#please mind the warnings!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hatethysinner · 13 days ago

Text

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

1K notes · View notes

teratomatica · 3 months ago

Text

you always land on all fours

#umineko #umineko spoilers #ikuko hachijo #ikukos turn for a more serious piece... the old man has reigned for too long #now. INCREDIBLY LONG INCOHERENT TAGS RANT INCOMING FAIR WARNING HAS BEEN GIVEN:#it makes me so so sad how little discussion there is about specifically ikuko because imho she fits so neatly into a lot of the more #overarching Big Themes of the game in a way that i have not ever really seen people take notice of or point out in a meaningful way #like even just off of the top of my head. the significance of names and what it means to go by a name that's Not Yours (she has like 4+)#what it Means to be a witch how it represents a person's deepest insecurities and flaws & how its at its core a coping mechanism #the fact that it takes two to create a universe and trying to do it on your own anyways has the capacity to bring you intense misery #^ (how she's shown to be extremely dismissive of her own work and skill until a collaborator comes into her life and helps/encourages her)#and even the family/patriarchy/misogyny stuff that is so prevalent in the rest of the game comes back around to her. even her Only Friend #(young&stupid atp to be fair) remarks that shes Weird for being unmarried + the little she does say about her past invites the question of #to what extent her self-image stems from her family deeming her a freak outcast & effectively disowning her while celebrating her brothers #and i have lot in my mind about the witch thing specifically because i think her particular situation is very reflective of what umineko's #entire magic system and fantasy facet as a whole is meant to represent for an individual. from what little we see of (what is presumably)#her Real personality she is shown to be deeply self conscious in a way that is JARRINGLY diametrically opposed to both 1.) what we see in #featherine and 2.) what we see when she is acting as a Public Figure. because both of the above are very much purposeful acts that she is #putting on in order to obfuscate her true self. and i have always been very resolute & adamant about not totally equating her to featherine #not only because im very firmly in the camp of “featherine is the avatar of the Pen Name & tohya is part of her too” but also very much b/c #i feel very strongly that the stark differences between the two are very centrally relevant to her character & her psyche. as is the case #with most other witches featherine's personality traits serve to reveal/magnify a lot of ikukos inner workings by playing on her #insecurities/reversing them e.g. ikuko being very quick to downplay her skill/achievements becomes featherine being the COMPLETE opposite #to the point where she barely registers even other witches as living beings rather than just fun touys. BUT even though i do champion the #ikuko/featherine separation so hard i ALSO think it is purposefully relevant that at first glance the line between them seems so blurry #her introduction implying a more nebulous separation between her reality/fantasy counterpart is i think is an intentional move on her part #like it is part of the front she is putting up when acting as the Author. as opposed to Ikuko the person who we (in a way ironically very #similar to the way that the Real Battler is presumably only shown during the boatscene) only very briefly get to see take up screentime #which even on a meta level lines up very well with her apparent underlying nature as a like. extremely private largely reserved/shy person #hit tag limit but if by some miracle anyone is still reading this thank you... please see ikuko with the love she deserves... ok ily byeee

633 notes · View notes

bad12amcomic · 4 months ago

Text

De-escalation

Content Warnings: eye strain, implied violence, scopophobia, mind control

Happy Valentine’s Day!

#12 am all aboard #scopophobia #smallishbeans #ldshadowlady #comics #eyestrain #hope you guys know this was an idea a year in the making #if you recognize the dialogue this is from “what’s the time Mr wolf” which is. In my opinion. The opitome of romance OBVIOUSLY.#mind control #I really don’t know what to tag for so any warnings I might’ve missed please tell me ^_^

804 notes · View notes

buckingham-ashtray · 9 months ago

Text

Not Them still haunting me even on my hike.

More than one hundred miles away from home and I am still unable to escape Them. Not even physically.

I can't anymore. THEY WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE.

(keep away from my tags

#you've been warned #this is literally the physical manifestation of my subconscious. or consciousness more like.#can you imagine how utterly dumbstruck and BEWILDERED I was when this first whizzed past the car??#I was physically frozen in my seat cuz WHAT THE HELL IS THIS #WHAT DO YOU MEAN HOLMES LAW&WATSON LAWYERS???#WHAT DO YOU MEAN HOLMES BEING THE LITERAL LAW AND WATSON BEING THE LAWYER FIGHTING FOR HIM #like sksjskskdjsksksk HELLO?!?!?#there’s me losing my mind over this existing and actually happening to ME and also just how mind bogglingly funny this is #(and yeah no we’re not talking about those two morons breaking the law for each other and being literal partners in crime on a daily basis.#I can’t do this anymore.#I actually want to walk in and straight up tell them GOOD JOB ON THE SIGNBOARD #consulting. lawyers.#somebody write a fic please.#bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #acd holmes #acd watson #acd johnlock #johnlock headcanon #my bs #buckingham-ashtray

471 notes · View notes

pastafossa · 11 months ago

Text

"Do I Need To Beg?" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic) 🔥

Right so like a lot of other people, I saw that leaked trailer and had thots, mostly about Matt's new beard, and much like my thoughts on his coat, none of these thots are pure. This is pure fucking sin, in other words, one of the filthier things I've written, so scroll past if that's not your thing. Also thank you to my friends over in the Murdock's Tuna Team server, ya'll are the best fucking enablers ever.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

“Welcome home, Mrs. Murdock,” he purred darkly, lazily dragging his tongue across his lips in a way that told you, quite clearly, what he was imagining. “If you need to shower or drink a glass of water, do it now. Because the second you enter this bedroom, you’re mine for the rest of the night. And I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve had my fill.”

Wordcount: 4.1k words

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: oral f!receiving and a LOT of it like this is literally just a love letter to bearded Matt eating you out (Matt retains his 😺eating crown), brief oral m!receiving, Dom!Matt, Sub!Reader, bondage, overstimulation, subspace, dirty talk, PiV towards the end, Matt's new fucking BEARD none of us are ok

Matt with an oral fixation incoming, here have this:

Your trip out of town had lasted longer than you’d initially expected.

Initially you'd only planned to be gone for ten days, but ten had abruptly been extended to an irritating fourteen with little notice. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything you could do about it, though Matt had reassured you over the phone that it was fine. While he missed you dearly and would have vastly preferred you back home and in his arms, he understood that things were out of your control. However, he did have one more thing to say before you’d both given your goodbyes, something that wound up eating at you for the rest of your trip in all the best ways.

“Besides,” he’d murmured. “It’ll give me a little more time to work on my surprise for you.”

What that surprise was had been a mystery, one he’d smugly refused to reveal no matter how much you’d tried to pry it out of him over the ensuing phone calls. It couldn’t have been a gift for your next wedding anniversary, which was still a few months away. Nor was it your birthday, or Valentine’s Day. As best you could guess, this was just one of those moments when Matt decided to give you something, just because he could, just because he wanted to, no prompting needed. That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence with him, one more thread in the tapestry made from all the many reasons you loved him.

However, on the list of things you’d expected to find when you finally made it home, you hadn’t thought to include Matt standing shirtless in the bedroom doorway, his sweats slung low on his hips, his hair still damp from his shower. One corner of his mouth curled up into a wicked smirk, and oh, he knew. He knew, or he’d at least suspected what your response would be to his surprise, and you drew in a sharp intake of breath.

He’d grown a beard.

You raked your gaze over it, taking in the way it seemed to change the angles of his jaw and his face, somehow adding a dangerous edge to his smile. What was more, there were little patches of grey scattered amidst the dark of it. You had no idea why, but something about those threads of silver only added to the building heat between your thighs, a fire that had started the second you’d seen him standing casually in the doorway, his beautiful body on open display just for you.

How would it feel to touch him, cradle his jaw in your hands now?

How would it feel when he pressed his lips to yours, to your throat?

And how would it feel as he made his way down, down, down, the rough scrape of his beard lighting you up as he drifted towards one of his favorite places on your body?

Your shiver drew a rumble of satisfaction from him. He slowly rolled his head back, inhaling deeply, clearly savoring the scent of your arousal.

You were pretty sure you’d never downed a glass of water and gotten into the shower so quick in your life.

Matt kept his promise. The second you stepped out of the bathroom, he was on you, his beard a deliciously unfamiliar sensation as he caught your face between his hands and pressed his mouth hungrily to yours. That wild kiss didn’t stop at just one, your lips separating only to meet again a half-breath later, over and over again. The two of you only grew more frantic with every second that passed, hips beginning to rock, bodies swaying towards each other, until you were both left gasping, frantic and breathless, hands groping desperately across whatever bared skin either of you could reach.

“Bed.” The word was a low growl against your lips, his hand wound loosely around your throat, one thumb up under the hinge of your jaw to force your head back for him. One of your hands, meanwhile, had slipped back and down beneath the hem of his sweats, blatantly groping at the thick curve of his ass. He let out a rough groan that you eagerly swallowed down, the skin around your mouth already burning from the rasp of his beard where it had rubbed against you. “Fuck—Bed. Now.”

He wasn’t going to get an argument from you.

