#and then comfort but that’s offscreen

[moreespressoformydepresso]

I’m fiNALLY DONE WITH THE ACTION SCENE WHOOOOOO!!!

Well almost. Just one bit. And then I’m done. And I can get to the ending. And then I can post. I wanted to finish this thing last week and it didn’t happen as I thought it wouldn’t but I’m nearing the finish line and the dopamine that is filling me rn is the good shit I’m so proud of myself.

[ozziyo]

she's become adept at holding shirts and ungraded term papers for ransom

[wellsbering]

[asktheevilgeniusesson]

Thinking lately and i might give infinite epilepsy, perhaps. And no not just for ‘oo drama reasons’ because thats just.. wrong? To give a character a real life issue JUST for dramatic things. I personally like to explore disabilities, disorders, physical issues etc via giving them to characters and writing for disabled characters, its my personal way of learning and such and trying to make my followers and other moots who struggle feel like this is a safe space, or such like that.

So, in thought of this, i’d love to hear your guys’ opinions and thoughts on this, i’d rather be told outright that “hey this is a bad/good idea” then it be sugarcoated btw, ill check the comments and any asks abt this when im back from my nap. Take care lovelies<3

[inamindfarfaraway]

I can perfectly picture a Batman: Wayne Family Adventures two-partner that properly introduces Harvey Dent, Two-Face, their relationships with Bruce and vice versa. But I can't draw in the slightest. So I'm going to script it and you'll have to use your imagination. It’s a little longer than the average WFA two-parter. But given how many thoughts and feelings I have about Harvey, I’d say it’s impressively concise. For me. If you like how I write Harvey, I recommend my fanfic spotlighting him as a teenager, compared to which I must warn you this script is positively fluffy. Read it on AO3 here! If you want to draw any of this, please tell me in advance and use the updated original post or the AO3 fic, not necessarily your reblog.

A Second Opinion

Part 1

[Panel one. Vertical rectangle, full screen. Nighttime. The exterior of an abandoned building that is notably more decrepit on the right side, Two-Face's current base of operations, from a distance and high angle. The Batmobile is parked outside. Bruce as Batman is seen on the rooftop from behind, striding stiffly toward the skylight. A speech bubble floats in the air above him.]

Barbara: Are you sure you don't want backup?

[Panel two. Barbara as Oracle watches with a frown of wary concern at her desk in the Clocktower.]

I know these confrontations are very personal for you -

[Panel three. Bruce leans over the skylight seen from below it, about to kick it in. His fists and jaw are clenched, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed sharply; even for Batman on a mission, he's in a bad mood.]

Bruce: I'm fine. I have him right where I want him.

[A speech bubble floats in the space below the panel.]

Harvey: I have him right where I want him!

[Panel four. Fade into a flashback. In stark contrast to the dull and dark blues, greys and blacks of the present scene, the flashback panels are full of light, saturated and warm colours. Harvey Dent stands at a round red table outside a café on a sunny day, beaming. He's a handsome, sturdy man with neat, short black hair, a semi-formal brown suit and wide brown eyes. He was seated, but has risen and slammed his palms down on the table in his enthusiuam. Slightly low angle, like the camera is on the table, and to the right so we have a better view of his left side. A gold wedding ring gleams on his finger. His introduction box reads: ‘Harvey Dent, District Attorney. Gotham’s best lawyer, technically and morally.’.]

And think of the implications! If the Salvatore Maroni can face justice, so can anyone.

[Panel five. He paces a little behind his chair, gesturing animatedly. Motion lines trail and curve around the other way behind him. His right side is now in profile. Same angle, but pulled back to see over the shoulder of a younger Bruce wearing a nondescript black shirt.]

If his empire can crumble, so can any criminal organization or corrupt institution, no matter how powerful. This trial could be a beacon of hope for Gotham. Proof that the law can actually help people, that the spirit of it is alive.

[Panel six. Opposite Harvey, Bruce is sitting comfortably. He has notable eyebags and less light in his eyes than Harvey, but smiles in earnest admiration.]

Bruce: I think you're right. Maroni used to own the city, but ever since you, Jim and Batman started working together...

[Panel seven. Side shot of both of them from Bruce's right and Harvey's left, showing them down to their legs. Bruce leans forward. Harvey has sat back down. In the background, their memories conjure a vision of Batman and Harvey shaking hands before the Bat-Signal. The figures' lower halves fade to translucent above and behind their real counterpart's heads. That Harvey is smiling too and the one leaning forward, while Batman's mouth is a flat line but his eyes are soft.]

things have changed more than I could have imagined.

Harvey: I just hope we can keep it up. Maybe in a few years, Gotham won't need a Batman.

[Panel eight. Close-up on the right half of Bruce's face, a narrow vertical box in the upper left section of the screen. His expression is of shock and vulnerability, although he isn’t offended. He has simply never considered being able to end his crusade before. Panel nine. A bigger square containing his entire face and taking up the rest of the screen.]

Bruce: Do you really believe that?

[Panel ten. Closer front shot of Harvey at eye-level. We can now see that he actually does have bags under his eyes. He's more pensive and his smile drops.]

Harvey: Yeah. I mean, Bats is a great guy. I don't want him to just disappear. But his methods...

[Panel eleven. Deep shot. Two petty crooks run through an alleyway at night while Batman looms behind them atop a ledge, a huge, hulking silhouette crouched animalistically with piercing white eyes and clawed fingers raised to pounce. The scene is somewhat abstracted to highlight the criminals' emotions. The alley walls seem to be closing in on them and Batman's curling cape flows into the surrounding darkness. Angle is above the very small-looking criminals, but below Batman such that his striking, soulless eyes glare right at the reader. Harvey's speech bubbles are in the top left and bottom right corners, framed by the blackness.]

fighting violence with violence and terror with terror... they're hardly ideal, are they?

[Panel eleven. Harvey places his right hand on Bruce's left arm in pride, who is too busy processing to return his smaller, softer smile of personal affection. Side shot from Harvey's left and Bruce's right that cuts them off at the torso.]

In my opinion, the work you're doing with the Wayne Foundation does better at lowering crime rates in the long run.

[Panel twelve. Over-the-shoulder shot again, Harvey's this time to show Bruce full of love, relaxing and leaning into the touch.]

Bruce: Well, in my opinion, you're a better person than me or Batman.

[His second speech bubble descends into the empty space.]

And I’d love to see the day Batman can retire.

[Panel thirteen and fourteen occupy different vertical halves of the screen and the same horizontal space for half of their lengths, the former higher, the second lower. The first shows Harvey from the right cut off at the thighs, in a courtroom, delivering some kind of unwritten passionate declaration; on his left and in the background, the defendant, the aforementioned crime boss Maroni in a nice black suit, holds an opaque bottle labelled as cough medicine and smirks viciously. The second is a close-up of Harvey’s head on the floor. Only the right half of his face is visible, the left turned away, and he is howling in unfathomable agony, tears streaming down his cheek. The stem of his speech bubble reaches down to the top of panel fifteen. This is a straightforward frontal shot of Bruce in the present. He stands tense and grim, poised to throw a Batarang with his right arm. Silver moonbeams shine through the broken skylight. Layered in front of the panel’s top border and behind Bruce, Harvey’s scream appears to ring through the cowl’s bat ears and extends continuously offscreen in extra large, blood-red lettering. The bubble fades around it to make it stand against the background.]

Harvey: ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Bruce: Two-Face.

[Panel sixteen. Same angle of Harvey and Two-Face. The left half of their face is ravaged by raw, pink chemical burn scars and has a bloodshot eye with burned lids; even their right eye is sunken and shadowed with a menacing glint; their hair is the same on the right, but bleached white, longer and wild on the left; they wear an angular, elegant suit divided vertically in alternating black and white. They’re smiling smugly, posture calm, confident and commanding. Their right hand aims a pistol at Bruce, and the camera. The other hand, bereft of a ring, holds their two-headed coin. Their introduction box reads: ‘Harvey Dent & Two-Face. All the drive. Fractional sanity. Half the morals, or less.’. The outlines of their speech bubbles are smooth as usual on the right and rough and scribbled on the left when both alters in the system are in relative cooperation - a dual consciousness referred to as ‘H/TF’ in the script - completely smooth when the still goodhearted, but deeply troubled Harvey is speaking alone, and completely irregular for the much more merciless, callous Two-Face personality alone.]

H/TF: Bats! Let us guess: you didn’t bring any backup because you have a self-righteous hero complex about us in particular?

[Panel seventeen. Closer frontal shot of Bruce scowling and hunching his shoulders in shameful concession.]

Two-Face: Good. Those Robins are nothing but trouble.

[Panel eighteen. Long rectangle panning down the room. Bruce and H/TF are in the background as H/TF gesture with their left arm to two men dressed like high-level businessmen in the foreground, tied to chairs with a gun pressed to each of their heads by H/TF's identical twin henchmen. The captives are bruised, cut and slumped in exhaustion.]

H/TF: Now, take one step toward us and the hostages get it. Don't go feeling sorry for them. They work for Oswald Cobblepot. His reform is fake -

H/TF and Bruce: Obviously.

H/TF: And they've already told us everything.

[Panel nineteen. Horizontal side shot from Bruce's left and H/TF's right, to frame the hostages between them.]

H/TF: But if you go after us, you'll lose your best lead on his criminal activities.

Bruce: And people will be dead.

H/TF: Yeah, whatever.

[Panel twenty. Close shot of H/TF from the left. They look left, contemplating their coin in their open hand. One face is corroded and blackened by acid, the other shiny and clean, both visible as it's drawn in a motion frame while spinning.]

You say that making our decisions based on chance is irrational and unhealthy, but believing in free will isn't all roses either. So many tough choices.

[Panel twenty-one is small box in the middle of the screen capturing the impact of the Batarang knocking the gun out of one of the henchmen's hand. H/TF's speech bubble floats in the space below it.]

There's never a win-win, is there?

