abbessofflesh

[abbessofflesh]

"His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.

Because he was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

Like it had all been worth it.

Like you were the reward."

HOWLINGGGGGG HOWLING HOWLING HOWGLING

"If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears."

I'm so lightheaded. Vision is the equivalent of TV static. That fucking image man.

hi mamas !!! I'm the one who asked when your reqs would be back open :) and be prepared, this is kind of... detailed. (again, no rush) anyways, I had an idea where remmick would kind of stalk the reader- like straight up BEGS the girl every night to be let in. but, reader lives with her mama and maybe siblings, so she's worried he'll hurt them and she says no every time. but then this MANIPULATIVE ASS HO gets in anyway bc he deep fries himself in sun like how he did in the movie, and reader's MOTHER lets his dumbass in. and reader's mom is all nice to him and trying to patch him up, and reader's worried af but maybe pretends to not know this burnt up white man in her mama's kitchen. and later, it's nightime and all, and reader's tryna sleep but is scared for her family. and ofc, remmick's crazy ass is watching her in the dark. but then he comes into her room, and they talk, which calms reader down a bit. eventually, she's comfortable enough to start getting curious abt remmick being a vampire, so she ends up in his lap while checking out his fangs and claws… all of which leads to thigh-riding while remmick teases and kind of taunts reader. then, it gets spicier (ofc) and they do whatever you want them to do. but PLEASE at least once, let that man's hand be around reader's neck. (again, for the like third time, there is no rush, and ik if you do write this it'll be AWESOME bc you're just that iconic <33 i hope this isn't too much btw and ty for taking the time to answer my first question :)))

ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴ

ᴡᴄ: 8.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: no because why is this song so delulu remmick coded. but don't give me such good requests yall because i will get carried away and completely twist the ask into absolute degeneracy. i also took some (many) creative liberties so i hope that's okay with you anon :3! please mind the warnings and do not interact if dark themes aren't your cup of tea (totally valid)!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, shamelessly nasty smut, minimal plot all porn, dark themes, noncon, degradation, groping, fingering, p in v, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, dacryphilia, babytrapping, cockwarming, fantasies of exhibitionism, threats of violence, dom!remmick, creep!remmick, delusional!remmick, feral!remmick honestly, sub!reader, poc!reader and the 1930s suspicions that follow, stalking, manipulation of a sweet old lady, slightly excessive divider usage, i got addicted to italics again, overall depravity in every sense of the word

It started with flowers.

Wild ones, mostly—asters, cosmos, bluebells with tangled stems. Arranged without rhyme or reason, more a fistful than a bouquet. Always fresh. Always different. Always left somewhere you couldn’t ignore.

Tucked into the curve of your fence.

Balanced on your windowsill, pressed in place by a rock so they wouldn’t blow away.

Dropped just outside the screen door, nestled like an apology beneath your feet when you stepped out in the morning.

You never brought them in.

You crushed the first bunch with your heel, left the second to rot. The third, you flung into the weeds and didn’t even bother to look back. You knew where they came from. What they meant. And he knew you knew, because the next one came with a note.

“It hurts when you don’t look.”

You tore that one up before your mama could see it.

And still—he kept coming.

You never saw him outright. Not at first. It was always shadows. Footsteps. The soft rustle of leaves behind you on your walk home from the grocer’s. A shape moving just past your periphery when you passed the fields. A cigarette still burning in the woods across the road when you shut the gate behind you at night.

You told yourself you weren’t scared.

You told yourself he’d get bored.

But one night, after a long shift and an even longer walk, you turned onto your road and saw it.

Right there at the bend before your porch steps, where your shoes always scraped the gravel just so.

Your necklace.

The one you lost weeks ago. The one your mama swore must’ve slipped down the drain. The one you’d already stopped looking for.

It was laid out neat, untangled, gleaming under the moonlight like it’d just been polished.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your mama called him a “godsend.”

Said it with a sweet smile and her hands buried in the laundry basket, humming as she folded clothes and made her neat little piles. You stood frozen in the doorway, the sun hot on your back, heart sinking as she said it again.

“He came ‘round again this mornin’, right before the sun came up. Said he was passin’ by and saw the yard needed work. Ain’t that somethin’? Didn’t even ask for nothin’ in return.”

“Mama…” You didn’t even know where to start.

She waved you off, smile deepening.

“I know that tone. And I’m tellin’ you now, you hush with that. Just ‘cause he’s a stranger doesn’t mean he’s bad. You oughta be grateful someone’s willin’ to help. The weeds were up to my knees out there.”

You gritted your teeth. Tried to keep your voice soft.

“What’d he look like?”

She thought on it.

“White boy. A little short. Lean, too. Pale as could be, no wonder he doesn’t like the sun. He’s got the sweetest face. Oh, and you should hear his accent. It’s so silly! He’s not a talker, but real polite. His name was... Remmick.”

You didn’t say a word.

Ran out the back door so fast you almost left your shoes behind.

And there he was.

Right outside the fence, crouched low by the overgrown roses, a pair of gardening gloves tugged tight over his hands.

Remmick.

He looked up like he didn’t recognize you.

Like you were just some stranger walking out into the yard.

And then he smiled.

God, that smile.

Soft. Gentle. Like sunlight on water. Like apology in the shape of a man.

You wanted to claw it off his face.

But your mother was at the screen door already, waving at him.

“He’s gonna finish up the hedges,” she called. “Ain’t that kind of him?”

“Real kind,” you murmured, eyes locked on him like you could peel him open with your gaze.

He dipped his head—humble, almost bashful—and gave you a nod.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because you saw it.

The glint in his eye.

The curl of his fingers around the shears a little too tight.

The way his gaze flicked back to your mother just long enough to remind you that he knew.

Knew who she was.

Knew where you lived.

Knew how to worm his way into her soft spots, the same way he’d been trying to worm into yours for months now.

And you couldn’t say anything.

Couldn’t call him out.

Not without seeming crazy.

Not without hurting the woman who still smiled when strangers offered help, who still believed there were good men just walking the streets, who still thought angels could come in the form of a neighbor with strong arms and nice teeth.

So you stood there.

You watched him trim the hedges.

You watched your mother bring him lemonade.

You watched him wave goodbye and promise to stop by again tomorrow if the weather held.

And when he looked at you—just for a second—he smiled again.

Not sweet this time.

Not bashful.

Just knowing.

Like he’d already won.

A week passed, and with it, your sense of control.

It started small. It always did.

Remmick became a fixture.

He came by each morning just before sunrise, long before you woke, and stayed through the overcast days. Always outside. Always busy.

If he wasn’t mending the fence, he was hauling brush or tending to the many, many gardens he’d set up. One morning, you caught him beneath the house, dragging out years of junk like it was his duty—like he belonged there, under your home, under your skin.

Your mother fed him like a stray.

Brought him biscuits and bacon wrapped in a dish towel. Let him take water from the pump, even gave him a chipped mug to keep so he wouldn’t have to drink from his hands. You never saw her treat anyone like that before. Not the neighbors. Not her own family.

Just him.

Remmick never took more than he was given. He always smiled, always thanked her with that soft lilt in his voice—like honey caught on something colder underneath. You saw it clearer every day. The way he shifted when she wasn’t looking. The way his posture changed when it was just the two of you in the same breath of space.

He started speaking more.

To you, not her.

Small things, tossed off like threadbare compliments.

“Mornin’. Pretty out today, ain’t it?”

“Must be hard carryin’ all that weight in yer shoulders. Want help with the bags?”

“Y’look tired. Ya sleepin’ alright?”

You ignored him the first time.

The second, you muttered something sharp, just enough to sting.

The third, he got bold.

Tried brushing past you in the backyard, even though there was plenty of space. His hand didn’t just graze your side—it pressed, firm at your hips, fingers splayed like he had every right. For a split second, he dipped lower, just enough to make your skin crawl.

You spun so fast he nearly lost his footing, but he only chuckled, soft and low.

“Yer awful jumpy.”

“You’re awful close.”

He lifted both hands like a preacher at the altar, all innocence and soft retreat. Didn’t matter. You still went to bed that night with your dresser shoved against the door.

Now it was Friday.

Too long since he first walked into your mother’s good graces with dirt on his knees and a saint’s smile. The sky hung low that morning, heavy and gray. Rain tapped soft against the awning, not quite steady—more a hush than a downpour.

The kitchen was dim but warm, lit gold by the bulb above the stove. Your mother stood at the sink, wrist-deep in suds, humming something low and wordless while the faucet ran. Steam curled from the dishwater. Her breath fogged the glass when she leaned toward it, squinting through the haze to watch him work.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight.

Remmick was out back again, kneeling by the raised beds he’d built himself. From the window, you could see him—shirt rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening the collar, hair damp against his temples. He looked up at the glass like he felt her gaze, and when he smiled and waved, your mama gave a little wave back with the sponge still in hand.

“Lord, he’s somethin’,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Boy works like he’s got a home here.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the way his hand settled at his waist. Right over the spot where he’d touched you.

“Mama,” you said, quiet but tight. “Don’t it strike you as strange?”

She blinked at you, then returned her attention to the dishes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You shifted your weight. Bit back the worst of it. “What business does a white man like him have hangin’ around here every day? Doing yard work? Building things for free? Doesn’t that sound off to you?”

She sighed, more tired than annoyed, but not without edge.

“You’re startin’ to sound like your auntie.”

You frowned. “I’m bein’ serious.”

“So am I,” she said, rinsing a plate with sharp swipes. “You think I don’t notice the way you watch him? The way you stiffen when he comes near?”

“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she went on. “Not once. Been nothin’ but respectful to me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look me over. Doesn’t even take his eyes off the dirt when I’m speakin’. That’s rare, baby. I don’t care what color a man is—when you get kindness that steady, you don’t spit on it.”

You stared at the counter, jaw clenched. The hum of the faucet suddenly felt too loud.

“He feels wrong.” you whispered.

“Maybe you just ain’t used to good things.”

The words cracked through the quiet like a snapped branch. You looked up fast, but she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were soft, sad even, a little damp from the heat curling off the dishwater.

“It’s okay to be suspicious. I taught you that. Taught you to keep your guard up. This world doesn’t love girls like us.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit. “But if all we do is wait for things to go bad, we’re gonna miss when they’re actually good. And he’s been good.”

You almost told her then.

Almost grabbed her by the shoulders and said it plain—he touches me when you’re not looking. He says things with his eyes that I don’t like. He’s not here for you, Mama. He’s here for me.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d already tried convincing her, and all it did was make her dig in her heels.

At least now, he stayed outside. That much you’d managed. No matter how she fussed or insisted he ought to come in for supper or take a break from the sun, you always found a way to stop it. Quick lies. Fabricated errands.

“He said he’d rather eat out back.”

“He’s got somethin’ to finish before the light fades.”

You were always watching.

Because you had to be.

Now, your mother dried her hands and gave you a gentle look—the kind she used when you were little, when you scraped your knees and wouldn’t stop crying.

“We’re allowed to have good things, baby,” she said. “Even here. Even now.”

You didn’t answer.

Just turned to the window and watched him crouch again, hands in the soil, head tilted low. He wasn’t waving this time.

He was staring.

And this time, he didn’t stop when you caught him.

It was only a matter of time before Remmick got tired of waiting.

You felt it before you saw it. A stillness in the wind. A shift in the birdsong. The way the air hung heavy, too warm for the hour, too silent for how bright the sun was burning overhead. Even your mother felt it—her hands moved slower over the fabric she was folding, her eyes flicking to the window again and again.

He didn’t come that morning.

Not at dawn. Not by nine. Not by lunch.

He never missed a morning.

Not once in that long, crawling week. No matter the heat or the rain, he always found something to do. Always had dirt under his nails and a tool in his hand. Always checked in with your mother like he cared—“drinkin’ enough water today, miss? y’shouldn’t be out in this sun too long”—like he belonged there in her routine, like he had the right to speak to her soft and sweet like the son she never had.

His absence brought silence.

Sweet, golden peace.

You sat on the back steps with a cool drink in your hand, listening to the cicadas buzz in the trees. No shadow shifting behind the fence. No footstep just out of view. No eyes crawling up your spine.

It was the first time in days you’d been able to breathe.

Mama, though—she kept checking the window. Wringing her hands on the dishtowel. Muttering little nothings like “maybe he’s sick,” or “he said he’d be painting the tool shed today, didn’t he?” Her voice never rose, but the worry pressed itself into every syllable.

Then the scream came.

It was low at first. Hoarse. Animal. Like something dying slow just out of sight.

You were halfway up from your seat when it rose into a full, guttural shriek that made your skin crawl and your mother’s head snap toward the front door.

She didn’t even hesitate, already running before you could turn around.

You followed, legs stiff with dread, stumbling down the hallway behind her. By the time you reached the porch, she was already down the steps and into the yard. And there he was.

Remmick.

Writhing on the gravel like he was on fire.

Because he was.

The sun clung to him like acid, his pale skin bubbling and blackening in streaks, peeling back in sick, wet curls as he thrashed. His mouth was open wide, teeth clenched hard, and that scream—God, that sound—didn’t stop. You could hear the sizzle, the meat of him cooking under the light.

You froze.

Your heart leapt, not in fear, but—

Relief.

He wasn’t invincible.

“Help me!” your mother cried, dropping to her knees beside him, trying to shield his body with her arms like she could block out the sun with her shadow. “Get him inside, now!”

“Mama, no—”

“NOW!” she snapped, and that was it.

No room to argue.

No space to resist.

You clenched your jaw, grabbed him beneath the shoulders with shaking hands, and started dragging. His shirt came away in your grip, damp with blood and something worse. His whole body shook. The smell was awful—burnt skin and smoke and sweat and the iron-thick stink of his ruin. You gagged once, but kept pulling. Your mother had his legs. Together, you got him to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.

And the moment you crossed the threshold—

He stopped screaming.

His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.

Because he was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

Like it had all been worth it.

Like you were the reward.

Your stomach flipped.

“Lay him down—careful, now, careful,” your mother barked, already dragging the cushions off the couch, already reaching for a towel to cover him with. “Get me the first aid kit. The big one. Under the bathroom sink.”

You hesitated.

“Go!”

You went.

But your hands trembled the whole time.

When you came back, she had a bowl of water ready, a stack of clean rags, bottles of aloe and burn salve and something else that smelled like alcohol. She worked like she’d done it a hundred times before, as though treating a man whose flesh melted under sunlight was no different than nursing a fever or bandaging a scraped knee.

You hovered by the doorway, clutching the kit like a lifeline.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “Hand me the salve.”

You moved toward them, each step heavier than the last. He was watching you. Of course he was. His eyes tracked you like a snake in the grass, lazy and slow and certain. One hand slipped from beneath the towel when you passed him the bottle.

Brushed your thigh.

Light. Deliberate.

You flinched so hard it nearly toppled the basin.

“Oh, stop bein’ dramatic,” your mother said, not even looking up. “He’s hurt. He ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

But he was.

You could feel it in your bones.

His fingers lingered every time you came near. When you handed her a rag, his knuckles brushed your wrist. When you brought over clean towels, his foot slid just close enough to touch yours. Always soft. Always gentle. Never enough to call out. Never enough to prove.

But you knew.

He was enjoying this.

Letting her see his ruin.

Letting you feel it.

You stood still, fists clenched at your sides, every part of you screaming to run—to scream yourself—but she looked so worried, so desperate to keep him breathing, and the only way to make sure she stayed safe was to play along.

So you passed the towels.

So you fetched the ice.

So you swallowed the bile rising in your throat every time he touched you.

And eventually, things calmed down.

The air settled. The heat broke. And the sun, as if it had seen what it had done and felt guilty for it, dipped below the trees earlier than you expected—leaving the house in the kind of dim amber that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Remmick sat upright now, stiff and still, perched in the worn armchair by the window like a doll someone had wrapped in gauze. His torso and arms were nearly mummified in clean white bandages, only his neck and the tops of his hands left bare. Every inch of him smelled like aloe and ash.

Your mother stood by his side, fretting with a teacup in her hands, eyes scanning him like she still couldn’t believe he was alive.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice low and hoarse but steady enough to carry. “Truly. For everything. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if y’all hadn’t found me when ya did.”

He turned his gaze to you as he spoke.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Your mother, of course, just waved off his words with a hand to her chest, her voice tender with concern.

“Oh, hush. We weren’t just gonna leave you out there to burn. What kind of people do you think we are?”

“The good kind,” he said, smiling gently, even through the cracks of pain. “That’s rare.”

You almost scoffed.

But then she said it.

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He blinked like it hadn’t occurred to him, like it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing with timing so precise it turned your stomach.

“Oh—Miss, I couldn’t. That’s too much. I’ll be fine once the pain goes away—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand already reaching to straighten the blanket tucked over his lap. “You need rest. Proper rest. Not curled up in somebody’s barn or huddled on a porch. You’re stayin’. No arguments.”

He gave a sheepish little smile.

“All right,” he murmured. “If y’sure.”

“I’m sure.” She turned to you then, unbothered, cheerful even. “Show him to the guest room, baby. Make sure the windows are shut.”

You froze.

Swallowed so hard it hurt.

Biting back what you wanted to say.

What you needed to say.

That he wasn’t helpless. That he was a liar. That she’d invited the devil straight into their home.

But you bit your tongue. Hard. Bit it until you tasted copper. Bit it because if you didn’t, she’d see it. She’d see the panic. She’d see you crack.

So you nodded.

Gestured with a tight jerk of your head.

“This way,” you muttered.

He stood slowly, stiff but sure-footed, bandages rustling with each step. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t let his fingers drift or graze. Just followed behind you quietly, the floor creaking soft beneath his feet.

At the doorway, you turned the knob and opened the door, the guest room dim and still and far too welcoming.

He didn’t cross the threshold just yet.

He looked at you.

Not smiling. Not scheming.

Just looking.

And when he spoke, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sat too close to sincere.

“Thank ya,” he said again. “Really.”

It landed differently this time.

Less like a trick. More like… a confession.

It made your chest tight.

Made something flicker, weak and unwanted, at the back of your ribs.

But you didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

You just stepped back, eyes flat, and shut the door.

And then you ran.

Not fast. Not loud. Just swift enough to let your hands tremble once you reached your room. Just quiet enough that your mother wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched as you closed your door, leaned against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.

Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Skin crawling.

You stayed there for a long while, listening to the creak of the hallway floorboards, the distant clatter of dishes in the sink, and the whisper of wind against the windows.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for the next move.

But eventually, you felt safe enough to sleep.

You woke with the weight of it already on your chest.

That sick, bloated heaviness of being watched.

It clung to your skin like heat, like sweat that hadn’t come from any dream. Your eyes blinked open into the dark, and even before you could move, before you could think or breathe or cry out—

You knew.

It was him.

The clock hadn’t chimed. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising. It couldn’t have been past four, the whole world still deep in its hush, but he was awake. He was here. You kept your eyes trained on the window, on the soft, pale square of moonlight pressed against the pane like a prayer. You didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t even blink.

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

Your throat felt sealed shut.

There were no footsteps. No breath. Not even the creak of a floorboard to warn you. But something shifted. The air itself felt startled. As though the house knew it too—he’s here—and recoiled.

The door opened.

You didn’t hear it.

You felt it.

The space behind you changed. The air moved, warm and sour with something that didn’t belong, and even though your back was turned, you could picture it perfectly. The door swinging inward with unnatural grace. The shadows folding back to let him through.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, watching.

You couldn’t tell for how long. It could’ve been seconds. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for your arms to numb beneath the pillow. Long enough for your heart to slam itself to pieces inside your chest. Long enough to know he was enjoying it.

And then—

He moved.

Silently.

Not walking. Not stepping.

Gliding.

Like something unbound by the rules that governed the rest of the world. You didn’t hear his weight shift. You didn’t hear the floor sigh. Just the soundless, aching knowledge that he was getting closer.

And closer.

And closer still.

And then—nothing.

Until the bed dipped.

So slight at first you almost thought it was your breath catching wrong. Then deeper, firmer. The mattress giving under a body that didn’t sound like it had one. Your spine stiffened, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets. You kept your eyes on the window. Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that.

The heat of him soaked into the room. Not warmth like a person. Warmth like breath in a crypt. Damp. Dense. Lingering.

And then he breathed.

Right against your shoulder.

A long, slow exhale, like he was savoring the shape of you beneath the sheet. His nose might’ve been inches from your skin. You didn’t dare flinch, though your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might vomit.

You wondered if your mama was still asleep down the hall.

You wondered what he’d do if you screamed.

You wondered how loud you’d have to be for someone—anyone—to hear.

But all those thoughts—every one of them—snapped like twigs under a boot the moment his hands moved.

One of them was already slipping beneath your nightgown, slow and certain, like he had every right. Like it was just something he did every night and you were just late to remember. The other moved to your chest—slow, deliberate—and cupped your breasts with such a terrifying familiarity it made your blood turn to ice.

You inhaled sharp, a scream already rising, raw and ragged, but before you could get it out—

His hand snapped up.

Covered your mouth in a single, practiced motion, calloused fingers pressing firm against your cheeks, his palm sealing the sound inside you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You froze.

He leaned in.

Close enough that you felt the smile before you saw it.

Close enough that his breath hit your ear, still thick with the smell of your mother’s tea and something far too close to blood.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ain’t no need t’be carryin’ on like that.”

You bucked once—jerked hard—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even raise his voice. His grip didn’t waver. The hand under your gown simply kept climbing. Past your thigh. Your hip. Stopping at the soft of your stomach like he was praying over you.

“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, forehead pressing to your temple now, his voice pouring down your spine like molasses. “Waitin’ so damn long. Y’don’t even know, do ya?”

You tried to scream again, a muffled shriek choked back by his palm. He chuckled. God, he laughed—low and lazy like it thrilled him, like your panic was his favorite lullaby.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ya been mine.”

His nose dragged along your cheek, slow as sin. His thumb found your jaw, pried it down just enough to make you feel helpless, open.

“Was mine the minute you saw them flowers,” he went on, voice deepening, almost cutting. “Knew it then. Knew ya felt it. Y’ain’t never looked at nobody else the way you looked at me. Not once.”

His hand under your gown was moving again, lower this time, but not hurried. Not frenzied. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought you ought to thank him for it.

“Y’don’t gotta act scared,” he said, and there was real pity in his voice now—something soft and condescending. “I know what ya been dreamin’ about. The way ya stare at me when y’think I ain’t lookin’. The way ya breathe when I walk past. Y’think I don’t smell that on ya?”

He pressed his face to your neck. Inhaled deep.

“I know ya,” he whispered. “Better than anybody.”

You whimpered—high, panicked—and he shushed you again, slower this time. Soothed his hand over your cheek like you were breakable and beloved all at once.

“No one else gets to touch ya like this,” he murmured, the words dragging wet against your skin. “Ain’t nobody else that deserves to.”

The hand between your legs slipped beneath your panties with a slow, sick grace—fingers sliding straight to your soaked folds, rubbing over them in lazy strokes.

“Ya feel that?” he asked, the growing smile present in his tone. “That’s how I know. Ya say y’don’t want it, but yer body don’t lie, sweetheart. Never has.”

You choked on a sob beneath his hand.

“I been patient,” he offered, like it meant something. “So, so patient. Sat out in the rain for you. Burned for you. You think I don’t deserve a little sweetness after all that?”

His mouth brushed your ear. Lips soft. Voice breaking open into something more desperate.

“You owe me.”

You bucked again. Harder.

Every fiber in you twisted toward the door, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn’t here—beneath him, beside him. Your hips shifted with sharp panic, legs kicking, your whole body writhing like it could shake him off if only you could move fast enough.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let you squirm beneath him like it amused him.

“That’s enough of that now,” he said. “Y’can give it sweet, or I can take it rough. Don’t make me choose, sugar.”

His voice—so soft, so measured—broke you more than his grip. It was the way he said you can give, like this was still yours to offer. Like he hadn’t already peeled your control off in layers and folded it into his pocket.

You twisted again anyway, but this time, he caught your wrists. Pinned them easy. His strength didn’t show in his arms—it showed in his patience, in the lazy drag of his breath against your cheek, in the way he settled over you like weight, like heat, like ruin.

His head dipped lower, breath hot against your jaw. “Y’think ya can lie to me? Lie to yerself? Yer drippin’ want all over these sheets, darlin’.”

You sobbed. Quiet. Helpless.

He chuckled again, deep and fond.

“Bless yer heart,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ thissus about choice.”

His hands dragged down—slow, so slow—settling at your hips like he could feel your heartbeat thudding through the bone. His fingers twitched. Adjusted. Pressed.

And you flinched again.

“Mm-mm,” he tutted. “You act like I’m doin’ you harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault you didn’t know what walked through.”

He shifted behind you, breath dragging ragged across your neck now, his hand sliding higher—hovering just beneath your chin.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Open that mouth, darlin’. You know what I want.”

You clenched your jaw.

Hard.

His breath stilled.

Then cooled.

Then turned mean.

“Oh,” he said, soft with danger. “Yer playin’ coy now...”

His fingers pressed firmer against your chin.

“Y’know,” he went on, voice shifting to something quiet and thoughtful and casual. “I reckon if your mama walked in right now, saw her baby girl laid out like this—pantin’, sweatin’, shakin’ under me—”

You made a choked, guttural noise.

“—well, I’d have to kill her.”

He said it like a shrug.

Like a truth.

“Not ‘cause I want to. Wouldn’t be personal. But can’t have her knowin’. Can’t have her ruinin’ what we got here.”

You sobbed, letting your mouth fall open.

Just enough.

Just barely.

“There’s my girl.”

Two fingers pressed against your lips.

He didn’t shove. He waited. Waited until you gave a little more. Until your lips parted around them like instinct, like defeat.

He pushed in. Slow. Deeper.

Further.

You gagged.

He cooed.

“Shhh, now. Relax that throat,” he whispered, voice dipping low again, syrup-thick. “Gonna be puttin’ that pretty mouth to good use real soon.”

The room swam.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

And still, he smiled.

That same awful, patient smile. The kind that didn’t need teeth to be cruel. The kind that knew you. That had waited for you. That had earned this.

“You make a mess of things, y’know that?” he murmured, slipping his fingers free from your mouth—slick and shining in the dark. He dragged them down slow, trailing your chin, your throat, your sternum—like you were something he built. Something he owned.

His hand found your hips again.

Then lower.

And lower.

You felt him part you with practiced ease—no hesitation, no tenderness—and the sound he made when his fingers met your folds again was nothing short of triumphant.

“Well now,” he breathed, almost laughing. “All this trouble ya give me, all that hollerin’—and look at ya.”

His fingers moved, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make you seize up from the inside out.

“Drippin’ like honey in July.”

You shuddered.

Not from pleasure.

From shame. From helplessness. From the way he moaned at the feel of you, low and giddy and proud like he’d won something sacred.

“All them nasty little things y’said. All that runnin’. All that fightin’ me.”

He curled his fingers inside you.

You choked on a gasp.

“And here ya are,” he whispered, dragging his tongue against your ear. “Soakin’ my fingers like a bitch in heat.”

