magicwithered

[magicwithered]

getting mad enough at video games that i have to stop playing and make a chart

[magicwithered]

Pairing(s): Stack/Reader/Mary, Mary/Stack, Mary/Reader, Stack/Reader

Summary: “Be careful, ya hear?” Your great grandma used to tell you, wacking you with the towel as she listened to you strum the small fiddle she’d gifted you when you were but 7, “ya got a gift. Make da ancestors sing, make da devil come knockin.”

Release Date: TBD

Teaser WC: 162

You liked to rest your cheek against your great grandmother's thigh as she gently twisted her fingers through your hair. Rough hands, gnarled and calloused from the years picking cotton and hitting the tambourines in church, she’d press her fingers gently into your scalp and tell you a fantastical story. Soft and somber as your mother worked away at the stove, your grandmother fussing over something or another about the way she was cooking. Your great grandmother would paint the world in reds and blues, yellows and browns. Tales of crooked cops, mean old white men and two boys too bad for their good.

“Heard about em long ‘fore I met em,” she would say, “my momma made em sound like the boogeyman, sure did. Saw em one afternoon, mindin’ my bi’ness when he as’ed me to watch his car.”

You peer up at her, eyes wide as your mother and grandmother get into a tussle about salt in the background.

[magicwithered]

Pairing: Remmick/Reader

Summary: He’s no wolf, and you are no Little Red Riding Hood.

WC: 8.6k | ao3

There’s a white man walking behind you. He’s always there in the dark when you make your way back from Annie’s house, but you often choose not to say anything. The ancestors crowd your mind with their fussing and grumbling as you follow the dirt path back to your cottage. The catfish she packed you rustling in the warm Mississippi night. You see him from the corner of your eye and an auntie snaps in your head to look straight ahead. 

Keep your eye on the path, babeh. Don’t go lookin’ at that devil, she grumbles and your head aches with the warning. You wonder if Annie has to deal with this shit. You wonder how her connection manifests, because hearing them voices, often layered on top of each other, is not fun.

Still, you listen to them because they have always protected you. Even back when you had to run from them white men burning down your house. Even when you had to listen to the wail of your mother as the Klan burned their cross into your lawn. Way back when your daddy belted you so good you couldn’t walk for days and he got so sick he couldn’t go out and pick cotton for his work. They been keeping you safe, and they will continue to keep you safe until your last breath, whenever that was.

But that man, you can’t help but think about. Something about him tugging your awareness like a string you can’t snap. The leaves rustle for a moment and then–

Step, step, step.

Footsteps following yours, echoing exactly on time with the press of your feet in the dirt road. He’s not a second late, not delayed, matched so that it sounds like one. 

Don’t turn around.

“Excuse me, miss,” he calls behind you and you don’t quicken your pace but you don’t turn. Somebody somewhere, crowded in there, tells you to keep walking. You do.

“‘Scuse me,” he says again and you take a sharp breath in, blinking at the dark path before you. Some time to go before you get to your cottage. “I just need a place to stay.”

Something chills in your bones, makes you feel like rot is unfurling under your skin. Death.

If you keep ignoring that white man he gon’ kill ya, girl.

Shut the hell up, Jimmy. If she talk to da man she gon’ die, too.

I done tol’ you about speakin’ to me that way woman!

Your eyes roll to the sky, as each voice stacks itself on top of the other. Pounding in the right side of your temple causes you to squint as the man steps closer. Silence. 

Complete and utter silence. You’ve never felt such bliss before and you turn before you can stop yourself. 

“Lis’en,” you clear your throat looking at the man. Pale skin, pale eyes and tall. Taller than you, definitely not taller than Cornbread, but tall enough. Decay. Flies feasting on a corpse, maggots twisting under flesh, fire and screams. Laughter, but none of which is in pure joy. No, that ain’t right. It is in joy. Joy of the carnage, joy of the pain, but not the pure lighthearted joy of having fun. Joy of chaos. 

There’s a trail of blood against wooden floors, women kicking and screaming, men laughing as something screams itself hoarse trying to fight. You blink, stumbling back as the man catches you between two strong arms. The sweat sliding down your smooth skin is not from the heat this time, it’s from the vision. 

“There’s an Inn down the road wit’ folks that look jus’ like you.” The man looks at you, eyebrow cocked up as you continue to talk whilst orienting yourself. “Reckon they’ll let you in jus’ fine.” A pause. “Sir.”

He chuckles, resisting for a moment as you try to pull away. Biceps bulge for a moment, locking you in the cage of his body. 

“Don’t need to call me, sir, miss. Names Remmick.” 

The world around you is dancing, spiraling, twisting, screaming—

God, all those screams, pistols and children crying. The grunts of depraved men over sobbing and despondent women and children, men and boys fallen to the ground, blank eyes staring at the sky. Villages burning, pillaging—

You leave my granddaughter alone, devil.

The breath slams out of you, back hitting the dirt as the man stumbles away from you. You roll to a stop, elbow slamming into the ground with a soft thump and you look at the man for one, two, three seconds before, fast as you could, stagger to your feet and run. 

You should never turn your back on danger, especially when that danger is a white man, it’s something you know well. But it can’t be helped, you can’t run to your cottage backwards, and you need to be in the sanctity of your home. If he’s followed you, you wouldn’t know, tumbling into the door, slamming into the wood as your feet pass the threshold and your heart hammers in your chest. 

The sun feels like a warm balm to a freezing winter. Shoulders tucked into your chin, you hip check the door of Annie’s house, tipping your head to the grave marker in a polite hello as the woman hisses something in annoyance. 

“Stop bangin on my door,” she grumbles, cuffing the back of your head in affection and you duck, swiping the cornbread she was plating, off the hot rack and shoving it into your mouth. Grin infectious, your laugh fills the air as she fusses over you as if she can’t stand you despite the gentle hand she places just atop your head.  

“Gotta let you know I’m here, Auntie.”

Quit irritating that lady.

Annie catches the slight twitch of your eyebrow and hums, waving the voices off with ease. Your shoulders lose their tension, and she places offerings on the alter and you sit. For the longest time she was the only one who had the power to slice through the throbbing in your brain and quiet the ancestors. 

“Eat up.” A pause as brown eyes narrow looking at you. “You gon’ need it.”

“I ate,” you say with a smile, grabbing a piece of bacon and Annie tips her head to the side just as a group of children giggle their way into her house. “You got e’rythin? I gotta stop at Bo’s anyways.”

She nods as the kids give her their play money. It’s cute, a childs’ doodle on a fake bill. You crouch for a second as Suzy looks up at you, gently thumbing the spot between her shoulders. The skin there is hot, a blazing fire from an unneeded palm strike, bruised under cotton and dark skin and you scowl. Her smile is bright despite the bruise, the pain she seems to endure with childlike wonder and you hum softly under your breath, catching Annie’s gaze with severity. 

“Hey, lil Suzy,” you mumble, reaching up to grab the salve and rub it into her pained skin. She makes a soft sound of discomfort before relaxing in the gentleness of your hands. 

Oughta kill her damn daddy. Put his body same place ‘Lijah put his.

You sigh, looking up at the roof. Uncle Jimmy.

Knock that fool down that dirt road. 

Uncle Jimmy, you think again and the old man’s grumbles die down. There’s a bloom of appreciation as you take care of his granddaughter, soothing her aches and pains. “You still the best at Hide n’ Seek?”

Suzy gasps at the audacity of the question, pointing at her chest in pride. “‘Course I am! Daddy couldn’t find me ‘til mama called fa me two days later.”

You nod, smoothing the hairs in her face down and kiss her forehead. “Make it three an’ ‘ll get you one of ‘em candies from Bo’s.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Annie’s soft gaze burns between your back and you stand up, lightly pushing Suzy out the door with you. 

“‘Fore you go,” Annie calls out, and you turn, “‘rythin alright?” She gestures to the space around your head and for a second you’re reminded of the white man, Remmick, whose proximity silenced the connection for a moment as the folks up there quiet down. 

“They jus’ loud today,” you say after a moment of silence. It doesn’t soothe whatever she’s reading in you, but she nods letting you leave for the errands that help her get by being so far from the town. “‘Ll be back.”