[Panel twenty-two, a vertical rectangle. In the lower foreground and to the right, a gleeful H/TF bolt to the slight right of the camera, relishing both their escape and how unhappy their enemy is. In the background, Bruce restrains the armed henchman with a bolas while knocking the unarmed one out behind him with a backhanded blow. His cape billows with his rapid movement.]

At least the coin lets us be unpredictable!

[Panel twenty-three. Angle is essentially Bruce's POV. H/TF glance over their right shoulder, showing their unscarred features twisted in mockery, and sarcastically wave with their gun. They're just beyond the doorway.]

By the way, we're very good at getting two things done at once. You might wanna check your car.

[Panel twenty-four. Outside. Bruce's shadow falls from below the border diagonally over the Batmobile. Its tyres are slashed. Its fuel is leaking out into a puddle underneath it. In the next panel, we see him at eye height past the front end of the car. He has fallen to his knees, head hung.]

Bruce: Oracle? You were right. I need help.

[The black sheen of the Batmobile fades into a flat black background below. But then, within the darkness, floats a speech bubble.]

Barbara: You've already got it.

[Panel twenty-six. The first two sentences are in a bubble at the top, connected to the final sentence’s one dead in the middle. She's viewed from behind at a low angle looking up at her computer monitor. Her shoulders are assertively squared. Her security camera footage is split in two; Bruce and the crippled Batmobile are in the left window and H/TF's getaway car (also black on one side and white on the other) racing along a road in the right.]

We've been gathering intel. We know where Two-Face will strike next - and you know him as well as he knows you. Let's make a plan B.

Part 2

[Panel one. Distant establishing shot of a brightly lit black-tie gala in a vast, ornate hall, the tasteful decor dominated by white, light blues and silver. A caption informs us that this is 'The Cobblepot 'Charity' Gala'. Oswald Cobblepot is in the heart of the crowd, shaking hands with some official. Bruce Wayne is within earshot, but nearer the double doors. Panel two is a lower, tighter horizontal rectangle where Oswald and his guests are staring at the camera with tiny black dots for eyes in alarm at the doors slamming open. H/TF’s shadow falls over the floor. Panel three shows that Harvey and Two-Face have invited themselves, holding an assault rifle in both hands. Three smaller vertical panels on alternating sides of the screen show the doors being locked by pairs of Two-Face's minions in contrasting, complemetary outfits and wielding guns. The bird’s eye view of panel seven makes it clear that the guests are surrounded and trapped. Panel eight cuts back to H/TF.]

H/TF: Good evening, scum and enablers. We're -

[Panel nine takes us closer to focus on their - or rather, Harvey's - surprise.]

Harvey: Bruce? What are you doing here?

[Panel ten is a frontal shot of Bruce, like the camera's been reversed in the same position. His confusion is an act, but his concern is real.]

Bruce: I'm the richest man in Gotham and this is a high-society gala. What are you doing here?

[Panel eleven. Side shot that doesn’t show the scarring. Harvey lowers the gun, eyes softening as Bruce reaches out to him.]

I thought we agreed that you still needed treatment.

Harvey: I…

[Panel twelve. Frontal short. Remembering his mission, Harvey loses a degree of control and the two embittered alters lightly push Bruce away and point the gun straight ahead at Oswald with a glare. Motion lines trail from their arm.]

H/TF: That doesn’t matter! What matters is taking down the Penguin!

[Panel thirteen. Oswald presses a hand to his chest, somehow at once mortified and supercilious. You can hear the melodramatic sad violin. Beside him, his associates are cowering and aghast.]

Oswald: Why, everyone knows that I’m reformed. Attacking me when I’m doing good just proves how far you’ve fallen.

[Panel fourteen. H/TF snap at him furiously, and their speech bubble is large, spiky (still with the different texturing) and has a red outline for emphasis. Their eyes are stylized as flames; their right eye’s flame is orange and the left’s blue. Bruce is giving Oswald an intense sidelong glare. His lettering is smaller and his bubble's outline dashed to indicate that he's speaking under his breath.]

H/TF: SHUT UP!

Bruce: Shut up.

[Panel fifteen. Wide low angle shot up into the shadowy rafters. Damian, Dick and Tim are hiding in their vigilante identities and watching the scene below intently, at the ready. Their speech bubbles are dashed as they’re whispering. Damian is tense like a coiled spring, hand is on the hilt of his sword. Dick’s facial expression is blatantly disdainful of the villain in question, but his position and body language are calmer. Tim is all business.]

Damian: Shouldn’t we -

Tim: Not until the signal, remember? We don’t want to escalate and endanger the civilians.

[Panel sixteen. Close-up profile shot of Dick.]

Dick: Yeah, I hate Two-Face, but Bruce has got through to Harvey before.

[Panel seventeen. H/TF aim their gun with their right hand as their left reaches into their pocket to take out their coin. Their jaw is tight in composed ire. Diagonal angle to show Bruce on their right, overlaid by the gun. HT/F's speech bubble is near their head, but Harvey's is under the panel-dividing horizontal line of the gun.]

H/TF: You have the right to remain silent, forever.

Harvey: Bruce, get out of here.

[Panel eighteen, a square. Bruce is alone in the frame. He folds his arms, Batman's stern, steely presence creeping into his expression and posture.]

Bruce: Whatever you're willing to do to those people, you can do to me.

[Panel ninteen. Same composition with H/TF. They frown, the unscarred features looking regretful while the scarred ones look annoyed and disdainful.]

H/TF: Fine. Just stay out of our way.

[Panel twenty. Close up as they flip their coin. We get the blurring motion displaying both sides again. The next panel is a repeat shot where Bruce’s right hand snatches the coin in midair.]

H/TF: HEY! Give it back!

[Panel twenty-one. Extreme close-up, narrow horizontal parallelogram focused on Bruce's defiant stare. His speech bubble floats close underneath.]

Bruce: No.

[Panel twenty-two. He holds the coin out of reach. The camera is angled over and to the side of Bruce's left shoulder, to put as much visual distance between his outstretched right hand and H/TF as possible, Bruce's body in between them. H/TF’s left hand is balled into fist around the lowered gun while their right gestures like they’re arguing a case in a courtroom. They look resentful, but also coldly resigned. The speech bubbles can extend out of the panel. In the backgroud, some of the guests are depicted as simplified, featureless figures.]

H/TF: They aren’t worth sticking your neck out for. Nobody in Gotham is -

Harvey: I learned that the hard way.

Bruce: And I’ve learned otherwise. This won’t make things better, Harvey.

[Panel twenty-three. Two-Face fixes the gun on Bruce with a sadistic, unhinged snarl that’s distinctly his own.]

Two-Face: Listen, Wayne, I don’t care for you a bit. Give us our coin back or I’ll -

[Panel twenty-four. Bruce raises an eyebrow.]

Bruce: But what if it’s good heads?

[Panel twenty-five. Two-Face freezes. A ‘Twitch’ sound effect is at the corner of his right eye. Panel twenty-seven. A henchman aims his own gun with nervous eagerness.]

Henchman: I'll get your coin for you, boss!

[Panel twenty-six. The vigilantes leap down from the rafters. Dick's already thrown a Wingding to disarm him that flies downward rotating and seems to cut the shape of the panel, which has a tapering lower end.]

Dick: No!

[Large red 'BANG!' sound effect between panels. Panel twenty-seven is a small box in the middle of the screen showing the Wingding knocking the smoking gun away a split-second too late. Panel twenty-eight. Bruce and Harvey in the background and the bullet in the foreground are centred. Harvey slams into Bruce and knocks him down with his full weight, briefly putting himself in the path of the bullet.]

Harvey: Bruce!

[Panel twenty-nine. Long, vertical rectangle panning down from above the vigilantes standing in dramatic heroic landing poses at the top of the frame, wearing varyingly emotive expressions of shock, to Bruce lying propped up by his elbow and Harvey on his hands and knees at the bottom. The discarded assault rifle hits the floor between Harvey and the vigilantes with a 'Clatter' sound effect in yellow, uneven text. The coin slips out of Bruce's hand with a motion line to rest between him and Harvey. Panel thirty. Angle at eye level with Bruce and Harvey. Bruce sits up. He stares at Harvey with shining eyes and the beginnings of a smile as he processes what just happened, and what didn’t precede it.]

Bruce: You saved my life.

[Panel thirty-one. Angle is behind Bruce’s head. Harvey avoids eye contact, showing Bruce his unscarred profile. He’s solemn and though he too has a relieved hint of a smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes.]

Harvey: You never stop trying to save me. It was the least I could do.

[Panel thirty-two. Harvey’s POV. Low angle, tilted up at Bruce on his feet, offering his hand to help him up. We can tell that it’s Harvey’s perspective with both eyes because the left half of the image is dim and blurry due to the damage the acid did to his left eye. The speech bubbles are exclusively on the right.]

Bruce: It isn’t too late, Harvey. You can still heal. You can get better, be better.

[Panel thirty-three. Close-up on the right half of Harvey’s face, a narrow vertical box in the upper left section of the screen. His expression is of tentative, wary hope and raw vulnerability. He has wanted to end his crusade throughout its duration, but never been able to. Panel thirty-four. A bigger square containing his entire face and taking up the rest of the screen.]

Harvey: Do you really believe that?

[Panel thirty-five. Side shot that now only shows the side shot of Harvey’s face. Bruce kneels down be closer to eye level with him.]

Bruce: Yes. Always, I’ve been where you are. Feeling like you can never be more than all your pain and anger. But if you want a second opinion, I think you’re a better person than you know.

[Panel thirty-four. A square in the middle of the screen. Harvey’s right hand reaches out to Bruce’s waiting one, but lingers, tense and trembling, above the coin. Panel thirty-five. Vertical rectangle. Harvey shrinks in on himself, hunched over with his face buried in his arms and hands clutching his hair; perhaps he doesn’t trust himself not to pick up the coin and give Two-Face a means to make harmful decisions, just can’t make another choice of his own or both. Around him blackness with spiky, scribbled inner edges consume the screen like reality is fracturing or dissolving, or some all-consuming destructive force is coming for him.]

Harvey: Just… just take us to Arkham. We deserve it. We need help.