“Yer mouth says no, but this sweet little thing here?”

He fucked his fingers harder.

You bit back a sob.

“This part knows. Knows what she wants. Knows who she belongs to.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and unrelenting, fucking you on his hand like you were something empty he meant to fill. Every drag of his fingers was followed by his voice against your cheek.

“Gonna make y’come on my fingers, sugar. Gonna make ya fall apart just right. You’ll love it. You will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all you got left is me.”

Then he added a third.

No warning.

No gentleness.

Just the hot, sharp stretch of it forcing you wider, making your back arch and your breath stutter out of your lungs.

“There she is,” he said, voice gone breathless with awe. “Takin’ it like y’were made for me.”

And you couldn’t stop the tears now.

Couldn’t stop the way your body betrayed you, over and over again, no matter how hard your mind screamed.

He leaned in closer.

Kissed the corner of your wet, trembling eye.

“Don’t cry, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’ll be screamin’ for more soon enough.”

But it wasn’t the words that broke you.

It was the sound of them.

Because he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t give you even a second to breathe, to blink, to vanish inside yourself. He didn’t let you have silence—not even that. Not the last fragile scrap of dignity you’d tried to keep folded between your ribs.

His mouth never left your ear.

If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears.

His voice was everywhere. His hands, his mouth—him—filling the room, filling you, dragging you to a peak you clawed to resist. But your body had already betrayed you, your muscles tightening around his fingers like they needed him, like you wanted this.

You didn’t.

You didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the sharp, harrowing bloom of pleasure as your climax hit, ripping through you like lightning in a bottle.

And though you clenched your teeth, though you bit your tongue till you tasted blood—

A sound escaped.

Just a whimper. A choked little moan. Barely a breath.

But Remmick caught it.

“Ohhh,” he purred, triumphant. “There she is. Knew ya’d sing for me eventually, darlin’.”

His fingers slid out slow, glistening in the half-light, and he moaned again, louder this time—for your benefit. His tongue flicked out, licking at his knuckles, then dragging between each digit like a starving man savoring a feast.

He slurped. Loud. Deliberate.

A wet, obscene sound that filled the air and made your stomach twist.

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.” he murmured, licking the last of you from his fingers like a dog cleaning bone.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.

His chest pressed to yours, hips pinning your spent thighs apart, his breath gone ragged and too fast, too hot against your throat. You tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.

Then you saw his face.

Your heart dropped.

His eyes were near colorless now—bleached out, drained of anything human. Only a single, glowing dot of red burned in the center of each pupil, pulsing like fire in the dark.

And his mouth—God.

His fangs bared wide, lips split in a snarl, froth at the corners. He was drooling, shameless and bestial, saliva falling in thick, stringy ropes onto your chest, your stomach. Pooling in your navel. Smearing down the curve of your belly with every panting breath.

“Look at ya,” he rasped, voice full of awe and hunger. “All soft and shakin’ for me.”

He ripped off your nightgown like it was paper, shredding it in one swift motion until it hung in tatters beneath your back. Cold air met bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of him. He pressed in closer, the head of him nudging against your entrance, greedy and pulsing and there.

“This is mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice full of some manic, devotional tremor. “All this—you—it’s all for me. All this waitin’, all this work, all this cravin’—worth every second.”

He lined himself up, hand shaking, mouth slick and dripping.

“Gonna split ya open, sugar,” he breathed. “Gonna fill y’up ’til you forget who you ever were without me.”

And he did.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease you in. Just thrust—hard, deep, to the hilt—without warning, without kindness, without a single goddamn thought for your whimpering body’s limits.

The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp, a cry caught on your tongue that would’ve broken every window in the house had he not slapped a hand over your mouth and held it there.

Too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

You thrashed under him, body trying to squirm away from the stretch, the pain, the hot-sharp intrusion that burned through your gut like an inferno. He was bigger than you could bear, and he gave you no chance to adjust, no moment to breathe—just the deep, full pressure of him inside you, grinding bone against nerve until your legs spasmed and your head kicked back into the mattress.

And still he groaned.

Loved it.

“Fuck, yer tight,” he hissed, his breath shuddering out against your ear as his hips ground forward again, grinding at the very edge of cruel. “Like y’was built for me.”

He stilled a moment, just long enough for you to hope—just long enough for your body to start trembling toward that desperate reprieve.

He rocked into you slow. Once. Twice.

A lie.

Then he started to move in earnest—snapping his hips into you, one after another, hard and fast and mindless, losing himself in the wet clench of your cunt. His hand stayed locked over your mouth, muffling every sob, every scream, every choking little sound your body couldn’t stop from making.

He growled with every thrust.

Slick filled the air—his, yours, spit and sweat and drool all dripping down like rain. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed through the room, lewd and obscene, shaking the bedframe with every brutal stroke.

“Oh, listen to ya,” he rasped, pulling his hand away just long enough to let your broken voice slip through. “Cryin’ so pretty. Y’hear yerself, sugar?”

You did. That was the worst part. You could hear it—ragged and high-pitched and shameful. The kind of sound a body made when it was unraveling.

He leaned in.

Licked the tears off your cheek, lingering as if he was savoring the taste.

“Keep screamin’, baby girl,” he grinned against your skin, voice breaking with delight. “Wake the fuckin’ house.”

His hand slipped down again, caught your jaw, forced your mouth open as his tongue shoved its way inside—wet and invasive, tasting your throat like he meant to lay claim to your very breath. You choked against it, but he didn’t care. He devoured you like you were his last meal, grinding against you harder, faster, tearing groans from his own chest like he couldn’t help himself.

“Think yer mama can hear us?” he whispered when he finally pulled back, voice thick with spit and pride. “Think she’s sittin’ up in bed right now, wonderin’ what kinda sounds her little girl makes when she’s gettin’ her brains fucked out?”

You gagged.

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t mind an audience, if I’m honest,” he said, tone filthy with delight. “Wouldn’t mind lettin’ her see what a mess y’make on my cock. Wouldn’t mind lookin’ her in the eye while I make ya come.”

You nearly vomited.

The sound that tore out of your throat was nothing human—high, broken, wet with bile—and he shuddered, hips stuttering from the sheer joy of it.

He dragged his fangs down your shoulder, testing just how hard he could press before drawing blood. “Ya feel that? How yer clenchin’ on me now? Yer body’s greedy. Wants every inch. Don’t matter what that mouth says—this pussy knows who owns her.”

He snapped his hips again, harder this time—so hard your spine arched off the mattress, your heels dug into the sheets, your hands grasping for anything solid.

He gave you nothing.

Not reprieve.

Not mercy.

Only the low, maddened hum of his voice and the hot, relentless slam of him inside you.

“This is mine,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of it. Every breath. Every sob. Every fuckin’ pulse of this sweet little hole. Say it. Say it’s mine.”

You couldn’t.

So he said it for you.

Again. And again. And again.

Fucking it into you like gospel. Breaking you open with every syllable.

Then his hand found your throat like it was always meant to be there.

No warning.

No question.

Just the sudden press of calloused fingers around the column of your neck, his palm hot and unforgiving. Not squeezing yet—just holding, like he was weighing something. Like he was testing the shape of you in his grip.

Then pressure.

Steady. Crushing.

Your mouth fell open on instinct, a gasp caught somewhere between shock and submission—and that made him grin.

“God, yer pretty like this,” he rasped, voice soaked in filth. “Eyes all wide. Mouth all quiet. S’like ya finally learned yer place.”

Stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his wrist without meaning to, hips twitching under his weight as he thrust deeper, harder, choking the sound from your throat like it thrilled him.

“Keep squeezin’,” he groaned. “God, ya feel divine when yer scared.”

And when your vision blurred, when your body went taut and fluttered around him—he loosened his grip just enough to let the air rush back in.

“Atta girl.”

He was close now.

You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, rhythm faltering—messier now, more desperate, like something inside him had broken loose and was tearing its way out.

“Fuck, fuck—darlin’—” he gasped, head falling to your shoulder as his thrusts grew frantic. “Y’feel that? Y’feel me throbbin’ in ya?”

You tried to answer, or maybe you tried to breathe, but neither came out right.

There was too much.

Too much of him, too much of this, of the thick, obscene drag of his cock in your aching cunt and the sound of it—slick and loud and soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he just kept talking.

“Gonna fill ya up,” he breathed, near mindless now. “Gonna knock ya up proper, sugar. Gonna watch ya swell with it—my baby. Keep y’like that. Forever.”

Your breath caught.

Your pulse spiked.

His words came like a punch to the chest, like a hand around your throat you hadn’t seen coming. Your legs tensed, body stiffening beneath him, but it only made him groan—low and guttural—like your panic excited him, like it drove him further off the edge.

“Don’t run,” he panted, licking at your throat, your cheek, your temple, leaving your skin sticky with spit. “Don’t fight me now, girl—y’already said yes. Ya begged for this. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for.”

You hadn’t.

Not this.

But he kept rutting into you like a man possessed, every thrust brutal with intention, like he could mold your insides to fit him. Brand you from within.

“Gonna keep ya all barefoot and full,” he growled, mouth dragging to your ear again. “Wanna see ya waddle through this house with my kid in your belly, cryin’ every night ’cause yer so fuckin’ needy for me. That sound good to ya?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

But he only smiled and laughed, delighted.

“Y’don’t gotta answer,” he whispered, shoving his cock deeper, grunting when your body gave another helpless clench. “Yer pussy already did.”

You gasped, shuddering beneath him, helpless to stop the tears that slipped from your lashes. You were full—so full it felt like your ribs would crack from the pressure, your lungs too small to carry your fear. Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head, bearing his weight over you like a coffin lid.

He licked a tear from your jaw, shivering with something close to ecstasy.

“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. Y’feel that? Y’feel it buildin’?”

You did.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, trembling like he was on fire from the inside out, like he might burst.

And when he did—

God, when he did—

He didn’t stop.

Even after his body convulsed, even after that guttural groan tore from the depths of his chest and his cock pulsed violently inside you—he didn’t pull out. He only buried himself deeper, impossibly deep, like he could carve out your very soul with the head of it, like he could scrape you clean from the inside and replace it all with him.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

You felt it.

Every twitch.

Every throb.

Every thick, molten spill of him pouring into your womb like it was where he’d always belonged. You could feel the warmth of it pooling, the unnatural weight of it, like your body already knew it wouldn’t be able to hold it all.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t so much as flinch.

His cock stayed nestled deep, buried to the root, like he wanted to seal himself inside you.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not under his weight, not under his heat. Not under the reality of it.

Remmick’s chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat. His breath came out in ragged little pants, fanning hot across your throat as he shifted only to press deeper—like he thought there might still be some hollow pocket inside you that hadn’t been claimed yet.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, broken by exhaustion and euphoria both.

“I know ya love me,” he murmured, words warm and wet against your jaw. “Even if y’don’t know it yet.”

You turned your face away.

But he only nuzzled closer, lips brushing your temple, sticky strands of his hair clinging to your skin like spiderwebs.

“S’okay,” he breathed. “You’ll see. Gonna be the perfect little family, you ’n me.”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shove him off, tear him limb from limb, claw your own skin off to erase the sensation of him still inside you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even move. He had you pinned—physically, yes, but worse than that, he had you trapped.

You were full of him now.

And you knew—somewhere, deep in your bones, in the trembling, ruined edges of your mind—you always would be.

Remmick tilted your chin back and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t even hungry.

It was complete. The kind of kiss you’d give a corpse before closing the casket, sealing it with a promise that no one else would ever touch what was inside. It consumed you. Smothered you. Left no oxygen in your lungs, no room for thought.

And then—

He sighed.

Satisfied.

Collapsed right onto your chest, cheek nestled over your hammering heart like it soothed him to hear it fight.

His cock softened inside you slowly, twitching one last time before going still. The slick warmth of his come leaked out in slow pulses, smearing your thighs and soaking the sheets, a filthy halo beneath your hips.

He was asleep before you could say anything.

Before you could even process it.

Just—gone.

Heavy and warm and content, like he’d just had a long bath. Like he hadn’t just hollowed you out and crawled inside.

You stared up at the ceiling.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t even try to move.

The tears came quietly—just a shimmer, at first. A sting. Then a drop. Then another. Until they streamed down the sides of your face into your hair, salt soaking the pillow beneath you while your body lay frozen, trembling beneath his deadweight.

And that ceiling…

You swore it tilted.

That old plaster warped like heat mirage, curling in on itself. Suffocating. Crooked.

This was your life now.

This room.

This bed.

This man.

You would never be alone again.

You would never be free again.

And all you could do was sob, soundless, eyes wide to that sagging, silent ceiling—while Remmick snored soft against your chest, dreaming of forever.

[abbessofflesh]

toxic!possessive!remmick hcs                           nsfw 18+

#NAV.ᐟ jack o’connell mlist

toxic!possessive remmick who gets furious when you fight with him. his voice goes low—gritted teeth, jaw locked, pacing like he’s trying not to put a fist through the wall.             “go on, keep talkin’. keep pushin’. you wanna scream at me? then do it while I’m inside you.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who whispers marriage like a threat, not a promise.             “you think this is just fuckin’? no, sweetheart. this is the rest of your goddamn life.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who won’t let go after sex. ever. you try to get up, clean off, breathe—and he drags you right back into his chest. arms tight. legs locked around yours.             “nah. stay right here. stay on me. where you belong. ya try to leave again and I swear to god I’ll make you fuckin’ crawl back.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who gets off on the idea of someone else hearing you scream his name through the wall.             “moan louder, baby. c’mon. don’t you want ‘em to know who fucks you right?”

toxic!possessive!remmick who when you hit below the belt, say something about how he needs you—and that’s when he loses it, slams you against the counter, pulls your panties aside, and growls:             “yeah, I need you. so fuckin’ bad I’d ruin us both for a taste. let me show you just how much.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who grins when you call him crazy.             “yeah? good. ‘cause sane men don’t love like this. sane men don’t fuck you like they’re tryin’ to carve their name into your goddamn bones.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who tells you everything he does is for you. the violence. the lies. the blood. he says it soft, hands cradling your face after a fight.           “you think I like hurtin’ people? no. but i will. i’ll do it for you every fuckin’ time. and I won’t lose sleep.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who makes you say you love him during sex. over and over.          “tell me you love me. louder. louder. wanna hear you say it while I’m inside you. wanna die with that sound in my fuckin’ ears.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who tells you no one will ever love you like this—like he does. not because he’s insecure, but because he knows it’s true.         “ain’t a man alive who’ll bleed for you like I will. ain’t a man alive who’d die smilin’ with your cunt on his tongue.”

toxic!possessive!remmick who ties your wrists with his belt not just to fuck you, but to prove a point. you’re not leaving. you can’t. you won’t.         “you fight like you mean it, baby. but you fuck like you need me more than air. so which one is it? huh?”

whoops. my finger slipped here, mb.

[abbessofflesh]

𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴇʟɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ — ᴀ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀɪɴᴄɪᴘʟᴇꜱ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀᴜ, ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍɪᴄ ᴏᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ (ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀᴛʏ), ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴜᴛʜᴀɴᴀꜱɪᴀ, ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ, ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ/ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ/ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘋𝘰𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴!

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 13,2ᴋ

In a world where night creature adoption centers dotted every city block like pet shops once had, it had become almost unusual not to own one. Whether it was a shade for companionship, a domesticated kelpie as a therapy creature, or a vampire—rare—nightlings were everywhere. They had been folded into daily life, marketed as living luxuries, symbols of status and style. You couldn’t walk three blocks without seeing someone cooing over their duskbeast or posing their feathered hellcat for likes on Instagram.

For decades, night creatures were hunted on sight. No trials, no containment—just cold, clinical extermination. Vampires were the most visible, but they weren’t alone. Kelpies drowned in dry tanks. Fairies were burned to ash in “containment fires.” Merrows were dissected for study under the flickering lights of whitewashed labs.

It was done under the guise of safety. Public protection. Clean streets and peaceful nights.

But people watched. And people remembered.

It started with the footage.

Blurry, shaky clips taken on contraband phones. Videos of people laughing as a werewolf hissed and begged. Images of black bags dragged into trucks. The limp hand of a nightborn child, fingers twitching with the last of its stolen strength.

They called it evidence. The government called it fabricated.

The protests started small—signs painted on old bedsheets, marches in the dead hours, flowers left on government steps. “They Bleed. We See.” but the movement grew faster than expected.

The government could no longer call it fringe hysteria, they had to call it a crisis.

But they didn’t want to concede. Not fully. They didn’t want to admit they’d been wrong.

So they compromised.

They stopped the killings.

Not because they saw personhood but because they saw profit.

Sanctioned containment was proposed not as mercy, but as an “ethical, manageable alternative to wasteful culling.” The motion passed in the midnight hours, slipped beneath the noise of another budget bill.

The bill wasn’t called the Night Creature Protection Act.

It was called the Domestic Integration Reform Initiative.

DIRI.

Ownership was encouraged, even expected—especially in cities where the rehoming shelters were “overburdened” and the euthanasia rate for unadoptables hovered quietly above 38% and so it all began.

But you didn’t want one.

Not a vampire. Not a fairies. Not a werewolf, not a dreamhound, not a thing that could look at you and feel and still not be considered a person.

So you made yourself a promise.

No night creature. Ever.

No matter how lonely you got. No matter how beautiful they were. No matter how often your friends said you’d be such a good match for a nervous one.

No.

You didn’t want obedience, you wanted choice.

You wanted to look someone in the eyes and know they were staying because they wanted to.

You had stuck to that.

For years.

Until you met Remmick.

The road to the adoption shelter cut through the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete split in long, pale veins and the warehouses loomed like sleeping giants. Chain-link fences rimmed the road in either direction, hung with tattered warning signs and the quiet menace of barbed wire. Steam leaked from the gutters, pooling low and slow around the tires of passing cars like smoke that had nowhere left to rise.

You rode in silence, watching the landscape slide by, as your friend hummed under her breath in the driver’s seat. Her scarf was slung loose around her neck, fluttering when the breeze slipped through the open window.

She was smiling, excited. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel as she navigated the turns, already imagining the collar she’d pick out, the bed she’d set up, the first photo she’d post online with a caption like “Welcome to the family.”

You stared out at the ruins of the old freight yards, where the government once processed surplus creatures for destruction—before legislation had shifted, before public outrage had spilled loud enough across newsfeeds and city halls to change the system.

Your friend was one of the good ones, you reminded yourself.

Her family had marched for nightkind rights during the following round of protests. She had stood beside you at rallies. Her father had donated to shadow-lawyers trying to push protection bills through the House.

But now, here she was—smiling as she pulled into the shelter lot, ready to adopt her second creature, like she was visiting a petting zoo.

“You really need another one?” you asked, eyes on the road. Your voice was flat, tired before the conversation even began. “What about the kelpie one?”

She sighed. “My brother wanted one. But he’s too young, and I want him to take care of something that’s… safe. Something trained. Predictable. So I give it to him.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out the window, watching the different types of creatures that were dragged around the city tied to their obligatory collars and harnesses.

“And do you seriously need one?” you said it in an almost reproachful tone of voice, even though you didn't mean to but she caught it anyway and looked at you askance.

“You know I’m not like that,” she said softly. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know my family fought for them. They’re safe because they serve.”

The truth hung between you like fog in the car.

She was right. They’d been spared mass extermination only by offering usefulness in return.

As the car rolled to a stop, you caught sight of the shelter building ahead: squat and windowless, flanked by metal fencing and dead trees. A faded sign out front read:

NIGHTKIND INTAKE & ADOPTION CENTER – UNIT 7

The letters were plain. Official. Cold.

The kind of wording that left no room for mercy.

You stared at the sign, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

Your friend cut the engine and glanced over. “You sure you want to come in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your hand was already on the door handle.

“I’m sure,” you said quietly, entering in the shop before her.

The creatures shelter smelled like antiseptic and something worse—like despair that had dried into the grout. Like bleach failing to hide the scent of fear. It was clean, yes, but in that too-quiet, state-funded way—where the color palette was limited to grays and yellows that used to be white, where every sound was swallowed by concrete walls and cheap, humming fluorescents overhead.

The kind of place where silence wasn’t restful. It was resigned.

Your friend didn’t seem to notice. She was radiant with excitement, practically floating beside you as the shelter clerk led you both through the first corridor. Her coat flared at her hips, stylish and bright against the monotony, and her boots clacked like punctuation against the linoleum floor. She was already talking about names.

You watched as she leaned in closer to the clerk, nodding enthusiastically as he launched into a lazy explanation about temperament ranges and adjustment phases. He looked bored. She looked enraptured.

“Now,” the clerk said with a grunt, stopping at a wide door, “the real stuff’s in the back.”

The lock disengaged with a mechanical clunk. The door hissed open.

Your friend lit up. She practically skipped ahead, her heels clicking against the floor like applause. Her silk scarf fluttered behind her, slipping from her shoulders as she disappeared around the corner.

You watched it float down near a cell in the middle of the corridor, totally forgotten.

“You coming?” she called, her voice light, sweet, unaware.

You sighed, moving forward beyond the door and entering the new wing. There was something heavier about this hallway. The quiet wasn’t sterile anymore—it was strained. Like the space itself had learned to brace.

You bent to pick up the scarf, its fabric whispering across the floor.

And then another hand reached for it.

A pale hand.

Too pale.

You froze.

The fingers were long, elegant in a strange, haunting way but covered in small sores. And when you looked up, you saw him.

He was crouched in the shadows of a side cell, where the corridor turned at a sharp angle. The bars cut harsh vertical lines across his face, but you could see him clearly enough. His hair was dark and matted. His face was like his hands, with scratches and cuts scattered here and there that were trying to heal. But it was his eyes that held you there.

Blue-grey. Bleached pale, like winter skies before snow.

They weren’t feral. They weren’t angry. They weren’t anything you expected.

They were… sad.

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you moved. The scarf lay limp between your hands, caught in the moment like a truce.

Then came the crack.

A flash of motion.

The clerk slammed his truncheon against the bars, the sound sharp and brutal. The vampire jerked back like he’d been struck, mouth parting just enough to flash two small, pitiful fangs.

He whimpered.

Not a snarl. Not a growl. Not even the sharp hiss they all expected from his kind. Just a soft, broken sound—like a wounded dog too scared to bare its teeth. It cracked something in you.

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, voice low, tight with something you didn’t want to name. You stood up without thinking, your body angling instinctively between the cell and the clerk like a barrier.

He looked at you with a scoff, as if you were the one being unreasonable.

“Trust me, this beast is unstable,” he said, lazily spinning the truncheon in one hand, like it was just another tool. “People keep bringing him back here after a week or two. Always angry. Always panicked. Bit a guy once just for trying to pet him days ago.”

He jerked his head toward the vampire, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the cell. There was barely any light back there—just the dim bleed of fluorescence from the hallway—but you could still see him.

Still watching.

He’d curled in on himself in a way that didn’t look defensive, just… small. His knees drawn to his chest. Shoulders bowed. Arms wrapped around himself like they were the only warmth he’d ever known. The long, tattered sleeves of his issued shirt had worn through at the cuffs, and his bare feet were pressed flat to the concrete, toes curled like he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stared, like he was bracing for the next blow—only it didn’t come from the truncheon this time.

It came from the clerk’s next words.

“Another few weeks and I’ll get him out of my way once and for all,” the man muttered, tired and unbothered, like it was just the weather or paperwork. He leaned against the cell, tapping the baton absently against the bars. “Useless stock like that? We can’t keep him forever. Not worth the space.”

Your blood ran cold.

Not adopted. Not rehabilitated. Not transferred.

They’ll end him.

Some quietly sanctioned protocol. A needle. A bolt gun. The kind of solution they saved for animals no one wanted.

Your friend called your name from the other end of the hallway. She’d picked a fairies already—a small, doll-like thing with green eyes and perfectly combed hair.

You turned back one last time.

He hadn’t moved.

Still curled against the wall. Still watching.

But now his eyes were different.

Not just sad.

Hopeful.

Like somehow, he knew you weren’t like the others. That you saw something—someone—underneath the filth and the hunger. The raw, trembling bones of a person no one else had bothered to look for.

You left with your friend. Her new pet levitating securely at her side, encased in a pink collar and leash.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The shelter was quieter the next evening.

It stood at the end of the street like a mausoleum waiting to be filled. No birdsong, no passing traffic—just the slow grind of your boots on frost-slick pavement and the low hum of distant machinery behind reinforced walls. The sign out front was the same as yesterday.

You had barely slept. You’d spent the night pacing your apartment, drowning in silence. Every room had felt too full and too empty all at once, like a life you’d half-stepped out of. The image of Remmick—curled in the back of his cell like something exiled from warmth—wouldn’t leave you.

Not his face. Not his eyes. That look—raw, trembling, and quietly hopeful—had followed you into your dreams. And when you woke to the first colorless light of morning, you already knew.

You couldn’t leave him there.

Not in that cage. Not with them.

The clerk at the front desk barely glanced at you as you stepped inside, his face lit with the glow of a cracked tablet screen. The front office smelled of sterile citrus and overheated plastic. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled voice called out a unit number, followed by the sharp click of boots on tile.

You cleared your throat. “I’m here for one of the nightkind. The one from Cell 17-B.”

The clerk sighed. “What for?”

You raised your eyebrow, your jaw clenched. “Adoption.”

He continued to stare at the tablet, looking perpetually bored. “Which breed?”

“Vampire. Dark-haired. Blue-grey eyes. Cell 17-B,” you repeated, harder.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then something colder settled in his expression as he looked up at you. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said flatly, “The biter?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He clicked his tongue and stood, muttering, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” before disappearing into the back.

You waited in the small metal chair beside the front desk. The air conditioning was too cold, the hum of fluorescent lights like a constant headache burrowed behind your eyes. A security camera in the corner buzzed faintly. Time moved differently here—thick, slow, and hard to swallow.

When the clerk returned, he had a clipboard in one hand and a data-slate in the other.

“Your name? We’ll assign him an owner record” he asked.

You gave it. He typed it in. The screen flickered blue for a moment, then green.

“You’ll need to acknowledge liability. He’s been flagged. Former owners returned him twice for aggression. You saw the notes yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Still want him?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you again then, really looked—like he was trying to gauge whether you were stupid, noble, or just hopelessly naïve. But he said nothing more. Just handed you the stylus.

You signed.

And the deal was done.

They made you wait in a different room—a release bay with heavy double doors and iron anchors built into the walls. The walls were gray, institutional, and bore the telltale scuff marks of boots and struggling creatures dragged in or out against their will.

When the door opened, it was not the creature who stepped through first, but two handlers in matte black uniforms. Between them, shackled at the wrists, bound in a collar and with a muzzle over his mouth, was the vampire.

Remmick, from what you read in his file.

His head was lowered, hair wet from you didn't know what. His posture was hunched, shoulders curled inward, as though bracing for a blow. He was thinner than you remembered—sunken in, fragile. His skin had the translucent quality of someone who had gone too long without nourishment, wounds that failed to heal properly.

But his eyes—

The moment they found you, everything changed.

