#hoping for the best

[nosferatu-official]

sympathy for the devil

remmick x gender-neutral reader

when your loneliness draws death to your home, you invite him inside. death, however, is never keen on leaving with nothing.

rating mature

w.c. 2.8k

tags no use of y/n, gender-neutral reader, pining and sexual tension, lil bit angsty lil bit sexy (mostly angsty), small makeout sesh, saw some posts wanting uncharismatic loser remmick so i thought i'd deliver, he's touch starved and hasn't been called by his name in years, he's the vampire but you're in control

warnings lots of blood, mention of a gun, violent metaphorical imagery

some quick disclaimers i am not a remmick apologist by any stretch of the term, i just think he's neat / i try to keep all of my x readers completely inclusive of everyone regardless of race or gender identity, so if you notice any instance of exclusive language, please lmk so i can fix it

Every night since the vampire disappeared, you stand by your screen door and stare into the dark.

You cannot name what it was within you that kept letting him past your threshold night after night in the soft blue hours before the sunrise, just as you cannot discern what kept him from seizing you in your sleep and draining you until there was nothing left. You both fought the currents of your base instincts: to survive and to feed. No one in their right mind would have continued to invite a vampire inside their home after their identity was known, and no vampire should have so easily passed up a meal such as the likes of you.

It was merely the nature of your situation; a contradiction near laughable in its absurdity.

Granted, your first allowance of his entry was born purely from the goodness of your own heart. You had no business wandering about at dawn, traipsing back and forth from your home to the nearby well, but he certainly had no business holing up in your run-down barn. The low creaking of floorboards had given him away; you knew the difference between the sound of something settling and a trespasser. He'd thrown his hands in front of his face when you flung the doors open like he expected to be assailed. You did not learn until later that it was the sunlight itself he sought refuge from.

Nonetheless, you weren't without sense. You didn't invite him inside like an old friend right then and there. Instead, you'd listened to him as he implored you to let him stay there, just for the length of the day with the promise that he'd be gone by nightfall. You made your own promise that you'd blast him to hell with the loaded shotgun you kept at your door if he raised a finger to try and steal anything.

Just as he'd said, by nightfall, he was gone, only to return the next morning.

You lived, for a while, in conscious ignorance of one another. It was not as though you had anything of value to take — not in the midst of a depression, not when your money and your livestock were long gone — and it was not as though he proved to be a problem. Like clockwork, you would hear the barn doors shut in the early morning and creak open once more as night fell. You drew many of your own conclusions; perhaps he was on the run from the law, or hiding from scornful family members.

Why, then, would he keep coming back?

There was one night that he remained — that the barn doors did not open back up. The usual silence was broken by the soft, tinny plucking of banjo strings. Maybe it was boredom that drew you out there, or curiosity, or the sound of music. You opened the doors and he was at once awash in silver moonlight, staring up at you as he tuned his instrument in the dark.

"Come to kill me?" He'd asked, as simply as wondering aloud about the time.

Maybe you should have.

Instead, you'd requested that he play you something.

You loved music. You always had — it was your sole weakness, the one thing that could pierce you to your core. It was what kept you there in the barn as he began a mournful rendition of a song about a Highland widow, stripped of her land and language. It was what drew you nearer, what caused you to ask for the banjo so you could share your own song; a harrowing tale of death and its icy grip. His eyes, dark in the dim light, watched your fingers dance across the strings and pluck a song onto the air.

Music meant something to him. It must have. It was the only reason you could figure that he didn't kill you that night.

He and his banjo were gone by the following night, but he always came back.

It was not the closing of barn doors that roused you to wakefulness at dawn, but his low humming and quiet playing outside your door.

You padded across the floor on bare feet to stand just on the other side, wordlessly listening to his mumbling song as you squinted sleepily in the rising light. His song drew to an end, and his eyes strayed back to look at the glowing horizon behind him before he turned to meet yours.

"I don't reckon I can come in?"

