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#southrnweed — an indie oc with a focus on grief and what it means to grow around it. With supernatural/occult && southern gothic themes. ♪

🌿 PINNED POST /🌿INFO

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gonna do another soft little revamp tomorrow so i can get back to writing here regularly! gonna rework the muse list and the carrd, clear out the inbox, and drop a lot of the drafts that have been sitting for 3+ months so we can get focused and start some new things. love y'all sm!! 💜

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“ you think anyone saw us ?” (2nake to remy!)

a meme that i took entirely out of context because i'm being self-indulgent. 🥰

Remy huffs out something like a laugh, grinning with all teeth and a rough drawl, "Who gives a fuck?"

Very deliberately, before Snake can answer, Remy's moving to press his palms against Snake's chest and shoving him back against the wall—hard. His hands are fast and unrelenting, like he's decided not to let Snake go until he decides otherwise. There's no one around anymore, but it's clear Remy couldn't give a shit either way.

He crowds Snake's space fast, lips tracing his way along his jaw to find the curve of his throat—slow, like he wouldn't mind spending his entire night just tasting with his mouth against skin. His hands slip beneath Snake's shirt, recklessly exploring with a cool touch, heavy-handed as if his goal is to pin him there—at least until he's taken his fill. His breath is hot against Snake's neck as he huffs out another laugh, "Let 'em watch. Might teach 'em somethin'."

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graveyard based sentence starters.

“ um, no that’s fucking creepy.” ” i’m not going into a fucking graveyard at night, are you mental ?” “ i thought you said it was an unmarked grave ?” “ you shouldn’t enter a graveyard after midnight.” “ i think this one has been dug up fresh.” “ are we meant to be in here ?” “i’m pretty sure the sign that said “do not enter” was being serious. signs don’t tend to lie.” “ they died like hundreds of years ago but their grave should still be here.” “ there’s just so many of them.” “ shouldn’t there be a register or something ?” “ my grandpa is buried here.” “ i can’t believe they died so young.” ” you always hang around in graveyards ? ” “i’m not going back to that graveyard, not after last time.” “ they say she was buried alive.” “ you think anyone saw us ?” “ it’s not breaking and entering if no one sees us.” “ don’t be such a scaredy-cat.” “ no one is going to pop out of a grave.” “ we should stick to the path.” “ ghosts aren’t real and neither are zombies.” “ the chain was already off the gate, i’d say we’re fine.” “ this place gives me the creeps.” “ i can’t make out what it says.” “ did you hear something ?” “ you really come here every halloween ?” “ should that be open ?” “ that .. is a terrible name for a person.” “ oh look ! a raven. so spooky.” “ you got caught wandering around a graveyard at night ?” “ they said he crawled out of his own grave.” “ how does someone crawl out of their own grave ?” “ i have this recurring dream about waking up in my own grave, but i try not to read too much into it.”

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What body part are you? / Richard Price.

Hands. Hands can do so much, they’re extremely versatile much like yourself. They can nourish, they can pray, they can comfort. But we both know that’s not what you use yours for, is it? You know as well as I do how hands can maim, can strangle, can destroy. They are unthinking and unfeeling, and unlike the others they do not act off instinct, but off of command. Every act you commit is purposeful, filled with an intent, sometimes to be cruel and sometimes to be kind. You know who is deserving of your hurt, who is deserving of your love. Always make sure you can tell them apart before you wrap those hands around them.

tagged by: @godsknives (hi ilu) tagging: @hemoth, @gollldrush, @malumxsubest, @malka-lisitsa, @flappervcmp, @unapxlogeticme, @konkuurito + anyone who wants to do it! please say i tagged you so i can see! 💜

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Me when I see you on my dash again posting.

i don't know how to take compliments but just know i love u sm and this made me so incredibly happy!!

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Remy catches the lighter without looking, like it's second nature and the movement is muscle-deep. It hits his palm with a quiet smack, and he tips it to the end of the cigarette. He thumbs it to life and it lights on the first try, the flame illuminating his still-too-pale face in different shades of warmth before the dim light of the night swallows him again.

"Thanks," he mumbles, smoke curling faintly from his lips, and his eyes—red-rimmed and tired—flick to the stranger, a quiet kind of contemplation in his gaze. 'Something in the graveyard' can only mean one thing, but there's a part of him that doubts—because Thistle's way too calm for someone who's seen death. Or come face to face with undeath, classic Remy style. It could always mean something else. The horror he lives in might not be the same as anyone else's. If it was—there should be tears, right? Snot and sniveling and screaming? Something other than a self-soothing hug and a worry about what might be seen as a break-in.