This is the part you hate the most, the walking. You can’t buy a car, and you would rather rip your own tongue out than ask any of them boys near the church to help. It would help, of course, but it would cause a fuss. Rumours get around this town fast, and you would rather not have anyone thinking they’re a prospect for marriage when you’re not ready. Not that it stops the folks around here, gossipping about how you’re getting too old to still be single, and you know your days are numbered until someone stumbles on your cottage and makes it a problem.

The problem was that you shouldn’t have anything to your name unmarried, but you make due. You make it work, and the women who do know about it keep it mum. They keep your land and cottage a secret and you help them out. It was mutually beneficial until you marry (whenever that was). 

But the walk to the town is always the hardest, especially under the hot sun. The sweltering heat causing your clothes to cling to you until you finally get to some shade. You do your best to avoid any place that any white folks frequent, taking the path least worn until you hear the sound of your name being called by one of the church girls. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Cassandra says, linking your arms together, “I aint seen you since I last seen you.” Discreetly you pass her the vile sitting in her your basket, lips twisted in amusement as she slips it in her glove. “What you doin’ in town today?”

“Goin to Bo’s,” you say slyly, eyebrows raised as the woman next to you wiggles her eyebrows, giving you the coin that was promised. 

“Now you know that Grace is a jealous lady,” she giggles as your hand snaps out, skin meeting skin in the humid air. 

“You keep joking like that and ion think Grace gon’ let you in Bo’s no more.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes, stepping in front of you to twist and twirl for a moment. Her dark skin catches the sharp glint of the mid-morning sun, glistening with a hint of sweat. She was a beautiful girl, and she knew it. Knew it so well she was keeping her husband from getting a child. That, and the fact that she was having an affair with his best friend(s) behind his back. Not that you cared, judgment was what the ancestors did. It was all they did in the afterlife, they were probably bored out their mind dead now. 

“Hush now. Even Grace can’t resist this.” Her hand slaps against her waist and you laugh, jogging to catch up to her. Shoulders bump into each other and she coyly waves at one of the many men eyeing her from their spot and they stumble over themselves to wave back. 

Something nudges your brain and you can feel–

Please don’t start, you think just as her grandmother goes to say something. You can feel the spirit still gearing up to say something before waving her hand and settling down. Thank you, Grandma. 

Don’t thank me when she die, she says, Girl ain’t got a lick o’ sense.

The bell chimes as you walk into Bo’s, Cassandra leaning enticingly against the counter as Grace’s eyes glance down to look at your friend. 

“Whatchu doin’ here, ‘Sandra.”

“Oh Grace, don’t start,” Cassandra says, waving the woman off. You’d think the two hated each other if not for the way they both lean in whenever the other was in proximity. The three of them had something odd going on, but you weren’t gonna pry, lest you be traumatized. 

“Bo!”

“I’ll be damned,” the asian man says, walking from the back of the store. He swings the long way, pressing a kiss to his wifes’ forehead, a hand brushing against Cassandra’s hand before enveloping you in a hot hug. Someone murmurs something you can’t translate in your head and you ignore it. “Ain’t seen you in a while, Hummingbird.”

“Too damn hot for all this huggin’” you say, despite not pulling away. 

“Then come by more.”

You wave him off, procuring something for Grace to give to Lisa, and then, with a huff, you lean in. “Just outta curiosity–” your fingers press against the tab of flour and yeast– “any weird white men come by las’ night?”

“Honey, weird white men come by all the time,” Grace says, rolling her eyes. But you know she’s not talking about your weird white man. If she was, she wouldn’t be so blase about it. He was unnerving, something that sent your hair straight. Grace looks across the street and tucks the gift for Lisa in her apron. “I gotta head back.” She looks at you for a moment, taking in your stance and nods to herself. “I’ll keep an eye out for any weird white men, kay?”

“Thank you.”

Cassandra can’t follow Grace to the other store, even if it’s obvious she wants to. The two share a look before your friend sighs loudly, grabbing the flour you’d been eyeing and placing it on the counter. 

“Need anythan else, Humminbird?” She knows what you pick up better than anyone else, she so often accompanies you to the shop when you make your way to the town. 

“Seeds,” you say absentminded, staring out the back window for a moment. Something felt off, like you were being watched, and you catch the sound of a spirit, something angry and vitriolic. Something spitting mad at the presence of so many colored folks walking about, and you duck between stocks, grabbing Cassandra’s arm. 

“What the he–”

Bo sees what you see a few seconds later, watching a few of the other black people in the crowd slowly start to congregate to the other side of the walkway, far from the man seemingly uninterested in the chaos he was causing by his presence alone. It didn’t matter how much the white folks liked to pretend, you knew a klan member from looks alone. So, it was obvious, did the rest of the folks as Hogwood rolls into town. He likes to pretend he’s some benevolent guy. Easy going and happy to be there. But his hatred for your people was told by the twitch in his eye and the pull of his lips. 

Too many men and women had been lost to Hogwood to risk getting on his bad side. On the drop of a dime he might accuse someone of something, the poor men getting dragged into the sheriff's office only to be forced out in the blazing sun and work for whoever used to own them or their parents. 

Not everyone made it back when their time was up. 

When it’s safe enough Bo waves your coin off. 

“Pay me back by comin’ over more often!” 

You’d cuss him clean out if you weren’t so fond of the family, shaking your head and slapping 50 cents on his counter and running out the door. 

“I’ll visit more when I got more time!” You yell over your shoulder, eyeing the afternoon sun. The walk here took much of your time, and the walk back will call the sun to drift lower and lower to the horizon as you make your way back to Annie’s. 

It’ll be dark when you make your trek back to your small cottage, and you know what that will cause you. 

There’s a white man following you. Again. The moons waning light just barely lights the way, and you look up at the sky, starlight illuminating just enough that you do not have to worry about where you step. It doesn’t matter how many times Annie tells you to stay, how dangerous the dark can get, you simply must sleep in your own bed. His foot falls a half second after yours, and you know he’s doing so to alert you of his presence. He could walk quicker, but he won’t. You’re not sure if he’s doing this because he wants to scare you, but you know he’s aware you know his presence. 

“Ma’am?”

“Please don’t start with me today, sir,” you say with a sigh. Your footsteps don’t falter, even as his breath suddenly hits the back of your neck. 

“I told you,” he says, with a southern accent just south of normal, “call me Remmick.”

“Sir,” you say again, firmly, stopping suddenly and turning, “what do you want?” What do you want from me?

Remmick smiles, charming, off–

Death.

— “Just looking for a place to stay.”

“Still?” You gesture, taking a big step back. “I tol’ you. There’s a Inn down the way, wit’ folks jus’ like you.”

He blinks once, twice, three times before laughing. “I don’t want folks who look like me.” I want you.

“Can’t help you with that.” A pause. “Bes’ get on your way.”

“Well at least let me walk you home.”

Deep breath, smooth and annoyed, turning your back to him. Dangerous, but protected. He cannot do anything to you. He walks so close you can feel his breath, the brush of his chest against your back. “I been seein you around. Live alone?”

You don’t answer him.

“Not safe for you out here by yourself, you know that right?”

You open your mouth before snapping it shut.

He huffs a laugh, amused at your silence. The ancestors are forced quiet for once, again in his presence, disconnecting you from them with his presence. Remmick mumbles something under his breath before gently grabbing your wrist. “Stubborn,” he says, turning you around to look up at him. He’s handsome enough, you can admit that. Not necessarily your cup of tea, but his danger is not yours, not for you to fear. His danger is something other, primordial for something, someone else. 

Your jaw works for a moment before: “What do you want, Remmick?”

He smiles. His teeth are long, you blink, short. You blink again. Blood on his mouth. Blink. Gone. “A place to stay,” he says and you shake your head. 

“I can’t help you there.” Silence. “Why are you following me?”

He tilts his head left, then right, bones cracking as he thinks. “You don’t want to help me? I thought your people were the helpful sort.”

A snort leaves you, and you shake your head. “Not to your kind.” You shake your head, clutching your basket tighter. “Not to a haint like you. No.”

He nods slowly, still smiling before shrugging. “Worth a try.”

Your steps echo as the two of you approach your house from the trees, pushing past the foliage that hides it away from view. “How many have you tricked?” You nod towards him, eyebrow raised. “Me or mine wouldn’t help you.”

