#remmick drabble

[mill3rd]

REMMICK DRABBLE #3 | the shining au

just a filler while i make my witch fic, also cus i rewatched the shining this week 2k words

all thirst and no prey makes remmick a hungry boy.

inside the typewriter rest a page with the same phrase repeated over and over and over. some lines had multiple errors, some lines were worded perfectly.

you look out of the window, the sun barely making it past the closed curtains and bite your lip anxiously. then your wide, curious, and paranoid eyes focus on the table—moreso the continued repetition of the phrase ‘all thirst and no prey makes remmick a hungry boy’.

pages upon pages, i mean stacks of pages of that frightening phrase. everything about it is strange: the formatting changes, lines break in the middle of words, the ink gets darker—more violent, some lines are scratched in with something not ink.

you flick through them, skimming over them and picking them from the pile one by one at an increasing rate. the words blur into one.

your pupils constrict as an unfamiliar fear clogs up your throat. they hover over the words, tracing each one until the phrase brands itself behind your eyes, seared into memory like a scar.

the carpet behind you rustles and instantly your heart races. you feel the rush of blood inside you, the terror that lives in your bloodstream. with a gasp, loud and heavy, you turn around and clutch your flask to your chest.

“you like it?”

remmick is leaning against the door frame, a grin on his face. twisted with a sick sense of entertainment. his eyes are pearls of black, ridiculously dilated. in this moment, he terrifies you.

your mouth opens, your chest heaving. you laugh, trying to play off your behaviour, “remmick! you scared me..”

remmick tilts his head, still grinning, smiling from ear to ear, too smug with himself, “i asked if you like it.”

you perk up, your head whipping back to the pages and then back to remmick, “yeah! ...yeah. i thought you were writing a novel, though.”

instantly, his smile droops. his eyes lock onto you, unblinking, heavy with something colder than anger. he steps closer and closer—slow, deliberate—as he murmurs, “so... you don’t like it?”

your really trying to increase the distance now, taking bigger steps back. your grip tightens on the flask, “i didn’t say that! remmick, please!”

your voice is raw from the horror clawing its way up your throat. you always knew it was only a matter of time before remmick got bored—before the hunger drowned out whatever part of him still chose you.

you’d seen it coming.

maybe it started when he moved your family into the old manor he’d claimed, dressed it up like a home, like he could fake the warmth he no longer felt.

but that hunger... it’s louder now.

and you're starting to think he doesn't remember your name when he's starving.

“y’know, i don’t think you appreciate the work i’ve put into it,” remmick hisses, leaning forward—stalking you like a predator, “the effort i’ve put into making this house a home, y’know with us working with two different body clocks ‘n all.”

you back away, rounding the desk. every step for you is a prayer he doesn’t suddenly lunge. remmick mirrors you with maddening calm, eyes never leaving your face.

“i should check on marnie—” you start, voice trembling, weak. his grin spreads wider, not amused—delighted.

“marnie! oh, marnie, marnie, precious marnie,” remmick bursts out, causing you to flinch. he says her name like it’s a joke. like it tastes sweet in his mouth.

your back hits the frame so suddenly that you sob. once. singular. a cry of surprise. you inch to the side, slipping out of the study and into the grand foyer.

remmick rolls his eyes, “what’s wrong with marnie, baby? c’mon why do you need a doctor for her?”

“she’s—she’s sick, rem,” your voice cracks as your heel knocks the first step of the staircase, “she ain’t been feeling to good lately.”

he smiles, toothy and menacing. his fangs glint even in the shadowy room, “i told ya, baby! she’s a late bloomer, anytime soon ‘n her fangs will be poppin’ right through.”

you cry—pathetic, gasping sobs that shake your whole frame as you twist at the cap of the flask. your hands are slippery with fear, but you get it open. the smell hits the air—clean, sharp, unnatural.

remmick falters mid-step, nose upwards and twitching—inhaling. his expression fractures, confusion creeping in behind the hunger.

