without crushing you. Suddenly you're so small to him, so fragile, in a way he never imagined you could be. He should've paid more attention, should've ignored the rush of excitement that comes with battle, he could've saved you — he knows it.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" he asks you desperately, ignoring the way Jem trembles as he attempts, fails, to heal you. "Dearling, I'll die without you."

"No..." you breathe out, tears in your eyes, from the pain, the turmoil, the fear. "Fight, Aslo... fight on..."

When the life fades from your eyes, he can feel his spirit leave his body. His will. He thought he would cry if something like this ever happened, would scream and thrash, but he feels... nothing. From that day forward he would fight, anything and everything, not just recklessly, but as if with a want for death.

And when a Griffon finally, finally, gets the better of him, beak clamping down around his throat, he lets it. He finally found his release — permission to see his beloved once again.

Maymie cries as she holds you close. She's no stranger to death, to loved ones dying, but this... it's too soon, too much, too unfair. How could she have let this happen? How could it happen at all?

"Hold on, please," she begs you as Jem does his best to heal your mortal wounds. "I don't think I can keep losing people like this."

"I'm... sorry," you manage to croak out before you have to stop speaking, a clot of blood clogging your throat.

"Shut up," she barks at you, a single tear trapped on one of her eyelashes. "Don't apologize to me. If you're so sorry, then you'll live, you Gods-forsaken idiot."

You press your cheek against her and she can see the moment you're gone, the way your tense, painful body suddenly goes lax, the way your eyes seem to suddenly look through her instead of at her.

She sets you down, lovingly, carefully, then stands and punches Jem in the face. "How could you let them die?" she screams at him, tears blurring her vision. "What use are you if you can't do the one thing you're supposed to?!"

Jem lays on the ground, spent, shocked physically and emotionally, and says nothing. She crouches next to him, touching the welt forming on his face. "I'm sorry," she mutters, voice thick, "It's not your fault, not really, but I hate you. I will always hate you for not saving them."

He sighs, eyes close, and murmurs, "Me too."

Sweets grips your shoulders, trying not to shake you as you choke on the poison that fills your lungs and throat. How could this happen, here of all places? They should've been more vigilant, had known you were a target. This is all their fault — if only, if only...

You curl up and press yourself to their chest. You can't speak, and it hurts, so, so, much.

They hold you tighter, scared and hopeless. "I'm so sorry my love," they say into your ear. There's nothing they can do to save you, they know it, so they do the only thing they can think of to comfort you. "Please, allow me to send you to the Gods on the wings of your favorite song..."

For the next few minutes they sing to you, voice pinched and pitchy, but still beautiful in its tragedy. They don't stop until Jem finally finds you both, hours and hours late to meet up. When they're alone, with no promise of reuniting, they vow to find who did this to you — and when they do, they'll get revenge. And they won't stop until they do.

[mitskiiiiii]

ok i wrote this in like 10 minutes it’s kind of ridiculous lol enjoy

Mel had that look on her face. The puppy-that-just-got-its-tail-stepped-on-but-is-being-really-brave-about-it look.

They were working on a pesky case that had turned into a whole family affair. Papa Bear had just gotten hooked up to a breathing machine, and it wasn't looking too good for him.

Frank knew cases like these got Mel down. She'd responded to his last two questions with a blank look, which was extremely out of line with her usual exuberant intelligence, so he was pretty sure this was his cue to take her out in the hall.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Frank asked, tracking her eyes with his own.

"Yes," Mel mumbled, "I'm fine."

Frank shook his head firmly. "No, you're not."

Wincing, Mel pulled at her shirt sleeves and kneaded them hard in her palms. She so clearly wasn't okay; it was ridiculous that she thought he wouldn't be able see right through her.

"How do you relieve stress at home?" Frank asked gently.

He could see her create a mental list. Cute, he thought. "Let's see. Um, I listen to white noise, I talk to Becca, uh, sometimes I clean the kitchen. Or I'll -" then she cut off abruptly and turned bright pink.

She couldn't meet his eyes anymore, so it was pretty obvious what she was about to say. Frank felt the blood rushing in his ears.

