shoto todoroki x reader. established relationship, breakup, angst
you break things off with shoto
You unlocked the door to your prohero boyfriend’s apartment, throat closing in anticipation. As you open the wooden door, you notice his slender leg propped up on the couch. The tv played lowly displaying the city news. Even on his days off he insisted on being up to date on the current events, understandable with his profession.
You felt your heart quicken as you sat your bag onto the table next to the door before walking over to where he laid across the couch.
“Hi,” He glanced up from his phone as you walked around settling next to his torso. His mismatched eyes met yours, his handsome face smiling softly unaware of what was to come next.
You refused to meet his gaze again, eyes undeniably still stained red. Instead you returned the smile, both in an effort to calm yourself and him, eyes now focused on your fingers that fidgeted in your lap.
“How was it?” He asked, resting his phone on his chest.
You gulped, every part of your being shook violently, fighting against itself. “It w-was,” you began.
His left arm wrapped around your hips. His right hand coming up to rest against the side of your neck, just under your jaw. “Is everything alright?”
Your fingers circled around his wrist as you began to sob. “I don’t think this is working, Sh-Shoto.”
The air came to a still.
He sat up, both hands coming up to your face. “This as in us? Because of earlier, right? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be unreasonable I just-“
You shook your head, lowering it so he wouldn’t see your tears.“No, Sho, just-“ You felt his stares as you struggled to find the words. The words you didn’t mean.
Giving up, you got up and walked to his bedroom, his figure immediately getting up to follow. You sat on the edge of the queen size bed, your arms wrapped around your figure like a shield.
“y/n.” He sat to your left. “I know things haven’t been the best, I’ve been at work not leaving time for you but it’s nothing we couldn’t get through, together.” He spoke sincerely, hands coming to hold your left. He kissed your knuckles, a habit that only served his own self soothing. It was one you loved since he first did it back in the halls of the UA dorms. Now, it’ll serve as nothing but a reminder of today.
Hours seemed to past as the tv continued through the walls of the apartment. You felt the distress radiating off of Shoto, most of it likely coming from you. It was hopeless.
“Please, speak. I can’t take this..”
“I’m sorry, Shoto.” You whimpered, your other hand desperately wiped against your face as you silently cried.
He was silent for a few seconds, hands still holding yours but now they rested on his thigh. “Why?” He asked, lowly.
You struggled to answer. “Y-you have achieved so much, Sho. Already done so much good and you work so hard. There’s more you need to do, more-“
“Yes, this is true and what of it? I have accomplished much and will continue to with you. By my side.” He squeezed your hand now. “I want you next to me, y/n. I need you.” You sobbed at this, chest aching at the despair that dripped from his every word.
“You won’t even look at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that.”
You slowly removed your hand from his. “It’s better this way.”
“For who? Because I don’t want this.” His voice lacked any true emotion now, cold indifference being all that was left. “For someone who claims to hate him, you sound a lot like my father.” You shook your head as he spoke. “You don’t get to decide what I need- who I should have in my life.”
You stood up as he finished, exhaling shakily in an effort to calm yourself. You walked into the bathroom to rinse your face. As you looked up into the mirror all that stared back were veiny eyes. You blinked back before going to gather your essentials.
The reason why you chose to do it still remains unclear to you. Since class 1-A had graduated from UA, things had gone from good to bad to worse for you. Despite it all he remained unwavering by you. Now, you would pay him back for his loyalty and love.
You would lie to the girls saying you and Shoto were on a break. That it was mutual, that you weren’t breaking his heart, the last man that could ever deserve such a hurt. You would continue on with your life, praying he would eventually forget you and move on, becoming all the great things he would undoubtedly be - without you.
“I’ll come back a-another day to get the rest of my things.” You turned the bathroom light out, pausing in the doorway in front of Shoto’s figure. His hair covered his eyes as he stared down. “I’ll leave the key-“
“Can I hold you?” You paused at the unexpected request but didn’t refuse. You walked between his legs, his strong arms quickly pulling your hips towards him. Your hands brushed through his hair in a habitual manner as he rested his head against your stomach. You both would stay like that, both wanting to remember the familiarity of the intimate gesture instead of the painful experience that had just occurred minutes earlier. It was in this silence, you swore you could hear the harsh rattling of his breaths, a sensation you’d never forget.
You slowly let go, foot moving backwards. He took a second before letting go as well. His jaw clenched and unclenched, you wondered if there was more he wished to say. Words that could undo yours and get you to stay. But the words never came and you turned away.