"Don't worry about it," Remy drawls, voice still a little hoarse from disuse. His gaze lingers a touch too long, smirk widening, but never fully forming. "Place's full'a dead things. Most of 'em stay put."

He lets the words sit, landing light, like something that could be a joke, just how he likes it—but it's far more real for Remy than he lets on. There's no accusation or open question there, just a sharp flicker beneath the calm like a dog catching a familiar scent on a stranger's coat. He just can't bring himself to say it yet. Oh, you saw me dead as a doornail, huh? Yeah, six outta ten for that experience, 'cause I was numb the whole time. It happens.

So he doesn't. He just leans back into the pew he's claimed as a couch, letting his gaze slip past Thistle and to the nave, shadowed in darkness, moonlight bleeding in through the stained glass in broken patches of impossible color. He takes another slow drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke towards the vaulted ceiling. "Was God's house once," he says finally, absently, "Now she's mine. I take care of her how I can. Don't mind if she looks at ya too hard—she gets real curious, same as anybody."

His face falls into something along the lines of casual indifference, but there's a glint of pride in his eyes, because this—the church as a living, breathing thing—this he believes in. It isn't staged, or theater, or weirdness meant to cover up. It's not something half a joke, half not. The church breathes just like he does, and sometimes the porch light flickers like a heartbeat mirroring his own. "So, if ya came t'a tell somebody about the thing in the graveyard... consider 'em told. Unless ya wanna clue me in on what ya were really doin' out there."

Thistle felt he was a walking testament, waking proof, to the fact that people were absolutely bullshitting themselves and everyone around them when they said death didn't fuck them up. When they said they'd been desensitized to the gore, to the physical makings of a corpse, to the markers of decay of another living being. Thistle knew this because he'd seen a lot more than anyone ought to have at this point and he knew he'd seen worse-— he knew he'd done worse. And each and every time felt as shocking as the first, each corpse had him clawing at the walls of the pit of numbness his mind tried to drag himself down into to protect itself.

No, people couldn't get used to seeing the reality of death. People just got really good at lying to themselves was all and Thistle had never been very good at lying.

He'd been there for a tombstone back in the corner. Some pictures, some scribbled down information. For work, obviously. No judgement to the folks that liked to hang around these parts for the aesthetic of it all but Thistle Calhoun had a haunting to solve for some frantic zoomer kid that'd gotten the short end of the bloodline-inherited grudges stick.

The torn and crumpled sheet of paper still hung in his hand when he stumbled upon him.

Thistle hated most how in that startled and shocked moment, there was this buzzing static that seemed to drown out everything else, how his brain became so logical. It fed him potential expiration times, how long he may have been there. His eyes tracked to the needle resting near a slack hand and supplied a cause. It was all so quick and neutral and nauseatingly clinical and he hated that lull before the rest of him shook from its stupor, the human part of him.

❝ Fuck, man... ❞ quiet, whispered. It was mournful and full of pity, but there was a tinge of fatigue as well. Thistle wasn't the sort to just leave well enough be. Not something like this, not something small either. He felt compelled to shoulder whatever responsibility he came across, to fix whatever bullshit he ran into because... because...? Another can of worms to shove to the back of the cabinet for later, for never.

He tore his gaze from the corpse, tiredly looked for the church. He had to deal with this then, see if anyone was around he could talk to. Thistle didn't like interacting with the cops directly and, frankly speaking? It was best he didn't get involved to that degree. Better to inform whoever owned the property and make a quiet exit.

And so the Southerner had dragged his feet to the church, all the while juggling that delicate state of being aware enough to not shut down but not so much so that he lost his cool or spiraled. The building seemed lived in but not in the way that implied traditional ownership. It felt abandoned and then reclaimed. By the corpse outside? Maybe. Or maybe by someone who had already dipped-— Thistle should have already dipped. Idiot.

He spent a few minutes gently poking around here and there. When it became clear this was going to be more of an ordeal than he'd hoped it to be, he'd found somewhere to lean against while he tugged free his phone to message his colleague the information from the tombstone; it was best to get that ball rolling as soon as they could.

It couldn't have been more than half an hour he was there, less even, when he was startled from his phone by a voice. His gaze shot up and then... dulled with realization. Ah, so this was REALLY going to be more of an ordeal than expected.