It was a short, stumbling walk from there to the bedroom. Neither of you bothered to keep your hands off each other, your fingers fisting in his damp hair as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to that special spot under your jaw that made your legs shake, Matt seemingly eager to drink the remaining droplets of water from your skin. You should have guessed his plans when you noticed the towel on the bed. But it was hard to focus with the tantalizing burn of his new beard dragging across the delicate skin of your throat, and with the taste and scent and touch of him filling your senses after a long two weeks apart. It felt like there was nothing in the world but him, nothing but the scent of cinnamon and copper and salt, the warmth of it so rich you couldn’t help but gasp with it as he herded you backwards until at last, you both found the bed.

The world lurched, and just like that you were pinned beneath him, the broad, heavy weight of him easily trapping you against the mattress, not that you minded. Your ragged moan of his name seemed to hang in the air, your fingers still tangled in his hair. God, your cunt was practically dripping already as you lifted your hips, trying to rock up against him in invitation. You'd been thinking of this the entire time you'd showered. He had to have sensed it. “Matt, sweetheart, please.” “I’ve been thinking about this since you left,” he purred in your ear, his breath a rush of burning embers before he started down your body. The moment he reached your bare breasts, he pressed his face between them, the rasp of his beard making you shiver. He inhaled deeply, dragging your scent deep into his lungs. That inhale led to a hitched, delighted moan, his hips rocking down against the mattress. Without warning, he turned his head and eagerly drew one of your nipples into his mouth. The greedy suction of his mouth when paired with the bristling scratch of his facial hair made you whine, writhing as best you could where you were trapped beneath the heavy weight of muscle and bone. But despite the way you offered up your chest in invitation, he had other plans, quickly releasing your breast to slide further down your body. His voice dropped into something low and sinful, then, soft as silk against your skin. “And I’ve missed this sweet pussy of yours, sweetheart.” He placed a tender, innocent kiss against your hip, the gentle nature of it at direct odds with the obscenity of his words. It was a combination that left you burning up, your breath hitching as he pointedly lifted one of your legs to drape it easily over his shoulder. He directed his blank gaze back up towards your own, his lips curling up into a feral grin. “So I’m going to see how many times I can make you come with my mouth tonight. And I’m not stopping until you’ve soaked everything underneath you.”

Oh god—

Your eager moan and the fresh flood of arousal between your legs was the only answer he needed. He let out a quiet hiss before diving in, his tongue burying itself between your folds for one heavy lap up your cunt, the first taste of you he’d had in weeks. And with a rough moan that matched yours in volume, he threw one arm over your hips, and settled in.

And there he stayed, his face buried between your thighs, for hours.

You lost track of your orgasms after you came for the third time, three of his fingers hilted deep inside you, his tongue lapping firmly, determinedly at your clit. It had been impossible to resist between that and the rhythmic, rough scrape of his beard against the inside of your thighs—a sweet-edged pain you were quickly growing addicted to. You came so hard you saw spots at the edge of your vision, came so hard you left a puddle on the towel beneath you, your startled cry loud enough to wake the neighbors. Your brain didn’t even know what to do with that kind of pleasure, your thighs snapping shut around his head, your whole body writhing as the pleasure washed over you in uneven waves.

But Matt didn’t so much as slow. If anything, he simply opened his mouth wider, drank from you even faster, swallowing down that flood as if you were the sweetest of wines. The moment he tasted your orgasm, one that drenched his beard and mouth, his eyes snapped shut, his hips bucking against the mattress. A wild, shaky moan tore from his throat as he came with you, soaking his sweats, the rhythm of his mouth growing clumsy and uneven.

Yet still, he didn’t stop, despite the fact you'd both come. All it took was a few breaths before he was back at it. He seemed almost mindless now, focused only on taking, greedy and insatiable as he forced your body and his to start the climb yet again.

You lost control over your body not long after, your reactions instinctive and uncoordinated. Somehow you found your hands back in his hair, soft, sweat-soaked strands sliding through your fingers. You weren’t sure what you meant to do then, whether you wanted to push him away from your overstimulated body or pull him in even closer, ride his face the way you wanted. Either way, he wound up deciding for you.

“Seems to me like someone can’t control herself.” He braced one hand firmly against your abdomen, and though he couldn’t see you, you still felt pinned by his gaze and the almost drunken little quirk of his lips. Even in the low light, you could see how his beard and mouth glistened, slick with the taste of you. “Do you need the rope, sweetheart? Do you want me to help you?”

There wasn’t a chance in the world of you remaining still without that rope, not if he intended to keep going. And you both knew it.

“Yes, please,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed as he clumsily rose from his place between your legs. Despite the lingering oversensitivity in your body, the sudden absence of his mouth still made you whimper. You just—you needed more, the promise of it keeping the tide of your arousal from fully easing.

“What a good girl, admitting you need help,” he crooned, crawling up the bed far enough to reach the nightstand, pausing only to brush his lips against yours, the scent of your sex clinging heavily to his beard and mouth. He opened the drawer and dug around for a moment, until he finally drew free a length of red silk rope, testing it out in his hand. Once he was satisfied, he began to loop the rope around your wrists. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you can’t move. Because I meant what I said. I’m not letting you up until I’m finished with you, and I’m nowhere near done, sweetheart.”

The moment your wrists were properly tied, he placed his knees on either side of you, rising up to hook the length of rope to the hook set into the wall. But that put something else within reach of your mouth, and all the grinding he’d done against the bed had managed to drag his soaked sweats down just far enough to expose his cock. He was already half-hard again, the head slick and dripping, flushed dark and tempting.

In that moment, you needed to taste it.

The noise he made as you darted your head forward and took the tip of him into your mouth was inhuman, one part choked gasp and one part snarl. You suckled at the broad head eagerly, rapid little licks of your tongue against his slit to draw out more of the precum leaking steadily into your mouth, trying to get as much as you could before he could stop you. He wound up hunched over the top of you, one hand braced against the wall, the other fisted in your hair to hold you against him. And the harder you sucked, the more his rough growls and snarls shifted into high moans and soft little whines, his hips bucking instinctively, helplessly forward, pressing his cock deeper into the warm, welcoming wet heat of your mouth. Even those powerful thighs of his started to shake.

If you did this right, he’d come in no time at all.

But it was the creak of the ropes as you instinctively reached for him that seemed to snap him out of it.

Just like that, your head was wrenched back by his hand in your hair, his cock sliding free from your lips with a wet pop, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth, and down onto your chest as you stared blearily up at him. Chest heaving, dark eyes burning, he slowly leaned down until his lips hovered mere millimeters from yours. But even though his lips hadn’t made contact, his beard did, the faintest brush of bristling hairs tickling against your overheated skin until you couldn’t help but moan.

“And this,” he grit out, “is why you’re being tied: because you can’t keep your hands or your mouth to yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” you whined, trying to nuzzle at him in apology. He dodged your mouth, his hand tightening in your hair in warning. This time, at least, you listened, rolling your head back into his touch, trying to make up for what you’d done, submit like he wanted. “I’m sorry, Matt. I just wanted a taste, I needed you so bad.”

“If you’d asked like a good girl, maybe I’d have given it to you. Now you’re going to have to make it up to me.” He abruptly let go of your hair, climbing back down your body, ignoring the way you thrashed and twisted. Once he was back in place, he roughly shoved your thighs apart, dropping back down between your legs like he belonged there, claiming that space for himself. “Do I need to beg?” you choked out, practically shaking when he caught the thin, delicate skin of your inner thigh between his teeth, sucking hard. He lingered there for a long moment as you moaned and yanked desperately on the ropes, but it was no use. He was in control, not you, and you knew he wouldn’t let go until he’d left his mark, claiming this part of your body that belonged to only him. But what you weren’t expecting was for him to let go… and then tip his head, sliding his cheek, and his beard along the newly sensitive skin. The burn of it sent you soaring, your cunt clenching around nothing, your back arching as you tried to offer your core up to his mouth. “I’ll beg! God, I will, Matt, just—” “I don’t need you to beg,” he growled, his lips curling until he’d bared his teeth. “I need you to scream.”

Then his mouth latched onto your cunt again, relentless and inescapable no matter how much you writhed. It was torture, madness of the best kind, and it wasn’t long before something in your mind began to unravel, drawn right down out of your body and into his mouth to be swallowed down the Devil's greedy throat.

Things… got a little blurry after that.

There was no tracking the time, not when one orgasm melded into the next, minutes and hours falling away beneath the merciless lap of Matt’s skilled tongue, the brutal curl of his thick fingers, the rough scrape of his beard against your thighs and cunt until everything burned with pleasure and pain that turned the edges of your vision a fractured white. There was no outside world, no thought left in your mind but his name, nothing but the mountains he dragged your increasingly exhausted body up, and the swift fall when he mercilessly shoved you over the edge, over and over and over until you were ready to lose your mind.

“Matt!” you sobbed, wrenching hard at the ropes binding your wrists. It didn’t make one bit of difference, the rope firm and unyielding where you were bound. Down between your legs, Matt slurped hungrily, drunkenly at your cunt, his face and throat drenched with your slick, a wide puddle on the towel beneath the place where his mouth connected to your body. The burn of his beard was almost unbearable now, but you didn’t know what to do about it. You weren’t even sure he could hear you at this point, his eyes glazed over and glassy, the broad laps at your slit and clit so instinctive and clumsy that you were half convinced he was lost in the same place you were, drunk off the taste of your pussy, off your repeated orgasms and pheromones that he’d been drenched in.