You grabbed your bathroom necessities and packed them into a bag. As you unplugged your charger, Shoto stood and entered the bathroom, this time shutting the door behind him. You grabbed his sweatshirt, feet freezing in the doorway. The room once swirled with sounds of laughter, sensations of pleasure and now nothing but heartache. All because of you.
You grimaced, “I’ll leave the key on the counter-“ Sho. You caught yourself, feet finally dragging out the apartment and out his life.
tysm for reading! consider donating for such a happy and amazing and ai-free piece of fanfiction plss xdddd buy me a burgerrrr
“She looks fucking gorgeous.” Shoto opted not to respond to the comment choosing instead to focus on the soft rain that cascaded down his window pane.
With the soft plat! of the magazine on his wooden desk, however, Shoto begrudgingly made eye contact with his former classmate.
He had previously sat comfortably in his chair but now he shifted with uncertainty as the air around him squeezed him in shame.
“She does.” He agreed, looking down at the braided coils and brown skin that donned the magazine cover.
The soft plattering of water echoed on the walls around the two men as neither looked up from the thin paper booklet.
“You fucked up letting that one go.” The hero spoke again after a few beats. The palpable energy in the room rivaled that of a battle zone. Two men who seemingly once had everything and lost it all.
“There’s nothing better you have to do, Bakugo?”
“Ha, then rub this shit in your face?” Shoto let out a sigh.
“Y’kno, when you got her in the end, I swallowed my pride for her sake,” He smirked but his red eyes glowed in the dark room, screaming with something deeper than petulant contempt. “Turns out I gave her up for some righteous bastard who doesn’t even know what he got.“
The wind swirled outside as Shoto sat in silence in the dimmed room. He knew he was right.
summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.
wc: 8.1k
a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head
warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!
M I N D T H E T A G S
Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.
Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.
Behind you—
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate.
Not rushing, no.
He doesn't need to rush.
The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.
You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.
Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.
You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.
Then you hear it—
A low, rumbling chuckle.
The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.
You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.
You should have listened.
The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.
Don't go out on the blood moon.
There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.
You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...
Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.
Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.
Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.
Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.
A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.
"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"
You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.
He steps into view.
For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.
Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.
And his eyes—
God, his eyes.
Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.
They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.
You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.
"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."
The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.
And the monster—
The one you were warned about—
Grins as he pounces.
The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.
You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.
Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.
He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.
You go still.
Frozen.
A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.
Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.
Those eyes—
Red as the blood moon above.
Glowing, starving.
The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.
"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."
Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.
He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.
His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.
You try to pull away—
He growls.
Not a human sound.
Something low, rattling. Monstrous.
His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.
"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."
You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.
And then he goes still.
For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.
His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.
The change is instant.
A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.
"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."
You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.
One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.
"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."
You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.
He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.
And then—
He licks.
Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.
He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.
"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."
You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.
He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.
And then there’s nothing between you.
Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.
Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.
For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.
You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.
"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."
You feel the shift—
Feel it deep in your marrow—
When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.
A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—
And not just with any tongue.
When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.
Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.
He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.
"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."
Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.
He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—
And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.
"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."
You sob—broken, desperate.
His smile sharpens.
"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."
The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.
Be good.
Or be dead.
You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.
He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.
"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."
You do.
You have no choice.
And he devours you.
The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.
He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.
"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."
You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.
You don't want it.
You don't want it.
You can't want it.
But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.
He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.
When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.
And for the first time—
There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.
Something softer—
Something almost awed.
"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."
He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.
"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."
His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.
Not by a long shot.
He’s only just getting started.
You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.
He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.
The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.
You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.
"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."
Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.
He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.
The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.
The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.
You can't see where he's taking you.
You can barely think.
Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.
And his voice—
Low, filthy, almost tender—
Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.
"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."
You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.
He doesn't stop.
Doesn't waver.
Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.
Where you’ll be his.
Body and soul.
Whether you want to be or not.
The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.
Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.
The woods are different here.
Deeper.
Darker.
The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.
You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.
He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.
You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.
He chuckles—low and knowing.
"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."
His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.
"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."
The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.
The chapel.
Or what's left of it.
A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.
It should have been abandoned.
It was abandoned.
But now—
It breathes.
The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.
He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.
He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.
In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.
Your heart stutters against your ribs.
He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.
"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."
You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.
He lets you.
For a second.
Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.
He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.
You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.
"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."
You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."