❝ Guess not. ❞ he mirrored in a mumble and quietly pocketed his phone. Thistle did his best not to stare, but he couldn't help it. He'd seen enough to be able to accept things as they were, but he still liked to make sure just in case he was mistaken. But, nope. There sat the very same guy he'd just seen cold and stiff less than an hour prior out on the damp grounds. 

A ghost? Reanimated? Something else? How the fuck was he supposed to figure out what with any semblance of tact or grace? It wasn't something he could just lay out on the table plainly.

His thoughts were still stormy with the dilemma when his attention was caught again and he looked stupidly for Remy for a beat and then let his gaze drag for the table. He grabbed up the lighter and unceremoniously tossed it without much thought. ❝ This your place? Didn't mean to break in. Was tryin' to find out whoever owns the joint. There was uh... ❞ he inhaled and cleared his throat, crossed his arms over his chest and scrunched his shoulders, hugged himself just slightly. ❝ I just saw somethin' out by the graveyard and thought I should let someone know. But... I guess no one's really maintainin' it so... ❞

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Micah's grin sharpens at her question, his gaze flicking toward the guy she'd sent flying before returning with a look that says he's highly impressed by the whole ninja euphemism's lifespan—and entirely unshaken with what he knows is the truth.

"Shit, let's hope not," he drawls, voice low and a little amused, humor hiding in his tone. His eyes are bright, and his weight shifts like he's settling into the conversation, not backing out of it. "'Cause if it's a back-alley misunderstanding, it'd give all ninjas a bad name, and I like to think you got a better PR team than that, you know?"

"Willing sparring partner," he finally confirms. His head tilts, hair falling to the side, the bite marks on his neck catching the light a second time, as if emphasizing his point. "So, you decided whether or not you're breaking any more ribs tonight? Not that I'm rushin' you, I just like to be prepared if I'm gonna be breathin' through a straw."

So he does know. Interesting. This brought up more questions than it answered, but at the very least he managed to be fed off of without ending up a corpse. This means he knows older more controlled vampires.... and might be a willing feeder.

"I see. Willing sparring partner?" She tilted her head with a smirk.

The ninja euphemism was doing it's job to say the least.

"or just a back ally misunderstanding?"

Her interest in him was growing by the minute. What a strange man, curiosity has her wanting to hear more of his story. He reminds her of a rugged ally cat, surviving off killer instincts and fighting for everything he has. This fox would like to know just how true those vibes are.

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Random facts about Tobias Fletcher:

Toby's the chaotic brother. He's got a taste for it. He's reckless and occasionally careless—but he always knows what he's doing. Sometimes there's a thrill in acting like he doesn't, and he might use that if he thinks it'll benefit him. He mainly reserves it for Jeremiah, though—mostly to get out of trouble he caused. It rarely works, but he still tries every time.

He kills for sport just as easily as he does for legacy. His kills might have started in the Fletcher name, but there have been plenty since that haven't had a thing to do with Fletcher family tradition. He doesn't always need a reason—just a feeling and an opportunity. Sometimes he does it to quiet the insane thoughts in his head, sometimes it's to blow off steam, and sometimes it's just because he's bored.

If Jeremiah's a scalpel, Tobias is a bone saw. He's fast, messy, and he doesn't care so much about the precision of things—just the thrill and how good it makes him feel.

He really hates it when the roosters crow in the morning. He hears it, and the first thing he does is let out a string of curses. His sleep schedule is a little insane, so he's not always asleep at dawn, but if he is, he'll always try to slip back into it after being severely pissed off for a minute or two.

He's faster than Jeremiah, both in reflex and in decision-making, but it's often his downfall. He often acts and speaks without thinking things through, and Jeremiah's had to clean up his messes more than once. He can count on one hand how many times Jeremiah's had to kill to cover up a slip of Toby's tongue—or, once, a deliberate oversharing—but it's still happened on more than one occasion. He gets better at it as he ages.

He lies a lot, but it's not always malicious. Most of the time, it's for what Toby thinks is a good reason. He's used to spitting out half-truths here and there, just like his brother, mostly to cover his ass or keep up a certain image.

He's better at making friends than keeping them. His charm burns hot enough to let him connect fast, but his volatile nature burns even hotter. His temper (and split-second impulsivity) has ended a lot of relationships before they even got a chance to begin. He's also really possessive, and his protectiveness can border on... well, insanity.

He’s a dog person through and through, but he's an animal lover at heart. He grew up running with strays and street dogs and caring for the farm animals. He's been known to talk to the horses, and his pitbull, Diesel, goes almost everywhere with him. He's completely trained and well-behaved, taught by Jeremiah himself.