“what—what is that?”

his eyes drop to the flask, then snap back to yours. he lifts his hands like he’s soothing a wild animal.

“holy water? really?”

he laughs once—short, bitter, “i give you a home. a child. and in return you threaten me with holy water?”

his voice pitches, not quite a shout—just louder than it needs to be.

“you think i’d hurt you?” he asks, though it sounds more like an accusation than a question, “after everything i gave you?”

“no, no,” you wail, the words barely forming through the wet mess of your sobbing. you don’t even try to make them sound true. they fall from your mouth all the same—pathetic, cracked, and trembling. a lie you both hear and both know.

you shake your head like it’ll undo it, like you can rattle the fear loose from your skull. your vision tilts, sways—dizziness blooming behind your eyes. the nausea swells with it, hot and bitter, curling up your throat.

you clutch the flask tighter. it’s the only thing that feels real.

remmick takes a slow step forward, hands still raised, palms open like he's offering peace. his voice softens—dangerously so.

“hey. hey now. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

he smiles, but there’s something broken behind it. his eyes never quite match the calm in his voice.

“you’re scared. i get it. you’ve been in your head too long, listening to that little panic voice that says i’m some kind of monster.”

another step. another inch off your retreat.

“but i’m still me, aren’t i?”

he laughs—low, breathy, “you know me. you do. even now. i mean, for god’s sake—you sleep next to me. sometimes, anyway.”

the flask shakes in your hand, water spilling out. you’re pathetic in your attempt to keep remmick at a distance and he feels a pang of pity in his unbeating heart. he almost feels bad

“look at ya,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the trembling silver cap, “look what they’ve made you do, what they’ve made you think.”

his voice drops to a whisper—sweet and suffocating.

“i’m not gonna hurt you, i’d never hurt you...” he croons before gritting his teeth, “but you’re making this very hard.”

“get away from me!” you shriek, voice splitting with panic as you fling your arm out. a spray of holy water arcs through the air—clumsy, desperate.

a few drops hit their mark.

they sizzle the moment they touch his skin. angry blisters rise along his neck and collarbone, the flesh warping, bubbling like wax under a flame.

remmick reels back with a sharp inhale, clutching at the burn. his fingers press uselessly against it, as if he can force the pain back in.

“ah—shit!” his tone replicates a snake: venomous, a decieving hiss, his voice thin and trembling, more stunned than furious. he hops in his spot, trying to shake the pain and even begins to pace the two steps he occupies. his hand brushes through his hair and he goes silent—save for his heavy, irritated huffing.

his eyes flick to the flask still in your hand. something in him shifts—sharp, final. whatever pretense was left in his expression melts away.

“baby,” he says, voice dry and stripped of affection “flame of my undead life…”

his smile curls, slow and joyless, “i’m not gonna hurt’cha.”

he takes a step, then another—closer now, no longer pretending, no longer gentle. just hunger and heat behind his eyes. the burn on his neck is still raw, still smoking—but it doesn’t slow him down

“i’m just gonna bleed you dry,” remmick lets each word hang, slow and deliberate, savoring the way they land. he watches you the whole time—your chest rising too fast, your fingers twitching, the fear tightening every muscle in your body.

he can hear your heart calling for help, he can taste the panic clinging to your breath and he’s loving it. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping into something low and full of heat.

“i’m gonna sink my teeth into you…” his smile widens, eyes locked on yours—unchanging, unblinking, “and drink you the fuck down.”

he exhales once, slow and steady, like he’s already imagining the warmth of your blood.

“and then,” he leans back, arms spreading wide as if to pull you into an impossible embrace,

“you, me, and marnie—we’ll all live as one. in harmony! no sun, no moon dividing us—‘cause we’ll be the same kind: cold blooded people.”

you nearly collapse inward, gripping your knees like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. your breath comes in ragged gasps. eyes blur with tears as they flick down to the flask in your hand, then back up to remmick.