His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.
"But you..."
His grin widens, sharp and wicked.
"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”
His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.
"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."
You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.
"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."
He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.
"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."
You shake your head, tears spilling over.
He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.
"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”
He shifts, reaching for the chains.
You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.
Your blood goes cold.
You realize—
This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.
This is your life now.
Your body.
Your blood.
Your soul.
All belonging to him.
And the monster smiles.
The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.
You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.
He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.
You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.
He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.
The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.
"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."
You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.
Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.
His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.
Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.
He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.
"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."
His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.
You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.
He chuckles, low and dark.
"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."
His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.
Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.
Until you're laid bare before him.
Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.
He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.
You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.
"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.
"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."
He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.
You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.
"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."
And then—
The flicker of heat—
The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.
You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.
He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.
He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.
"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"
You can't answer.
You're beyond answering.
Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.
He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.
"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."
He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.
You can already feel yourself unraveling—
Can feel it building again—
That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.
He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.
You come—
Harder than before—
Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.
He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.
He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.
When he looks at you—
It's not just hunger.
It's possession.
"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."
You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.
And then—
You see it.
Him undoing his belt.
The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.
His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.
Your mouth goes dry with terror.
He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.
"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."
You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.
He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.
And pushes in.
The first push of him inside you is a shock—
Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.
You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.
"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"
The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.
Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.
"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.
The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.
He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.
"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."
With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.
He doesn't move at first.
Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.
"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."
You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.
He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.
The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.
He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.
"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."
Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.
Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.
He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.
Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.
He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.
"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."
You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.
He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.
"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."
Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.
He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.
You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.
Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.
"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."
You come undone—
Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—
As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.
His rhythm falters—
Hitches—
And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.
You feel it—
The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—
Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.
He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.
For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.
He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.
"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."
You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.
And somewhere—
Buried under the terror, the humiliation—
A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.
You're his now.
There’s no going back.
And the monster—
The one you were warned about—
Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.
The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.
You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.
He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.
You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.
But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—
He stays.
He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.
Something like awe flickers across his face.
"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.
One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.
You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.
He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.
He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.
You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.
"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."
You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.
There’s no fight left at all.
He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.
You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.
He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.
"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."
His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.
"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."
When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—
He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.
He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.
"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."
You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.
He hums low in his throat, pleased.
Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.
For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.
But instead—
You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.
The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.
You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.
He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.
Then he moves.
He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.
You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.
"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."
He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.
Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.
He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.
And all the while, he talks.
Low, sweet, steady.
"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."
His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.
"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."
You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.
"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."
You sob softly against his chest.
He smiles against your hair.
"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."
His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.
You twitch helplessly in his lap.
"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."
He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.
"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."
The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.
You’re weightless against him.
Soft.
Malleable.
The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.
Your body has surrendered.
Your mind—
God help you—isn't far behind.
He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.
His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.
One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.
"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."
You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.
"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."
You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.
You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.
But it’s useless.
Inevitable.
He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.
You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.
"There we go," he croons. "There she is."
He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.
His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.
"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."
You shudder helplessly against him.
He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.
"Remmick," he breathes.
"That's what ya call me, sugar."
Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.
"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."
You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.
"Remmick."
He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.
"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."
He kisses you then—
A brutal, clumsy thing—
Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.
You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.
Remmick smiles against your mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."
He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.
"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."
His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—
Possessive, filthy, promising.
"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."
You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.
And Remmick—
The monster, the devil, the man—
Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.
"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."
The slow grind of him inside you never stops.
Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.
Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.
He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.
"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."
You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.
His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.
"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."
He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.
Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.
Remmick hums low, satisfied.
"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."
He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.
And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.
"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."
You shudder violently in his arms.
"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."
You sob—broken, breathless.
He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.
"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."
You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.
Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.
"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.
You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.
"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."
You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.
Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.
Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.
"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."
He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.
"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."
And you know—
With a dark, shattered certainty —
That he’s telling the truth.
Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.
Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.
You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.
He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.
"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."
His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.
You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.
"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"
He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.
His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.
"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"
You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.
He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.
"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."
He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.
"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."
You shudder violently in his arms.
"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."
He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.
Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.
Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.
He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.
"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."
You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.
He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.
"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."
He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.
"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."
You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.
And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.
You belong here.
With him.
Forever.
And the monster—
The demon—
Your Remmick—
Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.