Remmick stands at eye level with you now that you are on your porch and he chuckles softly. “Enough.” Blue eyes look past you to the door that keeps your home safe and then back at you. “You gonna let me in?”

“You gonna go up the way?” No. But he knew that already. “Why are you following me, white man?”

“I can’t follow a pretty girl now?” He looks aghast, shocked in a way you can tell is comical. He’s charming when he wants to be, but you see right through him. Maybe that’s why you’re even entertaining this conversation. He doesn’t let you say anything, instead he takes a step on the lowest stair so he’s back to being taller than you. Blue eyes look up at the ceiling of your porch, painted a soft blue and he takes another step, forcing you back until your back is to the door and he is under the soft protective blue of your ceiling. “Haven’t been drawn to something like this before.” 

His head dips to the side, breath skimming the skin of your neck as he inhales. “I can smell the power on you.” Hands grip the fabric of his shirt, pushing him away suddenly and you stumble back, opening your door and falling in. The wooden floor hurts you when you hit it, but you slam the door shut, chest heaving, head resting against the door as you try to breathe through the sudden fear. The door jostles as Remmick, too, sits against it. “I’ll be out here,” he calls through the door, “until you let me in.”

Do not let that devil in, your grandmother says in your head, a crack of pain splitting down your temple just as Remmick says, “All that power in such a fragile body. Let me help you.”

When you next see Annie she’s frowning at you, and you look around to see what seemed to be pissing her off. “Annie?”

She makes a sound under her breath, walking over to you. Her hands press against your shoulders gently and you withhold a flinch before she remembers and slides them down to hold your bicep. “Somethin’s off witchu.” She squints, waving a hand in the air around your head. “Com’ere.”

“Annie,” you sigh and she raises an eyebrow that makes you chuckle awkwardly, “Okay.”

“Jus’ wanna check on you, babeh,” she says, pulling some fabric out and pushing you to the seat with her spices. “Gonna make you a mojo bag.”

“Annie, I don’t need a mojo ba–” A rough palm covers your mouth, something sweet on her face as she continues to grab the rest of the ingredients she needed. 

“Hush, Hummin’bird.”

She makes you a mojo bag, and you know that you will wear it everyday until the day you die.

Remmick walks you home at night, sits on your porch, rocking in your rocking chair from then on. He’s annoying, but it feels good to have a break. Annie has to wave the elders away, she has to coax them away with sheer stubbornness and determination. But Remmick doesn’t have to. His proximity is enough to muffle the connection, and selfish as it is, you relish in it. You find comfort in the silence after being battered with it all. 

It would be smarter to sit behind the threshold of your doorway, and sometimes when Remmick is eyeing your neck a little too long, and a little too hungry, you do. But most of the time, you sit right next to him, listening to the crickets rub their wings together and the ebb and flow of the fireflies illuminating the night sky. It’s something you enjoy, even when you can feel your grandmother's sharp disappointment when he leaves before dawn and you hate that you can’t help it. Remmick is charming, even if his charm is carefully crafted. 

“Stop starin’,” you mutter, swatting at the man as he grins. 

“Can’t help it,” he says, wiping the drool off his chin when you roll your eyes. “You are delectable, you know that?” A snap hits the air as he cracks his neck. “Pretty thing.”

Full lips curl into a grimace and you shake your head. “Don’t call me that, Remmick. I ain’t food.”

He nods to himself before shrugging. “No.” A pause and he leans in and takes a deep breath. If it was any other man, you would have hit him in the face. You would have flinched away and threatened him with the switch Annie had given you when you were 14 and had cried in her arms about a mean old man who tried to touch you weirdly. But he’s not any man, he’s Remmick. That shouldn’t mean much but it means a lot to you. It means a lot of silence when he’s around. It’s something pulling you to him despite all the common sense in your body telling you not to. “No you’re not food. You’re somethin special.”

“Is that what you say to all your victims? They special?”

“Don’t much talk to my victims,” he says easily, “but.” Another inhale as he seems to vibrate around you, a maw of a predator watching and waiting for the right time to pounce.

“So you want me to believe you don’t want to hurt me?” You turn to look up at him, resting your shoulder on the wood of your house, and Remmick makes no move to shift backwards. Instead, his chest brushes against your shoulder with each breath he takes. He lets out a huff of breath, something akin to a laugh and shakes his head, resting his hand on the jut of your hip. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you, pretty bird.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You want to kill me, my apologies.”

His lip curls in a snarl, nostrils flaring as he takes a step back. “No, I don’t want to kill you either.” Blue eyes trail down the length of your body as he thinks. “What I want will hurt, I will not lie. But my intention is not to hurt you.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I apologize. You don’ wanna hurt me, but you will.” Your eyes roll and you cross your arms. “Bullshit, Remmick.”

“You and I both know if it were not for this damn—” his fingers sizzle as he reaches for the mojo bag— “I would have already done what needs to be done. But that does not mean I want to hurt you. I would kill anyone who wants to hurt you.”

“Remmick–”

“Anyone,” he repeats sternly, gripping your wrists and bringing it close to his mouth. Lips press against your pulse, tongue sweeping out to lick the skin there. You pull your hand away, partially scandalized, heat rushing through your body as you do so. “When you’re ready, when you’re tired of all that power in your delicate body.” He does not finish his sentence, instead running his tongue along the points of his teeth as he stops hiding behind the facade of being human. 

You should take a step away but you don’t. You can’t find it in you to feel the fear you did when you’d first acknowledged him. Beyond that you can feel the fissures of disconnection thread themselves close, bonds frayed suddenly healing in your skin, between teeth and tongue, you can suddenly feel them once more, fighting to get to you despite Remmick’s presence. 

“You and I both know that ain’t the reason you can’t bite me,” you whisper into the night air. 

There’s a white man following you. But it’s not your white man. It’s too early for him to be walking about, and even if it wasn’t you can hear the slow growl of those who have hated you and yours. Complaints despite the man ignoring them. The man watches you from his vehicle, slowing it down as you make the pivot to walk to Annie’s instead of your home. 

Men like him, like that, are much more dangerous than most people give them credit for. They hate you, but they want you viscerally. They can’t stand the way their dicks harden as you walk past, can’t handle the sudden pressure in their chest and they make it your problem. Sometimes they make it your problem by antagonizing you. Sometimes…well, it’s a story you’re more than aware of. Pretty little mulatos born of a violence their mothers cannot say. Pretty children with eyes bright, and skin brighter from a man who does not take no for an answer. Does not think of those of you can tell them no. 

He follows you until you’re far enough from him and his to say something. 

“I can give you a ride, miss,” he calls out. Maybe the tone works on other women. Women who have skin paper white like him, loose hair and bright eyes. But even if you were one of them, you’re you. Who you are so intuned with the world around you can read behind the tone. Lust and entitlement coats his tongue. He will take it with or without your approval. “Getting late out.”

You hum a small thing, hiking the bag up as you glance at him. You keep him within your line of sight, not allowing a moment of unawareness. “Thank you, sir.” A smile, quick and fleeting. “But I’m all good. My momma not too far outchere.”

He parks the car in the middle of the path and hops out, feet pattering up to you with a slimy smile. “Well at least let me walk you home,” he says and you shake your head. 

“Thank you kindly, sir,” you say firmly, “but ‘s no need.”

His easy-going expression changes suddenly and he grabs your forearm, roughly pulling you towards him. 

“Now listen here, ni—“

You push him away, eyebrows raising up in surprise as he makes a soft sound when your palms hit his chest. He laughs, something low and mean, hand raising and slapping you just as quickly. It winds you, the flesh of your cheek stinging as you grip it. It’s not shock. It’s not not shock. Taken you off guard for sure, but not unexpected. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he deftly tugs the string of his pants to pull himself out. If you don’t move now you’ll be forced to live with something irreversible. The switch Annie had given you way back when is in your hand, your body on autopilot just as—

Kill him before he kills you, someone says it. Someone who doesn’t speak often, but one you know chose violence over chains every time. And make it hurt, hummingbird. 

You do, the knife stabbing into his shoulder as you rush him. He screams in pain and you bring your thumbs up, fingers digging into the hollows of his cheeks as words, those unknown to you, come spilling out of your mouth. It’s clarifying, suddenly, the path that you see before you. Webbing out in whites and blues as the spirits of his spiteful ancestors try to fight against it. 