That morning, he crossed your threshold for the very first time.

You should have noticed it then — his gaze, hungry, though he accepted no food. His occupation of all the dark corners of your home, where the shadows chased away the light. It was strange, and he was strange, but for the first time in a long time, you spoke and there was someone to respond. Long stretches of silence were filled by music that was not your own. He gave you his name — Remmick, one like nothing you had ever heard before.

You barely managed to catch him when night fell. He was halfway across the yard when you flung your door open, standing on the porch to call out after him.

"What are you running from?"

He paused, turning to look back. There was an uncanny gleam in his eyes; a trick of the light, surely. His grin was broad.

"I'm not running," He said. "I'm searching."

In silence, you watched him walk into the night, a banjo slung over his shoulder and a song on his lips. Searching.

He came back again and again like a stray dog returning to scraps, and each time, he had a new song to share. You would sit across from him on the floor and accept each and every offering with the bobbing of your head and the tapping of your feet. He sang of keeping your lanterns trimmed and burning, and another time of the "poor wayfaring stranger." His accent, once a stark Southern much like your own, gradually dropped away into something else entirely until it was gone completely, leaving in its wake a pleasant and unfamiliar lilt. Beneath the shroud of obscurity with which he cloaked himself, there was something honest to be found.

You discovered the truth in the same way you discovered him: suddenly and without warning.

He did not come to your porch, singing you awake. The barn doors creaked shut and your eyes fluttered open. It was still dark outside; morning would not yet be for another few hours. Throwing on a coat over your nightwear, you crossed the yard to your barn and pushed the doors open. There was no moonlight to illuminate him. Your eyes slowly adjusted, finding him facing the far wall.

"You're awful early." You arched an eyebrow, humor carrying your voice. "C'mon, I've got some leftovers from supper."

He did not look back at you. Shoulders taut, he shook his head. "Not tonight."

The shadows obscured much, but you were able to discern his form within them. Something dark blossomed across his shirt and stained his hands. At once, your heart leapt to your throat.

"You're bleedin'," You breathed, rushing forward only for him to thrust out an arm and stop you from approaching.

"You stay away from me."

"Stay away? You can't be serious." You reached out to push his arm out of your way, but he caught your wrist in his grip. It happened far quicker than was natural; all you could do was choke out a gasp as he spun to face you and yanked you closer, his breaths cool and labored against your skin.

Blood. The metallic scent invaded your senses all at once. He was awash in it. It spilled down his front and smeared over his neck. As he pressed you against him, you felt it seep into your own clothing, deep and dark.

"It's not mine," He rasped.

Your gaze crawled from his chest to his mouth. Dread sank within you like a pit had opened up in your stomach. Teeth; slick with blood, sharp-ended, the maw of a beast.

Slowly, you lifted your head. His eyes searched your face, running a maddening marathon between each of your features. What he was looking for, you did not know.

Finally, bloodied lips curled into a smile.

"Do I scare you?"

You stared up at him, your wrist still locked in a vice grip. It could not stop the quivering of your hand.

I'm not scared.

Your lips longed to form around the words, but your tongue was pinned to the floor of your mouth, choking you. A shaking breath rattled from your lungs and hung in the air between you. His eyes dropped to your mouth, your lips parted, and he stared. Hungry.

Suddenly, as if shaken from a daze, he released you and stepped back. In the newfound distance, you sucked in a gasp, blinking hard.

"Go on," He ordered. "Walk. Don't run."

Your legs burned, every instinct within you set aflame as your body screamed for you to turn and leave faster than you'd ever moved before. From somewhere deep, you conjured up the resolve to steady yourself, fixing your eyes upon him as you began to take slow steps back. You did not turn, not even when you stumbled out of the barn doors and crossed the yard. You eased onto your porch and reached out to the door with your hand, hooking the lock once you were inside the confines of your home.

It wasn't until you blinked that your eyes burned with tears, heart clinging to your ribcage and blood staining your clothes.