In the very bittersweet context of being in the middle of the final season, and with the knowledge of all the press notes/directional spoilers out there ramping up to the finale, I’ve been thinking a lot about The Handmaid’s Tale as a a whole. What it’s about, at its core, and what would accordingly make for a truly satisfying ending. Margaret Atwood’s novel, of course, has presented a disturbing and brilliantly crafted political commentary and cautionary tale since its debut in 1985: the bleak but ultimately hopeful story of an ordinary woman’s survival trapped in a cold and cruel extremist regime where human rights (and particularly women's rights) are a thing of the past, made possible by environmental ruin and the everyday apathy of ordinary people. The show is that too, of course. It’s also at it's core a story of loss, perseverance and ultimately revolution. But moreover what weaves all the themes together in a truly compelling way: I think at essentially the very heart (fittingly), it is a love story. Not just in the most obvious romantic sense, but on so many broader levels. It’s a love story of parents and children, of family (born and chosen), of human connection. It’s a love letter to the perseverance of the human spirit, the ability of the heart to expand and evolve, the triumph of light over dark in the soul and in the world at large. And dancing at the center of it from the very start (and enduring against incredible odds) has been Nick & June: yes, the very epitome of epic, passionate romance with a capital “R”, but also on a deeper level, the symbolic and tangible embodiment of all of the above.
I’ve also been reflecting a bit on some of the things the show’s writers and producers have been saying about the ending and the last season in general, like how it has been “crafted with viewers in mind more than ever” and focused on “delivering a rewarding conclusion for the audience.” They’ve also hinted at a purposeful harkening back to the very first season and touching on all the seasons in between. All of this would have me believe they are paying close attention to staying consistent with the repeated motifs of the show, and striving for satisfying, full circle cohesiveness AND catharsis in the end. With this in mind, I wanted to go back and explore how the ever-present and echoing theme of love is depicted through the words of the characters themselves. Namely here, a trio of major power players since the beginning: June, Nick, and (in the opposing corner) one Mr. Fred Waterford.
…
June:
"What else is there to live for?"… "Love." - 1x05
"It’s lack of love we die from." - 3x05
"Nichole, she was born out of love. Her father’s a driver named Nick… he helped me to survive." - 3x05
"It’s too dangerous” "No it isn’t… at least someone will remember me… at least someone will care when I’m gone. That’s something." - 1x08
June believes in love. This is made clear from the very beginning and is one of the core tenets of her character. It’s not a “nice to have” and it’s not something she’s able to separate from herself, even in Gilead, a place where love is essentially forbidden, where it should feel impossible. It is framed by her as essential to life itself, like water or oxygen. It’s what she credits her very survival to. Moreover, she believes that love is worth dying for, it’s that vital to her. If June stops fighting for love, stops believing in the power of or perhaps even the very existence of love, who is she then? How depressing and devoid of hope would that ending be? Sure, the June we bid farewell to at the end of 6x10 will inevitably not be exactly the same June we met in 1x01, but given the consistent through narrative, we should expect this core value of hers to remain steady, if not indeed grow in conviction.
...
Nick:
" Love is patient, love is kind... Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never fails." - 2x05
It’s fitting that it’s Nick who reads this passage in the show because perhaps more than any other character, Nick’s love throughout has been the very epitome of the verse. We’ve seen his actions play it out literally line by line. Nick knows his Bible verses. He picked this one for a reason, his (barely) coded Hail Mary message to June: I’m still here, this isn’t over, please don’t give up on us. Nick believes the words he reads to her, believes them to his very soul, and he continues to show it in his efforts season after season, demonstrating the constant and undying nature of his devotion. It’s notable that in fact, the full 13:8 verse reads "Love never fails, but where there are prophecies they will cease, where there are tongues they will be stilled, where there is knowledge it will pass away," emphasizing love as the one true thing that remains.
"I’m trying to keep you alive. You and our baby" - 2x02
“I’m trying to keep you alive" - 4x02
"I just want her to stay alive"- 4x03
"She changed you, she changed me" - 4x03
It’s Nick's love for June (and Nichole) that drives him more than anything else, and we see the real, tangible reverberations throughout the story. June and Nichole are safe, alive and free (at least in part) because of his love. Nick is changed because of this same love. And June’s love saves him from a life lacking in meaning, purpose and true connection. If Nick fully turns to "the dark side", if he becomes somehow irredeemable (particularly in June's eyes), it would negate in the cruelest and most nonsensical way all of this, and in one fell swoop rip to shreds the hopeful rainbow of his cumulative character arc.
...