A curse so violent, that it turns their souls to ash as it digs its way into his pores, his bones, his bloodline. It’s painful for him, though he probably thinks it’s from the knife wound, as it burns its way across lineages, latches on to cousins, uncles, unborn nieces and nephews. It connects to the wife he’s left at home and the family she has all the way in Alabama. It makes itself a home in their bloodstream, in the curl of their mouths, the flick of their wrists. A curse with no cure until the ancestors decide that enough is enough. 

Or you heal them. 

You know you never will. 

He screams and screams as you scramble off him, pulling the knife out of his shoulder with you. You want to run but instead, you grab the keys out of his car, tossing them in the dark foliage of the forest surrounding you. 

“Bitch! Bitch, I’ll fucking kill you!” He swears, snot and drool running down his face as he sobs in pain. You say nothing, taking off into the depth of the forest, making your way back to your house. 

You should go to Annie. You know this, but you don’t. The sun is almost fully set, and Remmick will look for you if you're not home. You two have a pattern, one neither of you are willing to break. And you hate to say it, because Annie is the only safety you’ve ever known, but you need to see him. 

You need it. 

You don’t need that white devil, your grandmother says and you stumble into your house with a sob. Go to Annie’s. Go to Annie’s and be with your—

“Will you fuckin stop?” You cry, clutching your hair, frizzy and falling out of its style from the heat of the day. “I know, okay? I know. But I.” You clutch your hand close to your chest as if it could stop the panic. “I can’t. I can’t, I c—“

You hear your name from the door. You forgot to close it when you made it through and Remmick stands there all happy like until he sees the swell of your cheek. He forgets himself, trying to walk over the threshold, hitting an invisible barrier that keeps him from doing so. 

There is no fanfare, no asking. He looks at you and any trace of humanity, the one he so often likes to pretend he has if not to keep from scaring you, leaves him completely. 

“Let me in.”

You shake your head, taking a step back as your chest shakes from the force of your tears and fear. “I-I can’t, Remmick. You know that.”

He rests his forehead against the barrier keeping him out, staring at you. Something grim and violent under all of it. It reminds you of some weeks ago, back when he’d asked you for an invite with all the joy of a man who knew he would have to work for it. 

“You gon’ let me in?”

You shake your head with a laugh. He shouldn’t be entertaining, truly. He’s all charm and wit, and you shouldn’t be fond of him. This white haint who can’t seem to take no for an answer, but also walks you home every night. Who walks around the perimeter of your house just before dawn and seems to clear any evidence of a path to your front door. 

“You gon’ stop tryna turn me?”

He looks at you with fake surprise, but you both know the answer is no. You don’t fault him. Remmick is, despite the role he’s taken up, is exactly who you understand him to be. He can trick many, but you’ve never been any of the others, simply by way of your connection to the other side. Simply by way of what you were raised in. 

You rub the palm of your hands against the cotton of your skirt as you stand up, eyeing the night sky. It was getting late and you had a busy day tomorrow. You’d promised Annie to help her with the farm animals. You thank the gods every day you didn’t have to think about being a sharecropper, you’re not sure you’d survive it. Not really. Not with all that you already have to contend with, a connection to the other side that disables you on some days. 

“Tell ya what, Remmick,” you say, stepping away from him, “you stop speakin in that fake accent an’ ‘ll give you the invitation.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes as he stares at you. Whatever emotion that sits on his face is a new one you’ve encountered and you pocket the thought for another day as he smiles, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, so unlike the others he gives you. “Don’ know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”

You nod and step past the threshold. “Then there is no invite.” The door closes decisively as you lay on your cot for the night. 

“Let me in.” He’s looking at you, red eyes wide and pleading. “Let me in, Pretty Bird.” 

It’s not what he says that makes you cave. It’s the way he says it. Gone is the southern accent he’s put on since he first started talking to you all those months ago. It changes, rolls his r, dances over the letters in a way you’ve never encountered before. It’s something new. Something real. And you made a promise. 

Eyes lock as you take in a sharp breath, blinking once in apprehension before you say it. “Come in, Remmick.”

He raises across the entryway, the thick of his hand wrapping delicately around your waist as the other grabs hold of your chin. He tips your head this way and that, silence settling in the air around you. A piece of you knows it was always going to be like this. He was always going to make his way into your sanctuary. The moment you started thinking of home as him. The moment you started associating your house with him, you knew it was a matter of time. But you’re happy it’s this. Not the circumstances, his thumb brushing against the heated flesh of your cheek as the look on his face gets more and more angry. As his anger turns to hunger, to rage, to something all consuming you know he will do what needs to be done. No, your happiness has no rhyme and reason, it’s just the slump of your shoulders as he takes on your weight. The knowledge that he is…sturdy. 

His teeth elongate and he buries fingers into the thick of your curls, pressing your foreheads together. “You’re okay?”

You make a sound, the answer eluding you as well. “‘Ll be okay,” you correct softly and he nods. 

“And this?” Remmick touches your fingers, the blood on your dress and you shake your head. 

“His.” 

He lets out a sigh of relief, lifting you up and placing you on your cot. He presses a kiss to the curve of your wrist, then your shoulder, then, delicately, brushes his lips across your swollen cheek before standing up. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs, looking at you. He takes a couple of steps before you reach out and grab his hand. 

“Remmick, I cursed him,” you say, “‘s fine.” You did more than just curse him, but the words are…jumbled. Confusing as you let the truth of it sink into your body. You didn’t just curse him, you cursed everything connected to him. Everything that shares the same blood that runs through his veins and then some. 

It looks like it’s enough to stop him, he hesitates, fighting between wanting to stay and leaving. But it’s not enough. Remmick’s entire being was created by a deep violence that you have no knowledge of. One that he is sure you can comprehend and empathize with. One he does not want to sully the safety of your home, the privilege you have given him to walk through those doors. 

Besides, he made a promise after all. 

—

He comes back with blood covering the front of his shirt. He does not ask for you to wake, though you do the moment your dream suddenly cuts off. You wake suddenly, with a gasp as Remmick sits against the far wall watching you. He shushes you, walking towards you within silence. 

“Remmick.”

“Hush, pretty bird,” he mumbles, sinking his clean hand into the plush of your skin. “I’m here.” He hums a soft tune, something soothing and gentle. 

“You’re covered in blood,” you grumble, body slumping down, “clean yourself.”

He laughs, gently massaging your muscles. “They put up a fight.”

“They?” You blink at him, bleary eyed and confused and Remmick pushes you down to lay on the bed. 

“Go to sleep, pretty bird.”

“‘F I sleep, you’ll be gone.”

It’s quiet for a second as he looks at the way your cottage is built. Windows that will shine light all the way to the far side, except for the corner he had found himself sitting in watching you sleep. “Nawl, pretty bird,” he says softly, the fake southern drawl back in his words, “‘ll stay the night. Shower and stay the night.”

He makes good on that promise. 

Some nights he stays and presses you against the wall, pressing lips and teeth against your throat. Only when his intention changes does the mojo bag keep him from going any further. Every time his teeth elongate and push to press into the skin of your neck, he hisses with an annoyance. 

He takes it out on the skin of your thighs, pressing tongue and teeth into the plushness of your skin. He sucks hickeys into them, covered by your clothes during the day. There’s a thrill in your blood when you remember it, when you brush your thighs together as wives and night women alike find you for help. A piece of you thinks it’s crazy that you’ve let a white man, a haint, no less, cause your blood to rush the way it does in your veins. When Annie sees you she squints, trying to figure out what changed in the months since she’d given you the mojo bag. 

Your ancestors are angry. 

Angry at his proximity, angry at the permissions you’ve given him to your body. Angry that you would betray them like you are. Your guilt ails you, their ire hurts you. Hands pressed together as you ask for forgiveness time and time again. Your knees bruise as you kneel against the floor, forehead pressing against the fabric of your bed.

You would let a white devil touch you? After the things he’s do—

Tch. When he hurts you don’t ask us to—

A haint! A slaver probably! After everything those people have done!