"Mel," he articulated slowly, "Do you masturbate When you're stressed?"

"Oh!" Now Mel was fully red. She wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to disappear into thin air. "Um, yeah? Sometimes. It's— it's a natural stress reliever." Her arms flung out, flailing by her sides.

Frank sucked in a sharp breath. "Okay. Here's what you're gonna do," he said, lowering his voice and leading her a little further down the hall.

"You're gonna go find an empty call room, turn off all the lights, and make yourself feel good." Mel's breath caught. "I'll come find you in 10 minutes. Don't make yourself cum until I find you, okay? Doctor's orders," he grinned when he said the last part. Honestly, he had no clue where all that came from, but Mel's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"Okay," Mel nodded vigorously and scampered off like he'd just handed her an exciting new case.

Frank was pretty sure the next ten minutes were the longest of his life. He grit his teeth, unable to focus on his current case, because he couldn't stop thinking about what she could possibly be doing in there.

Did she have fingers inside herself? How many?

Was she focusing on her clit?

Or was she mounting a bed (or a table) and grinding her little cunt against it dry? She was so proper, so professional at work, but who knows what she got up to in private?

He snapped a pencil in frustration. He just had to finish this boring case, and then he could run around like a madman looking for her. God, he hadn't been this horny at an inappropriate time since he discovered jerking off in 6th grade.

Then, like some kind of big hairy angel sent from heaven, Robby approached his station. "Where's Mel? We need her out here."

Frank snapped to attention like a soldier reporting for duty. "I'll find her."

Frank was prowling around the second floor, looking for the new car behind door #3. Finally, one of the call rooms with the lights off at the end of the hall gave him a good feeling. Bingo, he thought. He gently cracked the door.

He couldn't see her but he could hear her. There were little sounds, soft breathy wines coming from somewhere on the floor. Frank almost choked. He couldn't believe she was actually doing it. What an angel, he thought. His hand was shaking as he turned the knob to fully open the door.

"How's it going in here?"

Mel squealed in terror before realizing it was him. She was facedown on the ground, fully clothed and humping a pillow behind the bed. Easier not to get caught that way. He smiled to himself; she was so smart. But he didn't need her to be smart now.

"It's, um, it's good," she squeaked out. She sat up and presented herself on the pillow. "I haven't made myself come yet," she offered. Frank's heart swelled. She'd listened to him.

Frank steadied his breathing. "Perfect. Lie down on your back for me." He was trying to keep his voice level, like how he'd sound when he's talking to a patient.

She got down on her back like he wanted. He moved the pillow out from under her hips to support her head instead. Then he leaned over her with the full length of his body, bracing himself on his forearms so he could really cage her in. His hand went immediately to her crotch to check her progress.

"Jesus," he mumbled. Even her scrub pants were damp.

He stuck his hand down her pants gracelessly and started thumbing firm circles on her clit over her soaked panties.

"Is that what you usually do at home? You hump your pillow?" Frank asked, curious.

"Sometimes," Mel breathed. "It's easier. No cleanup."

"Do you ever—,” he slipped a finger into her without warning, “—put anything inside yourself?"

Mel gasped at the intrusion. "Not. Not often. It's hard to get—," she was interrupted by an aborted cry as he added another finger and twisted, "—the right angle, oh my gosh!"

He chuckled a little. "Yeah? Like this one? You can't hit that spot by yourself?"

"No, ah, I can't!" Mel whined, squirming under him.

"How many— fuck — fingers can you fit?" Frank said as he added one more, curling them deep inside her until he felt that little ridge. She seemed to be taking them no problem; she was probably slick enough right now for his cock to slide right in.

"I— please, I can't answer any more questions, Dr. Langdon, I— I'm so sorry I—,” Mel choked out.

That's fine, baby," Frank assured as he pressed in deeper. "Don't sweat it. You're doing so well. Just lie back and take it, okay?"

Mel nodded, blinking tears out of her eyes. He found that little ridge again and massaged it hard and fast with three long fingers. She was a mess of little breathy moans and whines now, but they were still so restrained. He found it adorable that she didn't want to get caught, but he wished he could get some louder sounds out of her.