They widened first in disbelief, then in something else—something too complicated to name. His lips parted, just barely, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t drawn air in hours.

You stepped forward. “Take those off.”

The handler frowned. “Protocol says he stays restrained until he’s secured on property. For your safety—”

“I don’t care about protocol. Take them off,” you said, louder.

There was a pause.

And then, wordlessly, one of the handlers knelt and undid the cuffs. The metal dropped from Remmick’s wrists with a soft clatter. The other loosened the muzzle, and it slid down his face like dead weight. The collar remained. They were not allowed to walk without it, or they would be considered "unowned."

You took a careful step forward, keeping your voice low.

“Remmick. That's your name, right?”

His head twitched slightly at the sound, as he recognised his name.

“Do you remember me? We saw each other briefly yesterday.”

No reaction. You were starting to get nervous. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no intention of leaving with you.

“Do you want to come home with me?” you asked.

That word—home—must have done something. His shoulders gave the smallest jerk, and his eyes narrowed, confused, as if trying to decode a word he’d never heard used without consequence. He blinked slowly, once.

Then, finally, he took a single step forward.

You didn’t reach for him. You just stood there, hands at your sides, letting him decide.

It was slow.

Tentative.

Like every motion cost him something.

But eventually, he crossed the last bit of space between you and you took the leash that was hanging from his collar and swinging in front of his body.

The walk out was slow. You kept your hand tight around the rope but you didn't pull or tighten it, you let Remmick decide the distance and pace at which to walk. He suddenly tensed up at the sound of a horn in the night. Every sound made him twitch. Every light made him glance over his shoulder. But he stayed beside you, clinging to his collar like a lifeline.

The front desk clerk didn’t say a word as you passed. But you saw the way he looked at Remmick—like something broken that should have stayed on the shelf.

You met his eyes.

And kept walking.

Outside, the cold air wrapped around you both like a sheet of glass. Your car waited at the curb. You opened the passenger door and helped Remmick in gently. He stared at the seat, then at you, as though unsure he was really allowed to sit.

“Go on,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

He settled in slowly, limbs still unsure. You closed the door after him, circled to the driver’s side, and got in.

You hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway, watching him.

But there was something about the way Remmick stood there—just inside your apartment, arms curled close to his chest, eyes wide as he took it all in like a wild animal unsure if the trap was hidden in the warmth.

His clothes hung off him in layers of gray and brown—threadbare fabric that clung like a second skin of dust. He smelled faintly of old concrete and damp metal. You didn’t say anything about it. You just smiled softly and said, “You must be freezing. Let me run you a bath.”

The water steamed as it filled the basin—an clawfoot tub tucked into your tiny bathroom, old porcelain but nice and clean. You added a handful of the nicer soap you’d been saving for yourself, watching bubbles bloom over the surface like fragile clouds. The steam fogged the mirror. It felt quiet in there. Safe.

You loved your bathroom. It was the one place where you could relax and leave your troubles at the door. You hoped Remmick felt the same.

You stepped from the bathroom and saw him standing in the hall, silver-eyed and hesitant. The guilt of his position prickled—somehow, you felt less human for seeing him so stripped of fear, so entire in his insecurity.

"Come." You called to him, waving a hand to inviting him closer.

He blinked, then walked slowly across the lacquered floor. 

When he reached the bathroom door and glimpsed the tub fully—steam rising like mist from a secret pond—he halted again. Regulators clicked in his mind. Hope, indecision, fear.

He cleared his throat, voice rough as gossamer. “…All of this—is it… for me?” His fingers brushed the rim of the tub.

You nodded. “Yes, of course.”

He stared at you. Then he asked, voice pointed at the bubble-laced water, thick with fragrance and light flicker, “How long can I stay?”

You blinked. “You mean...in the bath?”

But just nodded. He wasn’t looking at the water anymore. His eyes were on you now—direct, uncertain, fragile.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “…As long as you want.”

He blinked at that. Once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

Then he looked back at the bath. His hand lifted slowly—hesitating in the air like it was reaching into a memory—and he touched the rim of the tub, tracing the porcelain edge with his fingertips.

“Alright,” he said softly.

And then, without any preamble, he started to undress.

Right in front of you.

The motion wasn’t sultry. Wasn’t calculated. It was casual, automatic—like the idea of modesty didn’t register to him as something that applied. He pressed his thumbs into the waist of his pants, tugged them down inch by inch, exposing thighs pale as polished bone.

Your breath hitched when the room suddenly felt too small. Embarrassment flushed every inch of you. Your heart thundered. You bolted upright.

“There are towels… on the sink.” You coughed, voice tight, a little choked. “And, uh, soap’s already in, just—uh—take your time!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You backed out of the bathroom like it was on fire and shut the door with a little more force than you meant to.

Outside, your heartbeat was in your throat.

You leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.

It was fine. Totally fine. He didn’t mean anything by it. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.

You headed to your bedroom and grabbed the loose, comfortable clothes that your ex-boyfriend left at your place without ever coming to pick them up. You'd never felt like throwing them away, especially since if he ever knocked on your door again, you didn't want to tell him you'd thrown them away. At least they'd have a use now, even if only briefly.

The bathroom light glowed beneath the door, soft and golden. You’d given him time. Enough to sit, to soak, to breathe. Enough to warm the chill from his skin and loosen the weight in his bones.

But eventually, you needed to make sure he was alright.

You raised your hand to the door.

Knuckles hovered for just a moment. Then—gently—you knocked.

“Remmick?” you said, your voice low so it wouldn’t startle him. “Can I come in?”

There was a beat of silence. Then you heard the soft splash of water shift, a towel rustle on tile.

And then—his voice. Throaty. Thin.

“Of course.”

You opened the door gently.

Remmick was standing with a towel around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly now that it had been washed. He wasn’t looking at you directly—just standing there, uncertain, his hands gripping the towel too tightly. His collarbones jutted out like fragile sculpture, a faint bruise still visible beneath one. Steam clung to his skin like silk.

He was very frail; you could see the bones sticking out too far, and his skin was an ugly, faded color. He had probably not been properly nourished in months.

He cleared his throat to bring your attention back to his face, and you mentally slapped yourself for being so indiscreet in your analysis.

“No need to be askin' me for permission.”

You blinked.

A chill moved through you—not because of his words, but what lay beneath them. The quiet resignation in them. The learned pattern.

“…I belong to ya now,” he added, quieter.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t agree with the system. That he could choose to say no to anything that was being forced on him. That he wasn’t a slave. He was no longer human, but he was still a living being.

However, a speech like that could have thrown him into a crisis or pushed him toward behavior that would get him into trouble.

So you simply added:

“I will always ask your permission,” you said softly, stepping in with a folded bundle in your arms. “For anything involving you.”

He looked up at you then. The light caught his face at an angle that made his eyes look like bright rubies.

You offered the bundle out.

“Here,” you said. “Clean clothes. They’re probably a little big, but soft. Thought you’d be more comfortable for tonight.”

He hesitated for a long second—then reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt with awe. He stared at it in his hands like he didn’t quite understand what he was holding.

“There’s a hoodie in there too,” you added. “And tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it… we can go out. When the sun goes down.”

His eyes flicked up again.

You smiled gently.

“I thought we could go to one of the nice shops. You can try on anything you want. Choose what you like. It’s up to you.”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He stood there, half-dressed in steam and silence, holding soft cotton like it was treasure. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you—or didn’t believe you.

Then, finally, in a voice that cracked on the first word, he whispered:

“I can… choose?”

“Of course you can.”

Another pause.

“No one’s ever…” he began, but the words trailed off. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes glassing over—not with fear this time, but something closer to disbelief. Hope, maybe. Soft and shaking and half-buried.

His fingers dug into the hoodie at his chest. He looked down at it like he was afraid you can take it away from him at any moment. Take away that moment of happiness for your own personal enjoyment.

“I don’t really know what I fancy,” he said, almost apologetically. “Clothes, sure. I just… wore what they handed me. What they picked out.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you said.

He blinked.

You could see it in his eyes: the way the idea bloomed. Slowly, quietly. The way it tried to take root in soil that had never been made to grow anything. The shape of a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.

“Thank ya,” he said finally. Not performative. Not automatic. Just quiet. Real.

The first weeks Remmick spent in your home felt like living inside the slow thaw of an ancient winter. He moved quietly, like someone learning how not to disturb sunlight—careful around corners, lingering with purpose but not permanence. It was as though he was still bruised by the shape of captivity, carrying the echo of barred cells inside his bones, and every step he took beside you was a question: Am I allowed this?

He never asked for help, but soon enough he offered it. You’d wake in the morning to find the living room arranged: pillows fluffed, the coffee table wiped, dust erased from corners you hadn’t even bothered to see. Dishes cleaned before breakfast. Laundry taken in sets, towels folded and stacked neatly on a rack.

He never show off. But you could feel him: the way he hovered at the edge of chores, hesitant, not sure yet if it was his space. Eventually, he began to follow timid instructions—“If you’d like help, Remmick…”—and he nodded, like an apprentice afraid to claim the title, learning fast.

You still found him watching you when you weren’t looking. His eyes—those eyes of his, grey during the day, and carmine red at night—drifted from the hallway, peeking around doorframes or across the kitchen threshold as you moved about. Not because he distrusted you. Not in any way you’d ever make something for ill intent. But because he hadn’t been sure anyone was trustworthy before.

In those first days, his hunger stayed muted. You left blood packets outside his laundry room door like a ritual—gentle, hands gloved, voice soft: Here’s today’s pack. I’ll check back in a while. He never asked for more. He never even lingered at the door. He took it. Walked away. Waited.

Blood for him was life. A way of reconditioning a body that had known deprivation. You found him this way: perched on the corner of the bed after dinner, blood packet in hand, head bowed. Trying not to make the slightest noise.

Almost cute.

That afternoon, you came home with groceries, groceries for you, groceries for your evening at home, and within the crate, tucked under your arm, a fridge box for his blood sacs. You rested the box on the counter, half-inclined to set it aside and when you looked up you found him sitting on the other side of the counter.

His eyes darted toward the box in your hands. His nostrils flared, just a bit. A tiny betrayal of the need he was trying to suppress.

You lifted the sac with a gentle tilt of your hand. “You want another one?”

The question was casual. Offered like anything else you might ask a friend. But the moment it left your lips, his body tensed.

Remmick’s gaze dropped. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. Not directly. Slightly to the side of your face. A habit, you’d come to learn. A softened way of looking without confronting.

His voice came out quiet, dry with shame.

“I… I don’t wanna be a pain, ya know,” he said. It cracked partway through the sentence, just a tremor. His hands twisted in front of him, fingers digging nervously into the hem of his sleeves. “It’s grand by me. You’re already too kind. No need to be spendin' any more on me.”

He tried to smile after that, and it was the worst part of it all. That broken attempt at reassurance—at making you feel better for what he needed.

That smile, half-curled and tight at the corners, said more than the words had.

The bag in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve.

You set it down gently on the counter, your heart tightening in your chest. You took a small step toward him—not too fast, not too close—just enough that he could see you fully now, without obstruction. His breath caught slightly, a barely audible inhale, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to make.

“Remmick,” you said, softly, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “You’re not a bother. You’re not costing me anything that matters.”

He blinked, rapidly, like the words didn’t compute. His jaw worked—once, twice—as if he were trying to bite back a response before it escaped on instinct.

“I mean it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “If you’re hungry, you tell me. That’s not something you have to earn.”

His hands fidgeted again. A slow, unconscious gesture—you recognized it now. Like a tic he used to keep himself grounded when the emotions were too much to handle all at once. When shame wanted to eat through him faster than hunger ever could.

“I’m fine with less,” he murmured. “I can go a few days… or even weeks, sure. I’ve done it before. I just thought—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

You exhaled, slow and aching. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… used to people expecting you to apologize for being alive.”

That made him flinch. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But you saw it. A twitch at the edge of his eye. A small shift in his stance. The way he held himself tighter.

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe,” you said, “not to ration your comfort. You’re allowed to ask for more, Remmick. You’re allowed to want more.”

He stared at your hand. For a moment, you thought he might back away because of your proximity and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out the softest, weakest laugh you’d ever heard.

“That’s… really hard to believe,” he said. “But I’m givin' it a go.”

You nodded once. “That’s enough for me.”

And then you handed him the blood sac.

He took it this time.

Carefully. Reverently, almost. Like it was a gift he hadn’t known how to accept.

And when his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, cold and trembling, you didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze for a moment longer than before. To make him understand that you neither feared him nor disgusted him.

Then, you turned back to the fridge and started putting away the rest of the box like it was just another part of your day.

But in your peripheral vision, you saw him.

Still standing there. Still holding the sac. Still stunned, somehow, for your unusual behaviour.

From that day on, you offered aloud: “Do you want two or three tonight?” And he began answering: “Maybe three… if that’s okay.” And it always was. You made sure it was—tucking away guilt with each pack you placed, ensuring his body could begin to heal and finally breathe.

Remmick hadn't gotten physically close to you until that fateful night.

The hum of the TV filled the living room. You’d chosen something mindless—a late-night reality show with canned laughter and predictable drama, the kind of background noise that didn’t require your attention more than necessary.

Remmick sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, arms tucked in the pajamas he had chosen himself at the store under your constant urging. He had started sharing your space, becoming more verbally present. He was no longer just a presence, but also a companion. Sometimes he even made suggestions. Small ones, sure, but always made on his own initiative and with pleasure.

He especially loved playing and singing, so you bought him a banjo, which he strummed every now and then, writing down the lyrics and chords in his notebook.

But not tonight, tonight he seemed to want to share the evening of TV with you.

You were halfway through an episode when the camera panned across a couple on-screen, nestled in a corner of a nursery. A small baby curled between them, cheeks round and flushed. The father kissed the child’s head. The mother held them close. It was simple, mundane. Affection dressed in soft cotton and domestic warmth.

And beside you, something in Remmick shifted.

You didn’t notice it at first. Just a faint change in how he held himself—shoulders rising slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then away.

The next moment, he wasn’t watching the TV anymore. He was watching you.

You felt it more than heard it—that brittle stillness that signaled something unseen was breaking open beneath the surface.

Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. He just sat there, folded in on himself, like something inside him was twisting tighter and tighter with every beat of quiet that passed.

His eyes were wide and red, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore. Like his thoughts were somewhere else. And then, without warning, without a sound—

He leaned in.

It was slow. Hesitant. Not like a predator approaching prey. Nothing calculated or hungry in the movement. It was more like watching a wilted flower lean toward the last light of the day—weak, instinctive, a pull toward something it couldn’t name.

His cheek came to rest against your shoulder.

You froze, not out of fear, but surprise. You hadn’t expected it—not from him. For weeks, he’d kept a careful, respectful distance.

But now he was here, curled gently against your side, head pressed just under your collarbone, like a creature trying to relearn touch.

His body was trembling. Not violently. Just a faint, barely-there shiver—like he was holding in every impulse not to bolt. And still, he stayed there.

“Just a bit,” he whispered.

His voice was raw, barely audible.

Then, after a breath, you felt something else.

Air moved across your neck. Cool, unnatural.

His breath.

His lips parted.

You didn’t see it right away. You felt the shift first—the soft draw of muscle, a change in tension where his mouth hovered just at your pulse.

And then you saw them.

Fangs.

Not bared. Not flashing in threat. Just there—half-covered behind his pink lips.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

Your hand rose to your neck, more from the tickling than anything else. But Remmick probably interpreted it differently.

He recoiled like he’d been struck, crawling away from you before you could say a word. His face twisted in confusion and something that looked horribly like shame.

“No—” he gasped, voice cracking. “I—I wasn’t—didn’t mean to—I wasn’t gonna bite ya, I swear it—”

His hands flew up like he expected to be grabbed, shoved, punished.

“I was just—just—” His breath hitched again. He backed away further. “I’m sorry.”

His knees touched the floor of the apartment, right in front of the sofa you were sitting on. Clawed hands covering his face, and then—you saw it.

He bit down. Hard.

Not on you.

On himself.

His fangs dug into the side of his thumb, teeth sawing through the flesh like he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment and pain anymore.

You moved forward on instinct.

“Remmick—”

But he was already biting harder, his other hand twitching as he tried to steady himself, nails raking down his arms like he couldn’t bear the skin he lived in.

“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Stupid. I’m stupid. Ye were kind and I— I ruined it—”

You caught his wrists gently before he could draw more blood and do more damage.

He didn’t fight you.

Just stood there, shivering, eyes wide and terrified.

You guided his hands down slowly.

And in that moment, you understood.

He was asking about being held. About being seen. About the terrible, unbearable yearning to be near someone who didn’t flinch from him like he was a monster.

“Remmick,” you said softly. You didn’t let go of his wrists. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours—startled, desperate, disbelieving.

“I know you weren’t going to bite me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out.

“I saw you,” you continued, your voice as gentle as you could make it. “I saw what you were trying to do.”

He shook his head slowly. “But ye—ye froze—”

“I was surprised,” you admitted. “It’s not the same thing as being afraid of you.”

That stopped him.

His lower lip trembled. His arms had gone stiff beneath your touch, but he wasn’t pulling away anymore.

He was listening.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “tell me. That’s all.”

A long, shaky silence passed.

Then he nodded—once. Barely.

And then he did something you weren’t ready for.

He pressed his forehead into your stomach and let out the smallest sound you’d ever heard from him.

A whimper.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

From the awful, weightless relief of not being rejected.

Your arms came around him slowly, your hand absentmindedly scratching the base of his head.

He melted into you like a creature whose bones had forgotten how to hold shape without comfort. He sagged against you, arms around your waist, breath hitching softly. Not crying—he didn’t make a sound after that.

But you felt it in him.

The tension giving way.

The hunger easing—not the one for blood, but the other one.

The one deeper than anything physical.

The need to belong.

And you held him.

As long as he needed.

The bond deepened like rot in the walls—not sudden, not loud, not even visible at first. It wasn’t something you could name when it began, just a presence. A feeling. 

Remmick began to exist nearer to you, in ways that weren’t quite deliberate but not accidental either. His hand brushing yours when you reached for the same mug. The way his shoulder sometimes bumped yours when you passed too close in the kitchen, and he didn’t recoil—didn’t apologise.

You stopped keeping physical distance like a boundary and started doing it like a dance. Testing where closeness didn’t overwhelm either of you. Letting moments bloom and soften instead of snapping them shut with polite withdrawal. You noticed how, when you curled into a blanket, he curled with you. How his head would sometimes tilt and rest lightly against your shoulder, and then stay there.

Months passed.

And also his appearance started to change. Slow, but unmistakable.

The vampire who had once been curled in your laundry room like a broken thing was growing into himself.

His hair, once matted and dull, now shone in the light. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, gently running his fingers through it, lips parted in faint disbelief. He hadn’t seen himself like that in years. Maybe ever.

His body had filled out, too. The sharp angles of his ribcage softened. There was muscle on his arms now, not from effort, but from consistency. From nourishment. From safety.

He still moved quietly, but no longer with the crouched, skittish gait of someone expecting to be punished for every step.

And his fangs—once a source of fear, of tension, of held breath and flinching instinct—now brushed your skin in moments of affection.

He’d lean in as you passed on the stairs, nose nudging your collarbone, his lips ghosting over your neck—not biting, never biting—just being there. You’d feel the faint scrape of fangs against your shoulder when he laid his head on you, and he always pulled back after, embarrassed, whispering, “Sorry,” even when it hadn’t hurt.

You stopped finding excuses for liking it.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours—when the lights were low and the world had gone still—he’d curl into your side and fall asleep like that, arm flung over your waist, breathing shallow but real. He didn’t make a sound. He just rested against you like someone who had finally found a warm place to die and realized, to his own confusion, that he was living instead.

Everything seemed to be going well.

Until something changed.

It was cold enough outside that your breath fogged the air. The city had quieted down to its late-night lull—stores closing, streetlamps flickering, the distant buzz of someone’s late dinner delivery echoing across the sidewalks. You walked side by side without touching, but close. Always close.

That evening, you felt like going for a walk after getting home from work, and it had been weeks since Remmick had set foot outside the house. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy going out (also because of the strange looks he got), but when you reached the old park, you could see his shoulders visibly relax. He loved nature and the solitude of the night.

You also liked it there. The wildness made it feel private.

Remmick’s eyes wandered like a child’s, curious and quiet. The moonlight caught his face in glints—his long lashes, the soft shine of a smile on his lips. He didn’t look like something anyone should be afraid of. Not like this.

You sat on a low stone, the surface cold beneath you, and leaned back slightly to look at the sky. He stood for a while, then crouched beside your knee. His fingers brushed the grass.

The trees were tall here. Older than the buildings that surrounded the block, their trunks thick and gnarled with time. At night, they cast deep, comforting shadows—like guardians rather than watchers. And when the wind moved through their leaves, it made a soft sound, like breathing.

And Remmick shared the same millennia-old age. Perhaps that was why he seemed to feel so at ease.

The lampposts barely worked—only one or two flickered on after dusk. They made the whole place feel like it lived just outside of time.

Then, he broke the silence.

“I used to sleep outside, before they took me back,” he said quietly, not looking at you.

You turned your head, unsure what thread of thought had led him there. But something in his voice made you pay more attention than you usually already do.

Remmick didn’t speak for another minute. Then, so softly it barely rose above the creek, he said, “I tried not to need folks.”

Your heart gave a small twist.

“I used to think… if I acted just right, maybe someone'd keep me.” He tilted his head back, exhaling. “Me first owner was an old woman. She was very… precise. Gentle, but distant. She fed me, trained me to sit proper, speak proper. She even let me read in the evenings. But I wasn’t meant to ask for more. When I started lingerin' too long by her chair, or… talkin' too much, she got cold. One night, I fell asleep by her bedroom door. Next day, she brought me back.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“She said I was exhaustin'.” His smile was faint, tired. “She said I was clingy. Said I needed too much.”

Your stomach knotted. You wanted to reach for him, but he kept speaking, and something about the way his voice emptied itself into the night stopped you.

“The next one was a man. He believed in structure. Obedience. He never hit me, but he never let me touch him either. Not even to help him with his coat. I remember once, after he had a nightmare, I went into his room without knockin' to see if he was alright. I tried to explain, but he said I was manipulat'n him. Called me creepy. He locked me out of the flat for the night, and the next, I was sent away again.”

You exhaled slowly. The moon was brighter now, painting the grass in pale silver. Remmick kept his eyes down.

“I stopped tryin' after that,” he said. “For a while, anyway. I tried to be the right kind of quiet. Didn’t know when it was alright to look at someone. Thought maybe if I watched closely enough, I’d learn when to speak. When to smile. When I was too much.”

You reached out then, slowly, and let your fingers rest against the curve of his hand.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard to be what they wanted. Quiet, obedient, grateful. I didn’t even ask to be touched after a while—I just wanted to be in the same room. Thought that'd be enough.”

He turned to face you, finally. His eyes looked too big for his face, luminous in the dark.

“But I was always too much. Or too little. Too clingy. Too cold. Too hungry. Too strange, so I was.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.

“They didn’t know what they wanted,” you said.

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They didn’t want me. That was all.”

The wind shifted. A few dead leaves skittered across the path.

“You’re not too much,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re human.”

“Not technically,” he said with a soft laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

You didn’t take your hand away. Neither did he.

You stayed in the woods for a while, talking about this and that. You told him the reasons why you had never wanted one of them — and the reason why you wanted him instead. The atmosphere, and his devoted attention, made you want to tell him everything. To get closer and open up in ways you couldn’t allow yourself.

You walked for a while, following the beaten paths, venturing into the small dense grove further ahead. Away from the city lights.

Remmick walked ahead for once.

You let him. Unclipping the leash from his harness. No one would see you, no one would report this improper behavior of yours.

He seemed to be looking for something with his gaze, shifting his head from side to side as you kept a respectful distance. Then, when he found it, his face lit up.

He turned toward you with a small, crooked smile. “Close yer eyes.”

There was no command in it. No expectation.

You obeyed before you knew you had decided to.

The darkness behind your eyelids was soft and strange. You felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t frightening—like laying down trust in its purest, simplest form. You could hear him shift beside you, the gravel beneath his shoes crackling faintly as he turned toward you.

And then you felt it.

His hand, reaching out. His fingers hovered near yours.

Not grabbing.

Offering.

You opened your hand without hesitation.

When his palm finally met yours, the contact was almost nothing—just warmth, cool around the edges, a trembling stillness beneath the surface. But it was everything. Because it wasn’t just a touch.

It was pure and complete trust that you were giving him.

He led you a few steps deeper into the grass, toward the little clearing where the trees bowed back and let the sky in. You could hear the creek nearby. The night was full of quiet things—crickets, the rustle of leaves, Remmick’s breath.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Ye can look.”

You opened your eyes.

He’d led you to a place where the grass opened like a nest, and there—tucked into the curve of a mossy root—was a tiny cluster of white flowers. You recognized them immediately: moonblossoms. Fragile, delicate things that only opened at night.

He knelt beside them and picked one.

Carefully.

Like it was a sacred thing.

He stood again, approached, and without a word—tucked it behind your ear.

“There,” he said softly, fingers lingering near your cheek. “It matches the way ya glow.”

You laughed gently—because that was what you were supposed to do. That was how people responded to soft gestures, right?

But your throat was suddenly too tight.

His smile faltered. “Was that… weird? I just thought ye’d like it. I can take it off, I didn’t mean—”

You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Held it. Pressed your face in his open palm.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He blinked at you, startled. Blushed faintly.

And in that moment—his eyes glowing faintly under the moon, his mouth soft and uncertain, his hand brushed your cheek slightly—you felt it.

Like something cracked open in your chest.

The shift was subtle, but it roared through you: I’m falling in love with him.

Not kindness.

Not pity.

Not caretaking.

Love.

You were in love with the way he looked at you like you were the only safe place he’d ever known. With the way he was learning how to smile again. The way his fingers grazed yours when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he wanted to make you happy, even if he didn’t know how.

And gods, it terrified you.

You pulled back, turning your face away from his hand.

He frowned.

“…Did I do somethin' wrong?”

“No,” you said too quickly. “No, it’s not that.”

Then softer: “It’s me.”

He tilted his head, brows creased.

You stepped back another inch. Your skin ached where he had touched you. You could still feel the weight of that flower behind your ear.

You weren’t allowed to love him.

Not by law.

Not by society.

And not by the promise you’d made to yourself the day you first saw him, curled in that filthy cell like a broken thing. You had sworn you would never become one of them. You would never use him. Never blur the line.

But love… love had blurred everything.

“I can’t—” you whispered, mostly to yourself.

Remmick’s expression shifted—softened into something so heartbreakingly gentle.

“Ye don’t have to say nothin',” he murmured. “I know what we are.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And it shattered something else inside you. Because he meant it. He was trying to make it easier for you. Trying to protect you.

Even now.

Even when it hurt him.

You wanted to fall into his arms. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to take his hand and run as far from the world as you could until the only thing left was the feeling of him, safe and warm and yours.

But you couldn’t.

So instead, you nodded, barely holding back the tears. And whispered the only thing you could manage.

