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bajisjinx · 10 days ago

Note

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 ya. Burned for ya. Y’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.

“Ya 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. “Y’act like I’m doin’ ya harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault ya 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’. Y’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 yer 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.

“Ya 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. Ya will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all ya 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.

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 ya 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.

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