"You're not stressed anymore right?" Frank asked, like he was checking with a patient to see if a treatment was helping. Mel shook her head.

"Perfect, baby. You'll be able to come back to work good as new." His voice was soft as he drilled her.

She was arching her back prettily beneath him, trying to grind up onto his hand. He cursed. He wished more than anything that he could lift up hert-shirt and get a look at her tits, but unfortunately he had to use his other arm to hold himself up. His own erection was also getting pretty hard to ignore. He grinded his cock lightly in circles against her hip, trying to ease the ache.

Mel was almost there; Frank could tell. An even darker red was blooming across her cheeks and her breathing was getting more and more labored. That pretty mouth of hers formed a perfect circle. He put his thumb back on her clit, pressing it down flat and firm, which finally got a real moan out of her.

"I need you in good shape out there. You're my best resident. And don't tell anyone—,” He leaned in real close so that his lips brushed against her ear, "— but you're my favorite."

Those were the magic words. With a broken cry, Mel clenched around his fingers like a vice and there came another rush of wetness from her cunt. She had a couple of full-body spasms as she rode it out, clutching tightly at his biceps.

When her whole body had turned loose and boneless he took his fingers out of her and casually wiped them on his scrubs.

"Feel better?" Frank asked.

Mel caught her breath and got up, adjusting her clothes. "Much. Thank you, Dr. Langdon. You're a really good teacher." There were stars in her eyes as she gave Frank a winning smile.

He almost came in his pants at the sight.

As she started to make her way out the door, Frank gave her an encouraging tap on the ass. "Get back out there, champ."

Mel jumped a little and then nodded dreamily and headed back into the fray.

Now Frank was out in the ambulance bay, thinking about exploratory laparotomies and praying for his cock to go soft. Mel's voice was still echoing in his head, you're such a good teacher. He banged his head against the brick wall a few times for good measure. Fuck me, he thought. This might take a while.

epilogue ~

Robby walked in on Mel riding him in the same call room a week later.

"Jesus, Frank. You said you were mentoring her."

"I am! She— she was stressed and I was just trying to help! It's the only thing that calms her down!"

"You're married!"

Frank just shrugged.

The next morning Robby put in his two week notice. He was getting too old for this shit.

ummmm frank seeing that mel needs a break and telling her to go in one of the call rooms and touch herself until he comes to get her and finish her off. he’s still married and they haven’t even kissed at this point btw.

[cassiskurocorner]

Try not to make Sebastian have heated eye contact with another man challenge (Impossible edition)

[kitkatsgalore]

you have my soul, you have my heart ♡

[parfaitmew]

Thank you♡

To all the new followers and everyone who's down with me drawing their MCs and OCs♡ (๑>◡<๑)

Everyone has been soo sweet♡ and i'm just really happy to finally find my fire to draw again☆!

I dunno what else to say i'm just happy and i wanted to say thank you♡(>ᴗ•)

[gingerninja8]

Y'know, people complain about hearing Mariah Carey on repeat at Christmas, but you know what's worse? 50 different covers of Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer playing throughout your shift with another 50 different covers of Sleigh Ride Together With You.

I've heard All I want for Christmas is You maybe twice since November. (And I'm not sure it was when I was at work.) That song would be welcomed at this point.

[discoreptile]

Beasties of Greenhollow soundtrack! Some tracks on this are from older projects like elphame but all of them have been reworked in some way. Most of them are entirely new. Enjoy!

[angelltheninth]

I have yet to see Kpop demon hunters today but I am craving for Jinu smut, But also I don’t like noncon/dubcon in the slightest but if this feels like it so be it lol, So may I request Jinu x huntrix member fem reader? When reader decides to investigate the saja boys by herself, The rest of the girls are obviously worried about her safety but she tells them that she’ll be okay, Cut to a couple hours later with Jinu absolutely pounding reader from behind and making her cum nonstop just as he wanted to ever since he layed eyes on her.

I can do dub-con. I don't think people realize it's a very common kink.

Pairing: Jinu x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, rough sex, creampie, body betrayal, enemies who fuck, possessive sex, biting, hate sex

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This movie now lives rent free in my head.