“Thank you… for the flower.”

He smiled faintly.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And neither of you said another word on the walk home.

Relationships between humans and nightcreatures weren’t just taboo.

They were illegal.

The law was clear: no intimacy, no romantic involvement, no crossing the line. Not even implied affection. Nightkind existed under conditional protection—leased, trained, collared. They could serve. Be owned. Be fed. But never loved.

Never wanted.

The consequences for violating that law weren’t a slap on the wrist. They were sharp, immediate, and permanent. And Remmick… he had already been marked once. A returned “asset.”

You knew better than anyone that if someone reported him for behavioral aggression—or worse, for unauthorized companionship—he’d be taken away in hours. No trial. No questions.

So you never crossed the line.

The days piled up quickly. You dedicated a lot of time to work and your deadlines — partly to push away that knot in your stomach, partly because you needed to bring order back into your life (the one you had set aside to help Remmick recover).

As busy as you were, you didn’t notice the vampire’s response to your behavior, but he had begun to withdraw again. Afraid he had made — or might make — another misstep.

When you came home, he always tried to have everything ready and in place for bedtime. He no longer sought your touch, but his fingers would tremble and claw at the fabric of his pants whenever you passed too close or brushed against him by accident.

But he said nothing. He remained respectfully silent — so you wouldn’t have the chance to start a conversation he’d already heard a million times.

One evening, however, you decided to take a step that might finally drive Remmick out of your heart for good — and everything would go back to the way it was before.

You told him you had a date.

You tried to say it casually, just a murmur as you passed through the living room. You were barely even out of sight before you heard the change in the air.

Remmick’s breath hitched. You turned. He was sitting hunched on the couch, blanket half-fallen off his shoulder, face pale, eyes wide and dim.

You forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”

“…oh,” he said.

That was all.

But you felt it. Like something inside him wilted.

You left anyway.

You had to.

Some part of you needed to prove—to yourself, to the law, to your own racing heart—that you could still live within the lines. That Remmick was a creature you had saved, not a man you were falling in love with.

The man you met at the bar was nice. Polite. Handsome in a polished, too-clean kind of way. He talked about his job. His apartment. His own registered nightkind—one of the elegant, docile ones, purchased for status.

You laughed in the right places. Smiled when he touched your hand.

But as you stood together at the curb, shoes scuffing concrete, something began to twist in your chest. A wrongness. Subtle. Creeping. Like a stone lodged just behind your ribs.

He stepped in close.

Too close.

His hand brushed yours, then settled at your side like he had every right to it, and your spine stiffened under your coat. His scent—cologne and something warm and unfamiliar—clung to your skin. Then his hand slid further around your waist. His voice dropped, a murmur meant to be sweet, intimate.

“I had a really great time.”

And before you could answer—before you could step back, laugh it off, say me too and mean it without meaning more—he leaned in.

For a kiss.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, even tentative. But the moment his face moved toward yours, the moment you felt his breath brush your cheek, your entire body tensed like an animal beneath a spotlight.

No.

Something cold snapped through your gut. Not because of him—not entirely. But because this wasn’t it. This wasn’t who you wanted this closeness from. The thought made your throat tighten, made the moment feel strange and unreal.

But just before his lips could touch yours, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, and you were yanked away from your date in a sudden jerk.

You landed hard against a cold chest, your back pressed into something solid and trembling. Arms locked tight around you. An embrace—not tender, but possessive. Shielding. Terrified.

Remmick.

You knew it was him before your brain caught up to the moment. The chill of his body. The way he pulled you in, arms around your neck, one hand splayed flat across your stomach like a barrier.

He was shaking.

Not with fear.

With fury.

You could feel it rolling off him in waves—hot and icy at once, a storm under skin. His breath came fast, sharp through his nose. You turned your head just slightly and saw the way his eyes had narrowed —two bright red discs lit by something primal locked on the man in front of you.

Lips peeled back. Fangs bared.

Like a wolf guarding a mate.

“W-What the fuck—” your date staggered back. “Is that—is it yours?!”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your heart thundered in your chest, not from fear, but from the sheer violence of the moment. Not violent in action—Remmick hadn’t hurt anyone—but in presence. In the way he loomed behind you, wrapped around you like armor.

His fingers twitched against your side, and you realized then: he was waiting. Not for permission to attack—but for you. For your reaction. For confirmation that you were okay.

“…yes,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s mine.”

Your voice shook.

Your date scoffed and took another step back, already shaking his head. “You should have him collared if he’s gonna act like that in public. I could call enforcement, you know—”

“There’s no need,” you interrupted, faster this time. “It’s my fault. I forgot to feed him before I left. He… he gets anxious. I’ll take him home now.”

You didn’t wait for more. You just turned, guiding Remmick with you, his body still taut and coiled around yours. You opened the car door with one hand, and he followed wordlessly, slipping into the passenger seat like a storm being ushered into a bottle.

The ride home was quiet.

Your hands shook on the wheel from the sheer weight of what had just happened.

And beside you, Remmick sat curled into himself. His posture hunched, head bowed, one hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like he might unravel it.

He looked broken.

Ashamed.

You pulled into the drive, turned the engine off, and turned to him—but before you could speak, he did.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was barely a thread.

You stared at him, then the fury came. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Remmick flinched, taking a step back. His jaw clenched. His mouth opened. Closed.

You kept going. You couldn't stop. Your brain was spinning, your heart was pounding against your ribcage.

“If someone had called the police—you could’ve been taken—do you understand that?! You could’ve died! I wouldn’t have been able to stop it—you’d be gone, Remmick!”

His eyes widened. His shoulders curled inward. His voice came out small, quiet.

“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin' to be scary. I just… I saw him that close to yer face, and I—I didn’t think. I didn’t even know I was running until I had ya.”

You shook your head and got out of the car without looking back. You knew Remmick was following you back into the house.

“I'm sorry if I—I scared ya. Y'know I would never hurt ya!”

You kept walking. You didn’t want to listen to him. You needed to calm down. But before you could take another step out of the apartment hallway, his claws wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop your escape.

“Please… please don’t be angry with me.”

You stared at him. Breath caught in your chest.

You ran your free hand through your hair, letting out a loud sigh. You hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. They came out on a breath, caught in the thick silence of the room like an echo you immediately regretted.

“God,” you murmured, voice thin, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

You sighed. Loud. Tired. Overwhelmed—not by him, never by him.

But Remmick didn’t hear the fear in your voice. He didn’t hear the heartbreak. He only heard the sentence.

And it shattered him.

He flinched like you’d struck him.

His whole frame tensed, and then he dropped—just dropped—to his knees with a breathless panic, his hand came off your wrist like you burned it with your skin.

“No! No, please—don’t—don’t send me back!” he cried, eyes wide, face crumpling into desperation. “I can do it right this time, I swear, I swear I will—just don’t—don’t give up on me, please—”

Your eyes widened. Confused by his reaction. Your heart fractured.

“I’ll behave, I’ll stay quiet—I was bad, I know, I shouldn’t have gone out—I’m sorry, just punish me if ye have to, just don’t abandon me—please—”

He was trembling, folding in on himself, hands splayed on the floor like he was trying to ground himself in the floor of your apartment so that it couldn't be dragged away. He was breathing too fast. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in tears, because he’d learned not to cry out loud. Even that had been trained out of him.

And you—

You dropped to your knees beside him, the motion swift and wordless, driven by instinct more than thought. One hand went to his cheek, guiding his face up to yours, the other curled gently over his shoulders. His skin was cold, but his panic was burning.

“Remmick,” you said, voice breaking around his name. “No. No, no, no, listen to me—baby, please, look at me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Wide. Shining. Desperate. And it gutted you.

“I’m not angry,” you whispered. “I’m not sending you back. I’m never sending you back.”

His lips trembled. He didn’t believe you. Not yet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “I was scared. Not of you—but for you. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant. I didn’t choose the right words and I’m so sorry.”

He was still shaking, still clinging to disbelief like it was the only thing that had protected him for years. He tried to apologize again, stammering, but you stopped him—gently, firmly—with your fractured words.

“I can’t lose you.”

That word hung in the air—thick and raw and real.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your breath soft between you.

“I’m the greedy one,” you whispered. “Because I want you. Because I keep thinking of you. Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His breath hitched.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, your voice threading between the silence and his heartbeat. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll keep caring for you, no matter what—”

You didn’t get the chance to finish.

Remmick’s lips found yours before the next breath could pass.

He kissed you—hard, desperate, like the truth between you had finally split open and neither of you could survive keeping it buried anymore.

His hands tightened gently against your back, and your body answered before your mind caught up, leaning into him like you’d been waiting for this touch your entire life.

You let him pull you against him, mouth devouring yours like he’d been starving for it since the first moment you’d touched him and not been afraid.

The world stopped narrowing to logic. It bloomed around sensation.

You had barely caught your breath from the kiss—your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt—when he pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look.

His eyes were wild with disbelief and something rawer, something almost wounded in its hope.

But then, slowly, his mouth softened into a smile—wide and crooked and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.

And then he laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly. But stunned.

“For heaven’s sake, darlin',” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, eyes shining as he leaned closer, “ye should’ve told me months ago.”

His hands cupped your jaw like you were something fragile and holy. His lips brushed against your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower—trailing to the base of your jaw where he kissed you once, twice, then lingered, the warmth of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine.

“What the hell were ya waiting for?” he murmured against your skin, the words half-laughed, half-confessed.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too full. Your hands slid up his back hair, clutching at him with something between relief and disbelief, like now that you’d opened the floodgates, nothing would ever be the same again.

He pulled you on his lap—arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperate reverence that said I need you close or I’ll fall apart. And then, quieter, his lips still against your jaw:

“I love y'too,” he breathed. “So fuckin' much.”

It came out cracked, like he was afraid it would break if he said it too loud. But he said it anyway.

You touched his face with careful hands, your thumbs brushing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, always cool, seemed to flush beneath your fingertips—not with heat, but with something just as alive. You tilted your head, searching his expression, trying to decipher the look in his eyes.

There was too much of it—too much feeling. Too much need.

“Are you sure it’s not just gratitude?” you whispered. The question came out too small, too soft. Your heart bared itself in the silence that followed, every beat echoing like footsteps in a chapel.

His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something else entirely. They burned low and rich, like embers finding oxygen, igniting from within. The red hue bled through the pale blue of his irises like spilled ink in water. He blinked once. Slowly.

And then he moved.

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips—not rough, but firm, possessive, grounding. His fingers curled against you, claws barely grazing the fabric at your waist, not threatening, just present. He pushed you gently, deliberately, until your body hovers over his and your hips are perfectly aligned — pressed against each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his legs neatly positioned beneath him.

He held you down against him with one hand behind your neck and an arm wrapped around your waist, chest to chest, breath against breath.

His voice was a low growl in your ear, but it wasn’t angry—it was honest. A deep, raw vibration of restraint and need wrapped in reverence.

“Gratitude?” he repeated. “Y'think this is just gratitude?”

The space between your bodies was gone. You could feel him—every line of him—solid and real. The hard, undeniable form of his cock pressed against your thigh through clothes that suddenly felt like they barely existed. Your breath hitched again, this time from the sudden pulse of heat that spiraled low in your belly.

“Do ya have any idea what ye’ve done to me?” Remmick's mouth closed over the curve of your ear, making you shiver and clutch his hair tightly. His warm tongue licked and wetted your skin, and you’re sure that something else between your legs was slowly getting drenched too.

“I was a ghost before ya. Not just locked up in that place—they’d already buried me inside meself. No one ever saw me. They wanted obedience, silence, something that smiled when fed and vanished when ignored. And then ye—”

His nose brushed against your temple, and you could almost feel his lips trembling slightly against your cheek as he continued.

“Ye treated me like I was real. Touched me like I mattered. Ye let me want things. Feel things. Ye were gentle. I’d follow ya into sunlight if it meant one more second being yers.”

Your breath caught. Your heart raced.

His voice, laced with fierce devotion and vulnerability, reached into the deepest, quietest corners of your heart, lighting fires you didn’t know were waiting to be ignited.

He pulled his head back to look you in the eyes. He looked desperate, eager to make you understand.

“Please don’t call this gratitude. It’s love. For ya. All of it is for ya.”

And without waiting any longer, you lunged forward, your mind blinded by a sudden impulse you could no longer contain. You tilted Remmick’s neck, your fingers tangled in his soft hair, and pulled him toward you with a firm, almost possessive force to devour his lips.

You felt his body respond beneath your touch: a slight tremble, a muffled sigh that turned into a soft moan, almost a whisper of surrender. His lips, soft and warm, gave way to yours as he held you balanced against him, moving his hips in small, quick thrusts.

His lips parted slightly, silently inviting your tongue in. You felt his breath deepen and slow as his mouth closed around yours gently, as if wanting to suck away every thought and hesitation.

His words slipped against your lips like a whisper filled with devotion, each syllable soaked in an almost sacred sweetness.

“Me mistress is so sweet,” he murmured in a low, vibrating voice, his eyes shining with an intense light as he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. “So carin'. Think so much about me well-bein'.”

His breath grew deeper as he lifted you up so your feet were back on the ground and he was kneeling before you. The promise in his voice became palpable, almost tangible.

“Let me make ya feel good,” he continued, the determination to make you happy clear in every word. “I’ll be so good, darlin'.”

He grabbed the waistband of your elegant pants — the ones you had carefully chosen for someone else and that were clearly driving him crazy. You felt enveloped by a wave of emotions — tenderness, desire, and a warm, comforting certainty that only he could give you.

“Ask me. Like a good boy.”

You looked down at his lips parting into a dumbfounded, fucking smile, his sharp teeth on full display.

“Ride me face, love. Ya won’t regret it.”

You nodded slightly, letting Remmick pull down your clothes all at once with a tug. You were almost certain you heard a rip, but you didn’t want to think about it — not when Remmick’s face and tongue were desperately reaching for your center.

You pressed a palm against his hair and tilted his face enough to free yourself above his mouth, one leg straddling his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

His name rang on your lips like a sacred whisper, a spell lost between his cold breath and the racing beat of your heart. His tongue slid slowly and surely, drawing soft, delicate curves over your clit, exploring every millimeter with a precision as sweet as it was voracious. Every small movement was a caress that lit fires beneath your flesh, and when he lightly nibbled your thighs, an electric shiver ran through you, making you spread your legs just enough to let him turn, inviting him to discover new corners of your desire.

A cool hand rested on your ass, the contact featherlight, as the heat flowing between your legs grew, palpable and enveloping. His rough beard caressed your skin in perfect contrast, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his warm breath as you brought your hips closer to his mouth, as if his breath could merge with yours, warm and protect you. Your muscles tensed, your senses sharpened, and time seemed to slow around you.

Then, suddenly, his tongue invaded you with a sudden thrust, making your head spin and erasing all other thoughts. You felt yourself engulfed in waves of pleasure as he whispered words that intertwined with the heat enveloping you. “Ye’re incredible,” “So perfect,” “Let me lose meself in ya.” His other hand, the one not pressing you against his mouth, rose slowly, like a promise, and began to move over your body with sweet determination. His fingers traced light, bold lines on your clit, like an artist painting his most precious work, and each caress was an invitation to let go, to immerse yourself completely in that moment of intimacy and pleasure.

“Remmick…Remmick, God,” you murmured, your voice broken by desire, an echo that shattered your soul.

“Gimme everythin', darlin',” he begged you, his mouth hovering just to touch yours, “ye taste so good.”

His fingers curled and rubbed against your bundle of nerves and the orgasm hit you in waves, making you cling to his shoulders and head to keep from being dragged away.

The whorelike moan of pleasure that escaped your lips echoed through the hallway, but you didn't have the strength to be ashamed. Your legs trembled under your weight, but Remmick was already there, supporting you and sliding you back down, straddling his hips.

His lips covered you in soft kisses, scattered like rain across your face, while his fingers dug into your hips with gentle urgency, holding you close. You felt the cold of his skin against yours, his breath brushing over you in deep pants—a symphony of longing and intimacy.

Your thighs parted gently, embracing the sides of his body, as your hands tangled at the nape of Remmick’s neck, pulling him softly toward you for another slow kiss, heavy with promise.

His whimper, lost between your lips, vibrated like a whisper of deep pleasure, and he held you with a strength that felt like he wanted to fuse your souls into a single breath.

You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you smile without even realizing it.

Your hands began to wander downward, fingers brushing along the waistband of his clothes, tentative but steady. But before you could go further, Remmick’s lips pulled away, just enough to speak, and a faint growl rumbled from deep in his chest.

“Ye don’t have to,” he murmured, breath catching. “I’m great. I don’t need—”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm you didn’t quite feel, false sadness outlined all over your face. “You don’t want to fuck me, Remmick?”

His breath faltered, and he closed his eyes as if the weight of the question undid him.

“Jesus, darlin',” he whispered, almost broken, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Than ye.”

You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. “Then shut up.”

Remmick became docile, remaining still as his hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him. You gently and confidently sank your hands between his legs, pushing apart the barrier of his jeans and firmly grasping his thick, throbbing cock. A muffled moan escaped him as he clamped his lower lip between his sharp teeth, his head tilting back slightly, his chest heaving in ragged breaths to contain his impatience.

“Fuck…”

You felt the thick, moist tip press against your entrance, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped.

Then, slowly, painfully, inch by inch, you let go, sinking into his length. The sensation was dizzying, a sweet and powerful relaxation that filled every corner of your body, as if every fiber craved that union. Your flesh welcomed him eagerly, sucking him in with an ancient and necessary intensity.

A low, muffled moan escaped his lips as you reached the bottom, the sensitive tip of his penis gently resting against the deepest part of you, a contact that sent both of you shivering.

“You feel so good, darlin',” he gasped, his words broken as he nuzzled his forehead into your shoulder. “So perfect around my cock.”

His tongue slowly slid down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot shivers that made every fiber of your body vibrate. Then, with malice and desire, his teeth barely grazed your artery, that light, dangerous touch that made your heart race, as a thrill of pleasure and tension mingled within you.

With a decisive movement, his legs spread further, forcing your thighs apart, granting him complete access. He sank into you with a new, profound depth, as if wanting to melt completely inside you, awakening every hidden corner of your desire.

His name escaped your lips spontaneously, a bold, shameless moan that was lost in the air, filling the room with that intimate, burning confession.

Before you could truly grasp the full force of his movement, his hips snapped upward with sudden, almost ferocious force, echoing the sound of his skin slapping against yours—a wild, primal rhythm that saturated every sense.

The pleasure that washed over you was so intense it dazzled you, igniting your nerves and vibrating every nerve beneath your skin. His thrusts were swift and precise, penetrating you with a consistency that made your heart race.

“All fuckin' mine...yes...No one else gets to see ye like this. Not that bloody prick...not any other loser. No one. Just me...”

Remmick's muffled moans and whimpers mingled with the incessant sound of skin against skin, overriding every other sensation, and his head rested close to your ear, his hot, labored breathing a whisper of need and adoration that made you feel desired like never before.

“R-Rem....Remmick—”

Your voice broke as he tilted his hips just enough to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit.

“Aye, just like that, sweetheart. Say me name. Tell me what a good boy I am for fuckin' ye so well.”

“My precious boy...” You lowered your head into his neck, hugging him tightly as you tried to follow his movements with the new orgasm slowly approaching. “I'm close...So close...you're doing so good...”

His muscles tensed beneath you as your walls gripped him tightly, his hands digging firmly into your hips as his body trembled with an almost painful intensity.

“Come on, love. I'm right here. I got ye. Let me feel ye come 'round me cock, please. I'm beggin' ye...”

Your body responded with a deep shiver, a wave of heat emanating from your core, expanding and enveloping you, making you gasp for breath. Your nails dug into his back as a strangled cry escaped your lips, your mind clouded only by the sensation of being completely possessed and loved.

His moans, now deeper and more vibrant, mingled with yours in a symphony of pleasure and abandon. Remmick trembled, his body tensing as he reached his climax, and you felt his cum invade you, a fire that united you in an indelible bond.

You remained like that, clinging to each other, your hearts beating in unison, your breathing wheezy and your bodies filled with a primal sweetness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in that fragile, fierce intimacy.

Fuck the world and its rules.

[abbessofflesh]

in the river to pray

remmick x f!reader

SUMMARY: He laid his claim on you that first night. Weeks later, he comes to take what’s his, leaving his own curse upon your soul.

WC: 10.2k

WARNINGS: dub-con themes, religious themes/religious guilt, fingering, vampirism (death, blood, transition), minor blood play, use of hive mind, violent/brutal death scene, descriptive language, marking/claiming, minor angst, smut (18+ ONLY); masturbation, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), crying, choking, slight size kink, slight dumbification, squirting, creampie, cockwarming

A/N: my first official and original remmick one shot, and i was very inspired by thestrals from hp. i had to change it up a little, but i think it works :) i've never written this many words and idk if i will again but i had fun writing this! there’s a lot of people to thank for this so here we go: thank you to all @flixpii, @madkingcrowley, @confetti-cakemix, and @jaythewriter for beta reading, your enthusiasm meant the world! thank you to @iceemochaa, @vcmpbyt, @matrixfangs, @sinandguilt, and @eternalstrigoii for encouraging me to even write this!! i’ve definitely missed someone, i had so much help/motivation during the month it took me to write this. enjoy!

visualizer | masterlist

thestral a magical species that can only be seen by those who have witnessed death

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated! this post is 18+ only. minors do not interact.

It came like a whistle in the wind, bending to the will of the trees surrounding your home.

A phantom. A shadow looming outside your window. A presence at the threshold, ingraining itself to your soul while it waited.

Sweet Lamb.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d tell your father what plagued you. Beg him to take you to the preacher. Beg the preacher to free you from this torment. Beg the Lord to forgive you because you’ve been dreaming of sins.

And it felt so good.

Eventually, you let it in. Stood there at your door looking as if you’d seen a ghost.

There’s a warmth beside you in your bed now, tracing over your body and snaking towards your legs. It knows you like a second skin. Knows just where to touch, where to pull.

You feel me, don’t you?

Eyes dancing over the darkness of your room found nothing. No one.

It spreads to the curve of your thighs, reaching higher than you knew was right. Tendrils that slip past the nightgown that covers you, leaving you bare, but never cold. The warmth stays. Pressed to you so close that you almost believe its words.

You’re not alone.

Never alone. Not when you felt it reaching that inner depth, swirling around the center of you so deliciously.

You opened yourself to it. That gentle force that rocks your core until you’re left babbling back. “I feel you,” you whisper. “I want more.” It laughs back.

More, darlin’? Anything for an angel.

That pressure over your sweet bud strengthens, and it leaves you blooming. Flames of hell ignite across your skin. But it burns so delightfully. Your legs spread even further.

“Fuck,” you let out in a breath. Cursing like you never had before.

The burning turns into a searing. Iron branded on your skin. “I-I’m…”

I know. Let it out all over me. Let the Lord hear you.

You gasp at a sting near the base of your neck, a gentle nip into your skin. Jaw slacked open. Chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. A sense of heaven washing over you like a pulse as the sheets turned soaked beneath you.

The blanket tangled around your leg fluttered, but there was no turn of the air in your room. And you felt the warmth slowly disappear.

Ghostly fingers trailing down your skin until you were cold again. But still, you weren’t alone.

Let him send you down with me.

Your eyes shoot open. And suddenly, you’re sickened with clarity.

A nightmare. A dream. Everything you wanted felt so good to take, and in doing so, you’d surely damned your own soul.

You’re a woman possessed. Forget your father, and the preacher. No one could save you now from the demon that’d pulled you under. Water and guilt filling up your lungs.

You lay awake that night.

The moon bleeds silver light onto your floor boards. Your eyes turn red as you watch, waiting to feel another warmth again. But it never comes. You waited. So still you probably looked dead.

Deep down, there was something you’d never confess:

It was the most alive you ever felt.

The next morning, you wake with the memory of it and dried remnants of a slick between your legs. The smell of sweat in the air. The sound of a voice whispering into your ear forever etched into your mind.

You rise from your bed almost drunkenly. Intoxicated with sin. The ground doesn’t feel right underneath you, as if you’re floating an inch above it.

Something churns in your stomach. Rapid footsteps to the bathroom sink are still soft so as not to wake your father.

You lurch over the basin and gag, but nothing comes out.

The sink croaks as cold water spurts. You splash onto your skin, hoping to remove the remaining flush on your cheeks. Evidence of your crime.

And that’s when you see it. Staring at your crazed reflection in the mirror.

Upon your neck. Almost completely imperceptible.

Two minuscule bumps, red, warm, and tender to the touch. They could somewhat pass as mosquito bites, but you knew well of what it was. The devil had left his mark on you.

You don’t sleep at night.

When the sun sets, it shuts its eye on your tranquility. And the demon threatens to appear again. You pull the covers to your chest and lay flat against your bed. You moved your bed to the corner. Lets you see all of the dark around you, not a spot to be missed.

Sometimes, you think it’s come. A slight breeze from the hall or a creak in the floor.

But it never did. No ghost harnessing itself to you.

Your eyes only drift shut at the earliest peek of dawn. You only wake when the air turns hot in the late morning.

The days remain the same. You run to the town to get groceries. You ride your bike past the bridge. You braid the choir girls’ hair.

The other young women in town are engaged, or already married. Swept away as soon as they were old enough. But you find peace in solitude. At least, you tell yourself you do.

You think nothing of the night two weeks ago.

And how it knew how to speak to you. How to feel you. How to provoke every part of you that you denied yourself.

It took you in a chokehold.

And you begged it to continue.

When the memories crept to the front of your mind, you pushed them back like it had never even happened. But you were denying yourself.

And for what? Glory?

What could be more glorious than the way that warmth opened you? The spirit of something beyond the world you knew—settling inside your heart, riddling you with curses and sinful reveries.

You sauntered through the front door somewhat like a ghost yourself. Stomach still full from an early supper. Sweat clinging hair to your skin.

Outside, half the sun casted a golden glow across the land. The boots on your feet were suddenly heavy as you passed the hall.

“Is that you?” Your father calls out.

You stop in your tracks. The radio plays a gravelly broadcast of a song your mother used to sing.

He sits in his armchair. He won’t let you leave until you’ve come and said goodnight. And promise to pray. “How was your walk?” He calls out once you stand in the doorway.

“Fine,” you say breathily. “The ferns are growing in double this year. And the honeysuckles smell sweeter.”

Your father hums. It’s silent for a long moment. You hope there’s nothing else to be said.

Until he speaks again.

“Are you alright?”

Maybe he really did know you better than you thought. Maybe he’d know this whole time of how you’d disgraced yourself. Ruined. Maybe he’d overheard you that night, realized it was lust laced in your voice.

Or maybe he could see the devil in your eyes right there as you glared at him in silence. “Of course, I am, daddy.” His face softens.

You haven’t called him that in years.

“Well…I just worry, is all.” He pats the armrest once. “You look like you ain’t slept a lick.”

A smile twitches across your mouth. The hair around your face is dry now, strung out in different directions.

You look like a mad woman.

Perhaps you are.