You moan in pain, body curling as they batter your brain. It feels like it’s seeping out of your ears, blood dripping out of your nose. Your grandmother won’t even talk to you, her disappointment clear through the bond. Ironically enough, it’s Jimmy who comes to your defense when they batter your body to the hells and back.

Leave the damn girl alone, Mabel! God damn! If you could see him you’re sure he’d be waving the woman off. Something gentle blankets your soul and he makes a sound. Now I ain’t sayin give him no pass. But you saw what he did, now! Took care of our baby girl afta that man tried t-ta take advantage. Ripped that whole town apart. Leave the girl alone.

It’s not Remmick, but Annie who finds you in pain. She scoops you up, pressing your head against her sternum and mumbles something softly, rocking you as the pain crescendos and unfolds. 

“Hummin’bird,” she murmurs, calloused hand gently sweeping sweat stained curls closer to your scalp. 

“Hurts,” you whine, trying to bury closer to her. It reminds you of when you were a child, after running from the Klan, after they burned your home to the ground and killed your parents. It reminds you of when she found you, told you she knew you were coming, that she had a dream and that she was going back up to Mississippi. She told you that she’d take care of you, this woman who only seemed to be about a decade older than you at the time, just barely hitting 17 to your 8. 

“Ya been cursed,” she says softly, “by a haint.” A soft tsk, non-judgmental, sweet in the way she soothes you. “That’s what you been hiding, hm?”

You say nothing, squeezing your eyes shut as she pats the blood of the nostril of your nose. 

“Hummin’bird.” This time, she says it firmly, grabbing both your cheeks and making you look at her. “You been hiding a haint?”

Your mouth screws up and you look away. “He’s nice.”

“A haint is a h–”

“I know,” you cut her off, coughing, “I know. But he helped me. Hurt the man who hurt me.” Your face crumples as you say it, lips curling into a quiet sob. “They’re so angry at me.”

Annie hushes you, sliding in the bed beside  you, despite it being much too small for the both of you comfortably. “Oh Hummin’bird,” she murmurs. It’s comforting. She says nothing much after that. She doesn’t offer platitudes or sweet nothings. But she does offer sweet silence and no judgement despite her being within her right. You sleep to it. Right through the day and night.

Annie offers only understanding. 

(And a prayer for your safety.)

Remmick does not like that you won’t take his offer to turn. He hardly respects it, but he can do nothing about it. You know this by the curve of his lips as he looks at you many nights later. He says nothing, though, despite his clear disapproval.

“Hummingbird,” he says after moments of silence and your head snaps to his, neck cracking from the force in it. “That’s what they call you.”

“H-how did you—?”

His face goes through a series of expressions before settling on one. Something a mixture between despair and anger. You can’t get a read on the rest of his face even with it. 

“Was here the other night,” he says, sitting on the floor by your bed. Your hand reflexively tangles in his hair, and he rests his arm against the bend of his knee. “When they were hurtin’ you.” 

A pregnant pause. 

“They’re killin’ you, y’know?” This time, he turns, lifting to bracket his arms around you on the bed. “That power you got there. ‘S too much. You should just—”

“Remmick,” you cut him off and he hisses, ripping himself away from you to pace around your cottage.

“I know,” he snaps, scrubbing his face, “I know you don’t want it. But what am I to do? Hm? Watch ‘em kill you? Watch you perish?” He’s back over you, bringing your hand to his mouth, pressing gentle kisses to your knuckles. “You want me to be okay with it?”

You sigh, reaching up to press your hand against his cheek. “I don’t want you to be anythin’ but who you are, silly haint,” you grumble, bringing him down to meet you. “I like you. But I don’t want forever. I got people who want to see me. People I ain’t seen since I was a child.” You shake your head. “No matta how angry they are, I got family. Ion want that curse you got. Got it?”

He doesn’t answer, kissing you instead. His lips trail down, lower and lower. His continued muttering of “fine, fine.” Soft fingers, calloused but well kept, push your dress up, bunching it around your waist. 

“Remmick.”

“Lemme taste ya, at least,” he grumbles, “so when ya gone I always have the memory.” 

“Jesus Chr—”

In the middle of the night, Remmick left you with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to return. Eventually. 

“Got some things I need to take care of,” he mumbles in his native accent in your ear. Whatever he’s got to take care of, you don’t want to know. You swat him away, grumbling as you bury your face into the pillow and fall back asleep. Something buzzers under your skin when you wake for the day. The hot Mississippi heat, even this far into the year, pooling the sweat on your skin. 

You make your usual rounds when you hear it, a voice you haven’t in seven years. He’s in a blue hat, coming out of Annie’s shop with a shaky hand. You rest your hand on your waist and tip your head to the side. “This here Smoke?” Your head tips to the other side. “Or Stack.” 

The man before you sighs and it echoes the sigh in your head. Leave that man alone, babeh, your grandmother says. The first words she’s said to you in weeks. 

“Smoke it is, then,” you say with a smile. Smoke looks older than his days, eyebrows raised as a baby’s laugh echoes in the air. 

“How you know that?” He flicks the cigarette into the ground, stomping it out and Annie shuts the curtain to her shop. 

“Grandma gets happy when she hears you,” you say, “what you doin’ here? Thought you was in Chicago.” He nods slowly, walking over to you with measured steps.

“Well, I’m here now, ain’t I?”

“Why?”

He stands in front of you, towering as he always has. A symbol of strength, an immovable object in the face of the heaviness of the world. “Girl c’mere and gimme a hug ‘fore you start interrogatin’ me.”

You do, wrapping your arms around him and sighing. “Missed you.”

He’s quiet and the baby laughs once  more. “She missed you, too.” You don’t specify who the she is, but he gets it nonetheless. He sighs, deeply, pulling your face up to check for injuries and tsks. 

“Miss you, too, Hummin’bird.”

Smoke doesn’t smile. Not often. You can name on one hand how many times he has. But the look on his face is as close to one as you know he’ll get without prompting. “Annie told me you got a cottage now. ‘S not safe.”

“It’s never safe,” you wave it away, “but ‘m an adult. Been one for the last seven years. Now, where Stack stupid ass at?”

Smoke shakes his head as Annie comes out the shop. “Porlly botherin’ somebody. Hummin’bird, need you to watch the shop for the night.”

“Watch the shop? I was gonna–”

Annie levels you a serious look and you stop. “The twin’s opening a juke. Want me to cook catfish. Ion like leaving the shop that long.” She hands you the key and kisses your head. 

“So I ain’t invited?” You say as Smoke opens the door for her and she waves a hand out. 

“You want that headache. Hummin’bird?” Her words are said amused, and she half leans out the window. “‘Cause if you want it…”

She got you there. Though Smoke makes a face. It don’t matter how long it’s been, he’s never liked witnessing you in pain or around the wrong type. 

“‘S no place for you anyways. ‘S full of sin.”

“Now I’m 25, not 5, Smoke.” You wave a hand out and shake your head to look at Annie. “‘Ll watch the shop. Yall better be back by the morn’, ya hear?”

Something feels wrong as you say it. Something feels final when you wave them goodbye. It’s not until dead in the night you’ll know what it is. It’s not until Stack and Mary that you wished you would’ve gone with them. Maybe then you could’ve made a difference.

[magicwithered]

BITEMARKS

Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Summary: You hold up a hand, bleeding and annoyed. “Friendly!” Stupid hybrid, you think, “I’m friendly.” - Or, by the time you realize Sylus is different, it’s too late. ao3

A/N: MC has a name in this and you are not the MC I fear.

Warning: Surprisingly? No warnings this time. | WC: 5k

“He needs a muzzle,” the lady says, walking you past the rows and rows of abandoned hybrids. Some are cute, the same way any animal is cute really. A bunny hybrid with too sharp eyes is paired with a raccoon hybrid who seems, for lack of a better word, completely oblivious to the world around it. Them? 

But that’s not the one you’re picking up. You wouldn’t want to pick up any of them if you had a say so, but here you are. 

“Get an ESH, it’ll help,” your therapist had said and well…here you are. 

You don’t have a thing against them. Hybrids, you mean. It’s just…weird. They look like you, talk like you, walk like you and think like you. They’re also genetically spliced with animal DNA and something about that feels just a little too dystopian for you to be comfortable with. How could you own something that looks so similar? 