He'll swear up and down he's not a cat person, but he has a soft spot for the barn cats, and he and Delilah take turns caring for them. Sometimes he'll save a bit of his lunch meat so he can go out there and toss it to them when no one's looking.

He likes thunderstorms, but for a different reason than Jeremiah. He likes the chaos of it, the noise. The threat in it. Whenever it storms, Toby's been known to take his old Chevy out and punch it on backroads, driving way too fast for his own good. He's also a really good driver, though very much a daredevil.

He's a really sentimental person, even though he might not show it outwardly. It's more of a quiet thing, something he does in private. He keeps items he's given or things he thinks have meaning behind them. I talked about it a little here, but Toby has an old stuffed wolf he got when he was eleven. It's long past its time as far as stuffed animals go, but Toby insists on keeping it wrapped up safe on the top shelf in his closet.

He doesn't have anything that belonged to his dad, though. It was all burned after Jeremiah killed him—and it was Toby's idea. He might have kept something if Samuel hadn't almost beaten him to death the last time they were together.

This one is shared, but the brothers are both really good at whistling. Toby's is louder, though, so he's often the one who calls the dogs back in from the back pasture. He never shouts for them.

He has a knack for finding four-leaf clovers. Both Jeremiah and Delilah have one that he's given them, but he doesn't ever keep them for himself. At least not for longer than a day, since he's fond of tucking them inside his hat or pants pocket.

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whenever remy loses teeth (from fights or whatever else), sometimes they grow back in wrong and he has to pull them out again to give the curse another try. remy's weird so he keeps them all in a jar, and if loves you, there's a 99% chance he's gonna offer you one of his teeth as a gift.

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@devilscheck gets a lil remy.

It's late, and the graveyard is quiet in that way that feels thick, like he's been holding his breath too long and there's no relief in sight. The ground's still a little damp from the rain the day before, soaked through the fabric of Remy's jeans as he perches atop an old, tilting headstone. He comes out here sometimes to get high, when his thoughts are a little too loud, or when the silence seems to choke him from the inside. He's got his stash and supply bag next to him like something holy. Sometimes, he thinks of it like he's "meeting Death halfway," though he knows by now—it doesn't work that way.

Death doesn't want him.

Remy hears the dull, wet thud of footsteps long before he sees anything. Too deliberate to be the wind, and light enough not to be anything digging for meat and bone. He recognizes them easily, but he doesn't turn—just takes a drag of the cigarette that hangs from his lips, slow, like he's got all the time in the world. He tips his head back to blow smoke into the stifling air, toward the dark branches above them, and he watches as it ghosts through the spindly, dead limbs.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Remy finally says, voice low and quiet. It almost sounds humorous, like he's quietly laughing, but there's an invitation hiding in his tone as well. "Run outta livin' people to talk to?"

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Delilah looks entirely too happy to be here, sitting on the counter like this with him, eagerly forgetting the rest of the world exists. His hand on her jaw, that finger on her lip feels like the best kind of brand, like no one's ever touched her that way before. Maybe it's the duality of it—soft touches from hands she knows have seen blood. It appeals to her in a way she knows is wrong, but she can't bring herself to care when she's in the moment like this. Not when it feels so unapologetically good. Safe, in that dangerously terrifying way she's grown accustomed to. The kind that only comes from loving and being loved by people with violence in their veins and blood under their nails.

Peter mentions love, and Delilah's breath catches. For half a second, she can't breathe until she lets out an exhale that sounds a lot like a laugh. She doesn't find it funny, really—just beautiful, how he can say it like that and look at her like she means the world. Her eyes go wide in that quietly soft, spellbound way. Her fingers, already curled in his shirt, press a little tighter like she's trying to anchor herself to the moment. "Yeah?" Delilah breathes, a gentle smile curving her lips, head tilting to press into his touch. She's just as eager to believe it.