“I’m fine, daddy.” The song on the radio ends. “I promise.”

You turn back to the hall. Your father doesn’t speak another word.

The sky turns dark outside your window And the routine begins. Exchange the cotton dress you’d stolen from your mother’s wardrobe, untouched for years, with a nightgown hemmed with lace. Rinse your face—let the water into your eyes because you’re too afraid to close them.

Pull the covers to your chest. Lay like you’re on your deathbed. Waiting. For too long you watch the moonlight shift throughout the night.

But it wasn’t your fear keeping you awake.

It was the addicting taste of temptation. Of lust again. And it tasted of sweat, tears, and something ancient that you couldn’t place.

Your skin felt the air thicken first. Then, your heart.

And you heard it again.

Left you aching for more, didn’t I?

You would’ve gasped if your chest hadn’t suddenly locked in fear. Your eyes darted across the room.

Nothing. No gentle breeze.

Though the voice continued, you felt no warmth like before. You were alone.

“You’re in my fuckin’ head,” you whispered.

I’m everywhere inside you, lamb.

You thickly swallowed.

“Why come back?”

How couldn’t I? When you tasted so sweet?

Your bones turned to butter. Melting right back into the bed just like you had that night. The mere mention of what you’d felt…

Gonna have to do it yourself this time, sweetheart.

Eyes closed, your brows furrowed as you mindlessly slid your hand down your stomach, hovering just above your mound. “I don’t know how.”

Sure, you do. Just do as I say.

A beat. An invitation. One that you accepted.

Put your fingers where I had mine.

Your middle finger touched yourself first. Landed perfectly over that pearl. Your pulse throbbed into your hand as your fingers slid through your folds and gathered your slick.

“Oh- fu-uck,” your voice trailed off, determined to stay quiet again.

That’s it, angel. I’d have you screamin’ if I was there.

Without a command, you dug your palm into your clit. Bucked your hips involuntarily, leaving the springs underneath your mattress squeaking.

You heard its chuckle.

Ain’t that cute. Don’t even need my help, now.

“Don’t leave,” you pant quietly. Fingers rubbing over as much of you as possible.

You remember that night, don’t you?

What I did to you…how it felt.

You nodded. Your entire figure shook under your own touch. To be in control of your pleasure was an indescribable power. With your eyes shut, the memories still burned into your mind begin to guide your hands.

The tip of your finger prods your hole. Traces the velvety opening just past the brim, collecting a warm wetness that reaches your palm.

Taste it.

You hesitate. Put your fingers into the light and watch them glisten with your own sin.

Go ahead, dove.

Its words beckoned you like an inner calling. You do as you're told. You bring your hand to your mouth—still hesitant—before brushing over your tongue. Your lips involuntarily tighten around your finger. 

The flavor isn’t anything you’ve had before. A strange taste of what it meant to feel good. To defy what you’d been told was wrong. 

To be right. 

You didn’t care if it was sinning. And you didn’t care if this temptation was dragging you down. You want this pleasure forever, to feel it sink into your bones. 

Without command, you pressed your hand to your cunt again. The heat of the sun in your hold. You don’t hesitate anymore. Push not one, but two fingers inside. 

A moan—soft but deep like it came from the very core of you—escapes past your lips. Your other hand flies to cover your mouth. 

Well, if that ain’t the most heavenly thing I heard. 

So, you don’t stop. 

Instead, you huff heavy, muffled breaths into your palm as your other hand works inside you. The sound of your own slick nearly echoes across the room, even under your gown and blankets. 

Curl ‘em, just gently.  Want you to feel what I feel. 

You curl your fingers upward, your back arching at the pleasure. Your chest falls heavy as you try to breathe quietly. It chuckles at you. 

You close to it, ain’t you?

You rapidly nod. A subtle shake to your legs because you hardly imagine your hand as your own anymore. 

Say it. 

“I—” you sputter out, louder than you’d intended. You were desperate for that feeling again—the one that left you trembling in the dark and questioning your own sanity. 

You don’t feel crazy anymore. And if you are, then so be it. “I’m so fuckin’ close.”

Now, you’ll do as I say, yeah?

The voice has changed, and you only notice it now. It’s still the same deep tone that whispered sins to you like lullabies, but there’s a drawl—it matches yours. 

You nod again. “Y-Yes.” A heat builds up around your hand. It’s coming, and you softly smile at the thought of it. 

Then, stop, sweet girl. 

You don’t know how you obeyed. Pulling your hand away from you, instantly feeling empty despite the fire coursing through your blood. So close, and yet so far. The euphoric feeling ripped from you like a threat. 

“No!” Your other hand shoots straight to your mouth. You pray your father has drunk himself to sleep tonight. 

A low laugh. 

It’s alright, angel. 

“Please.” It comes out muffled through your palm. Your cheeks burn, a single, cold tear sliding down them. Your fingers inch towards your cunt again. 

Now, don’t go ruinin’ it, darlin’. Only one who’s gon’ have you shakin’ is me. 

The only thing ruined was your impending release. 

You do as I say. 

But you don’t listen anymore. 

Dig the heel of your palm into your cunt again. 

It continued to urge you, command you, to stop. But without the force of it upon your body this time, you saw no threat.

“I told you,” you say quietly. “You’re just in my head. A fuckin’ curse draggin’ me to hell. But I don’t care anymore.”

It makes a sound like a sneer. A test. A bit more temptation. Amused at the sight of you now grinding your hips into your own hand, chasing after that desperation again. 

Oh, sweet lamb.  I’ll do more to you than that. 

It coos as your brows furrow. Your veins are hit with waves of shock, leaving you whining into the sheets. A warmth runs over your hand—that feeling again. And this time, guilt doesn’t follow. No overwhelming chaos of regret to salvage what purity was left of you. 

You ignore it now. Laugh in a sweaty haze, drunk off of your release, as it whispers its goodbye. 

You’ll be beggin’, girl.  No one can save you now.  No one but me. 

You aren’t afraid anymore. At night, you lay in bed with a craving for more, eyes glued to the window like it’ll will the ghost back. 

But it never comes. 

Three nights pass, and on each, you pull another orgasm with your own hands, the memory of its voice coaxing you through it. It’s not the same as having it speak to you, of folding under its will. 

Nevertheless, each night you fall asleep with a blush settled over your cheeks. You stay quiet. Your father doesn’t question you again. He only looks the other way when you walk by. If he knew what you’d been doing in the dark, he would’ve thrown you in hell himself. 

You suppose his silence is safe. 

And it all goes about the same. Ride your bike into town and near the bridge. Get groceries for dinner. Braid the choir girls’ hair. 

You aren’t followed anymore. Nothing lurks nearby. For the first time in weeks, you feel free. 

The most rotten and ruined part of you. It felt glorious. 

But your own hands weren’t enough to bring that spark back into you. Never like it did. It knew you better than you knew yourself. And since it had made no appearance since the night you defied it, you decided to take matters into your own hands. 

Charlie Maywell. 

A boy your age who worked down at the mechanics shop. He was rough and dirty and spoke with the grit of men twice his age. Most importantly, he was popular among widows. 

He was a whore, to put it bluntly. A sweet one. He never broke hearts or left them weeping in the middle of the night. 

He couldn’t hurt you.

It only takes a cigarette and honeysuckle rubbed over your wrists to convince him. You figure he hasn’t been with a girl his age in some time. 

Maybe that’s why he looks at you like you’re gold. 

He lifts your dress so delicately from your frame, eyes going wide when your tits hit the bare air. He doesn’t spend nearly as much time devoted to you as you would’ve hoped, but you’ll take what you can get. 

You would’ve preferred to be in a bed. Not pressed against some wall in a back alley where there’s a slight reek of trash. 

You gasp when he ruts into you. It isn’t the stretch you felt before, but you’re not empty anymore. Charlie lifts your leg over his arm and leans in, pressing you closer to the wall. 

“God, you feel good,” he says into your ear. It’s not right. It’s not the voice you’ve been imagining every night. The voice you were starting to miss. 

“Where can I—?” He looks down. It’d hardly been three minutes. 

You aren’t anywhere as close as him.

“You can do it on my leg. Just wait.” You close your eyes shut. Charlie’s hips stagger against yours in restraint, desperate to follow your command. 

Behind your shut lids, that night comes back to you like a reflection in the mirror. 

You remember its warmth, its force and power over you. How it dragged you underwater and dangled air in front of your face. Only to pull you back up with a breath of a new life. 

A taste for more. 

Charlie leans over you, the corner of his neck now surrounding you. Too close for your comfort. He groans, “I can’t…”

Your fingers dance over your mound again until they reach your clit. And you work yourself like you never have before. Furiously rubbing over your folds as his cock drilled into you. 

Your eyes open at your release. The same moment Charlie pulls from you. Drips all over your bare stomach, and you quickly wipe it off with your dress. 

His chest heaves. “Damn,” he lazily smiles, stepping away from you. 

You fix your skirt and politely smile. It’s shy, as if you hadn’t just felt the rawest part of him. 

You don’t speak to Charlie Maywell again. 

He’s there, outside the mechanics shop. Rolling a tire down the street. Fixing a neighbor’s engine. And every time you pass, he looks at you. Nods. You do the same, and that’s all it is. An unspoken agreement. 

And it still doesn’t return. No creak in the porch floorboards, no tapping at your window. No voice calling out to you like a starved man with eyes on a feast. 

Two days pass, and it becomes a little lonely. Your own hands can’t even satisfy your urges anymore. 

Instead, you sleep. Maybe it’s your body’s instinct of replenishing itself from the weeks you spent awake. But anytime a moment turns dull, or your core aches for something you can’t relieve, you shut your eyes. 

You don’t dream. It’s nothing but black settled over your surroundings like a cloak of ink. A constant shadow.

It looms. 

A heavy fog hangs low above the ground in the morning. Gray like curling smoke. It lines the forest floor outside your window with a thick shield. There’s a veil of condensation over the grass, but you don’t remember it raining. 

Strangely, it’s the perfect day. You step one foot outside, stunned to feel the noticeable lack of humidity in the air. Even a gentle breeze. 

The middle of July, and the sun doesn’t glare down your neck as you ride into town. Your bike even splashes into a puddle. It’s refreshing against your legs that gently pedal.

The sun never comes out. Not a single piece of the sky peeking from the clouds. It looks like rain again, but you don’t go home. 

You go to the market. 

Buy the best-looking basket of strawberries. Some sweet cream and honey. The brown paper bag crinkles in your arms back to your bike. 

You smile and greet a few neighbors passing by, but the streets are nearly empty. It’s innately peaceful in a way you haven’t felt for a long time. 

But still. Something follows. 

Branches out around you, twisted with vines and thorns, piercing your skin until it draws blood. You occasionally slow to glance behind you, but there��s nothing. No one. 

You take a path down the woods. A paved road that you’ve ridden before. Above you, the trees create a thick canopy. Small droplets filter through the leaves and land lightly on your skin. 

The moment is sweet again. But you still can’t shake the haunting feeling of a breath down your neck. 

The only way you ground yourself is to the quiet flow of the stream nearby. A flow that soon turned into a gentle rush. The river. You hear the sound of your mother’s voice in your head. It’s a pleasant surprise from the ghostly one that’d been haunting you. 

She sings to you. 

Oh, brothers, let’s go down.  Let’s go down, come on down.  Come on, brothers, let’s go down, Down in the river to pray. 

Running your small hands inside hers through the water. The riverside, a sandy, muddy space between the water and forest. It gleams in the sun.

You approach the bridge and stop to turn back around on the path. Glance down at the river to see maybe a sliver of sun. But now, it only reflects the murky sky. 

And your mother’s voice suddenly stops. 

Replaced by another one. 

A rough one. Coughing and gasping. 

“H-Hey,” it calls out, hoarse but wet. A real voice. Not from a memory or a nightmare. 

You peer over the edge of the road. The land gently slopes down. At the bottom, where the bridge meets that patch of sand by the river, something rustles in the leaves. 

Slow, careful steps guide you down. The hem of your dress becomes wet from the low-lying fauna. 

A figure lays against the brick of the bridge. Below its feet is a trail of burrowed-out, disrupted sand. Like it’d been running and flailing in it. 

You’re careful not to slip on the leaves when you hear a soft gargle. 

“P-please,” it chokes out, and your feet now rush to the bottom. 

Once they touch the sand, they stop. Your body goes cold. Your own heart is motionless  in your chest from an overwhelming shock. You don’t hear the river anymore. Your lungs have suddenly forgotten how to breathe. 

Blood—an excessive amount—drapes over the sand. It runs down the brick wall, where the body leans. 

Charlie Maywell. 

He’s nearly unrecognizable from the red coated over his face. His work shirt damp with it, the ends of his hair at his chin crusted. And right underneath, his throat gleamed. Fresh. 

Raw. 

An open wound gushed blood onto his chest. The same one you had your head against two days ago. 

“Oh, God,” his jaw shakes when he sees it’s you. The flesh of his throat bobs with his cry. “P-please. You gotta help me.”

You don’t say anything. Not you as you can’t even take a breath. 

There’s too much red. And the stench of it hangs heavy in the air. It even follows the trail in the sand to the river. You’re suffocating. 

“Hey, hey,” he coughs out. Somehow, his words are still gentle. “It’s okay. You just gotta—” Charlie sputters. “C-cover it.” He takes his own palm and places it over the wound. 

His lips—the ones you’d kissed—shake. “Like this.”

But through the cracks between his fingers, the bleed seeps. It stains the fabric of his sleeve, and you watch the faintest remnant of hope fade from his eyes. 

“Please,” he cries. 

He’s begging you. He’s listening to his own heartbeat slow. 

Charlie shakes his head the best he can with a mangled neck. “N-no, please.” The blood coats his teeth and tongue. It drips down to his chin. “Don’t leave, p-please!”

His voice grows weaker. And you back away. Just a step. You watch his chest rise and fall, and then…nothing. His mouth parts open like a ghoul, eyes wide and lifeless. 

You scramble on both hands and feet back up the hill. The leaves slide under your palms. 

You reach for the side of the road like it’s an anchor. Pulling you back for air, gasping and clutching onto the asphalt. 

The bag of groceries falls to the side when you pull your bike up and swing your leg over the side. The basket of strawberries breaks open, and they tumble down the slope. Red running against the dirt. 

Blood seeping into the sand. It’s still there, in your mind, pooling around Charlie’s body like a sadistic grave. 

It’s darker now, the clouds now a deep, threatening, angry gray. And the far distance, in the wall of the trees that surrounds the road, two specks of red glow. They don’t move. 

They blink. 

Your feet move faster than your mind. You follow the path the way you came, wind whistling through your hair. It forces the tears welling up in your eyes to fall. The severity of it all threatens to hit you then. 

But you don’t let it. Not until you stumble into your bedroom, your bike left by the front door. 

You collapse onto the bed. The scent of fresh honeysuckle and sin is still strong. But even in the quiet of your house, Charlie’s voice rattles in your head. 

“Please.”

“Oh, God, no.”

It stays, even after your eyes drift shut.

You wake in the afternoon once the shock dissipates from your system. It’s odd that your father hadn’t shaken you awake for breakfast, but when you saunter into the living room, it’s empty. 

He must’ve left for a good day’s work. 

Something lingers in the air. It follows you like a ghost. Reeks of death and everything wrong. 

You can still smell the blood as you splash your face with cold water. It does little to refresh your mind, because nothing could ever make you forget Charlie’s body by the river. 

His voice, begging. His eyes, pleading. His mouth, sputtering blood. 

You see it in your own reflection. For a split second, he’s there. Standing behind you, in a crack in the bathroom mirror.

You don't scream or gasp. If he’s there to take your soul, you won’t fight. 

There isn’t much to take anymore. 

The next second, he’s gone. A blink of an eye, and you’re alone again. 

You try to remember what that voice told you:

You’re not alone. 

And where was it now? Had you upset it? Had you scared it away? As the day before comes back to you in fragments, you remember the glow of red in the forest. 

Watching you like eyes. A predator stalking its prey. You wish it would just attack already. 

You walk into town. It takes twice as long, but you can’t stand to look at your bicycle. The dirt road crunches under your boots. Most noticeably, yesterday’s unusual weather hasn’t disappeared.

No beam of hot sun on the back of your neck. No sweat dripping down your cheek. 

Just the strangely still air and the weight of fog. 

Although it feels like morning for you, the rest of the town continues about their day. The wives sort through the peaches and berries at the market. A clerk signs something off for a truck driver. Children play hopscotch and jump rope on the sidewalk. 

Everything is right. 

Until something cuts through the air. 

A wail—sharp and ear-piercing like it could shatter the windows—comes from outside the police station. All the eyes on the street turn towards it. You stop in your steps. 

Because just outside the station, parked on the side of the road, is an ambulance.

You don’t miss a beat. You know what—who—is inside of it. An ambulance is a way of hope, like there’s still a chance for poor Charlie Maywell. But you see it for what it is. 

A hearse. 

Your lower lip trembles. People on the street begin to murmur. 

A woman, with dark hair pinned up into a bun, runs from the station to the ambulance. She sobs as she tries to pull the doors open. She bangs on the windows with her fists. 

“Give me my son!” She shouts. A man wraps his arms around her. Pulls her back to the station. 

The story lives on to be a legend in the town. How Mrs. Maywell cried for her son in the street that strange gray afternoon. How her husband couldn’t hold her back. How they fell to their knees when they dragged poor Charlie’s body out.

Covered with nothing but a sheet. The slope of his nose piques under it, and below his head, is a horrific splotch of red. 

Your eyes dart around you—maybe your guilt is so strong that everyone knows. But the people don’t look at you. 

They watch, for a long time, as Mrs. Maywell cries. 

“They had to drag her back home.” Mr. Kline says at the bank the next day. Sorting the  bills in his hand like he wasn’t holding a thousand dollars.

Eventually, it comes out quick enough for the whole town to know. Charlie Maywell was ripped apart, mangled and mauled. A blood-soaked mess by the time the cops found him. Had his body rotted a few days more, he would’ve been unrecognizable. 

Your father only speaks of it once. Hunched over his radio, a beer in his hand. “No more walks. Or bike rides.”

You blink once. Guilt gleams over your eyes, but he can’t bring himself to look at you. You don’t know which one of you failed the other.

“Yes, daddy.”

You kiss the top of his forehead before bed. 

Charlie Maywell is buried the following week. 

His casket—a big, dark-oak thing—is closed. Covered with white roses and wildflowers. The preacher stumbles over his words, cut off by quick sniffles and long breaths. 

At the front, near the altar, and closest to Charlie, sat his father. Alone in the pews with the whole town behind him. Eyes wide, stricken with horror at the floorboards like he’d just seen war.

And perhaps he had. 

Perhaps, in some way, you could’ve stopped it. Saved not only Charlie from his fate but his father from this grief. 

The choir girls sing. You can’t look at them. 

You can’t look at anything other than your hands in your lap. Even if they never had been dirtied, the blood was still on them. A stain of a nightmare come true. 

“Please!” 

Charlie’s voice still speaks to you like he’s just over your shoulder. His breath still fans against your skin. Then, it comes back to bite. 

“Please. You gotta help me.”

The nave shudders, and so do you. 

Mr. Maywell leads the walk to the cemetery, a full congregation behind him.  Every townsperson gathered to mourn. 

Apart from you, who slipped out the back door when the rest crowded at the front. You hid by the side of the church as their footsteps dragged against the sidewalk. 

Home is all there is. You walk down the path you know like the back of your hand. The town is tainted now. All of its buildings and people, veiled by a shadow. Forever corrupted by the death of poor Charlie Maywell. 

When you reach the porch steps, he is hardly at the back of your mind. 

“Don’t leave, please!”

Your palms fly to your ears; you’re drowning in his screams. You rush across the threshold, the screen door hissing behind you. Down the hall, past the kitchen to your room. 

It does little to offer comfort now. Your pristine white linens drip red until your mind stops deceiving you. 

With the door shut behind you, your back slides down against it until you crouch on the floor. You hug your knees to your chest. In it, your heart races and stammers. No amount of deep breaths or mind games can steady it. 

You trade your black cotton dress for your nightgown. The lace lining is something of purity and innocence. It’s wrong to wear it now.

You don’t sleep. You hardly ever close your eyes. The hours pass, and you lie awake with a heavy soul. You imagine them lowering the casket into the earth as Mr. Maywell weeps. 

Blood in the sand. Crusted over his skin and hair. His tears leaving two clean streaks through it. 

And you walked away. 

The memory is pressed into your soul now.

Outside your window, the clouds still blanket the sun and sky. You only realize the evening approaches when it all goes blue. The kind of blue that runs a shiver up your spine. 

You didn’t kill Charlie. 

You simply left him for dead. 

And you don’t try to decide which one is worse. In the end, a young man is dead, and you’re coated in his blood. No matter how many times you’ve scrubbed yourself clean. 

Eventually, you’ve sunken into the mattress so far you can feel the wooden beams underneath it. You rise and swing your feet over the side. 

There’s dried tears lining your face. You don’t remember crying. You stay there, sitting on the edge of your bed 

And then—the whistle in the wind. 

Distorted and hushed. But direct, like it was only meant for you. 

Sweet lamb. 

Your eyes widen. 

It’s been weeks since it left you. You’d told yourself it was gone for good. Bid farewell and never looked back. 

Yet here it was. 

Don’t be afraid.  Won’t you come outside?

It possesses you, or some dark corner of your mind that wants to give in. Your feet carry you down the hall and back to the screen door. 

You almost gasp. 

In the distance, far off across the dirt road where the trees loom over you, a figure stands. You can hardly make out his face through the mesh. The door hisses open as your bare feet step onto the porch. 

Slowly. Steadily. Watching him watch you. He’s still too far away, but you’ve never seen this man in town. 

The ground is dry and soft beneath your feet as you wander further from your house. Every bone in your body screams at you to go back, but his gaze hasn’t left your body since you appeared in the door.

You approach him close enough that you can see the faintest blue in his eyes. His hair is dark and tousled, falling in uneven strands like he carries the night with him.

The sight of you is something else—hair ruffled from bed, faint bags under your eyes, and a grayer complexion that only came with remorse.

“You poor thing,” he says, a tilted smile on his face. 

The sound of his voice floods you with clarity. Your knees almost buckle and your stomach twists because this man—whom you’ve never seen before—is more than familiar. 

He emanates an ambiance of warmth, one that you’ve felt before. The very one you ached for when it was gone. 

“It’s you.”

The words fall from your lips with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

He doesn’t answer you. He doesn’t need to—you feel it in your bones that this man is your ghost. He simply turns on his heel and enters the forest. 

You wait for a moment. Frozen like you’re petrified, but strangely, you’re not afraid. 

He glances over his shoulder at your figure near the road. Furrows his brows and calls out, “Come on, now. Ain’t nothin’ in the dark besides me.”

And so you follow him. A generous space between the two of you. He doesn’t urge you to hurry. You don’t ask him to stop. The bottom of your nightgown, brown with dirt, brushes against your ankles. You step over fallen branches and roots. They threaten to scratch and pierce your soles, but you never flinch. 

You watch him. Treading through these woods like he knew them. And since you do know them, you know where he’s leading you. 

The riverside pokes through the gaps between the leaves. The ground turns into a steep decline, and you grasp onto nearby branches for support. 

He hears your steps slow and extends his hand to you, “Careful here.”

When you take his hand, the cold of skin runs through your own, spiking your blood and tracing your spine. He smiles at your surprise. 

You step over a fallen log and feel soft sand under your feet. Twilight now hangs over you, filtering the forest and the river in a deep blue. The water laps at the shore in small waves. 

You saunter towards it. He stays among the tree line, his eyes fixated on you. He waits for you to move. 

But you don’t. You stand there, watching how the rising moonlight illuminates the water. 

In your gown, you seem like the ghost now. 

He silently steps towards you until his hand can reach your sleeve, settling on your shoulder. “You almost look pure in this, dove,” he plays with the lace. “But I didn’t bring you here to be pure.”

Carefully, he bunches the gown and lifts it up to your hips. You instinctively raise your arms so he slides it off of you. The humid air melts against your skin. 

His fingers grace the side of your arm. They trail up the skin until they brush your jaw. 

“Christ,” he whispers when your eyes meet his.

Your lips part gently, but the words don’t come right away. “What are you?” 

He smiles at that. A hint of awe as his eyes drag down your figure. His other hand places itself lightly upon your waist. 

“What do you think?” He asks, his eyes quickly meeting yours before taking in your body again. “I thought I was just ‘n your fuckin’ head’.”

He mocks your ambitious words from that night weeks ago. 

You swallow thickly, unable to speak. 

He leans in closer and audibly inhales through his nose. He smells you. “Do I look like I’m in your head right now, sweetheart?”

Your eyes flutter shut for only a moment. The fabric of his shirt brushed against your bare chest. 

“Do I feel like I’m in your head?”

“No,” you breathe. You glance back at him to see his eyes fixated on your neck. He’s nearly caged you in his hold now, and you don’t fight it. 

“That’s right.” He nods once. 

His cheek touches yours when he smells you again. The grip on your waist grows tighter before his fingers grab your chin. 

“You do as I say, yeah?” 

You nod. Slipping into obedience like a dog. 

His hands shift your body towards the river, resting heavily on your shoulders. The water reaches your toes, cold and fresh. But when you look down at it, you can still see Charlie’s blood flowing along. 

“Walk in there, now,” his voice flows gently to your ear. “Don’t look back until you feel me there with ya.”

You don’t move right away. Not even with a gentle nudge of his hands. Hypnotized by the rippling glow of the water, you can feel him waiting. For you. 

“You said that no one can save me,” your voice is stronger now, nearly as solid as the rocks lining the river. “No one but you.”

You turn only slightly. He stands in the corner of your eye.

“Save me from what?”

He gently smirks. Not mockingly or even hungrily, but with adoration. A hint of excitement for what’s to come soon. 

“You’ll see.”

His hands on your shoulders prompt you towards the river again, and this time, you obey. The sand turns coarse as the water runs deeper. It bites at your skin with every step you take, but you don’t stop. 

Not when it chills your inner thighs. Not even when the surface of it reaches the curve of your breast. 

Behind you, back on the shore, you can hear something like a shuffling. Metal clinks. Quiet steps track through the sand for only a moment until a splash. 

And the entire river shifts. Afraid. 

The water is warmer now that you’re acclimated. You run your hands through it and feel it pulse between your fingers. 

Then, a breath. 

Hot but comforting at your neck. A warmth envelopes you again. 

And he chuckles. “Look at me.”

You turn. 

His skin is pale under the moonlight. It catches every sharp line of his torso, casting soft shadows in the dips between lean muscle. There’s a faint sheet of sweat over his collarbones that highlights the curve. His chest and broad shoulders are noticeably still, and you realize he isn’t breathing. 

Nor is his heart beating. 

“What are you?” You whisper like the Lord can hear you. Like it isn’t already too late for your soul. 

He cups water in his calloused hands and pours it over your exposed skin. You shiver, and he smiles. “Is that how you speak to strangers?”

One hand settles on your lower back.