Another finger joined the three he already had buried deep inside you. He’d been at this so long that your body parted for him with little issue, and god, god, you were so goddamn full, so trapped in the haze that all you could do was choke out another sob as all four of his fingertips rubbed firmly at that spot inside you. You were too tired even to close your legs around his head, but you could feel it—that final orgasm curling hot and inescapable inside you, so close now you could taste the fractured shards of it, tears streaming down your cheeks as your eyes snapped shut.

“I think maybe you earned that taste you wanted,” he slurred, kissing lovingly at your clit like he might a lover, his lips parted just far enough to let his tongue brush against you. And god, it almost hurt, it hurt, your body so far beyond oversensitivity that even that light touch hit you like a bolt of lightning, your body jolting. “Not that you can answer me now. Or can you?”

All you could give him was a mindless whine.

He chuckled, working his free hand down beneath himself as he lifted his hips. His mouth dropped open a moment later, face going slack against your cunt before he moaned loudly, his shoulder shifting rhythmically beneath your thigh, his eyes rolling shut. Was he—

He drew his hand up a moment later with a purr, his fingers now smeared and sticky with both your wetness and his, glistening softly in the low light. “What do you say, sweetheart? Would you like a taste? Because I would.”

You whimpered, tugging mindlessly at the ropes, and you—yes, yes, but your tongue couldn’t seem to quite form the word yes, because he still had the fingers of his other hand buried inside you, rubbing steadily at the spot that made you see stars. God, please, the mere thought of tasting your combined flavors on your tongue had you almost mad, your body a hairs-breadth away from coming. All you needed was a nudge—a brush of him at your clit, the taste of him on your tongue, and you’d tip over the edge.

He clearly knew it, too. And you thought-you’d thought he would be offering his hand as he dipped back down to your cunt, but instead, he pulled his soaked fingers free from you with a sigh. Your cry was a broken thing, something thick with grief at feeling so empty when you were so close, more tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Shh, you’re alright, sweetheart, don't cry,” he crooned gently, hushing you as he crawled up over your body, nuzzling at your sweat-soaked skin. “Don’t worry. It’s only for a second. I won’t leave you empty. I promise. Almost done. Almost there. One more for me. You’re going to give me one more, honey.” But how, when you were so empty, when you didn’t have his mouth or his fingers, lost and—

He groaned as he began to slide his thick cock inside you. You’d been stretched so open by his fingers, by all of your orgasms over the past few hours, that he entered you with a delicious ease. The sloppy, wet squelch of his cock as he slid inside you would have made your cheeks burn if you’d had any sense left.

“Shit,” he moaned, one hand braced beside your head, fisting in the sheets. One rock of his hips and he was buried as deep as he could reach, your cunt clenching around him as if it were trying to keep him there. You were too exhausted to lift your legs and lock them around his hips. All you could do was gasp and accept him, your eyes rolled back as you hovered on the edge. “Nn, there you go, sweetheart. There we go. Nice and-and full. Hold on just a little longer for me. Open your mouth, honey.”

You parted your lips instantly, long past resisting, long past thinking.

His fingers stroked gently against your tongue a moment later, allowing you to take in the combined musky taste of yourself, the bitter richness of his cock, and how it mingled and melded with the taste of his skin.

“Suck for me like a good girl,” he murmured, his other hand rising to wipe away a few of your tears. Once that was done, he settled his hand around your throat, as if he wanted to feel it when you swallowed. “Go on, sweetheart. You can have it.”

You curled your tongue around his fingers, drawing them deep into your mouth with a grateful moan. The explosion of it across your tongue as you swallowed, the sheer obscenity of it, made you choke out a broken cry. His fingers were yanked back a moment later only to be replaced by his tongue snaking lazily into your open mouth, blatantly chasing your paired tastes with a filthy moan. All of it rolled up over you at once—his cock sliding up against that spot inside you, the whisper of pressure around your throat as his massive hand closed around it, the angle of his hips that let his body grind against your clit, the paired taste of you both filling your mouth as his tongue curled against yours, but…

It was the harsh scrape of his beard against your skin that pushed you over the edge.

Later, you wouldn’t remember the noise you made as you came, your body seizing as your orgasm slammed into you in one sudden rush. Your body went rigid, back bowing off the bed so sharply you felt something pop, your head thrown back as you lost yourself beneath a roaring tide of pleasure. Because this-this wasn’t something you rode, something you swam with, something that swept over you gently. This was something you survived, something you choked beneath, drowned beneath. You barely heard Matt’s shout, didn’t even notice the spreading heat as he came with you in slick pulses of warmth. You heard even less his slurred words of encouragement against your lips as your orgasm lingered in waves that just didn’t end, and you couldn't, you couldn't—

“There you go. Good girl, good girl, so good for me, let it all go sweetheart, I’ve got you, good gi—”

You weren’t quite sure where your mind went, then. But things cut out for a while.

How long you tapped out for was a mystery, the world around you faded into a soft black. All you knew was that when you finally floated back up from that quiet sea, your senses coming back to you one by one, Matt was there, your limp body cradled warmly against his chest. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, the sounds distant and still a little warped as he rocked you gently. He had to have untied you at some point, you thought blearily, since he was holding you now, his back against the headboard, your head tucked down against his neck. “Come on back, honey. Time to come back for me.”

You made a soft little noise of acknowledgement in your throat, all you really felt capable of at the moment, your eyes fluttering half open.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” he hummed, nuzzling down warmly against your hair. One of his hands swept steadily up and down your arm, sensation that helped ground you, along with the easy rhythm of his breathing as he held you, the rasp of his skin against yours. “There you are, my good girl. You did so good, honey. Now you’ve got it. Take it slow. Breathe with me."

“Mmm.”

"That works." He huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your slack head back until he could brush his lips against your forehead. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your body feeling a bit like all your bones had just up and wandered off. Maybe Matt had sucked them out of you. “I got eight out of you tonight if you can believe it. A new record.”

“It’s,” you slurred thickly, “the… beard. I love it.”

“I figured. And now I'm definitely going to keep it.” He nuzzled at you again, lifting one of your hands so he could knead gently at your wrist where you’d been tied. You'd probably have some bruises tomorrow considering how hard you'd yanked at the ties, but you'd wear them with pride. You always did. “And now you get the full aftercare treatment. Water, a snack, maybe a massage and a lot of cuddling before you fall asleep. I almost thought about drawing you a bath, but I’m not quite sure I trust you not to accidentally slide down into the water right now, even with me holding you.”

“...Fair.” You sleepily mashed your face against his throat, drawing the musky scent of sex and his skin deep into your lungs. You were still floating to a certain extent, your body sore and exhausted, but the comfort of his touch, the low rumble of his voice went a long way to soothing you. “Love you. Missed you.”

“I love you and missed you, too.” He pressed a fond kiss to your wrist, letting out a contented sigh. “Let’s avoid being apart for a while.”

“Agreed.”

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil #matt murdock #fic #fanfic #reader fic #x reader #reader insert #ns/fw #tw: smut #tw: oral #this is filth please mind the warnings #daredevil: born again fic #matt's blatant oral fixation #i regret nothing

782 notes · View notes

awesomecooperlove · 1 year ago

Text

LIES, LIES, LIES ENDLESS LIES… TIME TO WAKE UP HUMANITY

👩🏼‍🔬🤥👨🏻‍🔬

440 notes · View notes

emberfrostlovesloki · 2 months ago

Text

Dolls World [Spencer x Reader]

Photo Credits: Left (@starvingphilosofer) Center (@heyvs) Right (@anjukaji)

Prompt: A kidnapper is kidnapping women and torturing them. When y/n gets taken, Reid does everything he can to save her, but it’s too late.

Pairing: Spenver x BAU-Reader

Category: Angst/Whump/No Happy Ending.

Word Count: 11.1K

Content Warnings: Kidnapping, burns, torture [reader], intimidation, fear, submission.

A/N: Hi all! I hope you are all doing very well! I know it has been a long, long time since I’ve posted, and that’s for many reasons that I don’t want to get into today. I return with a hecking long Spencer fic, and I hope you enjoy it. That being said, thank you to everyone who has kept up with me, or to any new readers or followers! Please be kind to yourselves this week and do something you love, you are so special. If you enjoy this fic, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! P.s. I haven’t edited this a lot for grammar, I’m just now jumping back into writing, sorry for any major errors. Love Levi - ❤️

List with all stories

y/n = your name

y/h/c = your hair color

y/e/c = your eye color

y/l/n = your last name

As Spencer listened to the witness give his comments on finding the body in the field, his breath billowed up like smoke in the cold autumn morning. He shivered slightly and wrapped his arms around his slender frame, and locked back into the conversation. “Yeah. When I saw the body at first, I thought it was some kind of prank. It looked like a mannequin, and I got out of my truck to put it in my truck bed to haul it to the dump. It was when I touched the body that I realized it was a person in there.” The rugged-looking man shuddered at the memory of the cold, clammy skin of the victim. Reid nodded along. It must have been a real shock. He cleared his throat and asked, “What did you do when you realized it was a person?” The man shuffled on the ground and replied, “Well, I called the cops, of course. What else was I supposed to do?” Spence nodded again and asked, “You said you thought this might be a prank. Do people play pranks on your property often? Would you say you have any enemies?” The man let out a nervous laugh and replied, “Every now and then. There are some damn kids down the road that have done a thing or two. Vandalism, letting the chickens out, but they wouldn’t do whatever… whatever this is.” The comment couldn’t stop Spence from looking back at the victim and cringing harshly.

y/n was close to the body, leaned up against a fence with a camera documenting every odd element of the victim. The bright flash only made the scene more eerie. The light flashed off the porcelain mask that was half slipped off the young woman’s face. Apart from the mask, which had a shocking likeness of the victim's face except for its paleness, and the outfit, like that of a little girl, nothing seemed to be wrong with the body. The woman’s eyes were open, glazed over, and staring into the sky that was cloudy and threatening to rain at any moment. Reid couldn’t help but look at y/n for a moment longer as she nimbly knelt on the ground to take the shots needed for further examination. The man standing beside Spencer cleared his throat, and the genius whipped his head forward again as the man asked, “So, are we done?” Dr. Reid let out a soft breath and nodded yes. Being given the all clear, the man moved away and down the gravel path toward the small barn on his property in upstate New York.