You should have listened to your friends, you should have never went after Jinu all by yourself, you should have brought backup. Now you're bent over his bed, getting your pussy pounded raw and hard from behind. "Either you and yours are getting sloppy or you're really stupid for thinking you could defeat us on your own. Or even just defeat me. Or, hah, maybe, you came here hoping this would happen."

As soon as you heard him suggest such a thing you turned your head to glare at him. Jinu grinned, his smile as demonic as it always was, no longer hidden behind that pretty facade. With your arms pinned and held behind your back you could barely move, and whenever you did you just took his cock, over and over. It was driving you insane.

"Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bastard." You gritted through your teeth, biting back your moans as his thrusts kept getting faster and faster, deeper, almost like he was trying to punish you for acting foolish. "I would never stoop so low... to want someone like you." A high pitched moan escaped from your lips when you felt the sting of his hand on your ass.

"You say that, demon hunter, but your cunt is drooling for me, so tight and wet. Hear that, how sloppy and slutty you pussy gets with demon cock in it?" He slammed his cock into you, in and out, making your legs tremble and your vision blurry. "Be honest, it'll feel so much better."

You shook your head as you felt yourself blushing. You hated it, how good Jinu's cock felt inside of you, how good this felt and yet it was so wrong. You hated him, you should hate this too so why was your body working against you in this moment? Why couldn't you tell him to go to hell like you so many times before?

"Better, that's a good girl. No more fighting me. Don't worry, this can be our little secret, no one has to know how you whore yourself out for me." His body pressed fully against your, his demonic fangs nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't, demon hunter. You got my word." The glare you gave him was challenging, you hoped threatening but that was impossible with the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin and your pussy taking his hard cock while you moaned.

"Your word... means nothing to me." You hissed, putting as much venom and hatred in your voice as you could have. He didn't seem pleased with that, he bared his long teeth at you and you hated how your pussy clenched around him when you saw them.

"Really? Fine, makes no difference to me. But see how your team feels when you come back to them, with your cunt freshly fucked and filled with demon cum." You watched him transform from his human form into his demon form, and god, his cock felt even better like this. "I don't care if you believe me or not but I'm gonna make sure you never forget this moment. The moment when you came from being fucked by me, because of my cock, because I made you feel so good!"

With one final thrust he pushed both your bodies over the edge, and you stopped yourself just in time to not scream his name. You didn't want to feed his ego any more than you already have. Jinu laughed maniacally as he fucked his seed deep into your pussy, the wet, messy noises only adding to his feral, wild nature.

"Fuck, yes, oh, wanted this... ever since I first saw you. Wanted to carve the shape of my cock into your cunt. Make you mine." He ended with a long kiss on your shoulder, still holding you while your body trembled and your vision swam. "Mine, only mine from now on." You expected him to be rough as he pulled out but he wasn't, he was slow, stopping as he heard you hiss and whimper. "Now that's a pretty little sight."

You heard a flash of a camera and turned to see Jinu smirking with his phone in his hand, his cock still out, dripping with the combination of your release. "You...! Gross! You have no shame!"

Jinu stuck his tongue out at you, "A little keepsake for me. To tide me over until our next time."

An unpleasant, or maybe pleasant, shiver went through you at the suggestion of a next time with him. "That won't happen. I'm going to bring you to your knees before then!"

"Oh? If you wanted me on my knees all you had to do was ask. I'm very good with my tongue. I can show you next time." His words and lewd gestures made your stomach tie into knots, and an uncomfortable heat form. "I could do it now. Seems like you might need some cleaning up."

Furious you stood up on your wobbly legs and slapped him. It was pathetic, that this was the best you could muster in this moment, but it also felt good to catch him off guard. "You're dead next time I see you."

Despite the slap he grinned at you, licking his lips, "Looking forward to it, my demon hunter." He winked at before he snapped his fingers next to your ear. For a moment you didn't understand what he did, then your vision started blurring. You tried to hit him again but ended up collapsing against him. "Let's get you somewhere where the others will find you." Barely coherent you thought you felt his lips press against your forehead before you fully passed out.