“You’re not a stranger.”

“You’re right,” he hums, amused. The hand runs down to the curve of your ass, taking as much of it as he can into his palm.  “I’m not. A stranger wouldn’t know to do this.”

His other hand suddenly appeared at the roots of your hair. He clenched his fingers and pulled, tilting your head up at him. Baring your neck to the moon. 

You steady yourself with your hands on his chest, holding back a moan from slipping past your lips. 

“Easy, now,” he grins. “I won’t do nothing ya don’t like. I know that Maywell boy couldn’t please you, but I ain’t like him.”

A tear runs down your cheek. Your eyes widen in horror, but not shock. 

“You killed him,” your voice shakes. From both fear and from the weight of the truth you already knew. “Didn’t you?”

His eyes gaze into yours so softly it’s almost impossible to believe he could do such a thing. 

“I had to.”

“Why?”

He breathily chuckles like your naïveté like it’s adorable. “For you.”

Your brows furrow. “What?” Your lip curls in confusion. You begin to back away for air, but he’s caged you in now.

“You let me in that night. Remember it, sweet girl?” His lips are dangerously close to your skin. “Let me inside of you. Felt every inch of your soul. That’s a bond you can’t break. Couldn’t just let ya go after that, darlin’.”

Words don’t seem to come to you. You can hardly process a thought. His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “What?” You tremble. 

“You still don’t get it,” he chuckles. “I saved you.”

There’s a pause before you speak, but you don’t hesitate. “You didn’t save me,” you spit. 

His amused smile falters. 

And his clutch on your hair tightens as he pulls you down past the surface of the water. Cold rushes in past your lips and nose. It gasps around your skin. You breath is caught in something between heat, want, and fear. 

Fear that he could take your life. 

Want for him to take more. 

Because there’s something about him—ancient and unspoken—that unfurls the thought of an element beyond life and death. 

And whatever it is, it brings you relief. Solace for the darkness you’ve been carrying. Cleansed. 

When he pulls you up, you break the surface with a shattering gasp. Your hair, now soaked, sticks to your body like a mold. His face is inches away from yours, and there’s a red gleam to his eyes. 

There’s no reason to fight. Not when you can feel your soul succumbing to him. 

But you do. Your hands on his chest push him from you, startling him to release the grip on your hair. With your heart thumping faster than it ever has, you try to swim through the flow of the river. 

Something at the bottom scrapes your ankle. Despite the sting, you rush to the shore, where he laid out your white nightgown upon a smooth, flat rock. 

You’re close. Close enough that if you extend your arm, you can reach it. 

Until a force much stronger than you grabs at your leg. A grip that’ll surely bruise the skin. And then, another settled on your hips. 

His chest is warm pressed against your back. He locks you in his hold again, lips just barely brushing your ear. The sound of his sneer is something both evil and intimate. 

“Even the iron still fears the rot.”

It falls from his lips like poetry as he lets the smell of your blood absorb into his soul. His fingers latch themselves softly into your flesh. Behind you, something hard and heavy presses against your flesh.

He holds you steady, but your breath shakes. “I don’t fear you.”

The corner of his lips curl. You feel it on your shoulder. Then, a swift, clicking sound like blade against blade. His chest vibrates with his words. 

“You should.”

Two rows of unnaturally sharp teeth break past your skin. Slicing clean and deep. A jolt tears through your body, a confusing mixture of slight pain and intense pleasure. 

You instantly gasp, hands grabbing at his arms—but not for him to stop. 

You pull him closer. 

“Christ, that’s good,” he says almost drunkenly when he pulls from you for just a moment. He recognizes a moan come from you. “Of course, you like that. You know why?”

His tongue licks at the wound where blood flows. Digs his blunt nails into your side. 

“Because you’re mine. I made sure of it that first night.”

He groans low in his throat, starved yet restrained. His hold on your body grows tighter, hands splayed over your ribs. He drinks reverently. For the slightest taste of something sacred. 

He doesn’t make a mess. Only two small streaks of blood run down the space between your breasts. When he pulls away again, now for the last time, he sighs like a madman. 

Your strength is practically nothing against his. And you don’t even try to fight him as he walks you to the riverside where the large rock sits.

The water now rests just at your hips, leaving your skin to gleam under the moonlight

“I won’t drain you—not yet,” he says like a prayer into your neck, pressing kisses against your blood-stained skin. “Not until I fill up every inch of ya, just to leave you empty and beggin’ for more.”

A breath hitches in your throat. 

With secure arms, he turns you to him, his blood-covered lips trailing across your jaw. The rock slopes perfectly to align your back against it. It’s smooth and cold and wet as he slides you up.

Once you feel the lace of your nightgown underneath you, you clutch onto it like it’ll save you. 

He lurches towards you, grabbing you by the thighs and dragging you back to him. 

You’re pinned down by the hips, the nightgown being the only barrier between you and stone. But before he lowers himself, he grabs your bleeding ankle. 

A deep inhale through his nose, first. Then, he licks with his tongue flat against your skin. There’s hardly even a faint trace of blood left by the time he’s done. 

The night air is cool against you, but the warmth returns when you feel his breath against your slick. 

A single string of drool runs from the corner of his mouth.

His chin is still lathered in red—the same red that slowly runs down your body, curving around your breasts. 

“You been dreaming of me, sweetness?” He asks while leaving graceful kisses along your thighs. Trailing closer and closer. He doesn’t let you respond before he acts.

He licks. One bold stripe through your folds. 

His eyes burn into yours as he watches them lull into the back of your head.

You cry into the dead of night when he seals his lips to your bundle of nerves, his tongue still working to lap at you. Without thinking, your hand flies to his hair, digging into the roots. 

But you loosen your grip quickly. Afraid that you’d somehow hurt him. 

“Go ahead, dove. Show me how you want it.” Hesitantly, you use his dark curls to guide his head. He chuckles only once into you. “Fuckin’ filthy girl, usin’ my tongue to feel good.”

A moan croaks from you as you grip your nightgown beneath you.

“You don’t know how good you taste, honey.” The noises—slurps and licks and open-mouthed kisses—are obscene in the night air. 

You feel a fingertip, rough and wide, prod at your hole, circling the rim before plunging past your entrance. 

“Fuck, Remmick!”

He nods, pumping his finger quicker every second. “Could stay here all day tasting this sweet cunt.”

Another digit threatens to stretch your opening, and you roll your hips into his hand, pulling his head closer so the pressure on your clit blooms. Your thighs violently shake and squeeze around him when he adds a second finger. 

He growls, “Keep ‘em open, girl.” The roughness of his tone matches the pace of his fingers. “Eyes, too. Want you to watch me when I make you come all over my face.”

“Oh, God,” you whine when your eyes meet his. 

Because they now glow. Red. 

“He can’t hear you now, darlin’,” he smirks and pulls his mouth and fingers away from you. He takes them in his mouth and hums at the taste. “Not when you’re sinnin’ with me.”

Remmick rises. The blood on his face is nearly completely wiped away by something else that glistens in the moonlight–you.

His brows furrow at the sight of you, lips pursing like he’s looking at his own masterpiece. Red smears the inside of your thighs, the curve of your ass, even your mound. 

“Just absolutely filthy…” he whispers to himself. 

The skin of his knees digging into the rock under your nightgown. He lifts you like it’s nothing and drags your hips to where his cock hangs heavy and wide between his legs. 

Your jaw trembles as you stare at it. The tip is red and leaking as if he’s about to burst. He chuckles at your gaze. 

His hands, much larger than yours, just barely wrap around it. “Come here, pretty girl,” he says as he begins to stroke it with his palm. 

Something tight forms in your chest when you look down at the small space between you two—where he slides the tip through your glistening folds. He hisses and rubs it against your swollen clit. His head tilts back. 

“I’m gon’ ruin you,” he says towards the sky before looking back down at you. “And I’m gon’ be so gentle, you won’t even realize ‘til it’s done.”

The head of his cock pushes past your entrance once, and his hips retract. Only to push himself deeper. Then, again. And again. A tortuous cycle–taking every inch of his length until you feel the base of him flat against your clit. 

He groans when he’s fully inside. “Can feel you openin’ around me, angel. Slowly, but surely.”

You don’t make a sound. It’s almost impossible when you can barely take a breath. Your jaw hangs open, eyes fixated on where the two of you connect only to flutter closed when he begins to thrust. Tears collect and threaten to spill.

“Go ahead.” Remmick fills up every space inside of you in a way you’d never felt before. Not even that first night. “Cry, darlin’. Cry all you want, let the river wash it away.”

His hips buck for a moment like broken restraint. He bends down closer to your face to kiss a tear that slips down your cheek. His hands are firmly planted on your hips, and he uses the grip to lift you up just a little, opening your insides in a new angle.

You shiver when he reaches a new depth. It doesn’t seem possible for him to go any deeper. 

“There we go,” he smiles. He begins to move faster. Sharper. With more precision and vigor like he’s trying to find every spot inside of you. 

“I–” you try to say before he forces a moan from you. 

The pace quickens. With every thrust, Remmick draws himself from you nearly completely before shoving himself back inside. 

Your body is completely limp as he ruts into you, skin slapping to a delicious rhythm. 

“Miss me when I was away?” Remmick chuckles as he pants. Not once do his movements slow or falter. 

You nod rapidly, eyes squeezing shut because, even as he fucks you right there like he’d been doing it his whole life, the mere girth of him is still too much to bear. “You w-were gone for s-so long.”

“Oh, I know, darlin’,” Remmick half coos.

His hand grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. Suddenly, his eyes turn dark. “Now, you see me, don’t you girl?”

You see him.

You feel him. It’s more than just a ghostly warmth leaving its trace in the night–he’s making his claim on you now. 

“Saw that poor boy by the bridge all bloodied up…” His hand drifts down to your neck, his fingers squeezing just enough to leave you searching for air. “Got you wonderin’ what kinda monster would do such a thing…”

With his hand around your throat, Remmick pulls you up closer to him.

“...What he could do to you.”

Your brows knit. That familiar burning starts in your thighs before pooling around your center.

The tip of him surely leaves bruises against your cervix. He licks at your neck again, right at the spot where he’d drank from you. Every thrust into you pulls another strangled sound from your lips. 

You look up at him, not in fear or anger–but desperation. You want more. The trees seem to breathe as they listen.

“P-please,” you manage to choke out. 

A chuckle rumbles deep from his chest. “Well, look at you,” he rolls his hips against yours. “Pleadin’ for me to give you more, yeah? You close, ain’t you?”

You nod.

“Bet you didn’t think anyone could make you feel so good bein’ split open,” he rests his forehead against yours. Your bodies sway along with the rapid pace he sets. “That boy sure as hell couldn’t.”

Your eyes go wide and, despite the waves of pleasure coursing through you and pulling you closer to the edge, you’re confused.

But Remmick smiles knowingly. 

“Oh, I seen it all, darlin’. He didn’t fuck you like this, did he. He didn’t have you writhin’ and beggin’ all over him.” Remmick’s eyes drift down at his cock spearing into you. “Hurts my heart to know you wasn’t enjoyin’ yourself. He didn’t deserve to see you like this–”

A beat.

“—In all your glory.”

His grip around your throat tightens. His eyes glow red. 

“Only I get you like this, ain’t that right, dove?” You nod and try to muster out a yes, but it comes out like an incoherent babble. His lips hover at your ear. “Say it.”

Your back arches from the rock. Something inside you twists and pulls and threatens to snap. 

“Y-you’re the o-only one…” Your senses are too heightened to control yourself anymore. And the way you look up at him with glassy, pleading eyes is enough. 

The pad of his thumb presses over your swollen clit for just a moment, and you burst. 

Your vision goes out as you see only black. You convulse against him like the only thing keeping you awake is the rhythm of your heart.

He stays buried inside of you, furiously rubbing over your bundle of nerves. “That’s it. That’s a good girl,” he praises you as if he wants more. 

And he takes it from you anyway. 

You hear him faintly whisper “Christ” to himself as he shoots his load into you.

His hips suddenly still while his release rushes through him. The grip on your throat loosens, and with the sudden surge of a full breath of air, you open your heavy eyes. 

Only to see how his abs glisten and shine with something other than water. Some droplets even soak your lower stomach.

You’d gushed all over him. 

“That’s right, angel,” he says with a breath. “That’s all you.”

Remmick runs two fingers through it, collecting as much as he can before guiding your mouth to them. You take them without hesitation. Wrap your lips around them, swirling your tongue to taste your own release. 

“Ain’t that sweet.” He chuckles.

His touch is different now. 

It’s still marked with something ancient and violent, but with you, he’s gentle. He carefully sits you up on the rock, but he doesn't pull himself from you. 

He stays buried almost as deep as possible, leaving a weight inside you. But is isn't a burden.

“There’s just one more thing to do, angel.”

You cock your head. “What do you mean?”

His fingers brush over the puncture wound on your neck. It’s beginning to bruise now. His gaze at it this time isn't with hunger or even lust.

There's a hint of awe. Some kind of longing like he'd truly been waiting for this moment.

“I fucked all the good outta you, and you still don’t understand," he hums a chuckle. His lips are only inches away from your throat, his hands splayed at your back to keep you up against him. 

You involuntarily tilt your head to the other side, baring your neck at him. He brushes your hair off your shoulder. His breath is warm on your skin with every word he speaks.

“You’re mine, darlin’. Always have been.” He wipes away any remaining tears. “Always will be.”

Your gasp echoes through the forest. It shakes the flowing river. His teeth pierce you again, this time with an excruciating, burning heat that leaves fire in your veins. It spreads through you like a promise.

Sealing your fate.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, clawing at the skin. Not for him to stop, but merely to ground yourself as he drains you of nearly all sustenance. 

He growls and groans into you. The weight of his body pins you down to the rock. You’ve nowhere to run. You don’t try to, anyway. 

Your skin is ablaze. Every cell in your body seems to ignite. For a moment, in your agony-ridden state, you question if it will ever end. But eventually, the color fades from you.

And soon, so does the pain. 

“R-Remm…” you begin to say. It fades into a breath.

A last one.

You wake to the gentle stream of the river. The stars seem to be watching you amidst the dark void of the sky. Waiting. Anticipating to see a girl as sweet as you born into something new.

The breeze doesn’t blow against bare skin anymore. The sheer lace of your nightgown tickles your neck again—but when you look down, you notice that the hem is stained a marvelous red. Your stomach growls at the sight of it, and you realize then, you’ve never felt so hungry.

Nearly starved. 

It isn’t solid rock beneath you anymore, either. Instead, you lay upon the soft, lush grass, the sandy riverside only inches from your feet. 

He stands at the shore. Dressed neatly as if nothing even happened. 

You walk to him with gentle steps. The sand collects in between your toes. 

Once beside him, the water laps at your feet. He doesn’t immediately look at you. His gaze is fixated on the water, though you wonder if his mind is somewhere else.

The river runs gently. The moon whispers to the stars. Your own audience in the sky. You’ve become something of the night yourself. You can feel it in your bones. 

He’s unusually quiet. 

“I see you, now.” You say plainly.

He’s silent for a moment. Letting the words hang in the night air.

“You could see me since you watched that Maywell boy die,” he finally says. It’s soft, but he somewhat scoffs, low and heavy like the words are meant to be against himself.

“No…” You shake your head, still trying to grasp what you were trying to say.

It isn’t just Remmick standing beside you. And now, he isn’t the demon that’d haunted you and lured you in. It’s far more than that.

It’s the picture of war flashing before your eyes. Canons and blood and fire. Men begging for their lives with screams. It’s the image of disease, something twisted and cruel running rampant through its victims, their coughs echoing through your mind. Ballrooms, pubs, cities, and farmland. In all of them, one variable stays the same–him. With more lives lived than you can count. 

It’s the sight of him–the same as he is now–running through a field of tall grass. His eyes are wide in horror. The only thing running through his veins is fear. The sound of his screams bleeding into the night until he becomes the very monster he feared.

Drifting through the centuries as a ghost. Alone and forced to the darkness, never to be seen by the sun. Never to be seen by anyone, for that matter.

Until you.

You turn to him then. You picture that face–chiseled and aged not by nature, but by heartache–in the memories that now take up your mind. 

“I see you now.”

taglist: @theabhartachsbride @jimmys-tiara @leftoversl1ce @radiorunner99 @polaris-daydreams

© faestunna 2025.

[abbessofflesh]

Remmick vs cat? 👀

Oh man it's been a long time coming for this one. The WIP is based on three different asks inspired by mingapace's main fic collection!

Something something, Remmick having to curl up by your feet while your 'sweet' kitty gets the pillow beside you. Something something cats sensing evil and having eternal beef with Remmick. Something something Remmick seething from the foot of your bed as he watches you cuddle that cat instead of him every night.

"It’s all a pretty shameful look. An indication of the idiotic choice you gave almost no deliberation when you let this creature into your home. The two-legged, untrained mutt that dragged itself across your threshold every night.

“This ain’t right.” Comes the bitching from the foot of your bed.

Yeah. This is on you."

[abbessofflesh]

the "hunt" WIP sounds...intriguing

Gonna have to give credit to the big-brained, lovely anon that said something like, "instead of waking up to him peppering kisses on your face- it’s to a few knocks on the window warning you it’s time for hide and seek— or he’ll probably get a bit too excited n try and drain you" because that got the brain juices flowing.

Feral, blood high Remmick succumbing to his baser instincts when he gets too excited with their game?? YEP YEP. I have a lot of thoughts for this so I might do headcanons AND a little fic. Not quite sure yet what this next snippet will be from 😅

"Your gaze was pulled to those gleaming eyes, the flicker of crazy in those red pupils, and the predatory hint of glee present upon seeing you struggle that degraded him to instinct. You wound tight under that look. Stewed in sour defeat and nervous anticipation for what felt like ages.

“That dress will have to go, darlin’.” His nose bumped against your cheek, carved a path down your jaw, and savored the sense of blood wailing in your veins. “Slowed you down. And paired with that scent of yours?” A puffed exhale of cold air, too cold, fogged the narrowing space between you and skittered over raised flesh. “It pulled me right to you.”"

[abbessofflesh]

You have a Remmick playlist 👀?

I do!!!

I'll link it but it might not make sense to anyone except my lizard brain 😭. It really is all over the place. Some of the songs I started associating him with are from 🔥🔥 tiktok edits of him. Others are songs with vibes I wanted to capture for some stuff I wrote. Very incohesive.

[abbessofflesh]

✧˖° ━━ wip game ! ━━ ⋆˙⟡

tagged by : @fuckoffbard @angelickks and @jupiterpiss love you guysssss <333

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Remmick VS Cat-- From a few old asks mentioning Remmick interacting with reader's cat (that hates him) (The asks are in the active decay stage of decomposition i'm so sorry)

Crochet-- (??) but it's actually about a reader that sews. Terribly. Remmick won't tell them that though.

P3 of Ascenscionism-- Bullying Remmick + Smut

Hunt-- Primal play i guess?? Inspired by mosh pit/hide and seek anon

Everyone has probably been tagged by now sorry if you already have: @faestunna @mothmansbanker @nastyzombii ...i'm shy and blanking but tagging anyone else who wants to <3

[abbessofflesh]

luvvvvvv ur work omgggggg u could do remmick fucking the reader in the middle of the dance circle…. or is that too freaky here idk if this is a safe space💔💔💔 love u mwah

..oh…

That’s not…

Nah I’m just fucking with you. You’re a nasty freak and I want to smooch you on the mouth. NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL!! Just wanted to note this isn’t the Juke Joint, a bar is mentioned, but it isn’t said nor hinted whether it’s the Juke Joint or not, that’s completely up to you if you want to interpret it as such. Also reader’s race isn’t brought up either, again, up to you readers to interpret or imagine which race reader is.

WARNINGS! Smut.. uh.. duh. Technically a weird.. orgy I don’t fucking know. None of them fuck each other aside from Remmick and reader.. but shit gets weird okay.. remember they CAN feel what Remmick feels. Also Reader is fem. No penetration but he eats her shit OUT, also jerks off. Reader’s emotions and reactions are all over the place.. I was kinda experimenting on how someone might feel during all of this in the beginning. Okay bye.

Tag cause some folks askkkkedddd: @jimmys-tiara and @porcosjaw

The chaos is loud. The rumble of feet, the pounding of drums and cries of the wicked fill the night air.

It sucks the life of the living, the fear of those being hunted by something they can’t wrap their minds around— can’t fathom being something real. This chaos, this crowd, bleeds into each other. Bleeds into everything around them.

Ties everyone into one. Into something connected, something whole.

Something deeper than flesh, deeper than bone. You can feel it, gripping itself into your whole being. Ripping and tearing your flesh straight off you and leaving you vulnerable.

It slithers its way through your stomach, up through your veins and hangs low in your throat. Every swish of a skirt, or the pull of pants, the ruffle of a jacket or shirt, you feel like it’s your own. You can feel the breeze of the wind not only brush across your cheeks, but everyone else’s.

There’s a loud howl, something you can not only hear but feel as if it’s your own, and then a loud cackle. Something that sounds like it hurts, like it holds traces of a loud cry for help, but the pure ecstasy on the new vampire’s face is far from dread or pain.

Then there’s another laugh, and another, until everyone keeps laughing between lyrics. A song twisted with laughter and joy despite its gloomy meaning.

A song that speaks of longing, of wanting to belong again— but you do. Belong. Together, with each other.

Whole.

You can just feel it, every time you brush your hand across another’s cheek or hold hands with another vamp, or laugh with someone, you feel it. That connection.

All around you, you can feel it.

It’s a massive circle, one that makes everyone face one another. Some folks move, others stomp in place. There’s a few that even go into the center, giggling and dancing before leaving again.

You feel another brush, hear someone giggle. Feel the brush of your lips against your own, despite no one being near your face to kiss you. Instead, it’s the couple across from you, making out.

You just ignore it.

People tend to get strung up by the emotion of it all, all the weight being lifted off their shoulders, all the fear being washed away. Scraped off gums and spit onto floors, or even into each other’s mouths.

You feel that tug, suddenly, between your legs. That ache, that pull. Another brush against your flesh, but this time higher up your thigh— a different couple this time, a more handsy one.

The thundering becomes louder, feet quicker, pace quicker. A tumble towards something. The middle of the circle is empty, the empty space welcoming, urging someone forth to take its place.

It’s not long for Remmick to be that very person, always one to fold for an ancient call, and he steps in the middle.

The dirt is kicked up with each knock of his shoes, dust rolling into the wind in small clouds as he dances. He does a small circle, dust following as the claps and instruments become louder.

More chaotic, more frantic, like everyone was desperate for something. Another tug, another pull, another kiss— all of which you attempt to ignore, but everyone seems to only get worse, feverish and hungry.

You glance up at the sky, the warmth and noise becoming overwhelming, downright unbearable but you’ll be damned to leave it. Couldn’t, even if you wanted to, because he won’t allow you to.

Remmick has a way of stringing everyone along, coaxing them with soft calls in the mind, a small curl of his fingers and his feet dragging across the dirt urging everyone to follow him. It’s why everyone is in a circle to begin with, singing a song none of them knew, but somehow could recall each lyric to.

So you stay, and instead escape the festering heat by looking to the night sky. There ain’t any stars out tonight, though you could recall seeing them earlier. When you had come out for a quick smoke, lingering in the quietness, the ease of being alone and away from the tumbling of sweaty bodies or loud music. Away from the bar. But now it’s nothing but space and darkness, and something drops in your stomach. Like an understanding that the stars will never grace your sight again, that even space itself is terrified of what you’ve become.

The same stars your mama used to tell you, promised you, would always be there as a guiding point, no longer wanted to protect you. To lead you home.

And why should they. There was no home to be had anymore.

You feel a pull on your hand, this time actually for you, and you glance down only to be immediately met with red eyes.

“Come ere’, in the middle.” Remmick cocks his head back, urging you forth.

Despite your better judgment, you follow without a word. Always do, always will from here on out.

You expect him to sway away from you allowing you space to do your own thing, or to lead you in the center to try and copy his moves before shoving you back out. You don’t expect him to linger so close, or to interlock his hand with one of your own and place his other against your waist. Don’t expect him to pull you so close to the point where his chest presses against your own, nose almost tapping against yours as he gives a small breathless huff.

Despite the cold brace of death, and the lingering smell of your own blood along with many others still slathered across his flesh, you feel your muscles relax. Feel that wave of nausea, of misery, swish away again.

He distracts that heavy weight of dread squished between your ribs by swaying you back and forth, the hand on your waist guiding you through a messy dance that hardly fits the rhythm. It’s far too slow, not in the same fast paced beat set by those on the instruments.

Not that he cares. And he’s working extra hard to ensure you don’t either. He sways you away, keeping you out by only an extended arm before twirling you. Once, twice, thrice until he hears you laugh, his own following soon after. Though it’s much more quiet, cut off by a small hum before he’s pulling you back into his chest again, although this time it’s your back pressed against him.

“There ya go, just feel it, be with it.” He sways you both again, back and forth, his face tucked close to your neck. The same neck he tore into not even half an hour ago, but the wound had long healed, the blood of the living long curing the open ache of tender flesh.

He places a hand over your stomach, his nose knocking against your jaw as he takes a deep breath.

It’s much louder in the center than it was on the sidelines, everything so close and concentrated. It should be just as overwhelming, but you feel his other hand go against your chest, just above your breast.

He begins giving a steady pat, a quick thump twice. Again, and again, and again.

“Feel that,” gives another quick pat, “that’s us. One.” Gives a few more just for a good extra measure. To really reel it into your brain.

One. Whole.

You realize after a bit that he isn’t just thumping his hand against your chest for the sake of dramatics, but he’s mimicking a heartbeat. One that no longer resides within your chest. You don’t know what’s worse, the fact the same man who took your life is trying to mimic it back to you, or the fact that you find actual comfort in it.

You sigh, then nod.

“Just feel it. Take it in.”

Your body rocks side to side, slow. Far off beat, no longer with the crowd, no longer following along with their clasps or stomp of feet. Everyone is stuck in the same pattern, same rhythm, but you two.

He gives another pat.

Then, he slides his nose across your neck, breath warm as he mutters, “you still with me?”

You nod again. It’s only when you agree that he places a light kiss against you, your brows twitching into a slight furrow as you feel his tongue dart out to lick across your skin.

His hand stops giving the rhythmic thump, instead he trails it down to your breast, where he lightly squeezes the plump flesh. You feel him place another light kiss onto your jaw, his stubble scratching at you as he slowly rubs his face against you.

You two stay like that for a bit, his hands roaming over you as he places soft pecks here and there against your neck, cheek and back. Anywhere he can reach easily. And you tell yourself it’s not just because he needs to be close, despite the ache you feel in his bones or the hollow space tucked between his own ribs that has left him starved for the soft touch of a stranger. You tell yourself it’s not just because he wants to be close, that he also is licking the blood off of you and benefitting from the tight connection that hums under your skin, all the while he gives a content sigh.

You keep repeating that he’s doing this for the sake of securing his hold back over you, but he keeps contradicting all your thoughts. His mourning is far too loud and consuming to ignore, and he’s far too gentle to chalk it up to him just being ‘nice’.