[The black extends, replacing the white background. But then, within the darkness, floats a speech bubble.]

Bruce: You’ve already got it.

[Fade into panel thirty-six. Horizontal rectangle. Distant, high angle. The black lightens to purple and becomes the night sky, which is warming to pink at the first moment of dawn. Harvey is handcuffed, about to enter a police car on his right. A cop is escorting him. However, Bruce has his left arm around his shoulders and they’re both in relatively good moods, similar to how they were in the flashback.]

Harvey: When did you get so optimistic, Mr Gothic McBrooding?

Bruce: Someone has to be. And hey, I had a good teacher.

[lucigoo]

You sit on a throne of their ashes

Hurt/no comfort, please read the tags, offscreen CD

Summary: Thorin has been unconcious for weeks after BOFTA.

His healer is not Oin and he doesnt understand why. He doesnt understand anything until his husband walks into the tent.

And as always, and excerpt:

“Bilbo!” Thorin called out, his voice rising with urgency. After feasting his eyes on the hobbit he loved, he craned his neck to look toward the tent flap, searching for any sign of his loyal companions, the rest of the Company. “Where’s Dwalin? Why isn’t he guarding me? Is he well? Was he injured?” Bilbo’s expression hardened at each question Thorin asked. The pain in his eyes was clear as he stepped closer to the bed bound dwarf. His anger was obviously simmering beneath the surface. “Thorin…” he began, but the weight of his unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Thorin’s heart raced as he searched Bilbo’s face, desperate for reassurance. “What happened to him? Tell me he’s safe!”

[monaisme]

Sicktember: Day 19

#19- Hypochondriac Tendencies

Something was off. Tony was sure of it.

Yes, he’d been working on repairs to the Mark 48 before the next Avengers emergency, and trying to troubleshoot the issues with the new Starkphone for R&D, and figure out how to tweak the graphic card for their latest gaming computer simply because Peter thought it was so cool, and yes, he’d been hunched over a workbench for the better part of four hours, but this felt different.

He cast a quick glance at his wrist, intent on checking his vitals one more time via his watch, but the screen showed nothing but the time. 1:17pm.  

“What the hell, FRIDAY?” Tony called out as he pulled off the watch. “What’s this?”

“It would appear to be your most current incarnation of the Starkwatch, Boss.”

Tony exhaled slowly. He would forever regret the personality algorithms he’d slaved over for FRI. “Alright, smartass, if we’re going to play the game, my watch has stopped transmitting my stats. Do me a solid and run a diagnostic on it, would you?”

If Tony hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn there was an uncomfortable pause.

“I’m sorry, Boss.” FRIDAY replied. “Your watch is completely functional. Ms. Potts has reimplemented the “Tony Is Trying To Make Stuff Up To Get Out of Another Board Meeting” protocol and has locked down your health tracker until further notice.”

Tony scowled. “Again? I swear—I never should’ve given her that kind of access.” he grumped. “And what kind of shit name for a protocol is that anyways?”

“It’s the name Ms. Potts provided, sir.”

“I know,” he rolled his eyes and squeezed the back of his neck with his hand to provide some relief. “Just—I thought I was doing better. How long am I locked out for this time?”

“Ms. Potts has specified that the lockout run a full forty-eight hour period, sir.”

“And how many times did I actually check to deserve this?” He was almost afraid to find out.

“You’ve accessed your pulse, blood pressure, and heart rate monitor fifteen times since you entered your lab at 9:57am, sir. That, coupled with meetings set in your calendar, triggered an automatic denial of access per the protocol and Ms. Potts has been notified.”

“Perfect.” Tony bit out as he picked up a screwdriver from his workbench and whipped it across the room and into a table of scrap parts Peter would usually scavenge through for his projects. It was very seldom that he lost control like that, but sometimes Pepper wouldn’t listen and... “I keep trying to explain—!” Tony started then stopped before starting again, “I mean, what happens if I decide to have a stroke and die during the lockout?” Not that Tony expected something like that to happen, but the frustration at her lack of understanding was almost too much. He was sure she’d understood when he’d first told her, instead—

“Boss. There is a recorded message that I have been instructed to play in the event that you do trigger this particular protocol. Would you like the audio version or—”

Tony paused, then realized what FRIDAY had just said, “Hang on. What do you mean, ‘this particular protocol?’ Are there more?”

“Yes, Boss. There are three other protocols in play—”

“Nope!” Tony waved his hands in air, basically shutting FRIDAY up. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m done. But I swear, FRI, if something happens, on your head be it.”

“As you wish, thought it should be noted that you did not provide me with a head, Boss, and I’ve queued the audio clip. Would you like me to play it for you now?”

Tony dropped his head in defeat. “Sure thing, just keep the volume reeeeeal low, okay?”

“Understood.” FRIDAY replied. “And, if this is any comfort to you, in the event that you do lose consciousness anywhere on Stark Industries property, I can notify emergency medical personnel immediately.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better,” Tony snarked. “Or I could just, you know, have access to a vital feature on my own personal device.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to discuss that with Ms. Potts.” FRIDAY stated as a matter of fact. “But while the audio message is playing, I am also to remind you that your presence is required in Ms. Potts’ office at two o’clock this afternoon for a progress check-in with the various team leaders for the Research and Development Department.”

Tony glanced over to his work bench and the projects screaming for completion. “Perfect.”

“As well, today is ‘lab day’ and Mr. Parker is expected to arrive at the tower at four o’clock.  Would you like me to place your standard pizza delivery at an appropriate hour, or would you prefer for Mr. Parker to choose something when he arrives this afternoon?”

Tony perked up immediately at the mention of his favourite teenager.  “Is it Tuesday already? Hot damn! Maybe I’ll be able to force myself to get through this meeting after all! Four o’clock, you said?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“An end to this miserable day is in sight! Yes! And I think I’m feeling a little cheeseburgery today. Why don’t you order something for us from that little diner Pete’s scary friend likes instead of pizza? Grab an extra couple of orders of fries and a chocolate milkshake so he can dip ‘em like the weirdo he is, too. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss.”

Tony glanced at his near useless watch. 1:33pm. There was just enough time to deal with the Starkphone before Pepper jumped down his throat again.

And at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

/-/-/

While he wasn’t one hundred percent positive, Tony was pretty sure he was dying. All he had to do was keep upright in the elevator, get back to the lab and breathe a little and hopefully things would settle like they had the last time Tony’d had a—

Nope.

Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropists did not have—

The elevator door opened and he stumbled out, loosening his tie and taking off his sunglasses as he approached the door. He pressed a thumb to the biometric scanner and almost wept when he heard the lock disengage. He could make his way across the lab to the couch, lie down for a bit, try to figure out how he could make the laundry list of impossible tasks that the R&D folks were demanding of him happen even though he was the freakin’ boss while also figuring out how to manage his Avengers tasks as the decidedly not-boss and then let his body figure out how in the ever lovin’ hell it was supposed to draw in oxygen again.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Shit!” Tony clutched his chest as he flinched and lost his balance as he threw himself back into the workbench he’d been set at only hours before and knocking the components of his Mark 48 onto the floor. The clatter had Peter ducking for cover while covering his ears against the crash.

It registered a beat too late.

Peter. 

He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t see Tony—not like this!

But it was too late. Peter knew.

The boy approached his mentor tentatively. “Uh, Mr. Stark? Are you okay?”

And wasn’t that the question of the hour?

Tony fumbled with the sunglasses still in his hand, trying to put them on but gave it up when he realized his hands were shaking too much. Instead, he simply plastered on his ‘Tony Stark Media Star’ smile and stuffed his hands in his suit jacket pockets. “I’m fine,” he answered in a totally convincing, not weird at all sort of way.

“Are you sure?” Peter gave Tony a once over. “You’re looking a little—funny?”

“Ouch,” Tony patted his chest, played up to the bit, “way to get me right here, kid. I’ll have you know I’ve been on People’s ‘Sexiest’ list for twelve years running.”

“Be serious, Mr. Stark.” Peter stared, unimpressed.

“Bigger ouch. Tough crowd.”

Peter crossed his arms and waited for an explanation, and when none came, he spoke up again. “I know you think it’s creepy when I do this, and I’m really sorry about it, but, uh, your heart rate is sorta’ fast. Have you had Ms. FRIDAY scan you yet today?”

Tony’s faux-grin dropped and he shook his head, ‘no.’ “What do you mean exactly?” Of course his heart was racing, but what if Peter had heard something else?

Peter shrugged, “I’m not sure what I’m hearing, Mr. Stark,” Peter replied. “Ms. FRIDAY?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker. I am unable to access the protocols necessary to do as you’ve requested. I could suggest bringing Boss up to the med bay for evaluation if you are concerned.”

Peter didn’t bother to ask why the AI couldn’t do something she was more than capable of on any other occasion. And Peter knew Mr. Stark well enough that he would not appreciate being dragged all over the tower and risk being seen. No way. But Mr. Stark needed help and Peter was apparently the only one who could offer it.

He scanned the lab, looking for anything. The AED was sitting prominently on the wall next to the wash station, but that wouldn’t do them any good. And the first-aid kit was stocked to the gills with anything one would want or need for burns, bruises, stitches, and anything else that a little gauze and tape could patch up, but this?

And then his eyes fell on his backpack. “Got it!” he exclaimed, and then Peter was across the room, tossing textbooks and notebooks out of the bag and onto the floor so he could grab his mask and put it on.

“What? What are you--?” Tony panted out as he gave up on pretending.

Peter tugged up the sleeve of his sweatshirt and fussed with his own official Stark brand wristwatch for a few seconds before it came off then pressed it to Tony’s wrist. “Karen, can you take a comprehensive reading for me, please? Tell me what we’re dealin’ with?”

Tony almost sagged in relief. Such a clever boy.

Tony couldn’t hear her reply. “Of course, Peter.”   

The two stood awkwardly together while Peter listened to Karen’s diagnostic results and then Peter offered a, “Thanks, Karen,” then put his watch back on and pulled off the mask.