You let out a puff of breath, waving off the anxieties. It’s too late now, you’ve committed to it. 

“Nah, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you mutter, shuffling behind her. She gives a look like you’re stupid. Maybe you are stupid. You don’t know yet. You feel stupid, walking down this fucking shelter to adopt a hybrid that was on the kill center list.

Fuck you’re gonna die, aren’t you? 

You want to take a step back but can’t because the rusty hinges squeak as she opens the cage and gestures. She’s clearly not going in there to get your…pet out. You glance back to the lady as she loiters by the door and you sigh, pushing your way in and holding a hand up. 

“Hey,” you say softly, eyes adjusting to the dark of the cage. It seems they keep this…thing in the dark, and instead of a growl it’s a mix of a snarl and a hiss, something lashes out and biting your hand sharp and hard. Any harder and you know it would have broken your bones. Before you can stop yourself, your hand lashes out, fist curling and smashing into a face. Nothing crunches, but something gives, a slight whimper in the air as your fist connects. Not what you meant to do, but your fight reflex kicks in before you can stop it and you pull your hand closer to yourself, cradling it closer to your chest.

The lady doesn’t even protest your sudden flailing, seeming to accept it (though, you know, anywhere else they would have shouted at you for injuring one of the strays). “Fuck!” 

Your eyes bare down on the creature, slitted reds meeting yours as his ears seem to airplane out. Instead of fear, which would have made you apologize, you see something of amusement on the creature's face. If it, he, could pace, you would think he would be prowling the cage, but he’s trapped closer to the wall., It’s clear the chain was shortened for the workers safety, and you hear the links clack together. 

“I’m, fuck,” you hiss past the pain, nostrils flaring out in annoyance. You hold up a hand, bleeding and annoyed. “Friendly!” Stupid hybrid, you think, “I’m friendly.” You can hear the splatter of blood dripping on the floor as the hybrid lifts slightly, hunched over by the short chain. 

His lips lift in another snarl, but you can see a bruise starting to form where your fist slammed into his face. Sighing, you settle, dropping to catch his eye again, hand still up. “What’s your name?”

His ear twitches and he hisses when the worker moves to the cage. She jumps, scurrying back, gripping the cage door tightly. 

“Sylus,” she answers for him, “it was on his form. He’s not a talker.” Idiot, you can hear.

You didn’t exactly look at the name or the species of hybrid. You just saw the kill center date and clicked adopt.  A piece of you felt something like kinship to the thing, seeing even the adoption agencies writing him off. Reminded you of yourself before someone had scooped your insides and melded them together with friendship and understanding. 

“Sylus, huh?” His ears twitch again, and you give him your name. You hold your other hand out for the worker, gesturing for the muzzle and the leash and she all but tosses it to you even as the hybrid watches you. He makes a chuffing sound, and you raise an eyebrow, holding the muzzle up for him instead of saying anything.

It’s quiet for a moment before his head lowers, fitting the muzzle around his face of his own volition, allowing you to strap it around his head. Your hand still hurts, but he lets you work with no more outburst and the worker shuffles to the front, far from the hybrid, as if to keep a distance. You set to signing the release paperwork, the hybrid towering over you as you do so. Any time the worker so much as twitches he hisses in his throat, a warning as she tries to rush you out the door.

This is not like one of those moments where they are happy a good hybrid is being taken into a good home. It’s clear everyone in the shitty little shelter is happy for him to be gone. You know when you tell Yana this, she’s gonna freak out and try and get this shelter shut down. But you can’t really blame them for being happy he’s leaving, he did bite you. 

Still, you look at this towering hybrid, clothes barely covering his frame, collared and muzzled and sigh. White hair, fuzzy ears and you look down seeing “snow leopard hybrid” and tug him with you. 

“Let’s get you out of here.” To your surprise, he listens.

Your apartment is not built for one of these things. It’s the first thing you think about when Sylus’ hulking frame nearly clips the doorway and he scowls at it. It takes him some time to get used to the place, smaller than what his kind needs, but bigger than the cage he was kept at the shelter. But eventually, he does get used to it, sprawling in your loveseat that sits in the perfect spot for the sun to hit. 

Sometimes, you kick the loveseat and jolt him awake with a soft “fucker” so he moves out the way. But you’re not dumb enough to think he doesn’t hear you practically down the block. 

From what you can tell, Sylus is one of those intelligent types. The ones who may even be able to speak, not so animal he’s like a glorified pet. More human in his splice than snow leopard. But sometimes, you watch his lip curl as he hisses at something near the door and you remember that it’s enough. He might not be a talker, but his eyes are too intelligent, and he won’t be okay with scraps for food. 

You’d followed the instructions in the pamphlet about his diet only to watch it go to waste and him steal the food right from your plate when you weren’t looking. It happened one times too many before you just decided to make enough for two people, placing a plate in his room when it was all finished. He ate meat rarer than you can stomach, but he ate at the very least. You can at least tell your therapist you’ve managed to not accidentally kill your pet like so many others do when they neglect them.

On your off days you read through his file, extensive as it is. Several pages, almost a mini novel of being adopted and coming back and being adopted. His longest stint was in a drug den of sorts. Possible bodyguard or hybrid fighting center, the report reads, food aggression and territorial. 

Then in big, bold letters: NEEDS TO BE MUZZLED WHEN HANDLED. 

You turn to look at the hybrid, nestled nicely on your couch, taking up the whole thing and unwilling to move and back to the report. Despite the initial incident, you hadn’t had any problems with him, no biting, no scratching. A hiss here or there, but he barely made his presence known other than to get fur everywhere on your couch and eat all your meat. 

Sighing, you push the door close with the heel of your boot.

“Get up.”

The shithead ignores you, ears airplaned in his annoyance. “He can’t stay trapped in that tiny apartment forever,” Yana had said this afternoon during lunch break, “having two bedrooms is not enough. He needs to stretch his legs.”

She would know since Caleb required more energy than he’s worth. Despite this, she loves the king cobra hybrid like he hadn’t ruined her for other people. The two of them, freaks, you think, throwing a shirt at Sylus.

“I said get up,” you repeat, holding the collar and leash. Slitted eyes round out as he takes in the image of you with a flared lip. His snarl peeters to a close before it even really starts, head tilting. “We’re going out.”

Sylus takes his sweet time, and it would bother you if it wasn’t obvious he was trying to curb his enthusiasm. He lets you collar and leash him, and shove a shirt on his otherwise naked torso before walking with you. It’s not dark outside, far from it as the sun slows to lower during the summer months. 

Instead everything is a brilliant orange as the two of you walk to park. Living on the far side of your job might be hell, nearly an hours drive to and from and not worth it half the time. But what you trade off in driving you pick up having a park that’s half woods and all open land. You suppose now that you have a feral thing for a hybrid, it works out well. 

You unclip his leash and grab his collar, jerking him down to your eye level. Sylus is taller than you, and you are not lacking in height, far from it. It makes it even more infuriating when his eyebrow ticks up in amusement. 

“You bite someone, you die. You attack someone, you die.” You let the words sit over him as you jerk him even closer. “You try and run away, I hunt you down and shoot you like a wild animal and then you die.” A pause. “Got it?”

Instead of fear, much to your annoyance, Sylus blinks slowly before nodding in amusement. He waits until let go of his collar and allows you to settle yourself into the grass before he leaves. He disappears for a bit, but not completely out of sight, and for once you let your weary bones relax, basking in the sun. 

He moves around the place like he owns it, and you can see other hybrids ears twitch just in his proximity. Just his presence alone is enough to have some others scramble to their owners, ears flatten to their skull, a soft whine as Sylus moves around with purpose. Despite that, and you know you should feel bad, you recline easily, letting the waning sun wash over you as he does what he wants.

Every once in a while, Sylus returns to you, too dignified to have a twig caught in the fur of his ear, but much too disheveled to say anything but what he was doing.

Hunting. Though there was no blood on his chest to signify that he killed anything. You’re not sure you would care even if he did, unfortunately. You know exactly who you are, unconcerned about the world at large as long as the people you care about are protected, and you suppose Sylus is yours now. Legally, at the very least, so you would defend his right to protect himself, even if it was violent.

Especially if it was violent. 