Remmick places another gentle kiss against your shoulder before muttering, “you smell divine, real good.”

You feel him press his nose against your jaw again and take a deep breath in before exhaling loudly. It’s drowned by the music, but even then, everyone seems to understand his own interest with you, all catch the same whiff of your perfume mixed with the salty tang of your sweat.

All give a small hum of content in return. As if agreeing.

You aren’t given long to respond, however, because his hand that was formerly placed over your stomach glides down to grab at your heat through your dress.

Forces you to give a small yelp and jerk forward, taken off guard.

And the fucker laughs at that, finds that real funny. He jerks you back against his chest again, places a hand back over your stomach and forces you in place. His hand doesn’t move away from the space between your thighs, if anything, he presses his palm over your clothed clit. Does that until his entire hand practically covers your clothed pussy.

Remmick hums low when you give a small gasp, “feel real good, don’t it,” his canines poke out upon him smiling at your nod in return, happier than a fucking pastor on Sunday, “Wearin’ anythin’ under?”

You nod, and it’s stupid. Real stupid, because you aren’t. Far from it, and you know he knows that. You know everyone at this point knows that, can tell by the way some of them shake their heads no or the way they scrunch their faces upon hearing you lie.

Shit, they can all feel the way your slick wets the fabric of your dress. Not willingly, but they’ll be damned if you lied when it’s so fucking easy not to.

He notices too, chuckles low and mean against your ear before whispering, “liar.”

He flips the dress up just to tuck his hand underneath it, doesn’t care about flashing anyone or the fact you’re quite literally in the middle of the dance circle. Doesn’t really give a rat's ass when you gasp and immediately drag down your dress just to have some decency.

That decency is thrown out the window anyway, a real shame, because he presses his fingers against your clit. Taps it twice.

In return, you give a choked moan, mumbling a few curses before your hips jerk against his hand. You’re squeamish, unable to stand still as you desperately try to slide yourself against his open palm, hands clutching at his wrists, seeking for purchase.

In doing so, he tries to tighten his hold and move his fingers away from your nerves, but when he figures that won’t work he shoves a foot between your own. Lightly tap his shoe against one of your own until you spread your feet apart a bit. Taps harder again to get you to widen your stance more.

“There ya go,” he mutters when you finally open up, a small smile in place. You think he’s gonna continue, maybe even be nice and actually sink his fingers inside.. but he doesn’t. Far from it actually.

Instead, he drops to his knees, pulls your dress back up and goes underneath. His hands move to the front of your thighs where he grips the soft fabric of your dress, hands coated in blood and your slick. You hear a wolf whistle off to the side, then a loud laugh that strikes a match of embarrassment inside you. Strikes shame. But most of it is shoved to the side upon you feeling a wet glob of spit on your pussy.

You hardly have time to react before you feel his tongue between your folds, licking a long stride up. With it, everyone gives a content sigh, you included. Collective relief, even the instruments transition into a smoother beat, into something more airy and light.

Remmick gives another lick, hands clawing against the fabric of your dress before deciding to just ball the fabric into his fists that rest against your thighs. It pulls the fabric tight, until the dress partially covers your front and only covers his head in the back, otherwise it’s a full show. It wouldn’t take anyone much to take one glance over and understand exactly what’s going on— this man is tearing your shit up in front of everyone, and really has no shame doing it.

Once he’s down there, he’s stuck. Doesn’t let up, doesn’t breath, doesn’t pull away for anything. He sticks his tongue against your entrance, noses at your clit and spits globs of saliva against your already drenched center.

Doesn’t stop on the account of the other newly turned vampires moaning or howling, doesn’t boast or smile at any of those who whistle or wink at you. You doubt he even knows nor cares about what others have to think of the sight.

He just keeps licking and prodding around, like it’s his afternoon snack and he’s been dying for something to eat. The only times he does anything, gives any reaction of any sort, is when you do.

When you squeal after he nips at your clit, he smacks your ass, or when you give a sharp moan, he shakes his head side to side real quick, making you moan louder. His grip tightens on your dress when he feels your walls clench around his tongue, a groan of his own following when he feels your shudder after tongue fucking your hole.

You give a breathy gasp, hardly able to hold in all the air in your lungs before your moaning again. Another loud smack is given again, this time to your thigh, your dress dropping back down as he lets go of the fabric just to grab at your waist with both hands.

He tightens his grip and urges you to move against him, to rock yourself against his face. You hear someone else give a loud moan, then another giggle before squealing in pleasure, your presume. But you can’t see them, can’t when the crowd is still dancing and singing, all molded together tight.

You feel yourself move against him, don’t even notice how you’ve begun grinding against his open mouth and his tongue.

Jesus, his tongue, the one that keeps you locked in place, squirming and giddy despite the awful shame that lingers in the pit of your stomach. The same one that is slowly— not even, it’s dragging you towards your climax, yanking you towards the edge.

Another voice, neither of yours, yells out, “Yeah baby! Just like that!”

Another chimes in, “Mhm! Ride that face, doll!”

You feel yourself grow warm with each comment, beyond embarrassed by being quite literally in open view. You think getting ripped into again would be a fate less painful than this.

But Remmick.. Remmick finds this amusing. Nips at your inner thigh with a small smirk in place, mutters something that you just know is teasing, but you can’t hear it. Just feel him talk against you before he’s latching his mouth back onto your slick.

After a few seconds, when your hips are fully jerking back against him and you're basically riding his face standing up, eyes closed and the most beautiful sounds leaving you, he moves both his hands away.

But, he smacks your ass and quickly moves away from your spit soaked pussy, forcing a loud whined plea to leave you. He ignores it, just to say loud enough for you to hear, “Turn around.”

You do, no questions asked. Your emotions curl and crash against each other, tangling into a mess of a ball, all of which leave you unable to think or act reasonably. Lust, ache, shame, fear, joy— all crash together, all too much to really handle separately. So you don’t.

You decide to let Remmick handle you for now.

And Remmick.. he’s a real sight.

He remains on the floor, both knees down onto the dirt, his clothes still dirty with sweat, blood and whatever the hell else he got into. His face is flushed, chest panting heavy breathes and his hair is a mess. Both of his suspenders are down, something you hadn’t noticed earlier, and his beard is wet with not only blood but also your cum. The small golden chain that rests on his neck also has small droplets of blood on it, but it still gleams bright against the reflected light of the moon.

He’s a mess. One you want to swallow whole.

He waves both hands over, signalling you to get close, but you're far too distracted with taking in the sight of him that he has to grab at your dress and yank you over.

Another cackle, another moan. The music speeds up again.

Remmick looks hungry, starved. Eyes your cunt even though it’s covered by your dress, like it’s his prey, his salvation and love all in one.

He goes to speak, mouth parting and teeth poking out but he’s cut off by another Vampire, one still in the circle who yells, “Put her leg up! Wanna see the sweet pussy she got on her!”

You look over to whoever said that, seeing them with a bright dazzling smile as they nod their head fast. Giddy as well. You just blink at them, unsure of what to say, what to even hit back with given how you can feel the bristle of their own joy strummed between your bones.

But Remmick seems unhappy, a small scowl crawling onto his face, but you quickly realize it’s not at the person but at you. The fact you aren’t paying attention to him.

Fuck what that person said, why the hell aren’t you looking at him?

You hardly mutter out a small ‘sorry-‘ before he’s picking up your dress again and diving back in. Funnily enough, he doesn’t put your leg up on his shoulder like requested, instead letting your dress fall back down so he can hide under it and with it hide you under it.

It’s purposeful. You know it.

You feel his tongue slather back into place, back into the warmth of your walls and slobbering all over you. He sets a quick pace, licking up and down fast while simultaneously using one of his free hands to roll his palm over your clit.

The pleasure shoots through you, down your toes and glides across your teeth that you almost lose balance. Him being under your dress doesn’t really help much, you can’t really grab at him the way you want to nor can you glide your fingers through his damp sweat hair.. but his shoulders are broad enough that you can still grasp them through the material. So you do. And you remain locked there, unable to move without the possibility of falling over.

And Remmick isn’t much help either, both of his hands are far too occupied, with one being busy playing with your pussy while the other is desperately yanking at his belt buckle.

A difficult task when you can’t hear, see or think much. Like a rabid animal, he claws at his pants, yanking at them and the belt as if they’ve started to boil into his skin.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice, given how much movement and groans of frustration you can feel.

“W-what?”

He moves away from you, again, but not too far, “can’t fuckin- can’t get my pants off.”

You shake your head, “what?”

He grows frustrated, yanking the fabric back over his head until he can meet your confused gaze, “can’t get my pants off!”

“Okay? Take them off now then.” You look down, pointedly, at his bulge and then back to his red eyes, “go on. Quick, needa cum already.”

“Right, needy thing-“

You give a small groan upon feeling his fingers leave you, blinking back your own frustration as he continues to stare at you, “Well?”

He works off his belt, quick, all the while looking at you. Doesn’t even say anything, not even a small ‘yeah got it’ just for the sake of letting you know. No, instead the only way you know he did is when he pulls your dress one last time over him and sticks his fingers back inside you.

Real nice, thanks.

Again, you're left on your own to keep yourself up by balancing on him. You’re not even sure why he made a big show of taking his belt off.

Not until you feel it. It’s more intense then the tongue on your cunt, even more intense then getting fucked in general.

The circle momentarily falters, everybody taking in a long, deep breath in. The music is off tune, slurred and lazy, caught off guard. You hear someone play their guitar too early, followed by another missing their Que in the song.

And when Remmick gives a deep groan, everyone else does too. Because underneath you, with him buried between your thighs, he’s jerking off to each moan you let out, to the taste of you on his tongue.

Each breath he takes in, each groan, roll of his hips, whimper and slick of precum that coats his dick.. you all feel. Like it’s your own.

Makes you all breath and moan together.

Makes your orgasm roll quicker, makes your eyes roll back and mouth hang open with a silent moan.

He feels you shudder, feels you flutter a little more and he doubles down. Goes quick, on both you and him. Fingers you faster and licks your bundles of nerves quickly, the sound of skin against skin becoming louder as he fastens his thrusts into his hand.

Someone gives a choked sob, another grabs onto a different random vampire just to moan into their ear causing them to get smacked away.

It takes him to just smack you on the pussy to completely push you over the edge. His mouth is open and waiting, slurping down your cum as you moan loudly, legs shaky. He’s a bit behind on his own, thrusts fast and frantic as he tries to meet you there, to fall with you while you're still drowning in pleasure.

Flicks his wrist a few times more and brings his hand down to his balls to give a small squeeze… and that does the trick.

One would’ve thought shots were being fired with how quickly everyone bowed over, with how loud everyone was. You give a sharp whine, almost screaming as you lean over, gripping onto him like a life line.

Your breathing matches each other, whimpers and pants in sync, even your moans matching.

“Fuck.. fuck..” you whisper out, trying to calm down, trying to ease yourself after having two orgasms back to back.. if it even was that. Felt like you were forced onto cloud nine and then taken higher than that all in one long orgasm.

Everyone becomes quiet, trying to catch their breaths. The music has stopped.

After a few minutes, he places a kiss against your thigh and slips out from under you, not to stand but to lay down onto the dirt.

You give him a lazy smile, and he matches it. You think you need to hibernate for a while, like a bear.

But before you can crawl away, or even attempt to leave the space in the circle, he waves you back over.

You ask a breathless, “What?”

Only to be met with a long groan, and then, “come. Sit on my cock.”

[abbessofflesh]

𝕱𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ/ᴛᴏᴘ(ɪꜱʜ?) ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴡɢɪʀʟ, ʜᴜɢᴇ ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ, ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ᴛᴏʀᴇᴛᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵; 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦!

𝘗𝘴: 𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘖’𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧🫠

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 4ᴋ

It’s been a couple of days since the baby shower.

A sweet afternoon. Streamers and soft music. Polaroids on string. Bowls of sugared almonds in pastel pink and blue. The kind of event that hums with gentle domesticity — safety, joy, quiet dreams about a new life on the way.

And for the most part, it was exactly that.

You hadn’t seen your friend in months, and she looked radiant. Glowing in a way that went beyond pregnancy, beyond the usual compliments.

There was something otherworldly about her — not in her features, not in the way she moved, but in the stillness around her. Her smile… there was something unreadable behind it, as if she carried a secret deeper than the child inside her.

You didn’t question it.

You were just happy for her.

You had smiled when you saw Remmick arrive, finally free to join the party now that the sun had dipped below the horizon — and after finally deciding to wear something less 1930s.

You had pulled him through the crowd by the hand, introducing him to the others with that effortless charm of yours. But something in him — subtle, almost imperceptible at first — had changed.

He’d looked in a specific direction, just over your shoulder, with an almost vacant expression. Like something had caught in his throat. When you turned to follow his gaze, you saw only your friend’s husband. Tall, calm, quiet. Kind to everyone. An ordinary man.

But Remmick seemed to keep his distance.

He didn’t say anything at first. He passed the evening in peace — but rigidly. Too rigidly. Every answer measured. Every word filtered.

He never lost control. But you noticed the way his jaw clenched just a little too often, or how his fingers tightened around his glass as if he might shatter it.

Only later — much later — while you were driving home in the quiet dark of the car, he finally spoke.

“She’s not with a human.”

You paused. “What?”

“She’s carryin' somethin' strange, y'know. Didn’t come from any human, that's for sure.” His voice was quiet, but not unsure. Not even remotely.

Your brow furrowed. “She didn’t say anything—”

“Why would she, now?” he cut in, eyes locked on yours. “I can feel it in me bones. Not vampire — somethin' else entirely. But human? No chance.”

You stared at him. Not in fear. Not even disbelief.

Just silence.

Because you know what he is. What he’s capable of sensing.

But even then, even with that revelation hanging between you, you found yourself smiling.

“She looked happy,” you said simply, curling your fingers around his. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Remmick didn’t argue.

But later that night — when the lights were off and you thought he was asleep — you felt the way he pressed closer to you. The way his hand moved down to your stomach, spreading across it with slow, deliberate pressure.

Like he was checking. Like he was counting time.

The movie flickers quietly across the TV screen, painting soft lights across the dim living room. You’re half-sprawled out the couch, one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out — and it’s under that leg that Remmick rests, head nestled against your thigh like it’s the only pillow he’ll ever want. His arm is draped lazily over your knee, fingers absently tracing slow, warm patterns against your skin. A blanket’s tossed somewhere nearby, but you don’t need it — the heat of his body, and the cozy hush of evening, are more than enough.

Your cat is curled up behind you, nestled into the small ledge of space between your head and the back cushion of the sofa. Occasionally, it flicks its tail against your hair in quiet judgment — clearly unimpressed with the movie or the company, but tolerant of both.

Your body hums in a slow, satisfied way — not exactly tired, not quite alert. The kind of stillness that only comes after a long day and a long, long shower with Remmick, where he’d had you pressed to the tile, whispering filth and adoration into your skin while the water did nothing to cool him down.

You’d expected him to be sated.

He’d even looked it, once you’d finally gotten back to the couch — hair wet, eyes soft with post-orgasm warmth. You’d thrown on a long T-shirt and dropped beside him, both of you content for a rare moment of peace. And for a little while, it had been just that: peace.

But now, that same hand tracing lazy circles on your leg has begun to drift. Not urgently. Not obviously. Just a little… lower. A little more deliberate. His fingertips start to wander the hem of your shirt — never quite slipping beneath, but close enough that your skin prickles in anticipation.

You glance down at him. His eyes are still on the TV. Pretending.

But the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you murmur.

“I’m not doin' anythin'.” His voice sounds like false innocence.

His hand creeps higher, dragging across the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Slower now. Less tracing, more claiming.

You shift a little. Adjusting to get away from him — just a little bit. He notices so he turns his head, rests the side of his face directly over your skin and inhales — long and deep.

“Rem,” you sigh. “I’m watching the movie…”

“I know.” His lips graze the top of your thigh, his short bear tickling you. “So am I.”

But he’s not. Not really.

His hand is bolder now. Slipping under your shirt, dragging along your hips, finding that soft dip of skin just below your belly. His touch is slow, reverent — but present. Not teasing anymore. It’s filled with a gentle kind of insistence. A promise he’s building with each stroke of his palm.

And then — with a sigh too innocent to be anything but sinful — he shifts.

He sits up slowly, like a cat stretching after a nap, rising from your lap until he’s kneeling beside you on the couch, his eyes now fully focused on you.

You try to ignore it, keeping your eyes on the screen, but your heartbeat betrays you — and he knows it. He always knows it.

He leans down, kisses the curve of your neck. Light at first. Barely there.

Then again, just beneath your ear.

Again, slower, lingering.

You swallow. “Rem…”

You try to turn your head away — needing to regain control — but he follows, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, keeping your face gently caged. Not forceful. Just enough to guide.

Then, wordlessly, he presses his lips to your neck again with a quiet, low growl, burying his mouth into the skin like he needs to drink you from the source.

You try to squirm away again, but this time his arms shift, moving you.

He lifts your legs with one hand, adjusts your hips with the other, guiding your back gently against the arm of the couch. You gasp as the soft cushions meet your shoulders, and then — he’s over you.

Not heavy, not aggressive — but surrounding.

His body fits between your thighs like he’s lived there, like this is where he was always meant to be. You’re still just wearing that long shirt, and it’s ridden up dangerously now, barely covering you.

“Remmick—” you start again, already breathless. “We already had sex in the shower like thirty minutes ago…” you sigh, turning your head to look at the screen, as if the movie might rescue you from the heat crawling through your limbs.

“Sure,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher. “I remember. I remember how ye sounded.”

His lips trail up your neck again, soft and wet, voice getting lower, needier.

“Ye were so warm inside, love. Ye still are. I can smell meself on ya.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“I’m tired,” you protest weakly. “It was a busy day at work…”

That’s when he really melts.

His voice is almost a whine when he replies. Desperate. Soft. Pathetic.

“Ya don’t have to do a thing…” he breathes, kissing your collarbone. “I’ll take care o' ya. I promise. Just let me touch ya. Let me help ya relax.”

His hips grind down, just once — gently — letting you feel the hardness pressed between your thighs, hot and growing harder by the second.

“Ya know I can make it better,” he murmurs into your skin. “Better than anythin'. Better than sleep. Better than this bleedin' film ye’ve seen a hundred times.”

You don’t even answer him with words.

You just let your body soften beneath him, let your eyes flutter shut, let your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. He feels it — the shift in you. And his breath catches like you just handed him something sacred.

His hands move slowly at first, dragging the hem of your shirt higher, exposing your thighs, your hips, the curve of your belly. His eyes flicker — dark and glassy with hunger — but he doesn’t pounce. He kisses his way down.

Your cat shifts behind your head, tail flicking near your face once in vague disapproval.

Remmick lowers himself onto his stomach, settling between your legs like it’s the only place he ever intends to be again. One large hand rests across your belly, keeping you grounded, the other gently easing your thighs open wider.

“Just stay right there…” he murmurs. “Don’t be movin'. Let me do everythin', me dear.”

You can barely breathe as he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other, his stubble scraping the delicate skin as he works his way in.

Then finally, finally, his mouth finds you.

He doesn’t rush. He starts with long, slow licks — lazy and deliberate — like he’s savoring you, tasting every part of what he already owns. The flat of his tongue presses through your folds, hot and slick, and you feel your hips twitch, instinctive and immediate.

You’re already starting to melt into the couch, limbs loose, thoughts blurred from the rhythm of Remmick’s mouth working you close and you swear you can feel him smiling every time you gasp.

Then suddenly—he pauses.

You feel it before you hear it. His breath stills. His tongue withdraws.

And then he growls.

Not loud — but deep. Low in his chest. A vibrating, frustrated sound that sets off something instinctive in your core. You tense, your hand twitching in his hair.

“…Rem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He presses a kiss just above your clit, and then inhales, slow and deliberate. Searching. Testing.

And when he exhales, the sound that escapes him is darker. Almost wounded.

He pulls back from between your legs just far enough to stare, his breath hot against your inner thigh, his eyes searching. Desperate.

“Where is it…” he whispers, almost like he’s talking to himself. His brows furrow, lips parting in disbelief. He leans in again, mouth dragging through your folds, slower this time — tasting, checking — and then again, rougher, more frantic.

And when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for…

He whines.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no—darlin'…”

You blink, flushed and confused, chest rising and falling.You are not understanding.

“Ya scrubbed it clean.” His voice is barely more than a broken breath, trembling with devastation. “Washed me right off o' ya.”

He kisses your entrance, tongue flicking gently, like he’s begging forgiveness with every motion. He sucks your clit, hard, and you writhe beneath him, moaning his name like a warning and a surrender.

“Ah, but don’t be worrin', love” he growls, licking up your slick with renewed hunger. “I’ll fix it.”

He pushes two fingers inside you — not harsh, but firm crooking them just right, and your legs twitch around his shoulders. By now he knew the right points without even making a serious commitment.

His fingers slide in and out of you for a few more moments, wet and trembling, his mouth still pressed reverently against the inside of your thigh like he’s whispering a prayer you can’t hear.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are wild.

You barely have time to ask him anything before he’s shifting, scooping you up into his lap in one swift, desperate movement. You gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders instinctively as he sits back into the couch, pulling you with him, positioning you so your knees straddle his hips and your body rests fully against his chest.

Your cat immediately huffs, jumps off the back of the couch with a dramatic flick of its tail, and disappears into the hallway — likely muttering curses in feline under its breath.

But Remmick doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

He’s already moving your panties to the side, the other one large hand sliding up your butt to keep you suspended.

“Just let me…” he pants, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, not pushing yet — just feeling. Just existing there, trembling with the weight of what he wants.

“Swear, I’ll be gentle,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll be so good. Good as gold for ya…”

You whisper his name — not a protest, not encouragement. Just his name.

And that’s all it takes.

He grips your hips with shaking hands, slowly guiding you down onto him.

You both gasp — you from the overwhelming stretch, the still-sensitive ache of overstimulation, and him from sheer, unrelenting relief.

“Oh—fuck, yes…” he moans, his head falling forward against your shoulder, voice trembling as you sink fully onto him. “There ye are. There ye are.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll go away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You can feel his cock twitch inside you — thick and hard and throbbing. You can feel the shake in his legs, the unspoken need in his every breath.

“Goin' slow,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “I have to go slow.”

And he does — but it’s the kind of slow that’s full of tension, like he’s pulling every thread of restraint until it’s one second from snapping. He lifts your hips barely an inch, then presses you back down again with a shuddering groan, his lips catching against your neck.

“Ye’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Still so warm… like yer body wants to keep me now.”

You don’t answer — can’t — too overwhelmed by the way he moves, the way he’s not thrusting so much as rocking you back and forth, his hands gentle but gripping, grounding you to him.

“I’m gonna leave it in this time, so I am,” he breathes, mouth brushing against your ear. “Not lettin' ya wash me away again. I’ll keep fillin' ya, love— till yer body can’t forget. Till I’m still spillin' outta ya in the mornin'…”

His voice wavers. Cracks.

“Need it to stick,” he whines. “Need ya to hold me.”

He keeps rocking into you, deeper with every pass, your foreheads pressed together now, your breaths mingling. You feel every inch of him — the depth, the thickness, the weight of his want.

And beneath it all, that vulnerability: not lust, not dominance.

Just a man breaking a little more each time he feels you clench around him and knowing that he can never get close enough.

When you finally start to shake around him again, your nails dragging into his shoulders, he groans — desperate and ragged, his thrusts faltering as you flutter around him.

“Gonna come, baby,” he gasps. “Gonna fill ya again. Gonna give it all back.”

You whisper his name — broken, pleading — and he falls apart.

He buries himself deep, jerking his hips once, twice, then holds you there, pressed flush against him as he comes with a low, pathetic cry, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and content.

But he doesn’t soften.

You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and that’s when you notice it: the pressure. He’s still hard.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, meaning to help him relax—ground him, maybe. And he purrs.

A low, almost embarrassed sound vibrates from his chest, like something primal he didn’t mean to release. His arms tighten around you, his hips twitch just once—reflexive, almost apologetic.

You smile. “Rem… seriously?”

“Can’t help meself,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck.

You give a shocked laugh, barely recovered. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

But he moves again—intentionally this time. A slow, deep roll of his hips that makes you gasp and grip hard his shoulders.

“Remmick,” you breathe. “We just—”

“I know,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “But it's not enough, it's just not enough, love…”

He pulls back just far enough to kiss you, deep and slow and needy. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging—trying to make him stop. But he moans into your mouth and presses deeper, harder. His fangs scratching your lips as a warning.

You try again, breaking the kiss. “Stop—seriously, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. With a growl, he wraps his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, cock still inside, and carries you toward the bedroom.

“Remmick—!”

“Please, darlin’,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your jaw, barely holding back his panting. “Please, lemme give it to ya… let me give ya everythin'.”

You claw at his back in protest—halfhearted, overwhelmed—and he whines, hips jerking with each drag of your nails.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart” he pants, nuzzling into your neck. “I know yer tired… I do. I just— I need to, I have to—”

He stumbles into the bedroom, pushes the door open with his foot, and sets you down on the mattress—not gently, but not roughly either. Just… desperate. Urgent.

You try to crawl away, breathlessly, but he’s already on you, pinning you down with his weight, his cock still hard and so ready as it slides back into place like he never left.

He groans at the feeling—like he’s home again.

“Ye’re squeezin' me so tight,” he growls into your neck. “Yer body wants it. It needs me. I know how much it needs me…”

You cry out as he starts moving—no teasing, no slow build. Just deep, messy thrusts, his need spilling out of you with every roll of his hips.

Every wet smack of his hips against yours and the obscene sounds of your arousal mixed together only drive him wilder. All you can do is reach his back, your nails dragging down leaving scratched, walls fluttering around his aching length, and moan your breathless yeses into his ear.

You feel the blood and skin getting under your nails and he gasps.

“Do that again,” he begs. “My sweet girl, my sweet mama.”

You pull at his hair, with the intention of hurting him but he retreated, pushing himself against your lips for a kiss, and it’s too much. He groans into your mouth, sloppy and broken, his hips stuttering.

Your cunt clenches around him on instinct, and he loses it.

He drives in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and comes—loud and raw, his body shuddering as you scratch at his back again, as if the pain grounds him deeper into the pleasure.

Hot, pulsing ropes of cum fill you once again, and he moans your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s giving you everything that’s left in him.

He collapses over you, shaking, panting, his cock twitching inside you with aftershocks, finally starting to soften. His arms are around you, his face pressed into your neck like he’s afraid of being seen.

And for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of both your breathing.

But then something begins to rise in you — not pain, not anger… just something unsettled.

“Remmick,” you whisper, throat dry.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift slightly beneath him. Not to push him away, not even to leave — just move. Reclaim a sliver of yourself.

“Rem,” you repeat, a little louder and colder now. “I need you to get off me. Please.”

He freezes. Completely.

You feel his breath catch, then stutter. And then his whole body shakes.