You haven't seen him since.

The last time he darkened your doorstep was weeks ago. The barn remains empty now, and so does the seat across from you at the table. At odd hours of the day, you'll find yourself staring at it, as if something, anything will suddenly fade into existence and fill that space.

At night, you stand by the door and wait.

You wait to hear a song on the air, the plucking of banjo strings, and yet all that sings are the crickets. Land stretches out before you for miles, swathed in darkness with no one in sight, and you are alone, dreadfully alone.

The sharing of songs and stories is a tie you cannot sever. The vampire carries pieces of you, and you hold remnants of him. You grasp at them in your memory and your mind burns with shame, for you should not wish Death back into your home; he will never leave empty-handed.

One night, you venture out into the dark.

It's a short trek from your home to the nearest well. You normally only tread the path in the light of day, but the October air is crisp and the moon hangs high above your head to guide you on your way. You have grown used to being alone again. The feeling envelopes you completely, like an embrace from an old friend. Humming softly to yourself a tune about a Highland widow, you cast your bucket down and draw water up, holding it securely against your chest once you make your way back.

Your house is well within sight when the weight of a gaze settles upon you, like a rock has been dropped in the pit of your stomach. The bucket in your arms suddenly feels as though it weighs tons. Eyes on you are not something you can ignore; they do not go away. They burn into your back, boring a hole straight through you as your heart races and your throat closes.

The bucket slips from your hands, water spills across the grass, and you run.

You're pursued at once. He catches up to you, far quicker than he should; a hound on the trail of the hare. Your lungs are on fire by the time you spring onto your porch and wrench the screen door open, fumbling clumsily until your hand closes around your shotgun and you whirl around to press the barrel to the vampire's chest. He stops short of your threshold, glancing down at the weapon.

"You go on and let me in there now," He drawls, thick Southern masking his Irish song.

"Like hell I will," You hiss. "Where did you go?"

His eyes soften. Slowly, he curls his fingers around the barrel of the gun.

"I told you... I've been searching." His voice is low and placating, a boat rocking on the water. You have half a mind to move your finger from the trigger.

"Searching for what?"

He turns the barrel from his chest to the open air behind him, where darkness spans for miles. It's as if the moon has been swallowed up in shadows.

"You and I," he murmurs, "will never have to be alone again."

A chill travels down the length of your spine. You and I; he says it like there was never so much as a moment that you were separated from one another.

"I don't understand," You whisper.

"Family." He blinks hard. "Fellowship. Music. I know where to find it, but I want you with me. I - I need you with me."

Your breath catches in your throat. The gun is heavy in your hands; that must be why you tremble.

"I need your... your songs," He continues. "Your stories. We make something beautiful together, you and me."

"No."

"I can't be without you."

"No!" You shake your head, hands quivering. "I can't — I can't go with you, y - you're... you're not..."

Your voice tapers away into silence, the word dying at the back of your mouth. Human.

"Listen to me." His eyes find your own. "It doesn't have to be this way. I can save you."

The gun slips from your fingers and clatters to the wood beneath you. You don't even flinch at the sound; you stare ahead at him, unwavering, and his eyes glint crimson.

"I don't need your saving."

Surprise strikes across his face as if you slapped him with an open hand. He reaches out to touch the frame of the door, and his own hands quiver.

"I... I came back for you," He breathes, a tremor in his voice.

The words sink into you, slow and sharp. They crack your ribs open and leave you bleeding.

You stagger forward and place a hand on the doorframe to catch yourself. Your fingertips brush against his own, and he shivers. You tilt your head back and look up at him, your lips parted and your bodies close.

"Remmick," You whisper.

It's not an invitation, but it's enough. He grabs your hand and draws you hard against him, and when his lips find yours, you melt into the curve of his body. He kisses you with desperation, a man starving; hungry. Your fingers dig across his back and then tangle into his hair and he sounds a strained gasp against your lips.