Tony was still trying to get his breathing under control.

Peter waited a second before he said anything, and then blurted out, “Did you know that butterflies can taste with their feet, Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinked, played back what the kid had said in his head and then blinked again. “What?”

“Yeah, they use something called chemoreceptors. Apparently it helps them identify plants.” Peter said, completely sincere in his offering. “Cool, huh?”

Tony thought about it before he drew in a bigger breath and answered back, “I guess so?”

“And owls don’t have eyeballs—they have eye tubes.”

Tony just shook his head. “That sounds kinda’ gross, kid. I call bullshit.”

Peter paused for a second and shrugged. “Maybe? MJ had us all looking up weird animal facts in the cafeteria at lunch today and there was a list. Now that I think about it, I should be doing a better about confirming stuff like that before spreading it around.” Peter tossed his mask over to the backpack where the rest of his suit was hiding, then pulled his phone out. “Wanna check on the owls while I do the butterflies?”

Tony didn’t have the energy to do much else. “Sure.” At least his hands weren’t shaking as much when he pulled his own phone out.

They made their way the few steps to the couch and sat in what had fast become their designated ends and became absorbed in their tasks. Not that it took long for them to find what they’d been looking for.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tony muttered. “Eye tubes are apparently a thing?”

Peter popped his phone back into his pocket, “And so are tasting feet. Nature is weird.”

“Agreed. I’ll take metal and tech over eye tubes any day of the week.”

 And then neither of them said anything... until Peter broke the silence a few minutes later.

“Do we need to run a diagnostic on Ms. FRIDAY, tonight?” he finally asked. “I mean, she should have caught that, right?”

Tony sighed and let out a long, slow breath. “FRIDAY is working just fine, kiddo.” Tony put an arm around Peter’s shoulder to reassure him and leaned back into the couch. “I imagine Pepper got a little frustrated with my insanity and figured she needed to shut me and my hypochondriac tendencies down.”

Peter had to process that for a second. “Uh, but you literally just needed FRIDAY and you couldn’t access her? Wouldn’t that mean that she’s actually trying to kill you?”

Tony barked out a laugh. “No, Pete. I’m pretty sure she’s just pissed off, though we’ll definitely need to have a chat about adjusting some parameters, I think.”

They got quiet again, and then, “Well, pissed off or not, that wasn’t very kind of her.” Peter slapped a hand over his mouth as he expressed an opinion he had no business in holding.

“It’s okay, Roo. Right now, I don’t disagree.” Tony closed his eyes as he melted further back. Panic attacks took a lot out of him. “But I can understand where she’s coming from, I guess. I have a job to do—and it’s not like I haven’t given her reasons to get irritated with my ‘behaviour’ in the past.”

Peter didn’t look impressed. “If she loves you, it shouldn’t matter.”

This kid was too pure. “Nah,” Tony opened his eyes and tilted his head to look over at him. “Even I can agree that I’m a little much sometimes... and by a little, I mean even my parents didn’t really like me so I’ll take what I can get when I can.” Tony chuckled at his own joke.

“Mr. Stark!” The indignance on Peter’s face, that someone couldn’t love their own child. “No way! I don’t believe you! And even if I did believe you, that doesn’t justify—”

Tony put a hand up to halt the tirade he was working up to. “Kid, you’ve read the biography, right?”

Peter nodded, ‘yes.’

“So you know Pep has been dealing with my crazy for a long time. First, the palladium poisoning,” he started. “Granted, I was hiding the fact that I was technically dying from everyone but I’d been so diligent about tracking saturation points and trying to find a balance with my diet and anything else I could think of.” Tony huffed a laugh, “You know, it’s actually one of the reasons the Starkwatch was so ahead of the competitors when we’d first released it. I’d already done all the field testing for myself. Using it to buff up or tech marketing was a no brainer, and Pepper was happy.”

“But—”

“Peter.” Tony cut him off yet again. “It’s okay. I haven’t even gotten started about these damned panic attacks.”

Peter did not think any of this was okay. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, obviously thinking of what he was going to say next.

That it bothered Peter so much bothered Tony more than he’d thought it could. “It’s really, well... I’m fine now—and this is all stuff for the grownups to deal with anyways.”

Peter glared. “I’m fifteen,” his cheeks flushed, “and I know what it’s like to be scared for reasons that make sense and still make no sense at all.”

Tony saw that this wasn’t sitting well with Peter, and he was working himself up to say something important, so Tony bit his tongue.

Peter Benjamin Parker had the floor.

“When I was little, I had a really hard time after my parents died.” Peter blurted out. “Like, a ‘I wouldn’t leave May or Uncle Ben because I was afraid they’d die if they left my sight’ kind of hard time.” His eyes widened in his own panic as he realized what he’d just blurted out.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tony said softly, sitting forward to give the kid his full attention now that he could draw a full breath.

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter almost brushed the condolences off. “But there’s more. You see, Aunt May had a nurse friend who’d been gifted a new stethoscope by her family. Aunt May had told her friend about me and what was goin’ on, and between the two of ‘em, they came up with a plan. The friend gave Aunt May her old stethoscope for me to use, so I could double check that everyone I worried about was okay whenever I was scared.”

Tony’s heart melted a little. This poor kid. “Peter.”

But Peter shook his head to stop him and shrugged. “It’s okay now, I promise.” He said it in such a way that Tony wondered if it wasn’t really, but Peter kept going, “I’m just thinkin’ what it would have been like if someone decided that I was being dumb and needed to be done checking on everyone before I was ready to stop on my own, is all. So I get it.”

Huh.

“Besides, panic attacks are no joke, and maybe Ms. FRIDAY would have caught it earlier if you were being monitored?”

 He wasn’t wrong.

“Just—It bugs me that it happened, and I’m sorry that someone did that to you, and I’m especially glad I could loan you my stethoscope today.” Peter bumped into his mentor affectionately. “Have I mentioned how much I love my steth—I mean AI lately?”

And Tony’s heart swelled at the sincere affection.

... Maybe it was time to have a different kind of conversation with Pepper?

FRIDAY broke the moment when she spoke up, “Boss, your dinner delivery has just arrived in the lobby. Would you like me to have someone from security bring it up to you?”

Tony heaved what must have been his millionth sigh. “Yeah, FRI, thanks,” and then he looked over to Peter. “Wanna check out that graphics card I was telling you about after dinner?”

[modgirlyreposts-revamped]

This moment from one of the 10 Minute Power Hour's only strengthens my Barnaby and Dan comparison

[sysig]

Starting out, things going Exactly to plan, as expected (Patreon)

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[sknyuz]

hello!! I want to make a request ; is it alright if you can write about how seong je would be with a mute!reader? i just think it’d be an interesting dynamic ..! hmm other details i’d add is the reader often giving affection in a form of gifting (letters mayb?), cooking him a meal or quality time :) you may write this in whatever format you want!! thank youu and have a nice week (ps love your writing)

synopsis — seongje is a whirlwind of noise and chaos, but he finds unexpected peace in your silence.

now playing — sweet - cigarettes after sex pairing — geum seongje x gn!reader (hard of hearing, selectively mute) genre — hurt/comfort, slowburn, angst with soft moments, unconventional romance (nothing is conventional with seongje) cw — ableism/mocking of hearing disability, bullying, violence (including implied offscreen physical assault), power imbalance, toxic behavior, minor blood/bruising, strong language wc — ~2.1k

note: this was a pleasure to write <3 i hope i did ur request justice, anon. and please do not hesitate to tell me if i wrote something wrong or inaccurate to the experiences of hoh individuals.

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seongje doesn’t do “quiet.” he doesn’t do subtlety, either. his entire existence is loud—his presence is a storm that makes everything feel tense and unpredictable. that’s how he’s known: the unpredictable, impulsive force, the mad dog. so, when he sees you for the first time, it’s almost like a challenge.

you’re sitting there, silently, in the bowling alley, a forced audience to the bullying happening around you. the union’s delinquents have gathered, sneering as they taunt you. they wave your hearing aids in front of you like a sick joke, expecting you to react. but you don’t. you’re quiet, your face unreadable, eyes glued to the floor, trying to stay as small as possible, like you’ve done countless times before. it’s a game for them, nothing more than a way to make you feel like an outsider.

“hey, freak, what’s wrong? can’t hear us?” one of them mocks, swinging your hearing aids back and forth with a smirk.

the noise is deafening to you in a different way—a slow, rising pressure in your chest. you want to speak, to make them stop. but your voice won’t come, and the words you want to say die in your throat, replaced by that quiet ache of helplessness.

that’s when seongje steps in.

he’s not supposed to be there. he’s supposed to be in baekjin’s office, probably arguing or being a general pain in the ass—but the noise coming from the alleyway catches his attention. he comes striding out, a curse on his lips as he surveys the scene, his eyes lighting up with the familiar flash of anger.

“what’s with all the fucking noise, fuckers?!,” seongje shouts, his voice dripping with disdain as he eyes the delinquents, but his gaze lands on the one holding your hearing aids, who freezes up as soon as he realizes who’s standing in front of him.

“aww, you guys are really fucking pathetic,” seongje steps forward, his mood shifting from bored to dangerous in an instant. he slaps the delinquent’s face, knocking the hearing aids out of his grip, and catches them before they hit the floor.

the delinquent stumbles back, startled, and seongje doesn’t miss the way his bravado slips. “hey, if you want to get your ass kicked, i’ll be happy to oblige. otherwise, get the fuck out of here,” seongje growls, and his voice carries an unmistakable warning.

the delinquents scatter quickly, realizing they’re not really looking forward to get beat up by the wolf himself. seongje watches them leave with a bored smirk, but his eyes return to you, where you’re still sitting silently, your gaze downcast. his anger bubbles under the surface, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at you—it’s more frustration at how they treated you. and, maybe… it’s confusion. because why would he be frustrated?

he despises those who put on a front, acting all tough and dominant when they're around someone they know is weaker, but turn into cowards the moment they face someone like seongje. the hypocrisy makes him sick—they don’t even have the balls to face him.

you look up at him then, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stay locked inside. seongje stares back, a little too long, before he gestures to the now-empty bowling alley with a roll of his eyes.