"Maybe... maybe I like the sound'a that. You mean it?" Her voice is low, tender in that way that's almost bashful. Careful not to disturb the gentle brush on her skin, Delilah's arms wrap gently around his neck. She presses her body ever closer with the gentlest tug, and tucks her bottom lip between her teeth. In a very small, very quiet voice, she asks, "How? How would ya handle them, Peter?"

without customers coming on by to distract him, annoy him, he has nothing to do really. customer service is a part of his job, but they can all go to hell. there are some things that he should stock up on, move from the boxes to the shelves, but delilah is much better than all of that. he doesn't want to leave her side now that he's finally taking a break. something that she convinced him to do no doubt. at least the cameras don't actually work, so the boss isn't going to give him any shit for this. as long as the work gets done eventually.

as she looks over at him, he moves his right hand up to her face. his thumb traces her bottom lip before his hand rests underneath her chin. lifting it up just enough that he can get a real good look at the heat pooling around her cheeks. the effect that he has on her is intoxicating. he wants more of it, to tease that out of her and always be the one causing those reactions. determination is clear in his expression, how his brows tighten together and his lips thin as they press against one another. he would kill for her if that's what she wants, if someone gets too close.

so he shakes his head at the mere thought of it being crazy. "i call it being protective. a real man. maybe even a little in love." he grins, features finally softening a bit as delilah lets him know that no one's touching her. "good. cause you're mine. if they give you any trouble, i'll handle ever single last one of them." left hand moves up, back of his fingers slowly brushing against her arm.

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Toby catches it immediately—the jolt of her eyes, the panic in her shoulders, the way she doesn't look anywhere but at him. His smile falters, just for a second, lips pursing and eyebrows furrowing like he's confused about why she might be afraid. Something quietly possessive glints in his eyes as he leans forward, boots pressed against the floor, elbows resting against his knees. His fingers flex like he wants to put his hands to use, but he isn't quite sure in what way yet.

"Hey, now," Toby murmurs, expression softening as he reaches out to brush wayward strands of hair from her face. His touch lingers just a moment too long on the side of her jaw, like feeling her is something precious. "Ain't gotta be afraid'a me, honey. Not ever." It's clear he means every word, but it's not necessarily truth in Toby's world. "Ain't nobody gonna hurt ya here. Not while I gotcha."

There's nothing but sincerity in the way he says it, softness in the only way he knows how. He doesn't realize his presence is just as suffocating as any other cage, even if he means well.

With a quiet sigh, Toby stands, boots scuffing against the floor as he turns to rummage in a cooler. It's mostly beer bottles left over from Jeremiah's after-work drinking—because Toby hadn't thought to stock it with anything else—but he gets lucky. A single water bottle. He turns back to her with a smile, something meant to be sweet, but it looks a lot like a dog baring its teeth. "Got lucky," he says, settling into a spot beside her like he hasn't just taken her against her will.

"It's somethin' we use for the horses, like a tranquilizer," he explains, Southern drawl a little too fast-paced. No one asked, but it seems important enough for him to bring up. Maybe, in his mind, it's to make her realize he doesn't mean harm—he didn't mean harm. Not really. "A real small dose, don' worry. You'll be okay. Makes ya thirsty as fuck, though." Really—he should know.

He settles Jonah with a soft stare, mouth still curved in that split smile of his, but it softens just enough. "Ain't gonna make ya drink from my hand, honey. You gonna be good if I cut those off y'er wrists, huh?" And like an afterthought, no doubt his brother's voice in his head, "There's mutts upstairs. Wouldn't want ya t'a get bit or nothin'."

Jonah shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A sigh escapes her as she rouses from sleep. She realizes there's something wrong before she manages to open her eyes. Feels the material digging into her wrists and her ankles. A flurry of panic erupts in her chest as her eyes open and meets Toby's expectant gaze. Her mind's still waking, trying to piece together what's happening as if there's a sensible explanation. But nothing clicks together. It isn't a dream she's stumbled into. She can't deny the reality forming in front of her.

Jonah searches his face, waiting for a gotcha moment. He's acting as if nothing's wrong. As if it's normal to tie up someone and bring them god knows where at the end of a date. All she can do is look at him; too afraid to glance down and see what she already knows is there. She can't find her voice when he begins talking. She's afraid to. Afraid that the moment her lips part, all she'll be able to do is scream.

This can't be happening.

It was supposed to just be a date.

She swallows hard. Toby's waiting for some kind of response. It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. She doesn't understand the expression on his face while trapped in this moment. Doesn't understand the way his voice has softened as if she holds all the power in this terrifying dynamic he's placed her in. She doesn't understand how she's managed to be caught up in the start of another nightmare.

"I-I..." Her voice cracks, nerves creeping up her throat. Breath hitching, she nods her head. She musters up enough to utter out an answer despite the shakiness of it. "Y-Yes, I'm, um, staying." Blood pounds in her ears and she suddenly feels like she's drowning. What was she supposed to do? What could she do? But Jonah's fear lies in the bigger question. What was Toby going to do? "T-Toby, what's going on?"