Derek rambled up toward the lean agent and said, “Imagine how Garcia’s gonna be when she gets a load of this.” Spencer didn’t want to think about that and just gave a soft grunt as a response. Morgan furrowed his brows and asked, “What’s wrong, pretty boy? Not in a talking mood.” Derek followed Spence’s gaze to y/n, who was now talking to Emily and Hotch about the victim. Morgan let out a chuckle and commented lightly, “You know you could just tell her, Reid. The worst thing is that she says no.” Dr. Reid huffed and said, “That’s easy for you to say, Morgan; women seldom say no to you.” Derek was about to respond to Spence’s self-deprecation, but the pair was called over by Rossi as they were headed back to the station to regroup and deliver the profile now that they had his new piece of the puzzle.

Back at the Idaho Presinct, McAllen Presinct, Aaron and Morgan stood at the front of the room. The rest of the team flanked them to add any needed information or grab anything either man needed. Hotch started by reintroducing the team and then jumping into the profile: “Good morning, and thank you for taking the time to listen to us. We’ll make this as brief as possible so you can get back to your shift and look for these missing women. The profile we’re about to give you may have some changing variables. The usefulness for you with this information is trying to find a suspect that matches said description we are about to give. Even a feeling is a good place to start with a case like this.

Morgan stepped up and continued, “This case is made harder because of the vicinity to the border and, more importantly, the city of Juarez. The number of people fleeing that area due to the drug trade might be a great cover for the unsub or unknown subject. He might also be luring victims across the border with promises of sneaking them into the States. That’s a possibility, it’s also a possibility that one of the cartels is having a new initiation for new members of taking a mark and torturing them to death, which is already common practice with many gangs. Either way, the unsub has found a great place to kidnap and kill people. Aaron then spoke again, clarifying, “The unsub has a specific type of woman that he is looking for, as all of those taken so far have had y/h/c and y/e/c and a specific body type. These factors make it easier to identify possible targets, but so far, no correlation has been found between the missing women, and with the addition of the first body, it seems that there might be some kind of ritualistic element involved as a mask highly resembling the woman’s face was found on the body. We’re going to analyze the mask and see if anything comes from it. We will let you know. As for now, we suspect a white man in his thirties to fifties, with possible ties to the cartel, looking for women to exploit or for an unknown personal use. If you have any questions, please let Ms. Jareau or any of the team know, and we’ll be happy to answer them. That’s it for now, thank you for your time.

The BAU did what they could with the limited knowledge they had so far about the victim and the unsub, but mostly it was a process of eliminating the primary and secondary cartel rings rather than outright finding a culprit. The guess was that the unsub was a domineering man who saw women as objects to control, but with machismo being such a large part of the culture in that part of Texas, that descriptor defined a lot of men’s views of women. It wasn’t until a spectral analysis of the mask that was found on the victim came back that any real progress was made. The mask was mostly made of plaster and reinforced porcelain, which was a strange find. Not only that, but a larger amount of terra cotta powder was found in the mix as well. As Aaron brought up this fact to the sheriff, the man nodded his head and replied, “Yeah, well, the terra cotta makes sense, there’s an abandoned saltillo and terra cotta plant on the far side of town. It’s mostly used for drug deals now, but I have no clue about it. Ain’t nobody I know around here that would use anything porcelain. Most stuff at the store is Talavera or plastic.” Hotch acknowledged the information and said, “Thank you, Sheriff. Morgan, Reid, y/n, I want you to go out and check out the grounds of that old kiln and factory. See if there’s any sign of life or the victims. Go in hot, we don’t know what this unsub is capable of yet.” The trio nodded and checked their gun holsters before moving out into the cold, bright Texas sun and toward the van.

As Morgan, Spencer, and y/n moved southward, Aaron, Rossi, and Emily stayed behind to call around about the new leads and have Garcia work her magic on the new info. It was a nice feeling to have something to do after such a lull in the case.

At the plant, the trio got out of the van that y/n had been driving and looked around the outside first. It was mostly dusty, with the sides of the metal and cement structure old and soot-covered from the fire of the kilns. The tall, brittle grasses moved slowly with the wind. As the team walked to the back of the large building, they saw a few junked-out cars that were rusting and had parts missing from under the hood. Most shocking, however, was a nondescript white Subaru that had no license plates and dark-tinted windows. y/n raised an eyebrow at Derek and Reid. Morgan pulled out his gun and said, “We’re not alone, it seems. Let’s head inside and see who we find.” The other agents slipped their guns out of their holsters and kept them lowered to the ground for safety as they slipped off the safety.

Morgan took point and walked to the front of the building and tried to slowly open the door. Unfortunately, it gave out a loud creak, meaning that the person inside most likely heard their approach. Not wanting the unsub to possibly get away, Derek softly called, “Let’s split up. I’ll take the center, Reid, y/n you take left and right.” The other agents nodded as they threaded their way through rows and rows of shelves housing dusty orange stacks of tiles and shingles and all manner of pottery. There wasn’t a back door to the building, so the unsub only had one way out, through a member of the team. All of the lights in the building were out, and as y/n moved carefully along the side of the wall, trying to stay as hidden and shielded as possible. Plumes of silt and dust filled the air each time she took a step, and she had to pull her shirt over her nose to stop from coughing at the particulates filling her lungs.

Reid was doing the same on the opposite side of the building. He felt something in his stomach twist, and he looked to his left. There was an old metal staircase that was roped off with a faded sign reading, “Mangers only.” He took a moment to asses. It was possible that the unsub was in one of the upper offices. However, Reid assumed that the kidnapper would have made noise if they had tried getting up the stairs, and he would have heard that. With that in mind, he continued moving forward toward the back of the building. The lanky agent was moving faster than Morgan or y/n as his sense of dread increased. He made it to the back of the building and saw the few small, sad windows letting in light into the dim space. Spencer turned around and wondered if the unsub was possibly upstairs. Just as he did this, he heard a creak from the upper level, but it was too late as a figure wearing a mask dropped from the second floor and onto Spencer.

The figure wasn’t big, but the impact was enough of a surprise that Reid stumbled backward. The figure was holding a loaded gun and smacked Spencer on the temple hard enough to stun him and draw blood. Reid saw stars for a second and grunted. The sound of the commotion echoed through the large room, and y/n and Derek came running. As soon as they saw the figure on top of their friend with a gun pointed at his head, they both slowed and lowered their weapons. The masked figure said, “Good choice. You’re both going to do everything I say, or you’ll be cleaning your colleague's brains out of this dirt. If I even sense you’re trying to trick me I I’ll shoot, do you understand?”

Helpless, Derek and y/n clearly nodded yes. The figure replied, “Good. You, girl, step over here nice and slow. I have the keys to the car in my back pocket. Come and get them. y/n shot a very small look at Morgan, who nodded for her to do as she was being told. y/n took a step forward, but the figure said, “Stop. First, take your gun and the other agent's gun and set them on the side of the wall over there.” The unsub just turned their chin over to the wall with the windows a few feet away. y/n sighed and disarmed Morgan. She was slow and cautious with her steps. She made sure the unsub could see the weapons with each step so the person wouldn’t do anything to Reid. As soon as the first task was done, y/n continued slowly and painfully doing as she had been told. She didn’t step too close to Spencer, even though she wanted to see how the genius was. Instead, she kept a wide breadth and moved behind the sub. The person was a woman as y/n got closer to the figure. It was obvious despite her baggy clothing. y/n moved her hand to the woman’s back left pocket and fished out the keys.