“shit, it’s way too quiet in here now,” seongje mutters, half to himself. “i need a fucking drink. you coming?” his fist reaching out to you, making you flinch, but he simply turns and opens his palm to reveal your hearings aids, offering it back to you, his gaze not even meeting yours.

you hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your face. seongje doesn’t wait for a reply. he knows how this works—he doesn’t need words from you to tell if you’re okay. you’ve already said more than enough with that silence of yours.

it’s a few weeks later when seongje starts to notice something he wasn’t expecting—something soft. you’re not the type to speak, but you show him things. you leave him little letters. they’re simple at first, just words on paper—carefully written, neat and soft. but each one has meaning. you might leave him a note after a chaotic day, telling him, thank you for helping me today—a gesture he’s not used to.

seongje can’t stop himself from reading them over and over, even if he pretends they don’t matter. he tosses the first one aside in an exaggerated motion, but later, when he’s alone, he pulls it out again, trying to make sense of it. there’s something oddly comforting in your words. something real. his usual sharpness dulls just a little when he reads them.

it’s a typical night, and you don’t expect anything to go wrong. seongje has always been unpredictable, but you can’t stop yourself from trusting him. there’s a strange sort of understanding between the two of you now. he doesn’t need you to speak, and you don’t need him to be anything but… himself. still, you don’t expect what happens when he calls you to meet him in a parking lot late one evening.

the dim light from the streetlamps makes the whole place feel cold and detached. you spot him standing there, leaning against the hood of a car, his eyes narrowing slightly when he sees you approach. but there’s something different tonight—something unsettling in his stance.

"come here," seongje says, his voice almost too casual for the tense atmosphere.

your breath catches in your throat as the boy on his knees comes into focus. you've seen him around before—he’s one of the delinquents from the union. the same one who’d been taunting you in the bowling alley, waving your hearing aids like some cruel joke. that memory hits you sharply, and your stomach churns with discomfort as you recognize him now, his face bruised and bloodied, a lip split open, looking like he’s been through hell.

but why is he here? why is he on his knees, shaking in front of seongje? what happened to him?

seongje stands over him, his posture casual, his grin wide and wicked as he watches the boy with almost bored amusement. he kicks the delinquent’s side lightly, like it’s a game, and the boy flinches.

"come on, kid," seongje says, his voice teasing but edged with something darker, something almost amused by the kid’s fear. "just like we practiced."

the delinquent on his knees doesn’t speak, his eyes downcast, probably too terrified to even look up at seongje, but his shaky hand lifts. you watch as he tries to make the "a" handshape, his fingers clumsy as he attempts to sign. seongje looks down at the boy, his grin stretching wider as he watches him fumble.

the delinquent hurriedly completes the sign, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short bursts as he struggles to perform it correctly. he spins his hand in a half-hearted clockwise motion, and you can tell how hard it is for him to even try. he looks humiliated, and maybe that’s what seongje wants—to make him feel small, to show that he’s the one in control now. like how the boy probably felt back in the bowling alley with you.

“sorry.” he signed.

as the boy finishes, seongje pats his shoulder with an almost affectionate thud, a grin still plastered on his face. “good job,” he mutters, voice dripping with mock praise. but his eyes flick to you, then back to the delinquent, as if waiting for some kind of reaction.

the delinquent scrambles to his feet, not daring to say a word, but you can see the fear still fresh in his eyes. without another glance, he stumbles off into the shadows of the parking lot, and seongje doesn’t follow him, not bothering with any more theatrics. “now that’s how you apologize,” he sighs contentedly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as he walks back to where you two came from.

you don’t respond, but you follow him. because, despite everything—despite how messed up all of this is—he’s still the one who, somehow, happened to feel like the safest person to be around. despite his… unique antics.

despite the way he does things no one else would dare to. because even if he’s rough around the edges, unpredictable and loud, seongje never made you feel small. and that, weirdly enough, was enough.

seongje’s desk at the bowling alley becomes a quiet sort of shrine to you—littered with your letters and notes, half-crumpled from him rereading them over and over. he never bothers to clean it up. they’re scattered across the surface like leaves in a storm, but he knows exactly where each one is. it’s an organized mess, chaotic in the same way he is. but if anyone even looks at them too long—tries to pick one up, makes a joke about the handwriting, even breathes too close to the edge of his desk—they’re basically asking for a death wish.

“touch it and you die,” he’ll mutter without even looking up, one foot kicked up on the desk, cigarette dangling from his lips. it’s not even a threat—it’s a promise.

somewhere in between the late night meetups—where the world is quiet and it’s just the two of you—and the stolen moments in back rooms lit by vending machine glow, seongje softens. not in a way that’s obvious to most, but in ways you catch. like when he plays bowling with you late at night at the union headquarters, just the sound of pins crashing echoing through the empty lanes. he’s terrible at it, but he doesn’t care. he would fair better hitting someone at the back of the head with these bowling balls. he only really lights up when it’s your turn.

you roll the ball, knock down every pin, and before you can even react, he’s throwing his hands in the air, exaggeratedly signing applause, a wide grin stretching across his face.

“that’s what i’m fucking talking about!” he shouts, clapping loudly on top of the sign for applause he just made, just because he’s still him—loud, obnoxious, impossible—but now he’s loud for you.

yeah… to seongje, you’re like a stray puppy at first. small, quiet, following him around without saying a word, eyes always wide and watching. at first, he thinks it’s kinda funny—endearing, even. you don’t talk back, don’t flinch when he’s loud, and you’ve got this habit of showing up with little notes or food like some soft, strange ritual he doesn’t understand. he starts calling you “puppy” just to mess with you, ruffling your hair whenever you come around.

but somewhere along the way, that fondness stops being just a game. no, you’re not a pet to seongje. but maybe, you became an equal.

he starts waiting for your notes. starts leaving his office door slightly cracked, just in case you come by. he catches himself watching you instead of his phone. gets weirdly pissed off when other people so much as look at you wrong.

and the night he realizes it’s different—that it’s not just him babysitting some quiet kid—it’s when you sign “stay” with soft hands after a long night, and he does. no grumbling, no jokes, just settles next to you and doesn’t leave.

after that, it’s not a question. you’re not a puppy. you’re his person.

and yeah, maybe he never said you were dating. but everyone knows. you leave your food in the union’s fridge, your letters in his desk, your comfort in the chaos of his life. and he protects you, respects you, listens to your silence more than he’s ever listened to anyone’s voice. and no one in the union dares to bring it up or even question your soft presence in the nitty gritty bowling alley.

seongje is loud. like, really fucking loud. he talks with his whole body, yells when he's annoyed, laughs like he owns the air around him, and never knows when to shut up. he's noise and motion and chaos wrapped in one, dangerously sharp-edged boy. but you—you're quiet. not just in voice, but in presence. you move gently, offer kindness without demanding attention, speak in ways that don’t need sound.

and somehow, in all the noise of his world, your silence is the only thing that ever made sense. he used to think silence was empty, but now it’s where he finds comfort. he’s still loud, still volatile, still the type to throw a punch first and maybe ask questions never. but now there’s this... softness around the edges. a space he carves out just for you. like you’re the eye of the storm, and he’s always, always circling back to you.

in your quiet, he feels understood. and maybe that's the wildest thing about this whole mess—that a boy made of sound found peace in someone who never had to say a word.

note: aaa i feel like this so short >><< i wanted to give them more of a backstory but for now this is what i’m going with. if you’d like to see more of them that’d be nice 🫶 this is such a different take from collarless tho, and it’s nice to also write a softer character to contrast our tough collarless!reader to explore more dynamics with seongje.

i don’t aim to reform or soften seongje, but have the peaceful presence of the reader be incorporated into his life without changing his ideals and personality.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @vovoloyo @keumbaku @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 (ask to be tagged or removed)

[bowtiepasta]

long distance is hard on itoshi sae.

it’s late, more than usual, later than either of you should be awake. but neither ends have hung up.

sae is on his side, head resting against his pillow, phone propped up so you can see the way his lashes dip against his cheeks. his hair sticks up in odd places where he towel dried it and gave up. he’s still wearing his jersey, collar stretched from his tugging during the game. idle fingers toy with the edge of his phone case, thumb absently flicking at the worn out corners.

“you should sleep,” you yawn, tucking yourself deeper into your blanket. your phone’s overheating.

his lips press into a thin line. “not tired.”

“you’re always tired.” you laugh, laced with exhaustion as you reach offscreen, scuffling for the bottle on your nightstand — he hears the cap click up.

sae doesn’t argue, nor does he agree. his eyes float over the screen like he’s trying to memorize every pixel of you. he’s frustrated, you can tell.

rubbing at his eyes: itoshi sae’s number one method for avoiding eye contact. the silence stretches, comfortable but heavy, until he finally caves.

“I lost today.”

you already knew that. you’d watched from your screen, heart aching at the way his jaw clenched, how his fingers curled into fists every time a play didn’t go his way. and now, even from thousands of miles away, you can hear it in his voice. the disappointment.

“I saw,” you say softly, treading carefully. his thumbs still against his case. he watches you for a second, takes you in — quiet rustle of hotel sheets crackling through the speaker.

“I wanted to come home.”

he never lets the weight of his exhaustion or frustration spill over into words, into things that can’t be taken back. he’s always tucked his emotions neatly into the spaces between his ribs and kept them there, away from anyone else. but not tonight, it seemed.

tonight, he let it slip. you shift onto your side, mirroring him. “sae.”

he swallows, gaze dropping a second before meeting yours. his voice is recognizably rougher when he speaks next. “I just wanted to be with you.”

something coils in your chest.

“I know,” you whisper.

he sighs, drawing attention to the eyebags collecting on his face, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “could you just.. talk, for a little bit? please?”

you nod. and you do. about nothing and everything — about today: the stupid, the mundane, and the minuscule. you talk until his grip goes numb, blinks slow down, and his breathing evens out.

when his screen goes dark, the call still connected, you stay. this is the closest you can be to holding him right now, and you’ll take anything you can get.