“I’m so sorry—”

His voice is small. Broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. He lifts his head, and when you see his face, your heart clenches.

His cheeks are wet.

His eyes, completely red and glossy, desperate.

“Did I…did I hurt ya?”

He tries to sit back, tries to pull out, but his hands won’t stop shaking. He looks wrecked, ashamed, lost.

You sit up slowly, reaching for the blanket, covering yourself instinctively as he backs away onto his knees, still trembling, his breathing turning ragged.

He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, but they just keep coming.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to. Got selfish. I’m so sorry, love.”

You reach out, lay a hand gently on his arm.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

You pause.

“But you didn’t listen until now. That’s what scared me.”

He drops his head, shoulders curling inward, like your words are physically hitting him.

You speak again, softer now.

“What’s happened to you these days?” you ask, voice almost breaking. “You’re so… clingy. Obsessed. You’ve always been intense, but this? It’s not you.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment.

And then, barely audible—

“I saw how ye looked at 'em.”

You blink. “Who?”

“At yer friend. At her belly.” His voice is strained, lips trembling. “I saw the way yer hand lingered a bit too long when she talked about kickin'. Heard yer heart flutter when I told ye her husband wasn’t human. Ye didn’t say a word, but I felt it all the same.”

You freeze.

He swallows hard, like the confession is strangling him.

“Ye want it,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Ye want what she has.” Tears well up again. “And I want to give it to ye.”

The room stills.

“I want to build somethin' with ye,” he says, voice cracking. “A…a family…”

He shifts closer, hesitantly, hands gentle as they reach for yours.

You stare at him, lips parted, breath caught in your chest.

You reach up slowly, brushing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into it instantly, like a starving man offered warmth and closed his eyes.

You swallow hard.

“Rem…” you begin, hesitating. “We’ve… we’ve had it thousands of times before. You and me. This. All of it.”

He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tenses slightly.

You keep going, softly.

“But nothing’s ever happened. Not even once.”

You feel his breath hitch.

You almost stop — but you don’t. He needs to hear it.

“Maybe…” Your voice falters. “Maybe he’s something different, even for reproduction. You said it yourself — he’s not a vampire like you. And you…”

You feel his body go still.

“You died, Remmick,” you whisper. “Before you became what you are. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe you just… can’t.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he pulls slightly away, just enough to look up at you — and the look in his eyes breaks you.

There’s no anger there. No blame.

Just quiet devastation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m sorry I can’t give ya what ye want.”

The words land like a stone in the center of your chest.

Before you can even process them, he drops his head to your shoulder, wrapping both arms around your waist and holding you tight — tighter than usual. Not desperate. Not possessive.

Just… broken.

Your arms wrap around him instantly, protectively. You hold back your tears, feeling just how deeply you hurt for him. It was so clear how much he longed for a family. You’d never spoken about it, but you understood why. It was destroying him.

“Remmick, it doesn’t matter if nothing ever comes from this. You are my family. I have everything I want in my arms right now.”

And you truly had everything in your arms.

[abbessofflesh]

🍒 𝘣𝘧.ᐟ𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴

a/n : i have smut ones coming soon 🤫

.ᐟ fluff

partner!remmick who doesn’t need sleep—but he lays beside you anyway. sometimes, you wake to find his face just inches from yours, studying you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your eyelashes.

partner!remmick who likes when you hum. it soothes something in him. even if the tune is off-key or improvised, he’ll close his eyes and rest his head on your lap, letting your voice settle him.

partner!remmick whose hands are always cold. yours are always warm. he doesn’t say anything about it, but he’ll take your hand and tuck it against his chest like it’s instinct.

his fingers brush yours, and before you can react, he’s already taken your hand—gentle but certain—and presses it flat to his chest. no words. no glance. just the quiet thud of something not quite a heartbeat beneath your palm, and the way his eyes close like your warmth is the only thing keeping him tethered.

partner!remmick who lets you dress him. suspenders, coat, tie—you tug him into his clothes with quiet adoration, and he lets you fuss over the fit like a housewife tending to her husband.

partner!remmick who surprised you the first time he laughed—really laughed—when you called him a “greedy bastard” for hoarding all the quilt covers one evening. the sound shocked you. now you try to make him laugh more often.

partner!remmick who makes up names for you. most are old—outdated terms of endearment from places and people long buried. but when he murmurs them against your skin, they feel new again.

partner!remmick who doesn’t cast a reflection. sometimes, you describe his face back to him, in quiet moments—just so he knows what you see. just so he remembers he’s still there.

partner!remmick who collects things that remind him of you—buttons, pressed flowers, a glove you once left behind. they’re tucked in a drawer like offerings at a shrine.

.ᐟ angst

partner!remmick who’s lived long enough to know nothing good stays. he keeps a mental clock counting down from the day you met.

partner!remmick when he disappears, it’s not because he doesn’t love you—it’s because he does. he doesn’t want to watch you rot, doesn’t want to become the reason you suffer. and yet, he always comes back.

partner!remmick when there are nights where you find blood on his hands, but he won’t tell you whose. he just washes it off, staring blankly at the basin, before crawling into bed beside you like nothing happened.

partner!remmick when he touches you like he’s trying to remember you—like you’ve already been lost to time and he’s clinging to a version that once existed.

partner!remmick when you beg him to turn you. he refuses. not because he doubts you, but because he doubts himself. because if something went wrong, if you suffered, if you hated what you became—he wouldn’t survive it.

partner!remmick who’s not used to touch—so every time you reach for him without hesitation, it makes something fragile inside him ache.

partner!remmick who has moments of quiet terror when you’re hurt or ill—he panics, goes still, as if waiting for the moment your body will slip out of reach like all the others.

you cough, sharp and wet. when you look up, remmick’s gone still—like stone, like fear. "it’s just a cold," you say softly. he doesn’t speak. just stares. "remmick?" "don’t…" his voice cracks. "don’t say it’s nothing." you reach for his hand. he flinches, then lets you take it. "i’m not going anywhere," you whisper. but he doesn’t answer. he just grips your fingers like he’s already losing you.

[abbessofflesh]

word count and warnings: 857. no smut, mentions of arousal/sexual tension, spitting, spit-kink, blood mention, blood drinking, spit drinking, song lyrics as dialogue, and finally if you really really squint at it, hints of abuse from a father. a/n: a short little somethin'-somethin' written to hozier's it will come back. eeehhmmmm, yeah that's it. I could've made this into a full fic but I got nervous. enjoy please!

"No, he ain't comin' in! What in the hell is wrong with you?!"

You blink, and snap your head to your daddy, who is standing next to you, gun cocked and aimed at the stranger who had knocked just after sunset. Naturally, rightly, skeptical of the man, your father ain't havin' it. He looks mad, and his frustration is bleeding out onto you now.

"What? What did I do!?"

You'd just got done sayin' that you thought he was an honest, handsome man, that he oughta' be let in. 'Bout to shake his hand. All because you were thinkin' with your cunt and you knew it. But yes, what did you do?

"Lookin' at him like that! Talkin' to him like that!"

"Daddy, he's just a—"

"Jesus Christ, don't be kind to him!" he bellows, adjusting the shotgun on his shoulder. "Go on upstairs. Let me handle this."

Knowing better about that, you obey your father and recede into the safety of the house, but not before casting one more glance at the stranger. He gives you a smile that says a whole lot and you feel the butterflies start up again, beating their excited little wings against your ribcage.

Your father's words echo in your mind as you sit cross-legged on your bed, staring outside. You don't know how long you've been there, just gazing out through the glass, but it's long enough that the coyotes have started up their yipping and howling outside your window, barely louder than the thoughts swirlin' around your head.

What were you thinkin'?! You don't offer a stranger your hand, you don't let them in. You know better. There's shit in those woods you wouldn't believe.

You.

Know.

Better.

Apparently, you didn't, because the second you think everyone's asleep, you're acting on your own hunger. You pull a blade from the kitchen and hurry to the door, excitement coursing through your system like electricity. You've barely pushed it open all the way before you're calling out to him.

"You still out there?" You ask into the darkness.

If he isn't, you're silently hoping he comes back at the sound of your voice, hoping the breeze carries it to wherever he is. A few seconds pass before he rounds the edge of your porch, coming from the side of your house. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his slacks as he nears the door.

"Sure am," he drawls.

"I have somethin' for ya'."

You lift your hands to the door, and press the blade against the meat of your palm. With one swift flick, you slice deep. As the skin separates, blood welling up from the thin laceration, Remmick's eyes dart to your hand, pupils dilating. He looks starved. You smile softly through the burn.

"Smilin' at me like that… hoo!" He shakes his head to the side like you've just slapped him across the face, a burning desire evident in his features.

You hesitate for a moment, debating on how to get it to him safely. You wince at the thought that pops into your head, but you bring it to your mouth, chasing the runnel that makes its way down your wrist. The stream of coppery, heady liquid that floods your tongue almost makes you gag, but you settle your reflex with a deep breath through your nose. Remmick's head tilts upwards, like he's trying to get a whiff of it.

You gather it in your mouth, and take a step towards him, still not crossing the threshold. If he is what your daddy seems to think, he can't come in unless invited. You launch the mouthful of blood out the door, aiming for him. It lands mostly on his face, splatters of crimson against his pale skin. He's not offended — he knows what you're doin' — and cracks a pleased smile before reaching up, fingertips swiping away the viscous liquids. He looks at it running slowly down the pads of his fingers, and chuckles a little.

"What's funny?"

"You shoulda' listened to your daddy."

"'Bout what?"

He brings the stained fingers to his open, waiting mouth and smears them along his tongue. He swishes it around on his tongue before swallowing it, closing his eyes like he's savoring a piece of succulent meat.

"You know better, babe. Feedin' me?"

For a moment, you say nothing, just watch him. Watch him watch you.

Finally, you heave a sigh. "I gotta' go back upstairs… if my daddy hears me talkin' to you—"

"Let me in." He says abruptly, bracing himself against the door frame so hard you hear the wood creak. His eyes search yours, desperately, and you feel your cunt clench with heat. "Let me in and I'll show ya' a good time, I promise. I've learned the warmth of yer' doorways and —"

You titter, shaking your head back and forth. "I can't let you in."

He doesn't seem put-off — quite the opposite, actually. There's a fervor in him that wasn't there before. "I'll come back. It won't be them coyotes you hear outside."

"What, you gonna' howl outside my door?"

"Each night, as sure as yer' born."

[abbessofflesh]

crying big fat tears over your comments on my fic -- GIVING YOU THE BIGGEST FOREHEAD KISS EVER!!! thank you sooooo much!!!

Ohmygosh HI!!!

Thank YOU for that amazing fic. I'm still thinking about it 😭 Love love love the soft arrogance you write him with. I never even recovered from your jimmy x remmick x reader fic 😫

[abbessofflesh]

"Your violin there ain't the only thing singin'. Damn near drove me insane how strong I could smell ya'. Just like I can now, sweet girl."

And "A mighty fine addition."

I'm winded.

show me your teeth ; Remmick x reader

summary: maybe you've heard the tales. maybe you don't care. maybe you hear him every night, rustling around outside. maybe, just maybe, you decide to lure him out from wherever it is he's hiding.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.9K | SMUT, female reader, unprotected sex, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, monster sex, outdoor sex, threat of getting caught, semi-public sex, spit/salivia mention, spit kink, scent kink, blood drinking, blood loss, hinting that reader gets bitten at the end of this.

a/n: requested by @zombifiedx! thank you for being so patient, I'm sorry this took me so looooong!!! and thank you to my lovely lovely beta reader @genevievedarcygranger - appreciate you immensely baby! banners by @/adornedwithlight, @/saradika-graphics, and @/arminsumi!!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You knew they were out there.

You knew it every night.

After everyone had fallen asleep, you'd go downstairs, unlock the front door and stand at the threshold. You'd see their glowing eyes in the night, in the distance. Never close enough to see them, though. Just their eyes. You'd have thought they were animals, like coyotes or something, had you not heard the stories.

Oh, you'd heard the stories. And they should've frightened you.

Operative word; should've.

But didn't.

You wanted to find out.

You open the screen door carefully, holding it tightly as you guide it back into place. You'll be damned if a creak ruined your fun.

You'd learned to play the violin at a young age. It had been a fun little talent, used for get together but now, as you bring the bow to the strings, it's being used for a far more sinister purpose. A low resonant sound drifts through the air. You aren't playing anything in particular, but hope it's seductive enough to bring him forward.

At first, there's darkness, as there always is. It looms in front of your house like a storm cloud and the overwhelming feeling is somehow inviting and ominous at the same time. The darkness encroaches. Like it's sentient and has two big arms that want to swallow you whole. You don't dare step off the front porch, though. Not yet.

You continue dragging the bow, fingering out a low, almost mournful tune. You close your eyes, feeling the melody as it resonates through your hand and up your arm. You're lost for a second, just feeling the music, but quickly regain awareness, opening your eyes. You blink and swallow, focusing on the melody that drifts out into the forest ahead.

And after a few minutes… one pair of reflective eyes blinks back in the distance. Once, twice. They bounce as he walks closer. You hear the crunch of the dirt underneath his shoes as he approaches, comes into the bright spot that your porch light emits.

You bring the violin away from your shoulder, lowering it down to your side. "I'm almost surprised you came."

"That was some mighty fine playin' there, darlin'."

"It worked well enough, I suppose."

"What — you lure me here to string me up or somethin'?"

You shake your head at him, and say: "I wanted to see ya'… I know you've been lurkin' outside my house for weeks. I hear you."

He smiles, like a man caught — but a man who isn't ashamed of being caught.

"Well, I hear you."

You shift your weight, and take a step away from the door. "Why you always out here? You ain't never come to the door, though."

He takes a step. "Your violin there ain't the only thing singin'. Damn near drove me insane how strong I could smell ya'. Just like I can now, sweet girl."

That sends a jolt of arousal directly to your core. You hum and lean back against your doorframe. Remmick takes another step forward. You're bold, standing outside like this for him to approach. So far from safe, you can't even remember the feeling.

"I know what you are."

He grins; it's a mouthful of teeth that catches you off guard. When he speaks, it sounds full, like he's fighting around the teeth. His eyes flash red, and his tongue runs along the jagged line of his fangs. "Do ya' now? Saves me some trouble, then."

Something clenches in your gut. It's hot and wet like anticipation, but clings to your insides like fear. If you're afraid, it's trumped by your unbridled, burning curiosity to taste the forbidden. You set the violin on the rocking chair on your porch. It wobbles slightly, the wood creaking underneath, and you reach out to steady it with your hand.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

He takes another step forward, his hands in his pockets. Casual. Disarming. He's got one foot up on the porch and you know there's no turning back now. You wouldn't make it inside.

"I want to know," you murmur. Brave. Curious.

Remmick chuckles at that, looking down to the floor before his reflective eyes flit back up to you. "What, my name? It's Remmick."

You smile crookedly. "I meant… something else."

To punctuate your sentence, you run your hand down the length of your body, over your breasts, down the curve of your stomach, stopping just before you reach your cunt. Remmick's eyes follow your hand as it trails down your body, his own hunger tripling. When you stop, his gaze doesn't drift from the spot between your legs.

"I'm curious what it feels like," you say.

His jaw juts out to the side, almost cockily. He looks like he's tasting your words, and they amuse him. "Careful, now… when I come on, I come on like a fever."

"Countin' on it. C'mere," you say, taking a step and reaching your arm forward. Your fingers take a hungry fistful of his shirt, pulling him fully up onto the porch. Your chests are flush now, your breasts pushing against the hard planes of his pale body. Neither of you waste any time; you're both starved, it seems. He smears his face along yours, his breath hot and heavy over your open mouth. It's desperate and animalistic, like a hungry beast that hasn't eaten for days. He's inhaling you in lungfuls, and you can't help but moan low.

Your hand snaps to his face abruptly, your thumb pushing up into his top lip, exposing the needle-sharp fangs. A line of saliva stretches from his tongue, and Remmick relents, opening his mouth wider to let you explore his mouth with your fingers. You run your thumb along one of the points, not enough to puncture, but enough to sate your curiosity. When he finally kisses you, it isn't sweet or gentle. It's sharp and heady and leaves your knees feeling rubbery.

Something creaks in the house behind you — you don't hear it, but he does. He cranes his neck, moving his head away from yours briefly. He gazes at the house behind him with a disappointed glimmer in his eyes. You drape your arms around his neck, pulling his attention back to you. You're just as needy as he is.

"Ahhh," he breathes into your mouth. "You ain't alone."

"Aw, don't you worry 'bout that. They won't hear nothin'."

They were all asleep, and they'd stay that way, despite what you wanted to do. You knew when to keep your voice down. Keeping your arms wrapped around his neck, you walk him back towards the corner of the porch, pressing your back against the wood. Remmick reaches around his neck, grabbing one of your hands sharply. Those clawed fingers wrap around your wrist with ease as he brings it to his mouth, exhaling against the soft skin. Your blood runs just beneath the surface, and it's singing a symphony to him.

Without warning, the sharp point of his thumb nail slices just below your palm. You hiss through your teeth. There's a hot sting as the nail lacerates, then a runnel of bright, red blood hurriedly snakes down your inner arm. Remmick is quick to catch it though, laving his cool, wet tongue all over the skin. As he hungrily laps, you lean your head back against the wood, a sense of euphoria settling over you. It's not from blood loss, but an indescribable feeling of being consumed by something other than a man.

"Remmick," you whisper, reaching down to hoist your cotton nightgown up your soft thighs. You're already wet with want, you can feel it.

At first, he doesn't react, too busy squeezing your wrist and urging more blood from the wound. When you press your bare cunt against him, smearing your wetness against his slacks — the intoxicating scent of arousal hits him. He looks down between your bodies. Sees you grinding your hips against his. Something glimmers in his red eyes, something hungry.

"Whoooo," he says. It should be hollered, but instead, it's whispered. "You just waitin' to be grabbed, ain't ya'?"

His hand leaves your wrist, sliding down your body, nails first. He palms your cunt, just feeling the damp heat that radiates off of her. With a low hum, he moves over your folds, slick and warm, and spreads her open with the pads of his fingers. A thick ribbon of drool dribbles from the corner of his mouth, and you lean forward, flicking your tongue along it. Warmth erupts in your core, somehow more fiery than before. Something settles over you. Heat. Hunger. Willingness. As if you weren't before? Nonsense. You asked for this.

"Go on an' tell me you want this," he drawls. With his other hand, he frees himself, pulling his rigid cock from the confines of his trousers. You feel it bump against your stomach, which clenches in response.

"Show me," you start, walking your legs out slightly. Keeping your eyes on him, you angle your hips to give him easier access. "Show me what it feels like. I wanna' know."

He pushes himself down with one hand, lining it up. The leaking tip of his cock prods your slit a few times, pushing in gently before he pops the head in all the way, and you arch your back against the wood.

You're soaked, and already tightening around him, trying to pull him in further.

"Fuck," he says. "This here is what bein' curious will get ya', lass."

His hips buck hard once, sheathing himself inside you. You don't protest, despite the way he splits you open. His hips find an impatient, hurried rhythm of fucking up into you and your jaw drops in a silent scream, your eyes lifting to the overhang of the porch.

Remmick sates himself in you, like you exist for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. The frenzied thrusts have your breasts bouncing against your chest, and one of his hands come up to grab one, his thumb flicking over the nipple. You tangle your fingers in the hair on the back of his head, pulling hard. He snarls close to your face, and an intoxicating blend of fear and arousal shudders down your spine. This was what you wanted, after all. You silence his snarl with a brave kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip. He reciprocates, letting his own wet muscle tangle with yours, taste every inch of your open, pleading mouth.

Your release gallops toward you, too quickly. Remmick notices this. Or maybe he can smell it in the air, feel it in the way your cunt squeezes him with every thrust, taste it in the way your short, little panting breaths come. His hand clamps down over your lips, hard, mean — like he can hear the scream inside your throat. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering helplessly as you come, clenching around his dick in a spasming grip.

It doesn't take long for Remmick to follow you, not with the way he's thrusting into you. Seconds later, he's filling you until he leaks out the sides. He doesn't pull out, keeping himself stuffed inside you.

"You'll make a mighty fine addition, darlin'. A mighty fine addition."

Your fists ball at your sides, the first whispers of fear clouding your mind, darkening it around the edges like a vignette. You're afraid now. Afraid of the pain, of the way it'll hurt, of what you'll leave behind. You swallow hard, reminding yourself that you wanted to know, you wanted to find out, and you lured him from his hiding spot in the woods. His hold tightens on your jaw as he yanks your head to the side, exposing the sweaty column of your neck to him. He kisses the skin. Once. Twice. And then you feel his jaws part, open wide on your neck.

Curiosity really does kill the cat.

[abbessofflesh]

What do you think pet!Remmick would do if someone broke into their home at night?

𝕳𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖈𝖊

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ(ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ), ꜱᴏꜰᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ(ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ), ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ.

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ, ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘᴇᴅ ʙʏ @abbessofflesh ᴡʜᴏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ.

Oh, well, whoever had the audacity to do that, I hope they’ve already dug their grave and ordered the flowers for their own funeral.

It doesn’t matter if Remmick was dozing off in your arms or out on one of his hunting sprees—if anyone dares to trespass on your territory uninvited, he is already drawing the war axe (or claws, in this case).

If he were still clinging to you, he’d slip out of bed like the night itself, not making a single sound to wake you—because he knows you’ve got a long day of work ahead of you in the morning.

Remmick barely holds back a growl when your face is so close to his. He doesn’t want to leave the warm space between your arms or the scent of your skin—but he also can’t let someone walk into your home and stroll out like it’s nothing. He leaned down to your ear, whispering, “I’ll be right back, darlin',” before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and slipping out from under the covers.

Remmick is a predator who enjoys playing with his prey, so he’d watch for a while, curious about what exactly pushed some complete stranger to break into your home.

But he’s not exactly the best at hide and seek with those big glowing red eyes. The intruder would notice him almost immediately—but before he could do anything, Remmick would already be there. One hand over the mouth. One on the throat.

“Ah, don’t be squeakin’, little mouse. I’d hate for me darlin’ to wake in the dead o’ night and drop dead of fright, all ‘cause some feckin’ gobshite thought it was grand to break into our home.”

Turning the guy was out of the question. Remmick considered transformation a gift to be granted, not a punishment. Letting him go? Just as risky. Who knew if he’d come back with a weapon—or worse?

So, he’d snap the man’s neck in under a second. No hesitation. No chance for explanations. Not even time for regret.

He wasn’t about to risk your wrath. And really, who would report a criminal missing? No one. So, out of sight, out of mind.

He’d dispose of the body—though not before draining it first (who was he to refuse dinner when it showed up at his doorstep all nicely wrapped up?).

Remmick looks down at the body, folded into an unnatural position, carefully wrapped in one of the rugs. Meanwhile, he sips slowly from one of the blood bags he’s filled, like a satisfied child savoring fruit juice while admiring one of his masterpieces. He glances down the hallway, but beyond the closed bedroom door, there’s no sign of movement. You were still asleep. He hadn’t woken you.

Then, muttering a few curses and careful to stay in the shadows, he would drag it out back—hoping no nosy neighbors was still awake and watching from their window.

“Not exactly the brightest choice ye made tonight, now was it? I mean, breakin’ into our house when old Mrs. Humphrey’s is just across the bloody road?! That deaf oul’ cow wouldn’t’ve even heard ye comin’ in.” He growls softly as he drags the rug by one end across the garden. He moves carefully, skillfully avoiding the small saplings he had so thoughtfully planted in the days before.

After burying it with practiced precision—years of experience had granted him a certain efficiency—he would head back inside without haste, wiping away every trace of mud his boots had left on the hallway carpet and then return to bed, completely at ease.

“Rem?” You mumble when you feel him slide under the covers again and press his cold nose to the back of your shoulder. A faint smell of earth fills your nostrils. “Did you go hunting?” “Sort of,” he replies. “Did you wash your hands and teeth?” You hear him growl in annoyance, but he gets up and goes to wash up just like you asked.

Then, as you drift back to sleep, he would gently run his claws through your hair—the very same claws that had just snapped a stranger’s neck.

But you’ll never know.

In the morning, you’ll only notice the antique dish slightly out of place on the hallway shelf, the door locked with one extra twist, and the neighbor's friendly cats keeping a very respectful distance from your back garden.

[abbessofflesh]

idk how much of a hozier fan u may be but if u have not heard his songs It Will Come Back and Talk.... they are so ascensionism to me.... and if u HAVE heard them.... ..... 👁️🫦👁️

Cont. oh AND another song to ponder is White Blank Page by mumford and sons... just saying.... v ascensionism to me

Actually screaming. I'm bouncing off the walls. Throwing myself down the stairs. So unbelievably flattered you made those connections and had my fic on your mind while listening to those. I only knew of It Will Come Back (that song is so fucking hot), but I will be adding the others to my playlist expeditiously 🩷 🩷

I'm gonna yap about nothing below. Absolutely no substance worth reading, just me freaking out.

Every time I see an edit of Remmick with IWCB, it's an immediate like and save. It's so perfect for him in general. Need fic recs with that vibe.

"How easy you are to need" "I've known the warmth of your doorways" "Don't you hear me howling, babe?" GET OUTTT

I don't think Ascensionism reader ever had a chance of getting away from him, kind or otherwise, but yeah, the instant he was shown an inkling of kindness they might as well considered themselves married. Remmick sure did.

As for Talk, I did some looking into it and found this on genius,

"The protagonist of the song is using flowery language to encourage affection, but it is not sincere."

Clutching my coffee mug with a vise grip. I can blame it on listening to the song at 2am or I can admit that I was distracted by those seductive lyrics and the thought of Remmick, because I was fooled lol. I'm seeing the vision. The entire diary scene from Ascensionism and every sweet word pouring from Remmick's mouth popped into my mind. Love you anon.

White Blank Page really got me. I felt it with every line, especially the chorus. Launched out of bed when I listened to it.

"A white blank page and a swelling rage" Ugh this hit imagining Remmick continuously losing pieces of his love and realizing the rest will fade as he stares at a new, empty journal. Captures his descent into madness as his unstable efforts to connect with her become more desperate and off-putting.

"But denied my affections...where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?" OH MAN thinking of him meeting her each time and masking centuries of longing in a way that comes off as unsettling. After fucking up his chances with the previous versions by being a detestable douchebag, he probably thinks it isn't going that bad this time around lmao. He's only killed one person so far! Such restraint!

Love you so much for sending this. Remmick-level obsessed with you now.

[abbessofflesh]

THAT UPDATE WAS SO GOOD IM SCREAMING!!! THE DIARY?? 😭

AHHHHH TY TY and yes that was SO fun to write. I had to limit myself because there's so many ways to go about it. My favorite was the one where reader innocently checks out his fangs. There's something about the complete trust and vulnerability in a moment like that. <- like this fic. I had a little something written that I hoped I could squeeze into part 3 but not totally sure it would fit. We'll see.

Also Remmick coming as close as he can to embarrassment and shame when reader isn't impressed by his poetry lmao. I actually need so much more of that. He needs to be humiliated asap. 24/7.