"Again," He heaves, and he swallows his name as you murmur it; Remmick. It's a hymn on the hearing, a song so strange and lovely you utter it again and again: Remmick.

He presses an arm to your waist and holds you tighter, killing whatever distance left between you stone dead. His mouth closes over your neck and your heart thrums a maddening rhythm. He lingers, feather-light, over the fragile vein where the blood flows, burying his face into your skin and breathing in your scent. You cannot stand the separation, and you dip your head to kiss him again; in feverish abandon, he takes your lower lip in between his teeth, and blood fills your mouth.

At once, you choke out a gasp, and as you hastily step back, your hand flies to your mouth. Your fingertips come away, slick with your own bleeding, and the vampire stands before you with dark lines dripping from his chin. You stain his mouth and his teeth, the sharp points carving you out and drinking you in.

He stares at you, eyes wild with want. Hunger. On the horizon, the soft blue glow of morning breaks through the dark. He waits for you to welcome him in, to take you and mold you into something new and eternal.

When you speak, tears blur your vision.

"If I see you again, I'll kill you."

He says nothing. His gaze betrays no hint of feeling. He does not reach out, call your name, beg for you. The loneliness within you opens up into a dark chasm, spreading to every corner of your mind.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spilling down your face. When you open them again, the vampire is gone.

You taste blood, and you know that you're alive.

[marlynnofmany]

Masterpost: The Token Human (part one)

Someone asked, and it occurred to me that I don't have a current list of all the stories in this ongoing series! Here's the first half of everything I've posted so far (not counting the probably-canon ones I made up before starting a proper timeline).

First off, here's the post about the novel that these were meant to lead up to. (The stories are an ever-evolving prehistory now). They can be read out of order and still make sense enough.

How I Became the Token Human Space Weather and Shuwogs The Brief Mystery of the Escape from Storage Hold B Human at Work A Peaceful Upheaval We’re All Weird Here Invisibly Beautiful Schrödinger’s Poison A Completely Problem-Free Delivery The Oddest of Odd Jobs Stabby the One and Only What’s a Minor Heart Attack Between Friends? The Ability to Smell Beauty Courtship Behaviors Irrational Attachment Friend-shaped Going the Extra Mile/s Mechanical Rhythms Bargains at the Space Market Kittens in Space Human Magic The Little Things One Peril of Package Delivery Interspecies Adventures While Sick Troublemakers and Pestcatchers Talking Sports Tactical Artwork Double Duty Racetracking There’s No Aggression Like Passive Aggression Too Many Limbs Just a Rock A Worthy Sacrifice Shore Leave Scary Stories in Space Starseed Apples Hands-Free Medical Assistant Where Wormholes Come From Star-Crossed Small Noises Stars and the Slapping Thereof An Impressive Number of Arms Junkyard Playground Seeing Faces A Mystery Easily Solved Finger Talking Arboreal Species Small-Scale Comedy Downhill Speed Reaching Always Bring A Flashlight Fingernails and Fisticuffs Singing and Other Noises Fun and Dangers with Hovercycles Walkway Aesthetics Food Choices Playing Translation Telephone

(Part two on the way, pending glitches.)

[whomst-the-hell]

you gotta say it like its the last thing you’ll ever say (because it always could be)

[lumax-mayclair]

I think I’ve seen this film before…~

[reality-detective]

[shocked-collar]

everyone hold a moment of silence for covet. i miss them..................