[phosphorusab]

Thinking about how despite needing to be invited in, Remmick always forces himself into where he is explicitly not allowed. He doesn’t understand racial tensions in Jim Crow Mississippi but also can’t comprehend Normal Fucking Boundaries. He hasn’t been human for so long that he either forgot, or he just doesn’t care.

He is a predator in every sense of the word. Every vampire that he or his followers create are made without their consent or knowledge of what vampirism entails. Every time he’s invited inside he achieved it through lying, manipulation or coercion. And he thinks it’s fine because he has a borderline religious mission to save souls from death and assimilate them into his cult of personality.

I counted the amount of onscreen romantic relationships that Remmick either ruins or forced himself into - I’ve come to a total of 5 couples.

1. This happens basically offscreen so I think it’s left up to interpretation, but Remmick did not turn Joan. He sits comfortably in a chair and watches Burt (influenced by Remmick) violently force himself on his wife to turn her into a vampire. And I have reason to believe that, considering the way he speaks to Grace.

2. After turning Bo Chow, Remmick learns of the existence of his wife Grace and their daughter Lisa. Threatening Lisa’s life by itself should have (and would have) been enough for Grace to let him inside, not even mentioning the safety of the whole town. But he doesn’t. What he does is flip through Bo’s memories like files, and find an extremely intimate and personal one of Bo and Grace having sex. And because this is a memory, this isn’t from a third person perspective, this is Bo’s perspective of going down on his wife that Remmick has voyeured himself to. And he lets Grace know it too, in her and Bo’s native language. He tells her that he knows how to have sex with her because he thrifted through her dead husband’s memories, all while Bo stands next to him. I can’t even tell if he was just trying to anger her to let him inside, or if he Genuinely Thought that he was Entitled to the bodies of all of his followers - they share all of their memories, what’s yours is his and what’s his is yours.

3. Pearline is turned into a vampire (by Remmick IIRC). So now Remmick has access to her memories, including her having sex with Sammie, whom he’s obsessed with. So that’s Fuckin Great. And then she dies. Sammie never forgets losing Pearline, he names his band after her. There’s also no mention of him ever marrying or having a family IIRC, so he might not have ever moved on from her.

4. He turns Cornbread, who dies a second time, leaving his wife behind.

5. Annie is about to be turned into a vampire and Smoke follows through on his promise of mercy killing her if that ever came to pass. Then Smoke is killed in a shoot out with the Klan - the same Klan that Remmick had said he was going to ‘rectify’ and Never Did, because he wanted to go some place where he was explicitly Not Invited.

The only relationship that comes out somewhat unscathed is Stack and Mary, but Stack will always have to live with the fact that he is separated from his best friend, his identical twin, forever - and he only has Mary to blame, but he also only has her eternal company.

We talk a lot about the racial assimilation of Remmick’s cult, but not about the boundaries of the relationships he destroyed.

[veryfruitywriting]

small headcanons of mac !

—from date everything—

( i havent done this in a while / OFTEN so pls don’t mind how messy this is 😭 )

enjoy!! 😼

— mac loves to flirt and isn’t shy to tell you what they like about you. which makes it hard to concentrate when they blush and bite their lip as they nonchalantly say they love how you double click and how you never fail to make their cpu burn up.

— they love when you stumble your words and try to flirt back (match they freak!!). they find it so adorable yet very hot

— their boosting of your mannerisms has definitely lifted your ego. hell yea, i type effortlessly and double click in a satisfying manner. you catch yourself sitting up straighter and breathing steadier whenever you’re at work, insure that you look your best in front of them.

— spending a lot of time together—especially when it comes to work—mac tends to run their thumb underneath your barely noticeable eye bags after a smooch.

— they encourage offscreen time but you assure them that you’re fine and that they match eyebags now!

— there’s a lot of quick, soft kisses between you two. though it’s rarely random, there’s always a flicker of ‘wow, i want to pamper you in kisses right about now’ looks in between conversations.

— leaning over, your hands grasp the armrests as they slightly sit more upwards to meet your lips. very sweet and gentle. even with the dirty talk and sexual innuendos, the kisses you give one another are always comfortable and safe. 

— doesn’t mean you both don’t get lost in it sometimes. knuckles turning white as you keep your weight in check and their hands grasping at the collar of your shirt to keep the tension going. even with you towering over them, they tend to stay in control of you. (not that you don’t mind . . .)

— mac tends to do work all the time, clearing files, photos, videos, deleting tabs you had open for weeks now… even when you two are relaxing, they can’t help but browse the internet to stay updated with the new tech.

— mac is not an ‘erm actually’ person! (I THINK ANYWAY…) they are willing to share new information and additional fun facts about the topic IF you ask for their help—such as complicated update steps and non basic technical needs—. they understand you are not update to date with technical management—cough cough not updating them in months. . .—and vocabulary, so they are very patient and know it can get a bit confusing and overwhelming. they love to see you succeed.

— there’s a difference between topic dumping and just saying what comes to mind. you love it when they ramble about the smaller things. the light in their eyes as they compare and contrast the newer updates of systems and projects.

— ‘guess what patch update they just released!’ and just like that; your head is on their lap and their hands run through your hair as they began to tell you every little detail and what it means for them in the near future.

— a lot of physical touch, they tend to touch their own face and use a lot of hand motion when talking. . . so when it comes to talking to you. their hand lands on your wrist or knee as they speak directly at you ( ex; “guess what!” “you won’t believe it!” “hey!” “listen to this!”).

— hand holding, shoulders brushing, any little humane interaction between the two of you is a sweet reminder that you’ll be side by side.

hoped yall enjoy!!

i definitely have more up my sleeve but i am about to PASSS out im so tired. i hope i did some justice to them ☹️♥️. might do multi parts if asked!! if yall wanna help me brainstorm be sure to put them in my ask 😼

[papayainsectorone]

us in another universe

summary: us in another universe until it´s us in every universe, some texts some stories

content: established relationship, soft domestic vibes, emotional drunk!lando, long-distance tenderness, mutual pining, silly metaphors, offscreen implied smut, soft angst & even softer comfort, voicemail-induced tears, lando is so in love it’s embarrassing, smau, pregnancy

word count: 2.1k + texts

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a´s masterlist

It’s a Thursday. A quiet one.

The sun is out but lazy, casting a soft glow that makes everything look a little sleepier than it is. You’re walking home from grabbing coffee, one hand wrapped around the paper cup.

That’s when you see them.

Two cows. Big, soft, impossibly round. They’re poking their heads over a hedge like they’ve just been caught mid-gossip, and you laugh out loud—just once, just quietly. It’s such a you and Lando thing. The way one looks half-asleep and the other looks like it knows all your secrets.

You snap the photo and open your messages.

You pause on his contact photo and smile. It’s stupid, and cozy, and weirdly poetic—just like the two of you. The silence between you never feels empty. It's always filled with this: warm, familiar nonsense. Love in its goofiest, truest form.

It’s late. Too late to be awake, too early to sleep.

You’re curled up on the couch in a hoodie that still smells a little like him—clean laundry and a trace of his cologne, worn into the fabric over time. The TV’s playing something you’re not really watching. Your thumb’s on autopilot, scrolling TikTok in a slow, mindless rhythm.

Most of your feed is the usual chaos: people dancing, chaotic memes, a girl crying over a pasta recipe. And then—

You stop.

It’s a video of two otters. One is floating on its back, arms slightly spread. The other drifts beside it, belly-down, bumping gently against its side every so often. The caption reads:

“us in another universe 🦦💤” Soft piano music plays in the background. No voiceover. No edits. Just… floating.

You watch it twice. Then three times. And then you save it and swipe into your messages.

The screen glows against your chest for a few minutes more, warmth bleeding through glass and hoodie fabric, until you drift off to sleep

You wake up to your phone buzzing violently against your nightstand.

6:12 a.m.

You groan, roll over, and grab it blindly. The screen lights up with six missed calls, all from Lando. One voicemail. And a stream of texts so long you can’t see the beginning without scrolling up.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and open them. Immediately, you can tell: he’s drunk. Not tragic drunk. Not messy. Just that loose-limbed, champagne-dizzy, race-win-high version of Lando who gets emotional at hotel room lamps and texts like his thumbs forgot grammar.

You scroll up.

The typing bubble appears.

Then disappears.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming Call

You answer without thinking, still curled in bed, the sheets tangled around your legs.

His voice comes through sleepy and low, just this side of slurred. “Baaaaby…”

You smile instantly. “Hi, you emotional drunk baby.” “I miss you. Like, a lot. Like… my heart’s doing a little sad tappy dance in my chest.” “A sad tappy dance?” “Yeah. Like… it’s happy we won but it’s mad you’re not here. I hugged my engineer and almost cried. That’s where I’m at emotionally.” “Oh no. You are gone.” “I saw the bottles and they were leaning on each other and I just—” (his voice cracks a little, then laughs softly) “—I was like, oh my god, that’s us. That’s literally us.” “You’re so stupid.” “But like… in a romantic way?” “Yeah. In the ‘I love you more than anything on earth’ kind of way.”

There’s a pause. You can hear him exhale on the other end. “I want to be home. I want to wake up and make you tea and kiss your knee for no reason.” “That’s weirdly specific.” “I love all your parts. Your knees. Your elbows. Your everything.” “You’re not gonna remember saying that.” “I’m gonna remember feeling it.”

Another pause. This one quieter. His breathing slows a little. “Three more sleeps, yeah?” “Yeah. Three more.” “I’m counting. I keep doing it wrong though. I’m very bad at math when I miss you.” “You’ll be here before you know it.” “Will you tackle me at the door?” “Absolutely.” “Good. 'Cause I need you. Like… stupid much.” “I need you too, bottle boy.” “M’gonna dream of you now.” “Do it. I’ll meet you there.”

The call lingers for a second longer before it ends—softly, quietly. You press your phone to your chest, heart full, breath steady.

Even when he's miles away, he still feels like home.