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❥     𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄   𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒   .

another meme inspired by devotedecay’s format !     tw  for  violence, blood, mature themes. send  in  one  of  these  for  my  muse’s  reaction  to  … (  add  ❝  reverse  ❞   if  you’d  like  to  see  how  my  muse  would  preform  the  action  !  )

[ deck ]   your muse decking mine in the face.

[ punch ]   your muse punching mine anywhere / or specify.

[ pin ]   your muse forcibly pinning my muse beneath them.

[ straddle ]   your muse forcing mine to the ground and straddling them.

[ scratch ]   your muse raking mine with their nails / claws.

[ bite ]   your muse biting mine.

[ turn ]   your muse rolling from beneath to atop my muse.

[ wall ]   your muse pinning mine against a wall.

[ snarl ]   your muse snarling / growling at mine.

[ curse ]   your muse cursing at / cursing mine out.

[ tug ]   your muse gripping mine’s hair.

[ kick ]   your muse kicking mine anywhere / or specify.

[ point + gun ]   your muse holding mine at gun point.

[ point + knife ]   your muse holding mine at knife point.

[ mock ]   your muse mocking mine.

[ sweep ]   your muse knocking mine off their feet.

[ grab ]   your muse grabbing mine forcibly.

[ shoot ]   your muse shooting my muse anywhere / or specify.

[ stab ]   your muse stabbing my muse anywhere / or specify.

[ break ]   your muse breaking any of mine’s bones / or specify.

[ strangle ]   your muse choking mine out.

[ shove ]   your muse shoving mine forcibly.

[ bruise ]   your muse making mine bruise.

[ under ]   your muse shoving mine underwater.

[ attempt ]   your muse attempting to kill mine.

[ bare ]   your muse baring their teeth at mine.

[ threaten ]   your muse threatening mine.

[ spit ]   your muse making mine spit blood.

[ bleed ]   your muse making mine bleed.

[ burn ]   your muse burning mine.

[ corner ]   your muse cornering mine.

[ throat ]   your muse wrapping a hand around mine’s throat.

[ challenge ]   your muse challenging mine.

[ cut ]   your muse cutting mine.

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drop this sunflower🌻 into the inboxes of the blogs that make you happy ! lets spread a little sunshine☀️

🥺🥺 this was the absolute sweetest thing to wake up to this morning!! right back at you x10, you're one of my favorite writers and a joy to have on my dash!! 💜

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“Stop fussing over me! I’m not a baby!” (for anyone u want FROM @BETR4Y)

hurt/comfort starters. always accepting! — @2nake

Delilah's chin dips, gaze sharp as she stares daggers at him through her lashes—it's meant to be intimidating, but it doesn't come off like that, even though she tries. Her hands hesitate for a fraction of a second before she continues her fussing—tugging the hem of his sleeve up, trying to assess any damage. She'd told Jeremiah the doorframe to Toby's room needed work—she guesses a nail's what got him. "Ya say that like it's s'posed t'a scare me off," she murmurs, low and sweet like she can gain back points with sincerity, if he doesn't like to be worried over. "You're not any scarier than my brothers."

"Besides," she says, hands finally dropping to her sides as she levels him with a pointed stare and the kind of gentle smile she gives out too freely, "Toby's not here t'a tell me t'a leave ya be, so I guess ya gotta let me make sure ya ain't bleedin' out under all that macho attitude."

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@popularmxnster. continued from here.

Remy's head tilts back on a laugh, unruly curls falling into his eyes before he carelessly shakes them away. There's a crooked smirk at his lips like they're sharing in some inside joke—because that's exactly where Remy had been going with it—and there's a glint in his eyes that screams he's about to be a problem.

"Right." Remy doesn't bother taking the normal route around to join him. Instead, he swings his leg up over the back of the couch, boots hitting the cushions with a dull thud before he unceremoniously plops down beside Billy. He sighs like he's done a workout, but that half-smirk is still plastered on his face. "Hate to break it to ya, but I'm real good at multitaskin'."

He reaches forward to swipe Billy's beer from his hand, tilting it back so he can take a swig, and then places it on the couch cushion between them, ringed fingers holding it steady. His gaze flicks to the TV, then back to Billy, one eyebrow raised. "It's half-assed religious horror," he starts, like he's wasting his breath talking about it. "It's a bunch'a PG-13 bullshit full of jumpscares instead of anythin' with meat. C'mon, ya can't possibly think that it's good. Y'er watchin' it knowin' it's shit, right?"