Fred:
"Love isn’t real. it was never anything but lust with a good marketing campaign" - 1x05
“Every love story is a tragedy if you wait long enough." - 1x05
Fred on the other hand, scorns the idea of love. His cynical, contemptuous views are presented as the antithesis to June's quite early on. In rose-glass tinted flashbacks of early life with Serena, we see glimpses that this may not have always been the case, but what was once their love story has indeed turned to tragedy: corrupted into a bitter, twisted thing under the weight of the monster they created together. In the present, he does not believe in love and the selfish callousness of his actions (in stark contrast to Nick) clearly shows it, over and over again. To Fred, 1 Corinthians 13 is just a silly meaningless little verse (of no more consequence than the vapid old fashion magazines he "gifts" to June) in the book that he uses, not as a guide or an inspiration, but as a weapon: a cudgel to wield for his pathological ego-driven power trips, no matter how many must suffer (including his once beloved wife), how many innocent lives it ruins or much how it blackens his soul.
...
If in the final episodes Nick were to be exposed as a “true villain” who ends up burning June (and in fact his soul) in favor of “power and prestige”, then Fred will have been proven correct all along, and we (like June) will have been stupid to ever believe in love.
- If Nick truly decides to throw away everything he's done, everything he's held close to his heart even at his own peril all these years, to remain in a dismal teeter totter of emotional pain and privilege in Gilead;
- If June refuses to forgive, to endure, to truly fight for Nick as he's fought for her;
- If they truly flame out in epic betrayal and irreparable rupture:
Then we will know love has failed. And Fred was right. Love doesn’t save, it destroys. Love doesn’t endure, because in fact it was never even real to begin with. Love isn't the ultimate reason and purpose, but a tragedy. A lie.
That's not the story. That CAN’T BE the story. Fred doesn’t win. He was so dead wrong that he is now dead and buried for it. He eschewed love a long time ago and it warped him into a depraved, cruel shell of a human with acts so heinous under his belt that we all cheered as he was hunted down and the flesh savagely torn from his body, because he deserved it.
No, this isn’t The Debased Delusional Small-Weak-Man Commander’s Tale. This is not the story of how Fred was right after all.
This story is love endures all things. This story is love never fails. This story is love lifts us up, love saves us and gives us the will to fight. And that (someday) a child conceived in love in this brutal place and saved by the love of her parents will unite with her long-lost but dearly loved sister to burn it to the ground.
They may want the viewers to believe that it’s possible for Nick to be irrevocably lost for the drama of it all; for the shock of the reveal, the reckoning and the emotional payoff when the ship rights itself. And I’ll keep my clown makeup handy in case I end up being astonishingly wrong, but I just can’t see how they would so blatantly, not just blow up the story, but in doing so essentially erase the very core of the story we’ve been told up til now.
(just look at them, don't you fucking dare break up this family for good!)
Sometimes you need to read something twice to get it. You might need to watch a movie three times to understand it. You might have to have that album on repeat for a week until the lyrics make any sense. You're allowed to engage with it and can keep engaging with it until it means something to you. People will see a painting at a museum and laugh about not getting what the big deal is but like you can come back, you can see it at another time, and maybe that next time it'll be different for you. I'm of the belief the "media literacy crisis" would solve itself if more people just sat down and did it again. Watched, read, played, listened, etc like I don't think people are getting more ignorant necessarily I just think we're not glorifying personally replaying things nearly as much as we should be.
Incidentally, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader. And I shall tell you why. When we read a book for the first time the very process of laboriously moving our eyes from left to right, line after line, page after page, this complicated physical work upon the book, the very process of learning in terms of space and time what the book is about, this stands between us and artistic appreciation. When we look at a painting we do no have to move our eyes in a special way even if, as in a book, the picture contains elements of depth and development. The element of time does not really enter in a first contact with a painting. In reading a book, we must have time to acquaint ourselves with it. We have no physical organ (as we have the eye in regard to a painting) that takes in the whole picture and can enjoy its details. But at a second, or third, or fourth reading we do, in a sense, behave towards a book as we do towards a painting.
idk how on purpose it was, but i love how in 1917 the generals are played by big actors while Sco and Blake were pretty new to the movie scene, bc the generals are the faces of the wars and the soldiers all unknown, it's a neat detail and I wanna believe they did it with intention
Every fermentation, every dissolution, necessarily has to lead to either annihilation or a new organization; but there is no annihilation; hence the youth of the world has to return again from our decomposition.
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