Once the keys were free of the unsub's pocket, she said, “Good, now go stand back by the other agent. If I see you do anything with those keys I’ll remind you again that I have a happy trigger finger.” y/n nodded and again moved back to Derek’s side. Both Morgan and y/n cringed, and the woman pistol-whipped Spencer in the head, rendering him unconscious and bleeding in the dirt and silt. The woman then pointed the gun at Morgan and said, “Alright, you two. Move slowly toward the door If either of you try shit it’s curtain for all three of you. Now put your hands above your head and start walking along the left-hand side wall in a single file. The girl goes first. The agents did as told, even though it went against every instinct in their bodies to leave Reid on the ground like this. When Morgan got to the wall, he felt the barrel of the unsub’s gun at his back pressing into the fabric of his shirt. Both y/n and Derek considered how much of a distraction and damage could happen if they could only throw or tip one of the tile-laden shelves over. However, there was too much risk in such an act. No matter what they’d thought of the unsub before, she was far more accomplished than either of them had ever expected. Once the painful process of getting to the door of the building was finished, the woman barked, “Alright, stop both of you.” Both agents again complied, and without any notice, the unsub hit Derek on the head like she had with Reid. The tall athletic agent crumpled to the ground and y/n whipped around to retaliate, but again was met with the barrel of a loaded gun.

y/n was pissed off that both of her friends had been harmed and asked, “You better have a grand plan here.” There was a scoff and a look of defiance behind the eyes of the unsub who replied, “Oh, I’ve got plans for you. You’re just his type. Now, little miss, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get into that car while I have this little toy pointed at you the whole time. I’ll get into the passenger seat, and you’re going to drive and follow my directions. And don’t think that I’m not willing to kill a fucking FBI agent. There are lots of women that I can use for him, but I think he’s really gonna like you. So let’s get this show on the road before either of your friends wakes up.” The unsub gestured with her chin, a sharp and jagged movement for y/n to move toward the car, which y/n did. y/n kept her hands above her head as she walked. She squinted into the harsh sun as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, which contrasted with the dark of the building interior.

In the car, y/n carefully turned the key once her captor was inside, the unsub's gun pointed at y/n’s head the whole time. y/n kept her hands steady on the wheel and eyes on the dusty, barely paved roads they were traveling down. The first hour was very stressful and y/n had the feeling that at any might her brains might be blown out of her head. However, after that, the unsub seemed to start to fidget a bit. It seemed she was uncomfortable in her seat with the sun in her eyes and hot with her mask covering her mouth and nose. After a few more minutes, the woman gave up and took off the fabric covering her face, and took a deep breath. y/n still didn’t look at the woman but could tell something had shifted. All the bravado was wearing off as the woman��s adrenaline waned. y/n felt that if she kept not engaging and just doing as told, the unsub would break soon. True to her prediction, a few minutes later the woman said in a shaky voice, “I’m sorry for what’s gonna happen to you. I really am, but I can’t let him down.”

y/n took a split second to look at the blonde-haired woman who looked more like a suburbanite than a kidnapper. y/n placed her gaze back on the paved road and replied. “You don’t have to do this. Whoever makes you do it, we can stop them. We can keep you safe. We’re alone, all you have to do is let me call my team. You have me as collateral already, why not get help?” The unsub was struggling now as she tried not to cry as she replied, “I can’t. I’m sorry, but you’re life isn’t worth what not doing this will cost you. Now, no more talking. You can’t change my mind, just know that I’m sorry.” y/n’s hands tightened on the wheel of the car, with the way the woman was talking, perhaps there was hope of getting out of this situation before it got too out of hand. Now, what it came down to was timing. As much as y/n was concerned for herself, she couldn’t stop thinking about Spencer and how he’d looked sprawled out on the ground, blood quickly pooling below his head. The image was going to haunt her until she knew that he was okay.

y/n and Spencer’s history was complicated by many things. The first was that when y/n had first joined the team, the genius was just coming off Dilaudid, and he had seen y/n’s hiring as a challenge to his role on the team. Therefore, he’d been a bit more than standoffish for a few months, and that had created tension between the team. Finally, Reid saw the failure of his actions and apologized, but the damage to their relationship had been done. It took months for the two younger members of the team to fully mesh. Then they had meshed and meshed well, and Spencer felt stupid for having been so rude at the start of their working relationship. They’d become pretty good friends and then, with a bit of hesitation from Spencer, went on a few dates. It was fun and it felt safe, and so when y/n had asked if he’d wanted to take it further, to try at more commitment, Spencer had gently rejected the idea. He had been too comfortable with what they had to want to risk losing it. That choice had hurt y/n, but she understood where Reid was coming from. After all, he was still only getting his feet back under him from his ordeal with drugs, but that didn’t mean that y/n didn't hold out hope that one day they might be something more. Now, as she got farther and farther away from the team and moved toward the unknown, she prayed that Spence was alright and that he’d find her. Deep down in her heart, she knew that somehow Spencer would always find her in one way or another.

Reid’s head was pounding, and it felt all fuzzy. Even the low voices in the background seemed distant and far off, even though he knew they were right above him. Then suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, he came back to awareness. He was strapped to a gurney being wheeled toward an ambulance, and the bright light of the outside momentarily blinded him. That didn’t stop him from trying to sit up, but one of the paramedics held his shoulder down and said, “Hold on there, buddy. Everything is going to be okay.” Reid tried to respond, but his mouth felt like cotton. Thankfully, Emily saw him gain awareness, and she and Rossi moved over to his side as he got closer and closer to the ambulance. With some effort, Spencer said, “Where are Morgan and y/n?” Emily shot Rossi a look before replying, “Derek’s already on the way to the hospital. It looks like he got hit a little harder than you.” Spencer nodded, eyes wide, waiting for a comment about y/n. It seemed to take a moment before Rossi then said, “And y/n, well, she got taken by the unsub.” Reid’s eyes went wide, and he repeated, “She was taken?” Emily nodded yes, but quickly said, “But we have a lot of information about the unsub now. Morgan was able to tell us a lot before he was carted off. We have a BOLO on the car, and I’m sure we’ll find y/n soon.” As sure as Spencer was that the BAU was doing everything they could to find y/n a pit of dread formed in his stomach like a thorn in his side, but he didn’t have time to ask for more details as he was loaded into the transport vehicle with Rossi shouting, “We’ll see you at the hospital,” before the doors were closed.

Before Aaron or Dave even got to the hospital, Reid had been told to lie back down three times as he tried to get up and get some more paper. He was going through sheets and sheets of it, as the drugs he was on were making it hard to remember important details about the unsub. When Hotch did arrive, the leader of the BAU considered saying, “Are we writing a memoir now, Reid?” but refrained. Aaron knew that Spence’s relationship with y/n was complicated. Instead, he just gave the facts they had so far. “y/n’s phone was thrown out of the unsub’s car seventy miles from the warehouse. Garcia is triangulating the area to see if she can find out any more information. Morgan told us what happened to him. I’d like to hear your side of things.” Spencer nodded and looked at his notes, and jumped into his side of things, speaking at a mile a minute. In some moments, Aaron had to slow the agent down so he could catch up with what was being said.

The hospital had diagnosed Reid with a minor concussion and was required to hold him for seven hours just to make sure that he didn’t have any worse effects than a headache and some blurred vision every now and then. The same thing applied to Morgan, who was also very anxious about getting out of his uncomfortable hospital bed and finding the person who had taken y/n. When he described his experience with the unsub to Emily, he had said, “You know she was such a small figure, I didn’t think she’d have the power to knock me out like that. I mean, her hands looked neat and clean, almost like she had her nails done. That’s not the type of person I expect to be out kidnapping women. I mean she drive a freaking Subaru!” Em had nodded and tried to calm Derek, who kept speaking. “I thought for sure when I came to that y/n would be right there with us, or outside somewhere.” There was a look of sadness and disappointment on Morgan’s face. Emily knew immediately that he must feel like he had failed y/n in some way. The brunette-haired agent stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on Morgan’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find her. Derek. We’re gonna get her back or die trying.”

It felt like hours since y/n had been told to drive and just keep driving. The gas can was almost empty now, and y/n’s own energy reserves had long since left. It was hard for her to even keep her eyes on the road. Thankfully, after over four and a half hours of driving on unnamed roads, the captor and captive arrived at a quaint farmhouse with a white picket fence and an old red Ford parked out front. The house seemed to be three stories with a few pretty windows, and a mother-in-law's house a few feet from the outside of the main home. There was something about that space that leaked an eerie cold into y/n’s bones. Instinctively, y/n shivered and looked back at the main house. There was a little less comfort there, but at least it was better.

The voice of the unsub shocked y/n back into awareness as she said, “Funny, everyone who comes here has that reaction. Maybe I should have know there was something wrong with him, but I’m just a mom, there’s not much I could do at this point.” y/n furrowed her brows. This was valuable information being given, but she was just too exhausted for the pieces weren’t quite lining up in her head to make a coherent picture. Agent y/l/h did see the large blond-haired man; she was assuming this was the unsub’s husband came up to the driver’s side door of the car. y/n knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. This was a make-or-break moment, maybe she could talk her way out of this, or make a run for it. The image of the woman with the doll mask flashed in front of her, and for a second, y/n considered that there might be a fate worse than death waiting for her inside one of those houses. However, the cold barrel of the woman’s pistol at the temple of her head was enough to remind her she was a federal agent, and she might not be the last victim of this pair of killer kidnappers. If it didn’t end well for her, perhaps it would mean she’d be able to save another woman put in the same position. Not that she thought she was going to die. She was going to do everything in her power to stay alive.