The suns ember glow retreats behind the horizon, dying flames fighting the dark night sky when he returns the final time. You don’t move, eyes closed in comfort when he crunches leaves beneath his feet, his collarclanging as he slides into a rest next to you. He rests his cheek gently against your thigh, nuzzling into it before relaxing, a small purr escaping him. You don’t move, not a goddamn inch lest he snarls out at you. You’re beginning to understand this annoying hybrid, and you’re not afraid per se, but you’d rather avoid another injury. 

Your thigh jumps as he presses his face closer to the seam of your pants and you push him off. “Should’ve muzzled you,” you mutter and he huffs out a breath of amusement. “Let’s go, I have work in the morning.”

His snarl is low, but heard and you look at him, ears flattened and eyes slitted, with a raised eyebrow.

“Get up.” 

Sylus does as you say, not because he’s afraid of you, but because you command it so, even after he yowls his discontent, even after the first meeting ends in a bite. You are his owner in a way you, yourself, aren’t even aware of, and he will not deny you. 

A pop cracks the air as you roll your neck, and stand up, already making your way back to the streets of the world. 

Sylus starts coming into your room after that. He waits until you’re asleep to nudge your body from the middle of the bed and bracket your body with his warmth. His tail wraps around the plush of your thigh, and he purrs into your neck. You wake up long enough to grumble and tell him to get out, but you never really fight him on it. Every morning is a master class of detangling, trying your hardest to unwrap his arms around you to get ready for work.

Some days he wakes with a snarl, and instead of even trying, you tell your boss you’re going to be a bit late for work. (I’m having a bit of a hybrid problem, you text her, and she understands for the most part.)

He starts grooming you, rough tongue pressing against the pulse of your neck, digging into skin uncomfortable. He completely ignores your grumbles of discomfort, hissing when you move too much. It causes some fights, your hand snapping out to catch his jaw and dig your fingers into her mouth, wrapping around his canine as you tell him to stop hissing at you. 

One day he grooms you until the depth of your skin is an unflattering red and you push him away. You know you only manage it because he lets you, but you’re so annoyed you don’t think about it. 

“Stop fucking grooming me,” you snap, gently tapping the rag against your skin, and with a soft hiss you realize you’re bleeding a bit from the continued drag of his rough tongue. “Look at what you’re doing! God damn it, Sylus.”

He blinks at you once, twice, three times before clamping his hand over your wrist and pulling you back. He sits you between the cradle of his legs, snarling at you when you try to move again, teeth snapping shut, just on the side of slow not to hurt you when you try to push away. 

“Stink,” he grumbles, tipping your head to the side and biting. The pain is instant, his fangs digging into flesh. You jerk in pain, and the struggle of trying to leave is futile. He keeps you there, though the bite is not nearly as deep as you know it could be, moisture from the droplets of blood staining your work top. Sylus is unrelenting, and if it wasn’t for the pain you would’ve realized that he talked for the first time. Big fat tears well in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks, plip, plip, plipping on the skin of your chest. His chest presses against your back, a steady inhale and exhale as if he doesn’t care he’s hurting you. 

It’s painful when he pulls his fangs out, gently kissing the wound even as you cry in his arms. He doesn’t shush you, but he does purr deep in his throat, something soothing as your body, suddenly alight in flame, settles to a soft ember. “You stink,” he says again softly, tilting your head to get a better look at the bite mark. 

It’s quiet for a moment before you look at him again. “You talk.”

His look is amused, red eyes narrowed and white hair mussed from when he nuzzled his way into your space earlier. His chest echoes with a soft hum of acknowledgment. “I talk,” he repeats with a nod. Pain for pain dictates that you punch him. So you do. Hard. He lets out a soft sound of pain when your fist digs into his stomach, the firm press of abs hurting the skin of your knuckles.

“You’ve been able to talk all this time?” You hit him again, this time softer, and he grins at you. 

“Of course I’ve been able to talk, kitten,” he says, stretching. The cut of his chest and biceps illuminate by the way he stretches out and you blink at him for a second dazed. Against your better judgment you bring a hand up and twist his nipple and instead of a yowl he laughs. 

“Been trying to communicate with your big, mean ass for the better of four months and you’ve just blinked at me. Whole time you could’ve been talking to me.”

Sylus shrugs, ears twitching in amusement as you get up.

“What else can you do? Other than get on my goddamn nerves?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he thinks, clearly mulling over what he wants to say before his head tips to the side. “I’ll tell you later.”

It takes you months to get used to him after that. Before it was easy because he didn’t speak, but now that you know that he does, you have a hard time with his presence. Maybe it was because you had gotten so used to the silence that hearing him speak continued to jarr you, but you were working on it. 

It definitely did not help that he thought it was funny, watching you jump or tense with a shit-eating grin before repeating himself so he could get the answer. You complain to your best friend about it enough that Yana invites the two of you over to her apartment, and at first you decline (you would like to spend as little time with Caleb as possible thank you) but then you think it might be a good idea. Just a play date. Or a way to get under Sylus’ skin as much as he gets under yours. So you drag the man to her apartment one weekend and…

Well.

Snakes were not known to be territorial, at least you think that’s the case and snow leopards are not considered aggressive, but Caleb and Sylus clash immediately. First of all, Caleb doesn’t like anyone in Yana’s space, and you knew that when you two became friends. She might be oblivious to the way he watches her, but you have never been under the illusion that he’s some mild tempered sweetheart. 

It was a surprise to learn that he walked the world as a non-hybrid, considering he was one. But you’ve learned that the two had secrets in spades, and one of them was that most people were not aware of Caleb being a hybrid. He had no scales, first of all, at least not in any obvious places, and his eyes were normal enough that no one paid much attention. It made the difference between Sylus and Caleb obvious, though. Your’s so obviously a leopard of sorts, with his ears and tail. Tiny puffs of fur that coated his chest in fine hairs and a happy trail that tapered into his pants, and Caleb, smooth skinned except until you looked closely enough to see the cracks near his eyes. 

And they fucking hated each other. 

On wiff of the others scent had Sylus standing in front of you, hackles raised as the door opened. So used to you, was Caleb, he didn’t bat an eyelash except a slight bothered tick of the eyebrow, and so unused to Sylus that it seemed he was gearing to attack.

Instead, you grab Caleb’s face, full palm over his nose and mouth and push him out of the way. One part because he lets you and the other part because you’ve learned how to deal with his…everything. 

“Behave,” you say, shouldering your way through the door and pulling Sylus with you. Caleb smiles, something cold, but fond enough from familiarity, and opens his hands in faux calm.

“I’m always nice.”

You  make a face and point. “Behave,” this time it’s aimed to Sylus, before you leave the two of them alone to grab Yana. The two of you spend a lot of time in her bedroom, giggling away at childhood pictures and locking the world away. The two of them hate it but Yana levels the most adorable pout at Caleb that he backs away and you grab Sylus’ chin with a stern frown and they get it together long enough for a break. 

It’s not until you get home that Sylus makes his displeasure known. Clawed hand comes up, gripping your waist as he lifts you and toes the door closed. 

“I did not like him,” he says, carrying you to the couch. His claws prickle your skin, cutting into your clothes and you frown as he shreds it. “I did not like that interaction and I think you should make it up to me.”

“Make it up how?” You yelp, back tumbling to the couch as he dumps you into the cushion, pulling your shorts off. “Sylus what the f–”

Red eyes look at you, narrowed and a bit irritated and he kisses the seam of you outside your underwear. “Gonna taste you,” he says, “gonna touch you. I’m gonna scent you until every hybrid around knows you belong to me.” A pause. “Good?”

You should push him away, but you don’t. Not just you don’t. You can’t. Sylus was all consuming, and even after months, nearly a year, of being in his company you have become less and less immune to his presence. Attractive, attentive, loving. Sylus looks at you like you are everything he could have ever wanted and then some. From the moment you took him from the shelter, he has been burrowing his way into your skin until you could no longer deny him his wants. 

And it wasn’t like you wanted to. 

You nod, wetting your bottom lip as he kisses you once, twice, three times, cunt clenching over nothing as he nuzzles into you. Sylus breathes you in, a shudder running through his body as he licks you through the fabric. He grumbles, a whiff of you from the fabric before hooking his finger and pushing your underwear to the side. His tongue is rough, but gentle as he suckles your clit into his mouth. He hums, sending a zing through you that clenches your gut and tenses your thigh. A thumb presses against the seam of you curiously, swiping your arousal against your outer lips before switching the his pointer and pushing into you. One is not enough, and his head tilts to the side in thought as he pulls his mouth off you for a second. 