The day is slow. Grey, with a hint of rain that never really falls — just hovers, clinging to the windows like it's waiting for permission.

You're halfway through folding laundry when your hands tug one of his hoodies from the tangle of sheets. It’s soft and worn, the kind he’s had for years — navy blue, with a stretched-out cuff and that faint, comforting scent of the fabric softener he swears by. “Elite tier,” he told you once, completely serious, holding the bottle like it was vintage wine in the middle of the store.

You hug the hoodie to your chest and breathe in.

It’s been a quiet week.

Not distant — just full. The kind of full where texts get shorter and calls get postponed, not out of neglect but because life has teeth sometimes. You’ve both been busy, the sort of busy that scratches at the edges of connection without really breaking it.

You don’t feel unloved. Just… in between.

And you miss him. Not the FaceTime Lando or the string of texts between meetings or even the trackside photos he sends you with a cheeky caption. You miss the quiet of him.

The brush of his hand across your back in the kitchen. His nose, cool and nuzzling behind your ear when you brush your teeth side by side. His feet, cold and shamelessly intertwined with yours under the blanket on early mornings.

You carry the folded laundry to the bedroom, moving in autopilot, until something soft catches your eye.

The bear and the bunny.

They’re sitting right where you left them on the bed — the stuffed animals he bought you one rainy afternoon while you were out running errands. He spotted them in a shop window and dragged you inside, grinning as he picked them up with zero shame.

“This is us,” he’d said. “Obviously. You’re the bunny — all sweet and cute — and I’m the bear. A bit stupid, but loyal.”

Now they sit slightly apart, the way they shifted when you last made the bed. Without thinking, you reach out and nudge them together — bunny leaning into bear, bear tilted like it’s been standing guard all night.

It tugs at something in your chest. That quiet ache of longing.

You grab your phone and snap a photo.

You’re mid-email, half-listening to a podcast, when your phone buzzes.

Then again.

Then three times more in a row.

You frown, check the notifications.

The picture comes in just as your gate is called.

The weekend is a blur of engine roars, sun glare, press pens, and half-bitten fingernails.

The qualifying session ends late. You’re still half-hyped from his lap time, lingering around the back of the paddock, the buzz in the air clinging to your skin.

He finds you by the garages, sweat-streaked and smiling, and without a word you both start walking—holding hands.

The paddock’s mostly empty now. Quiet. The hum of distant deconstruction. You cut through the far edge of the lot when you both spot them:

Two traffic cones.

Lando stops, smirks, and looks at you like he’s about to cause a problem.

“Don’t,” you warn, already grinning.

“Oh, I’m going full conehead,” he declares, picking one up and placing it proudly on his head like a crooked crown.

You double over laughing, then pick up the second one. “Fine. But if we get yelled at, you’re doing all the explaining.”

Now you’re both wearing cones like royal headgear, giggling like actual children, wobbling toward each other in your ridiculous plastic hats.

He bumps your cone gently with his own. “This is the peak of our relationship.”

You tip yours off, toss it aside, and grab the collar of his hoodie. “Wrong. This is.”

You kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. Either way, it’s easy—hot breath, eager mouths, the kind of kiss that builds fast, hungry from all the time apart.

His hands slide under your jacket, over your waist, warm and firm. Your arms lock around his shoulders, pulling him in until you’re chest-to-chest, his leg sliding between yours, hips pressed close.

The cones are long forgotten.

He groans softly into your mouth when you grind down against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw, then your ear. “We should probably—go.”

You nod without even opening your eyes, already curling your fingers in the fabric at his back.

“Yes. Yes. Let’s go.”

He grabs your hand.

You leave the cones tipped over in the gravel, like they knew they were just the opening act.

The season rolls on, race by race, month by month. Sometimes you fly out to be with him. Other times, you stay home, wrapped in your own routines, your own quiet.

It’s been a few weeks since you last saw each other. You’ve been feeling off — sluggish, tired in a way that’s not just the jet lag or the stress. Some mornings have been harder than others, and you find yourself waking up with nausea, barely able to keep anything down. But you don’t say much.

One morning, when the sun is just up and setting in streaks of pink and gold, your phone buzzes.

You put your phone down, the simple blobs still glowing softly on the screen.

Holding hands. Even through distance. Even through the quiet.

Then, that’s when the nausea kicks in again.

You sprint to the bathroom, clutching the sink, and decide right there and then—it’s time to see a doctor.

The doctor’s words still echo in your mind, soft but undeniable. You’re in shock, still processing everything. It’s weeks until Lando comes home, and the thought of holding this secret any longer feels unbearable. Tears come easily now — just thinking about it has your chest tightening.

You grab your phone, heart pounding, and dial his number. It rings. Rings. Then goes to voicemail.

You sigh, remembering how his phone is probably tucked away somewhere in the garage during the weekend. You let it go.

But you can’t wait.

You find the picture you saved earlier: two ducks and a tiny duckling nestled between them.

You send it.

Your phone rings. It’s him.

You answer immediately, voice shaky.

On the other end, you can hear the background noise—voices calling his name, the distant rush of the paddock, the buzz of people moving. But Lando doesn’t care.

His voice breaks the second he hears you.

“I’m missing a meeting right now,” he says, “but I had to call. I couldn’t wait one second longer.”

You try to hold back tears but fail.

“You’re serious?” he asks, voice cracking. “I’m going to be a dad?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Fuck I’m crying so hard,” he laughs, “I’m so happy.”

You laugh softly too, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight.

“I’m crying too,” you whisper.

There’s a pause, filled with unspoken words and the weight of everything.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?”

You sniffle, voice trembling, “Scared. But happy. So happy.”

He breathes deeply.

“I want to be there so badly. I want to hold you.”

“I want you here,” you say, voice small.

“Soon. Soon I’ll be home and I’ll never let you go.”

You laugh through the tears.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You both just hold the call open, speaking softly about little things, the future, your hopes. His voice is a warm anchor in the storm of emotions.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too.”

The paddock calls him again, but this time he stays on the line a moment longer, just to hear you breathe.

Lando’s voice trembles as he speaks, barely able to contain the mix of emotions flooding him.

“Feels so unreal,” you admit.

“No,” he says firmly, “it’s real. It’s us. I can’t wait to hold you both.”

You rest your forehead against the cold wall, closing your eyes, picturing him there beside you.

“I’m nervous,” you confess quietly. “But happy.”

“Me too,” he says. “We’ll do this together. Every step.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling him so close even though miles away.

“I love you.”

“I love you in every universe.”

[enwoso]

for love and country | lovie at the euros

part two — 'we hug now’

grumpy masterlist | for love and country masterlist

the day you landed in switzerland, the day of the first group game against france. it was sunny. not too warm, just enough of a breeze to rustle your curls as you climbed out of the car, your arms flailing with excitement.

you had your little cap on backwards, courtesy of your uncle luca and a brand new sticker book clutched in your hand. carol was carrying your matching pink suitcase as she waved away your demands to roll it yourself.

the plan was simple, set up at the rental, rest a little, get ready to see the game and your mummy after the upcoming group game.

but you had other ideas.

"can i talk to mummy." you asked your nonno, holding up your ipad knowing there was special way to call, it having to be done by an adult as your mummy had put restrictions on it months ago after you were calling your auntie ella at five in the morning.

mario didn't even try to argue, one button press later and the call was ringing.

alessia answered from her room at base camp, hair tied up in a bun, headphones half on and posture already softening the second she saw your little face.

"lovie!"

"mummy!" you squealed, the camera jostling wildly as you tried to get a better angle, "i here! 'm in switza-land!"

alessia gushed, a big smile on her face as she looked at your excited little face, "you made it! you look so grown up since mummy last saw you."

"i dis big now" you said proudly, holding your hands up to show your height. "and i didn't sleep on the plane, nonno says i'm a jet lag princess!"

"oh dear," alessia grinned, amused by your excitement and just hearing your voice, "are you going to crash soon?"

"nooo, i had two apple juices and two 'nacks. i'm bouncy!"

alessia chuckled, moving slightly on her bed so she can prop her phone up. "you sure are."

you looked offscreen for a second, then leaned in close, whispering loudly, "mummy?"

"yeah, lovie?"

"where mama?" you asked, your hands now resting on your chin as you waited for alessia to answer.

alessia blinked. "right now?"

you nodded, "i want to say hi."

"she's not in the room, baby. she's downstairs, i think.. getting her treatment." alessia smiled, shuffling a little knowing the next thing you were going to ask.

"can you go see her?"

alessia paused, she knew is was going to be the next thing you said before she then exhaled a soft laugh. "you're really the boss of me, huh?"

you gave a big toothy grin your hands still resting on your chin. "pleasee? i miss her."

that pulled at alessia's heart in a whole new way. "alright, alright. hold on. you better not hang up on me." alessia moved from the comfort of her bed, putting on her slides and tempering her keycard as she slipped it into her sock.

"i won't! i staying right here."

with a chuckle, alessia slipped out of her room, phone in hand, walking along the long hallways and down the short flight of stairs to the physio suite passing maya and beth in the corridor most likely coming back from one of maya's pregame walks.

"who's got you rushing about?" beth teased, as alessia approached them.

"my daughter," alessia said slightly breathless, you shouting a 'hello' from the phone to both beth and maya. "she wants to see le."

the two yelling a hello back to you as maya smirked. "that checks out."

alessia found leah a moment later, lying on the treatment bed her calfs slicked with oil - clearly in the middle of a massage. eyes glued to her phone as she let the therapist do their work.

"le!" she called, walking into the room, leah's head slowly lifting from her phone a shy smile appearing on her face when she saw alessia, "emergency facetime."

leah's brow furrowed, until she saw your little face on the screen, face being held up by your hands as you had a small smile on your lips.

leah then smiled wide, "oh thank god, i thought sarina was calling me back for more tatic sheets." she said as she took the phone from alessia, pressing it close.

"hey my angel, did you have a good flight." leah asked

"hi mama," you said sweetly as you nodded, making some of the team and other girl in the room awe at your cute voice.