The man got to the car quickly and opened the door to the car. He made no introductions as he dragged y/n from the seat of the car by her wrists and slipped them into a pair of zip cuffs. When this was done, the man dragged y/n toward the front door of the main house. The man was wearing a bandana that covered his nose and mouth. He hardly looked at y/n as they moved inside. y/n did her best to try and observe things around the first floor of the home. It seemed pretty sparse apart from some family photos and what was probably second-hand furniture that didn’t match at all. y/n looked at one of the photos near the steps up to the second and third floor. The picture showed the family smiling, though it didn’t reach anybody’s eyes but one of the little boys in the image. The mother and father were standing in the back, and each had a hand on a small boy. The father’s hand rested on the older boy’s shoulder while the mother’s dainty hands rested on the younger child’s plaid shirt. It was clear that y/n was looking too hard as her hair was yanked hard by the root, and the man manhandling her said, “Keep moving” in a gruff voice.

y/n was pulled up all three flights of stairs. In the attic, y/n was hauled to the side of the room near the high window, and her hands were strung up by a hook hanging from the ceiling. The hook was high enough up that y/n’s feet didn’t have much purchase on the ground, and her arms strained as they took most of her weight. She pulled her eyes away from the man who was fiddling with some more zip ties and tried to get a sense of her bearings. The room was large, and there were bottles of cloudy-looking liquids of various colors along with multiple masks like the one found on the victim’s body. From looking out the window, y/n could tell they were very far from anything close to a city. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were multiple towns over from McAllen at this point. The idea was upsetting. They hadn’t driven near any major cities, so it was unlikely that the car she was driving had been picked up on any cameras. The vials on the shelf were a start to something. They looked like embalming fluid that a mortician might use, so perhaps the team could find that helpful if traces were left at the site. y/n found it strange that embalming would be part of the process, as the first victim they had found hadn’t been embalmed. She was so freshly dead, in fact, that rigor mortis hadn’t even set in yet.

As her legs were attached to the floor with new zipties and a chain, y/n wanted to beg for a chance to be let go, for anything else than what was happening at the moment. However, her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. She tried to say anything but coughed as a rag was roughly pushed in her mouth, followed by a long strip of duct tape over her lips. y/n struggled against the intrusion in her mouth and was quickly rendered blind as a blindfold was placed over her eyes. It became apparent to y/n that something was on the rag as her head felt woozy and she lost consciousness.

Reid was out of the hospital and panicking over y/n. He hadn’t sat down or stopped moving for hours, even though the doctors had prescribed rest for the next week. Morgan was looking at the tire imprints and had matched them with the type of car the unsub drove, however, the popular model made the information almost useless. Frustrated and upset at not being able to make more progress, Spencer half yelled, “There has to be more. This can’t be all there is.” Hotch looked at the genius from across the table and said, “Reid, calm down. Getting worked up won’t help y/n or anyone else.” At the command, Spence slammed his hands on the table and snapped, “Don’t tell me how to feel, Hotch. I was there, you weren’t.” At the sudden hostility, Rossi quickly stood and said, “Okay, okay, okay, I think it’s time we had a breather outside.” The older agent stood and took Spencer’s arm in his and led the lean man outside the doors of the police station. Reid was flushed and crumpling the medical report he had been holding at the time as he tried to calm down. It was proving harder than he had anticipated. As he and Dave walked in an awkward silence down the empty street, Reid considered that perhaps all of his pent-up feelings for y/n were getting to his head, and her being taken had broken the dam to those buried emotions.

y/n woke when she was roughly pushed by the shoulder. She grunted against her gag and could see that it was bright outside, possibly a whole day had elapsed since she had gotten to the home of the unsubs. Her blindfold was ripped off along with some strands of her hair, and she blinked back against the brightness of the morning light. It was the man again. It seemed she was going to be working mostly with him for a while, since she was here. That wasn’t a calming thought as he seemed much more guarded -- to the point that he was still wearing a mask to hide his face, even though she’d seen it in the family pictures already.

The man stepped forward and lowered y/n’s arms from the hook holding them up, and she collapsed to the ground. Her upper limbs ached so much as the blood flowed back down her arms. y/n grunted from the pain as she tried to decide if this hurt more or less than having them raised. Without waiting for y/n to get adjusted, the man stepped back and grabbed some clothes from the floor and tossed them at y/n, stating, “Put these on, now.” y/n shakily looked at the clothes and saw that it was a maid's dress with stockings and long socks along with an apron. y/n didn’t like the look for this and what it meant for her, so she gave a protesting grunt and shook her head no. The male unsub didn’t seem surprised by this as he leaned down and grabbed a bucket. He heaved back and forward and splashed y/n with cold water that shocked y/n into more awareness.

The water wasn’t exactly cold, but it was so frigid in the attic that it hurt like pins and needles on y/n’s skin. She watched as goosebumps rose on her exhausted arms, and the man said, “You decide, freeze in those clothes or change. I’ll leave you to it.” The unsub moved back to the door, unlocked it with a key, stepped out of the room, and then disappeared. y/n heard the lock click again, and once the sound of steps was gone, y/n let herself sag to the wooden floor. She felt like her whole body was covered with pins and needles, either from the cold or her having been suspended for a few hours uncomfortably. Much to y/n's chagrin, she realized that if she didn’t want to feel like she was freezing to death, changing into the other outfit was the best idea. She crawled to the pile of clothes, grabbed them, and turned her back to the door. She wasn’t sure if the man was going to come back to check on her, but if he was, she wasn’t going to give him a full frontal view. She might be in a tricky situation, but she still had her dignity. With effort and shaking hands, y/n stripped off her wet shirt and pants and quickly changed into the dress. The stockings and long socks were a no-go, but she used them to dry off as much as possible. When that was done, she instantly felt better and then tried to assess her tenable situation further.

Rossi was looking at and updating the profile. He was tapping his pen against his chin when Aaron came up beside him and said, “Anything new, Dave?” Rossi looked at Hotch and then back to the board; “Well, the unsub being a caucasian isn’t a surprise, having it be a woman is. Though I think it’s most likely a team rather than just one person. The problem with that is that is that then we get more into the drug and cartel territory. It could be a gang initiation type of thing after all.” Hotch nodded along and said, “Women in the cartel aren’t unheard of.” Dave sighed and said, “I know. This is so frustrating, and I’m worried about Reid’s judgment, and not because he has a minor concussion right now.” Now it was Aaron’s turn to sigh, and he peeked over at Spencer, who was on the phone with Garcia. “I know. I’m going to have him, Derek, and Prentiss head back to the site where y/n was taken with some police and K-9 units and see if that can give us more leads. At least it will give Reid something to do. For now, all we can do is look at the records of the missing women who fit the profile so far and keep working. y/n’s tough, she’ll be doing everything she can to stay alive or get back here.

It was a few hours before y/n was visited again by the man. He seemed agitated, and so was y/n. She was hungry and had to pee in the corner of the room in a bucket that had been placed there, she assumed, for her use. No matter that the act itself felt degrading. y/n had looked out the window, assessed her situation over and over again. All of her gear, including her badge, had been taken. She tried to get out of the zip ties holding her legs, but they were too strong for her to break, and there were no tools for her to reach in the attic. It seemed her only means of escape right now was going to be talking with the male unsub.

y/n straightened when the man entered the room. She stood up to show that she wasn’t so tired that she couldn’t at least do that. He was carrying a metal folding chair and what looked like a cattle prod. y/n had never seen one before, but she could assume. She swallowed thickly when she made that observation. Not wanting to lose her nerve, y/n started talking, at first a bit shakily, but then recovering quickly: “I was speaking to your partner before, as I was driving her. I told her, and I’ll tell you the same thing. You don’t have to do this. There are programs. You can both get help from the government if you help me.” The man was now setting up the folding chair in the center of the room and chalking a small white circle about an inch away from each of the four legs. He acted as if he couldn’t hear y/n. Not deterred, y/n continued talking, saying, “You know it’s going to be different this time. I’m a federal agent. I can’t just disappear and not come back. My team, they’re looking for me. The BAU has some of the best FBI members in the nation. We were called here to find you, and I found you. I sure a hell don’t plan on letting you take more women. Not while I’m alive.” y/n realized that her last sentence might have been stupid, but she was scared and all she could think of was the face of the woman with the mask, and the face of her teammates. Yes, they drove her crazy sometimes with their antics and snooping into her personal life, but she realized now that she missed them so much. As hard as she tried to see all of them clearly, Spencer’s handsome, sharp face always stayed the longest and clearest.

y/n was lost in that thought but snapped out of it when the man said sharply, “Sit, now.” y/n bit the inside of her mouth and was about to protest, but the man could see this and said, “Sit or you get 7,000 volts in that pretty hide of yours.” The man had picked up the cattle prod and turned it on and upped the level of electricity running through its prongs. y/n could hear its eerie hum from where she stood. Not wanting a very painful experience, y/n had once been tasered in her N.A.T. days; she did as she was told. The unsub nodded, almost happily as he said, “Now, you’ll sit still, back straight and head up and not move. No moving, no talking.” y/n opened her mouth to say something, but the man held the cattle prod dangerously close to her face. Realizing the man wasn’t joking, nor was he planning on moving anytime soon, y/n did as told again. She realized with a sinking feeling that this situation wasn’t getting any better. For now, all she had on her side was time and the fact that only one victim had been found, which could mean that the unsub was still pretty bad at this and might slip up sometime.