[toxictoxicities]

So I got a bacterial infection and was given antibiotics

So many regrets

[stellaspacewitch78]

Anybody else's hearts shatter to pieces hearing that Yuri Lowenthal is not returning to P4 remake? That was such a hard pill to swallow. Let's hope that the new actor (whoever that is) has as much talent as the P3 Reload cast. 🫡

[ranchdip]

dan howell has such a way with words reading his replies is giving me some hope for the future :’)

[humanfox030]

In other news here's a WIP of a Zofia of Słuck icon that I'm painting

Ft. some shading studies I did prior to starting, a very trust the process painting, and a brush I made out of my hair and a toothpick (my other brushes were too big)

[athousandbyeol]

i had a conversation with my friend yesterday.

as we were talking, i thought about jiang tian's every moment at the end of every episode. it's such a fun easter egg because we could finally see and understand from jiang tian's point of view.

therefore, since we're six episodes in, the first half of the series, i wonder if they'll change jiang tian's every moment to sheng wang's every moment?

because, the first half of the series focused mainly on sheng wang—his background story, his challenges, and his emotional and character development. i wonder if the director will switch this up and put jiang tian's story into the spotlight?

also, the phrase, "my world is upside down," somewhat suggests that we're going to see how jiang tian's world is overturned—after we've witnessed sheng wang's flipped universe.

[imightbefictionalmyself]

Predictions/ Things i want to see for the last my hero chapter

We get a Kamijirou scene

Kirishima above bakugou on the hero list because it would be funny

We get a Todomomo or an Iidamomo scene

Aoyama appears fabulous as always

Amajiki might be a bit low on the hero ranking but would rank number 1 on the "Heroes who look like Villains" list ( Like Gang Orca)

Deku's winning smile

Touya still alive and rehabilitating (Fingers crossed)

Kamui Woods and Mt lady ( I want to see a confirmation on their relationship so bad)

Last of all I think izuocha might win out in the end just because..(Also it would be really funny)

Also i would really love to see Midoriya interacting with his students.

Also i want to see Gentle and Labrava again

Horikoshi Please!

[appleblocks]

I need to try and have two interests active at once so that when Im tired or drawing one I can go draw the other

This has never happened before but I will try

Im thinking of grabbing my first oc ever and rework her story and world a bit

Wish me luck! Im going through the "i hate my art phase but dont know how to improve" so im hoping a different character will change that, even if I just put her in cute outfits

[faithfulsheepdog]

God and a tea bag.

I've been drinking a lot more hot tea lately. I've hardly touched the stuff before a week ago, but I've been incorporating it more into my routine because, not only is it good and good for you, but God has taught me something about how He works in people using the tea.

Tea bags, as we know, have a lot of flavor and nutrients and all sorts of good things tucked inside, ready to be used to make some yummy tea. And we all know how tea is made with a tea bag, right? The water needs to be prepped and heated, and then you let the tea bag seep in the water. The tea bag does all the work, I just have to let it do its thing, and I'm going to end up with some delicious tea. The longer the tea bag seeps in there, the stronger the flavor will become, and there is nothing I can do to turn the newly made tea back to water.

Isn't that exactly what God does with us?

See, the water is us, it’s our hearts.  The water is our hearts without God. We have no flavor, we have no spiritual life. But we don’t have to be like that.

The Holy Spirit starts the work in us by prepping our hearts and minds into helping us see the truth about God and ourselves. He helps us make sure we're ready to receive what God has for us: His love, salvation, grace, forgiveness, all the good promises He's made, eternal life, etc. Then once we're ready to take that step towards God, all we have to do is invite Jesus into our hearts and change us, and He does all the work to make that happen.

Just like that, Jesus makes us brand new! He makes us better than we were. I mean, you think you're great now? Jesus can make you better.

Once Jesus saves us with His love, we will always be saved with His love. We will never be the people we were before Jesus, we will always have Jesus with us, and honestly?  That’s literally the best thing ever!

And the more we stick with Jesus and we study the Bible and we pray and we let Him work in us? The stronger our faith becomes, the stronger our Christian flavor becomes.

We become the living, breathing example of 2 Corinthians 5:17, "If anyone belongs to Christ, then he is made new. The old things have gone; everything is made new!" (ICB)

And...that's the tea.

[oriorchids]

whumptober 2024 - day one - search party

Siffrin doesn't return to the clock tower. Mirabelle leaves to search for him.