“Please, please, please, please, please,” you groan out, thighs trembling as he slips another finger, curling them as he thrusts up, wrapping his lips around you once more. You’d close your thighs around his head if it was not for the fact that his shoulder width and his other hand wasn’t clamped around your thigh. Your head tips backwards, chest heaving, he continues to lick into you. 

Sylus is aware of the texture of his tongue, rough spikes keeping it from being a smooth sensation, spikey pain and heat raising up your spine with each lick and suck. He pulls back again, slipping a third finger in as he kisses the hood of your clit. It’s annoying how close you are already just from a few licks and nudges. His fingers are long and thick, pressing into a space that you didn’t even know existed. Your toes curl, breath stuttering in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut just as the pleasure crests and washes over you. 

Your spine curls, skin tingling as the orgasm runs through your bloodstream. Sylus helps you ride the wave, slowing his fingers as he pulls off your clit, pressing his nose against your outer lips, taking a deep breath. He does not give you much chance to recover, however, slipping his fingers out of you to grab your thighs and open them wider. He deftly pulls the drawstring of his joggers off, slipping them off his body swiftly to hold himself. He pumps once, twice, three times before lining up to your entrance and slipping in.

Sylus is big. You knew that from before this. He doesn’t often wear underwear, and he damn sure does not care about propriety, taking showers with the door open and choosing to air dry on your bed. You’ve complained about it before to him, but he doesn’t so much care, amused every time you bring it up. But it still doesn’t prepare you for the burn of him. He’s bigger than his preparation to slide his way home. Despite this, you like it. You like the way he stretches you out and how he groans softly into your ear. 

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead pressed against yours. It’s intimate, the way he’s hiked your legs up to your chest and pressed into you. He gives you no space to shy away, it’s all intensity and a severity to his gaze that you can feel the way your heart unfurls in your chest under the slow undulations of his hips. He pulls back before thrusting forward, a sharp clap of skin that has your breath catch in your throat. You want to close your eyes but can’t, caught in his heated gaze. Sylus’ pupils are blown out so much that the red of his iris are slivers when you look at him again. 

His next thrust is hard, your thighs burning as he holds the pressed up against your chest but wide enough to make room for the width of his waist. It’s audible, the slap of him, the sounds of him moving back and forth. The two of you share a breath and he hums softly into your mouth. Each time he pushes deeper into you, you groan into his mouth. “Fuck baby, that’s it.” 

You whine out his name, clenching around him as he fucks into you like he’s trying to get your pregnant. You say as much and his hips stutter for a moment as he drags his gaze back up to you. 

“What?”

“A-are you trying to get me pregnant?” You repeat and he blinks in surprise before a smile crawls to his lips. He loses some of the intensity, but his eyes narrow into tight slits as he looks at you. 

“Yes.” The word is said easily, simply and you clench around him when he says as much. “Fuck, you liked that didn’t you?” If you could blush you would, but you don’t, averting your gaze. “Mm, no baby, look at me.” You don’t. “Look at me.” The words are repeated sternly and you drag your gaze back to him as he tucks a braid behind your ear gently. “Is that what you want? You want me to put a baby in you?” It is absolutely obscene, the sudden tenderness he seems to display with your legs in the air. But he groans as your walls flutter around him and you nod shyly. “Fuck, okay.” He nods, moving his hand from your thigh to press into your stomach. “Okay,” he repeats. This time when he thrusts it’s with even more of a purpose, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

His mouth tips to the side, a soft smile as he presses a kiss to your hairline, sweat and all. You moan as he drags his lips down lower and lower until they press against your shoulder. “You gonna cum?” You nod as his thrusts get harder but no less intense. His hand travels down, pressing his thumb on the hood of your clit to push you closer and closer. “My sweet girl,” he murmurs, the closer and closer you get. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sylus I’m gonna–” 

It doesn’t wash over you, it slams into you, thighs tensing as you do so. He fucks you through it, biting down suddenly as he cums inside of you. Your vision whites out, pain and pleasure coursing through your veins. It’s quiet for a minute as the two of you lay there, sweaty and sexed out on the couch. He pulls his teeth out gently, kissing the wound as he does so before nuzzling into your neck. Your heart stops racing, your breath settles just as Sylus lifts his head up to kiss you. 

You shouldn’t have fucked him, you know this. But you also know that he’s more than willing to get what he wants and he wants you. It’s telling with the way his tail curls around your thighs as your legs drop to sit along his thighs. 

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, kissing you soundly. “My pretty girl.” Your laugh is disbelieving, but happy as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Moments later, Sylus slides out of you, standing up. He scoops you up, tossing your legs over his forearms as he makes his way to your room. 

“Wait, what are you doing?”

He smiles, something devious in the look he gives you. “I told you, I’m gonna put a baby in you.” 

[magicwithered]

Three’s Company

Pairing: Pearline/Reader/Sammie

Summary: It’s hard, and you knew that of course, being half in love with your roommate. Pearline was just this force of nature, sure of herself even in the face of opposition. It’s why she was getting a law degree. But then she starts dating someone and things get a whole lot more complicated.

Warning(s): College AU, magical realism, Lawyer!Pearline, Singer!Sammie, Chef!Reader, the twins will be causing problems, so will Remmick don’t worry, you fall first they fall harder.

WC: 183

Release Date: TBD

“It’s embarrassing,” she says, nose wrinkling cutely as she pushes your hand away.

“C’mon, Pearline, we been roommates for how long? Remember when you locked me out the room freshman year to have sex and fell asleep in the library.”

“Okay, you promised you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“Or the time during sophomore year you accidentally blew a fuse and the entire building went down for two hours during a snowstorm?”

“I knew you northerners were no good,” she whines before mumbling something behind her hand. It’s quiet for a second and you raise an eyebrow.

“Girl, what?”

“I said,” she pauses, squeezing her eyes shut, “think I like someone.” Pearline sits up suddenly, shy and sweet under your gaze, shoulders to her ears. “He’s real sweet. A music major, and his voice, Blue! ‘Ve never heard something so smooth before. His name is Sammie.”

You blink once, twice, three times, heart falling into your ass as you process her words. Oh, you think, oh she really likes him.

“Blue?” She waves a hand in front of your face, catching your attention.

[magicwithered]

Photographer Documented The Friendship Between A Grey Wolf And A Brown Bear

Finnish photographer Lassi Rautiainen captured the amazing sight of a female grey wolf and a male brown bear. The unlikely friendship was documented over the course of ten days in 2013. The duo was captured walking everywhere together, hunting as a team and sharing their spoils.

Each evening after a hard day of hunting the pair shared a convivial deer carcass meal together at the dusk in the wilderness. The duo comes from two species that are meant to scare everything the meet. However, this male bear and female wolf clearly see each other as friends, focusing on the softer side in one another and eat dinner together. The two friends were also seeing playing!

The heart touching pictures of the unusual duo was captured by nature photographer Lassi Rautiainen, in the wilderness of northern Finland. 

Via Whatz Viral and Wild Finland

[magicwithered]

Oh…got a modern!Pearline/Sammie/Reader idea that I need to execute a blurb for quickly

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Say cheese!!!

Drawing the whole damn squad was quite some work but I've done it. These are for MCM London specifically...getting them printed as little faux polaroid pics :3c

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karlach... those are some strong feelings you're expressing and i've learned to accept your feelings. we listen and we do not judge.

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enrichment time for Lily :)

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🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

Gael: Enchanted with anti-inflammatory properties 👍✨

Art by yc24720223 on Twitter

[magicwithered]

Karlach…that’s not-

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@intrepidheroesource intrepid heroes appreciation week ⤳ day five: favorite moment

Squak is going to just start knocking down bookshelves and things. "Do we have alcohol?"

[magicwithered]

[magicwithered]

"No miseries worth complainin' about."

WUNMI MOSAKU as ANNIE SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[magicwithered]

🎵 I Lied to You, I Love the Blues 🎵

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“S A M M E H”