It had been over an hour, and y/n’s head felt so heavy holding it up that she thought she might faint. The unsub seemed to have no plans of leaving or losing focus as he still had the cattle prod pointed at y/n. Much to y/n’s misfortune, a small piece of dust got breathed in, and she tried to stop herself from sneezing, but couldn’t. After sneezing, the man moved forward and pressed the prod into her side, sending a huge bolt of electricity through y/n, making her jolt in the chair. y/n cried out in pain and said, “FUCK.” The unsub was unhappy about this and hit y/n again with the wand. y/n felt the searing pain go through her again as her body jerked momentarily. The unsub said, “And you were doing so good, bitch. Now we have to start again. What did I say about not moving? Now sit the fuck up and don’t say a word again. I know it hurts, that’s why I’m doing it. No words of pity from you either, I don’t care.” Tears and snot streamed down y/n’s face as she tried to do as told. It hurt so much she wanted to whimper. She had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.

The BAU was at a house an hour away from McAllen’s city center. The first victim had been identified by their family, and the team had gone out to question the members and see if there were any ties between y/n and the woman found in the field. Aaron, Rossi, and Emily were talking with the parents while Spencer, Derek, and JJ were in the victim’s room speaking with her little brother. Spencer was on the floor and was asking questions of the little boy who was playing with a toy horse. “You were talking about your sister, Caira. That she liked to go out without telling your mom and dad?” The boy nodded and replied, “Yeah, I’d see her sometimes when I was up late watching TV. She’d give me some chocolate or candy to keep quiet about her going out. I think she had a boyfriend or something, she went and said… yucky.” Reid chuckled. He had a feeling that the boy wasn’t supposed to be staying up late watching TV either, but he didn’t say anything about that now. The comment about a boyfriend stuck, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was significant.

Spencer asked, “Why do you think she had a boyfriend?” The kid looked up and said, “Ugh. I guess she always talks about it. She thinks she’s old and will never get married. That seems to be the only thing my mom and dad talk about with her sometimes.” Here, JJ stepped forward and asked, “Oh, really? My mom and dad never did that for me. Do they seem happy or sad when they talk to Caira about having a boyfriend?” The boy paused his playing and furrowed his small brow before saying, “Mad. My sister wants to go out and date, but they want her to court, whatever that is.” Spencer looked at JJ and then around the room, the multitude of crosses told a story of high control and religious belief. Perhaps this was one of those families that expected women to stay at home until they were married, and dating was off the table unless it was under the guise of courting. JJ swallowed hard. She’d had friends who were in those kinds of situations, and it never seemed like a good situation. That uncomfortable feeling did give them both an idea where to look next: the church the family attended.

y/n had spent all day being cattle prodded and sitting as still as possible, but not still enough to not be tazed. When she was left alone, she had just enough energy to pull up her skirt and see the burn scar where the electric current had entered her body. She cringed and then lay on the ground and let herself fall asleep. The next morning, y/n was woken by the sound of an augment just outside the door to the attic. She could hear the male unsub say, “It’s too soon. She’s not ready.” And then the woman who had taken her responded, “We have to! He’s asking for another new one, and you know how he gets.” There was a big sigh from the man that sounded like a concession, and then the door opened. The man was holding the cattle prod and some scissors, and y/n cringed at the sight of the items. Her body was so cold and stiff from yesterday that she could hardly move. The woman stepped forward and said, “We’re going to move you to where you’re going to be from now on. If you do well, when he’s not in the room, you can do as you please, eat, and even use the bathroom. This is a tester run for you, so don’t fuck it up.” y/n swallowed and wondered who this mysterious “he” was. Was there a third unsub? It was all highly unusual, and that was saying something for a BAU case.

The man set the cattle prod aside and stepped close, cutting y/n’s zipties holding her feet to the ground. y/n knew that now was the time to fight, to run for it. Even two against one, she could make an attempt, but she was so tired. The lack of food and treatment from yesterday had left her with no reserves. In fact, she was shocked that she was awake right now. The man grabbed her hair and pulled her face up. He looked at the woman and said, “Give me the mask.” The female unsub stepped forward, and to y/n’s dismay, she was holding the masks that the first victim had been wearing. It wasn’t perfect, but it had an uncanny resemblance to her face. The man slipped the two elastic straps over her head, and the mask fit snugly to y/n’s face. The eyes had been cut out so y/n could see, and breathing holes drilled for the nose and mouth. Once this was done, the man looked at the woman and said, “You take her and explain the rest. You want the cattle prod?” The female unsub nodded no and replied, “No. You know I hate that thing. I’ve got my gun. I’ll just use that.” The man sighed and replied, “Fine, as long as you don’t get trigger-happy,” before standing and leaving the room.

y/n was led out the door on shaky feet and legs. She felt like she might vomit, but stopped herself before doing so in the restrictive mask was a recipe for disaster. The eye holes weren’t very large on the face covering either, so it was hard to use her peripheral vision to see more than what was just in front of her. However, y/n didn’t need any of those things to feel the pistol at the base of her spine. She stumbled her way out to the smaller house just across from the main house. As soon as y/n got into the smaller home, she felt a huge amount of dread press on her chest. Everything was immaculate, and the scent of candles permeated the room. Not only was that unnerving enough, but the worst thing was the fact that there were three other women, also with masks, sitting in the chairs at the main table, looking either blankly out the window, the wall, or the clock. All three women, also wearing masks, turned their heads, nodded robotically at the woman and y/n’s entrance, and went back to their blank stares. y/n felt sick. It was like there was nothing left of the women in the room. y/n didn’t have much time to think about it as she was pushed into another room that was functioning as a dining room. There was a small table with four chairs, a window, and a cabinet full of china. There were lots of candles in candelabras on the dark wood table, dripping wax onto the surface. The female unsub led y/n to the corner of the room and said, “You stand here. You don’t move. No matter who or what comes into this room, you don’t do anything. If you want to live through the day, you’re going to do this. If you need to use the facilities, there’s a bathroom upstairs. Don’t take more than ten minutes before you’re back in this room. We have cameras everywhere, so don’t think that you can just try and run. My husband, as much as a pussy as he is, will shoot you if you step a foot out of this house. If you do as I say, I’ll give you some food tonight and let you sleep in an actual bed.

y/n nodded and mentally agreed to do as told. She was still very convinced that the team was doing everything to find her, and she’d rather be found dead than alive. Given the last two days, y/n these unsubs were people who didn’t joke around or do power plays for fun. If they said something, they meant it. y/n moved to the corner and stood still, head up and back straight. The other woman in the room seemed to relax as she said, “Good. He’ll like that. He might not pay attention to you today, but you should pay attention to him.” With those cryptic words, the unsub moved out of the room.

Meanwhile, an hour away in McAllen, the team was approaching a mortuary on the far side of town. They were very sure they had found the correct business that the unsub team lived in. The funeral home and morgue were split-level. Rossi and Spencer had noticed he oddities around a man in the Jehovah’s Witnesses records. That was the denomination that the first unsub had subscribed to and the services she had attended. The man, Rory McPine, had seemed a normal man on the surface, but looking into him more, his business seemed shady. He worked with a lot of chemicals, including porcelain and iron, another red chalking substance like terra cotta. There was also the money laundering and the one attempted trespassing charge that had been dismissed, oddly. The nail in the coffin of the team's assumption? The family home that Rory had tried to trespass on was next to the first victim's home. There was a young woman living there who was the same age as the first victim, and she attended the same church as the other two had. The facts all pointed to him. As the team screeched in front of the funeral home, Aaron stepped out and grabbed a megaphone, saying, “Rory McPine, come out of the building with your hands up. We have you surrounded.”

Back at the small house, y/n was still standing in the corner of the room and looking out the window. Interestingly, another car had pulled up, and a woman got out of the car with a bottle of wine and what looked like a sympathetic demeanor. y/n thought about running forward and yelling for help, but she stopped herself. Maybe this was a test, and there was the fact that the female unsub had threatened death by shotgun, which y/n didn’t fancy either. After a short while, the sound of the door opening made y/n hyper-aware. After a second, a young boy with a life-size doll came into the room and sat down at the table. One of the other victims came in shortly after with a tray that held a glass of juice, an apple, and what smelled like a bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese. The woman set the tray down in front of the boy and then silently moved back out of the room. It wasn’t the food that y/n was looking at, however, even if she did feel very, very hungry. What had her attention was the child-like “doll in the room.” As y/n kept looking at the item, she started for very much believe that the doll wasn’t a doll at all. Instead, she surmised that it was a child that had died and been turned into some kind of abhorrent plaything for the living boy in the room. y/n now knew what was going to happen to her. She was to become one of these things, like the other women in the room. She and the team had been wrong. The unsubs hadn’t had much experience; they’d had so much experience that they didn’t miss anymore, and she was to be their next collectible.