"i got my own big bed and a hotel key! mummy says it only for big people but nonna says i'm allowed cause im r-r-repon-ible" you told your mama, as she giggled slightly at your mispronunciation of the word 'responsible'

"is that so, have you grown that much since me and mummy seen you?" leah asked as she watched you flay your arms around as you spoke, carol and mario popping in the frame every so often in the background.

"yup," you nodded proudly. "can i see you and mummy tomorrow?" you asked, your voice a little quieter as your arms stopped moving around with your words.

leah looked up at alessia, who was talking to one of the coaches, as she looked over smiling softly but with sadness still flickering behind her eyes.

"course, we'll see after the game, yeah?" leah said gently, not wanting to overstep or tell you anything different to what alessia had said. "you'll definitely get cuddles."

"mama, we still goin' to the zoo the day after?" you asked, remembering your mummy telling you about it, how your face lit up at the thought of seeing real life elephants. it being one of the only thing you were looking forward to on the trip.

"course, we can see some lions, the giraffes, maybe some monkeys and.." leah listed off as your grin got bigger with excitement.

"elefants!" you cheered, interrupting leah as she nodded fondly, "esme really looking forward to see them, can we see them first, please mama" you hurried out excitedly.

"course we can, mummy has been taking extra special care of her for you," leah smiled as you nodded, a sad wave of a smile appearing on your face but you remembered esme had promised to keep mummy happy for you.

"okay." you yawned suddenly, stretching on the hotel bed like a cat. "'m not tired though."

"you look tired, bub."

"i not!" your voice cracked with the lie.

leah winked, moving the phone to her other hand, knowing you were seconds from falling asleep. "alright, miss wide awake. i'll see you soon. you be good for nonna and nonno, okay?"

"i'm always good." you sleepily said, as alessia came back into the frame of the camera.

alessia snorted a little. "that's a half fib and you know it."

"medium good," you corrected yourself, as your head lay on the soft bed, your mummy insisting it was time for your pj's and bed.

"good night lovie, mummy and mama love you, so much" alessia said as she kissed at the screen. you blowing them back sleepily as alessia caught them holding it close to her chest.

the call ended, finally, with three loud kisses and a million mumbled 'good nights' leah handing alessia's phone back to her with a small shake of her head.  "she runs this whole operation," leah murmured.

alessia nodded, not even attempting to disagree. "she really does."

and despite the ache, the fact alessia couldn't pull you into her arms right now or tuck you into bed. the facetime left her and leah feeling a little fuller. a little braver. ... the game against france had left a dull ache in alessia's chest. not just from the loss but from the few fleeting second that she saw you for after the final whistle. you had been curled up in carol's arms in the stands just behind the dugout, eyes heavy with sleep, the sky long gone dark.

alessia had jogged over just to kiss your forehead. you barely even stirring, murmuring something about 'goals and glitter boots' before her mum whispered, "she didn't make it past halftime less,"

but tonight was different.

the lionesses had come out with fire against the dutch, and alessia had played her heart out. no goals but three assists, each one carefully threaded like she was stitching something sacred back together. alessia had energy, control, composure.

as the cheers were still echoing through the crisp swiss night as england file off the pitch, the echoes of sweet caroline lingering faintly beyond the floodlit stadium.

a 4–0 win over the dutch. with three assists for alessia. her name was the one the media team had at the top, the player of the match trophy was hers, her performance one the commentators will gush about for days. the sort of night any player dreams of.

but alessia didn't feel it. not properly.

not when her chest feels hollow, when she knows you are waiting just beyond the tunnel, probably fighting to keep your eyes open despite the late hour.

alessia barely registers the usual post-match noise. the microphones shoved under her chin. the flash of cameras. the reporter's voice feels far away as alessia mutters through the mandatory questions like she's already practiced them in her bedroom beforehand, nodding at words she doesn't quite hear.

leah as always lingers close, a steady presence, occasionally brushing alessia's arm in quiet reassurance. alessia can't stop the restless bounce in her knee, the impatient shift of her weight, her eyes darting toward the mouth of the tunnel every other second.

by the time she's free of the cameras, she's practically jogging. her boots click against the concrete, the din of the stadium softening into the low hum of the concourse. leah keeps pace beside her, silent but watchful, her hand brushing against alessia's as if to ground her.

the family section is alive with the usual chaos. lucy is crouched, letting her niece stick a glittery lionesses stickers to her forehead while pulling exaggerated faces.

ella, ever the joker, is in fits of laughter as she tells one of her jokes to her boyfriend, joe, making joe double over in laughter. the scene is warm, familiar but alessia doesn't stop.

because then she sees you.

you are standing beside your nonna, curls a little messy, the tiniest england flag clutched in your hand. your socks don't quite match, one slouching around your ankle.

your wearing the oversized england hoodie alessia bought you last month. the one you calls her 'lucky one' because you wore it when your mummy scored against spain in the nations league.

the moment your wide eyes spot alessia, your whole face lights up like a lantern. relief. recognition. love. and then, just as quickly, it crumples.

"mummy!" the cry cracks in the middle, a tiny sound swallowed by the cavernous space.

you sprint, your trainers slapping against the concrete. alessia barely has time to crouch before you barrel into her, flinging your arms around your mummy's neck so hard alessia nearly tips backward. alessia catches you, holding you as if the ground might open beneath the two of you.

"i've missed you, lovie," alessia whispers, tucking her nose into your curls, breathing in the faint scent of strawberry shampoo and her mum's laundry detergent.

usually, that earns a squeal or a breathless, 'did you see me on the telly, mummy?' or you would usually wriggle to show off your face paint you'd had done before the game or demand alessia carry you all the way to the car like a koala as you bargain your way to a later bedtime so you can spend time with your mummy and mama.

but not tonight.

tonight, you just cling tighter, your small body trembling. when alessia pulls back a little to check your face, she sees your bottom lip quivering.

and then the tears come.

"i don't want you to go," you sobs, your words breaking as your little shoulders shake, your voice hiccupping as you cling tighter.

alessia's heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice. she hugs you tighter, swaying instinctively, rubbing gentle circles into your back. "hey, hey... it's okay, lovie. i've got you. i promise i've got you."

but the words don't seem to touch you. your fists curl tighter into alessia's kit, the fabric wrinkling in your tiny hands as you press your face into your mummy's shoulder, sobbing softly but with a rawness that slices through alessia's chest.

leah crouches beside them, her voice soft, a careful calmness to it. "hey, angel. you know nonna's making pancakes for breakfast tomorrow, right? then by the time breakfast is finished, we'll be going to the zoo, you told me on facetime how excited esme was to see the other elephants."

you doesn't even look up. "don't... want pancakes or zoo. want mummy. m-mummy stay."

the last two words crack, like they're too heavy for your small mouth.

alessia swallows hard, blinking back the sting behind her eyes. she can feel the conflict tearing her apart: her head knows she can't break fa rules, can't skip curfew or haul her daughter into camp.

but her heart? her heart is screaming at her to just take you in her arms, bundle you into the hotel and the rules be damned.

ella swoops in having seen the scene pan out just beside her and her boyfriend, joe. and having heard from alessia how you weren't really yourself since the tournament had started.

ella crouching low so she was eye level with you, her grin bright but gentle. "tiny, if you come with me, i'll teach you how to steal grace's boots tomorrow. she hates it. make her do warm-ups tomorrow in her socks."

grace, looming behind her, crosses her arms with mock severity. "oi, don't drag me into your schemes. tiny, tell your auntie ella she's trouble."

usually, that would earn a shy giggle, maybe even a cheeky remark as you would agree just to wind them both up. tonight, you doesn't even blink at them, your sobs quieting into shaky breaths as you burrow further into alessia's neck.

alex edges closer, her presence offering something calmer, something softer. "less... want me to grab her some water? might help her calm down a bit."

alessia glances up, grateful. "yeah... thanks, alex."

as alex slips away, keira, quieter than the rest, leans in and murmurs to alessia, "we'll cover for you, less if you want a bit longer. sarina can wait. nobody is rushing you."

alessia nods, her throat too tight to speak, her hand running up and down your back in slow, steady motions. her teammates linger nearby, some trying to coax a smile, others simply existing as a quiet circle of support.

even beth, who usually is the first to crack a joke, just rests a gentle hand on alessia's back, murmuring, "she'll settle, less. she's just tired."

it takes just over half an hour, water that alex fetched, your nonno's coaxing promises of pancake flipping, and leah softly offering to read esme the elephant later. before you finally, reluctantly, let carol scoop you into her arms.

even then, your small hands stretch toward alessia, fingers splayed, reaching, reaching... until the car door closes. silent tears slip down your cheeks, your big eyes fixed on your mummy through the window as the taillights fade into the night.

the moment her parents and you are gone, alessia's composure shatters. the ache in her chest crashes over her in a wave so strong her knees nearly buckle. she presses her palms to her eyes, trying to hold herself together, but her breath catches, trembling.

leah steps in instantly, no words, just wrapping her arms around alessia and tucking her against her chest.

"she thinks i don't want her," alessia chokes out, her voice cracking. "she doesn't understand. and my head's telling me i need to be here, i need to focus... but my heart's telling me to just take her. forget the rules. just... take her and so she can be with me, be with us."

leah holds her tighter, resting her chin on top of alessia's damp hair as she places gentle kisses to the top of her head. "i know. i know, less. but we'll get through it. you're not alone. not in this."

around them, the other lionesses begin to drift away, beth giving alessia's back one last comforting pat, as ella mouths "we'll sort something tomorrow" as she walks off with keira.

only leah stays, the team giving the two a bit of space, as leah lets alessia cry into her shoulder, her thumb stroking soothing circles at the base of her spine, peppering small kisses to her head and she whispered it was all going to be okay.

when alessia finally pulls back, she fumbles into her backpack and finds the small, worn plush toy, esme the elephant, the one you never slept without. alessia clutches it tightly to her chest, her eyes still wet.

but the image of your outstretched hands, fingers splayed reaching for her as the car pulled away lingers, sharp and unrelenting like a wound that wouldn't close.