Outside the funeral home, Rory was being taken back to the station for an interview. JJ and Spencer were going with the police, and the rest of the BAU stayed behind to process the scene the find y/n. But they wouldn’t find her here or in McAllen at all. But they weren’t to know that for a few hours yet. In the freezing interrogation room, Reid and JJ were playing good cop, bad cop with the supposed unsub. Even though Spencer didn’t look that intimidating, he could be very scary when he wanted to be, and he was doing a stellar job of that now. He wasn’t wasting any time trying to get y/n back. He slammed his hands against the hard table, making it and Rory jump as he shouted, “WHERE IS Y/N!” The man sat back, in p daze, and said, “Like I said, I’ve never heard or seen this woman before in my life.” Reid huffed and let JJ take a chance as the softer spoken liaison moved forward and asked, “Fine, you’ve never heard of agent y/l/n, but you have heard and seen Gillian Kary as fast as last weekend ago. Why were you trying to get on her property unseen? That’s not normal.” The man flushed and muttered something under his breath before Spencer shot him a glare that could melt lava. Rory sighed and said in an ashamed voice, “We’re swingers. If the church ever found out I was sleeping with a married woman, it would be curtains for me, but it’s looking like it’s curtains for me already anyway. I might as well throw my spiritual reputation in with the kitchen sink, too.”

At this revelation, even Spencer couldn’t keep up his tough guy facade, and he said, “You’re a swinger, really?” The man nodded, not having noticed Spencer’s change in tone as he replied, “I didn’t think I’d like that kind of life, but ever since my wife died, I’ve been lonely. When Gillian told me she had an open relationship, how could I refuse?” JJ and Spencer looked at each other with shocked expressions, and Reid asked, “What evidence do you have of this affair, and are you having affairs with other women in the area?” Again, Rory nodded, defeated as he laid out the complicated details of his personal life. It was like listening to a novella. When the interrogation was finished, Spencer called the team to give them the update and see if they’d found anything yet, though at this point he doubted it. There was a tone of despair with him as he made the call. They were no closer to finding y/n than they had been four hours ago.

It was three agonizing days later until the tip came in from one of the unsubs themselves that led the team to the horror that was the Castel house. Derek had picked up the tipline phone when it had started ringing, and right away, he knew this was different. The tone was frantic, desperate as the woman on the other end of the line said, “I know where your missing agent is. You have to come here, fast.” Morgan flagged the rest of the team as he put the women on speaker and hit the record button. Derek cleared his throat and said, “Alright, stay calm. Where are you, and is the missing agent with you?” The woman said softly, “517, West Circle Dr. Hialgo, TX. 78692.” As soon as the address was given, Derek handed the phone off to an officer. Aaron already had the spot pulled up on GPS, and Garcia had transferred the phone to Spencer’s cell so he could still talk to the unsub as long as possible. Keep her distracted.

In the vans, Reid asked, “Why call now? What has you so spooked that you want help from the FBI?” The woman on the other end of the line took a shaky breath and said, “My son wants me dead. I can’t die like those things. He’s wanted me dead for years. Please, please hurry. My husband can only keep Jimmy distracted for so long.” Spence cared less about that than getting to y/n, but it was keeping him distracted. The addition of who might be a third unsub was surprising, but he kept his calm. That calm didn’t remain as the vans finally screeched to a halt in front of the unsub's idyllic-looking home. There were police choppers in the air, and the whole team, plus a squad of officers, got out. Even before Rossi could get on the megaphone, a woman came out of the main house with her hands up, along with a boy and what looked like his father from another smaller structure. The child, upon seeing his mother, ran and began kicking, screaming, and clawing at her chest and face. He did so hard enough to draw blood from the woman’s cheek. The mother figure tried to fight off the boy, but she didn’t have to as a police officer pulled the child away from the woman. Right after she was cuffed and the older man was as well. Spencer, who was standing next to Derek, demanded of the woman, “Where are your victims. Where! Are! They!” The woman looked shocked but nodded her head toward the small house. Reid didn’t take any time to wait, or think, or do anything else but run to the little home and burst open the door to look for y/n.

Thankfully, there was no bobby trap or deception, a he hardly noticed the other women who hadn’t moved much, even though there seemed to be chaos outside. In the central room, Reid found y/n. She was standing by the wall and looking out the window with no apparent response. Her mask was still on, and she was wearing a pristine maid outfit. Her left hand clung to a medical stand that had an IV attached. Spencer noticed it going into her arm, and he found this distressing. But what was most distressing was that y/n didn’t seem to notice him at all, even as he got close and called her name; there was no response. When Aaron and Emily entered the room and took in everything else, she still just stood stock still, not saying or moving at all. The only thing y/n seemed interested in doing was looking out the window with a distant gaze.

In an attempt to get y/n to feel more comfortable, Spencer gently moved his hands up to her mask to remove it, but as soon as he attempted to pry it from her face, a horrifying realization hit him. The mask had been glued directly to her skin. There were breathing holes for her mouth and nose, and blank spots for her eyes, but the rest of her face was fully covered. It explained the need for an IV, but not what Reid could do to remove the mask. He turned to Aaron, mouth agape as he said in a whisper, “She needs 9-1-1.” Hotch nodded and replied, “They’re already on their way. ETA five minutes.” Aaron looked just as horrified as Spencer did, perhaps for different reasons, but Reid couldn’t look at his boss's face any longer like that. He turned back to y/n, who was back at the window looking out again, like it was her job. Even though it was against protocol, Reid took a chair from the side of the room and placed it behind y/n. He gently touched her hand and said, “Hey, y/n. It’s Spencer, why don’t you try and sit down for a minute? You must be tired standing like that all the time.” There was only silence, and when Reid gently pushed y/n into the seat of the chair, she only stayed for half a second before she was standing again. With nothing left to do but wait, Reid just stood by y/n, hoping in some way he could offer her some support, even if she didn’t know it was him, which was increasingly becoming a possibility.

The next day, Spencer was waiting for news from the hospital, and Rossi and Emily were with the female unsub to get her story. The woman looked defeated; she’d already agreed to tell everything for a lighter sentence. Rossi was leaning forward on the table and said, “So you’re telling me your oldest son, Jimmy, he’s the one behind all this. Forgive me if I don’t believe you that a twelve-year-old boy captured and turned ten adult women into some kind of doll.” The unsub sighed and said, “If he could, he would. He’s always been a cruel boy. He had a hard birth, maybe that started it all off wrong.” Emily frowned and said, “Forget about the birth. Get to the part where you start kidnapping women.” The other woman flinched and said, “It was after I had my second son. Jimmy hung around his father in that workshop. All those chemicals and cutting animals open to preserve them. I think he… he got ideas. When Ben was five, Jimmy, he.” It didn’t seem like the woman would be able to finish the sentence, but Em slammed her hands on the table, saying, “What did Jimmy do?” Tears were streaming down the woman’s face as she said, “He cut up Ben and tried to stuff him in his father's workshop. My husband found him and… couldn’t bear it, so he finished the job. Jimmy liked the idea, he wanted to do me next, so we’ve been finishing substitutes, you know. I’m still his mother, he needs me.” Rossi wasn’t impressed and he asked, “Do you really think the courts will forgive you because you tortured women into becoming playthings for your son. Just because you didn’t kill them didn’t mean you haven’t destroyed their lives. I hope you get the sentence that you deserve, and I hope you remember their faces every day of your life, however long it is.” With that, the pair left the room. They had what they needed, and a story that would keep them up for days as well.

Meanwhile, in the hospital, Spencer, Aaron, and JJ waited for information about y/n. It felt like hours because it was hours before a doctor came and called the small group back to the hallway near the entrance to the emergency room. There was a bustle of activity near the swinging doors. The man looked weary as he said, “Ms. y/l/n is as stable as she can be at the moment. She hasn't been woken since her surgeries, but my guess will be that she will be fully unresponsive to stimuli, as you’ve stated she was before arriving at the hospital. Apart from the uncertainty of her mental state, it was necessary to stabilize her. She was malnourished and needed treatment for severe burns on her side. It seems she was electrocuted multiple times in the same spot, which resulted in needed treatment of the skin treatment. There was a long pause before the man said the worst of it. “As for the mask removal, it was possible, but latex glue was used, and that is highly corrosive to human skin. Removing i,t unfortunately, only worsens the condition of the dermis. Most of Ms. y/n’s facial skin has been removed. The team is looking at starting a skin graft, but we need to let the patient stabilize first. Her recovery, whatever it might be, will be long and painful. She won’t be the same once she wakes, I’m afraid.

The team took in the information with varying responses. JJ looked like she was going to be sick. Aaron was as stoic as ever, and Spencer gritted his teeth so hard that he could have ground diamond with them. After a few deep breaths, Reid asked, “Can I sit with her?” Hotch almost said something, but stopped himself, his telling Spencer it would make no difference wouldn’t help the situation any. The doctor hesitated but nodded, and he and Reid walked back to the room together. Aaron was about to call the rest of the team and give them an update, but JJ stopped him before he could, saying, “Spence won’t be the same either. You know that, right?” Aaron didn’t have to say anything as he gave a stiff nod and then walked off to make the call to Rossi.

In y/n’s room, Spencer sat close enough to touch y/n. He looked at her face, which was almost fully wrapped in medical gauze. No one was there to see Reid cry, sobbing into his own shoulder. He whispered to an unconscious y/n, “I’m going to fix this, I promise,” but deep down inside, Reid knew y/n, his y/n was gone forever. She would always be someone else’s doll.