“you ain’t ‘people,’ rem,” you whisper, voice raw and breaking, “that’s just not what you are.”

remmick’s eyes narrow, cold and calculating. he steps closer, each movement deliberate, the space between you shrinking like a noose tightening.

“you think keeping that little bottle close will make a difference?” he says, voice low and sharp, dripping with dark amusement.

“holy water, right? your little shield,” his fingers twitch, craving to snatch it from your grasp.

“but it won’t stop me,” he leans in, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“so why don’t you… just give me the flask?”

the demand lingers in the air, heavy with threat and something far colder.

you scream, voice raw and ragged, tearing at your vocal cords. it’s no use—just noise filling the heavy, suffocating silence. you scream because you don’t know what else to do.

the house is empty except for marnie, and the thought of her seeing this—her parents unraveling like this—breaks something deep inside you. you don’t want her to witness this darkness swallowing you both any more than she already has.

you start pouring the holy water fast, desperate and wild, splashing it over him until the flask runs dry.

he whines and groans, the sizzling burns covering his skin, but beneath the pain, that twisted hunger never fades. he licks his lips slowly, tongue flicking over sharp fangs as he locks eyes with you.

“c’mon, baby,” he pleads, voice dripping with false sweetness, “you give me the flask… and we put all this behind us, yeah?”

remmick closes the distance fast, and you’re backed up against the top step. the cold brick wall presses behind you—your only barrier between him and everything you once called safe.

a surge of adrenaline tears through you—sharp and fierce—your last desperate weapon.

“you want this flask, rem? you want it? have it, it’s all—”

you coil your arm back, summoning every ounce of strength in a moment that feels impossibly fragile. then you strike—hard—smashing the flask against his head, “—yours!”

he clutches at his head, curses spilling from his lips in a harsh, ragged breath. stumbling backward, he loses his footing and tumbles down the staircase in a clumsy, chaotic roll.

you stand frozen, tension thick in your bones, watching as he crashes into the foyer below.

when he doesn’t move, the weight of it crashes down on you. your legs give out, and you sink to the floor, burying your face in trembling palms as tears spill free, fat, and hot.

[fear-is-truth]

MDNI

remmick doesn’t know when he started needing you to handle him. maybe it was the boredom of centuries spent being followed, obeyed. power doesn’t dilute; it calcifies. eventually it begins to turn inward. whatever the origin, if he had to name it, he’d probably trace it to the chain.

he’s always worn that chain around his neck. oxidised iron, darkened by age. you’ve touched it on hundreds of occasions, idly, looping it around your fingers while he lay beside you.

but when your mouth’s on his and your hand slips beneath his shirt, fist curling tight around the links before you pull—he steps out of himself, willingly. you don’t need to overpower him. you simply circumvent whatever mechanism he’s installed to keep himself upright. by the time you shove him onto the mattress, his stare’s gone unfocused and lust-glazed.

it’s laughable, how easily you undo him.

each time he thrusts up in pursuit of release, you tighten your grip on the chain, oil-black eyes roll in their sockets—wide, blown, starved. his head snaps back with a hoarse, involuntary groan. he finishes in near silence. slack-jawed, cock twitching residual spasms inside you, dumb awe creeping across his face like he can’t quite believe what you’ve done to him.

you’ve brought kings to their knees before, haven’t you?

no. just him.

[roomiesoreo]

The discord got the sneak peak so now you do too. Clearly not projecting anything onto this fic.

[hatethysinner]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[angelickks]

“You a mean fuckin' woman” Remmick grunted through clenched teeth, spit stringing from the corner of his mouth in thick, needy globs that glistened under the dim light. His head lolled back against the wall, breath hitching, jaw slack with something that looked an awful lot like worship.

You just smiled. Slow. Cruel.

“Yeah?"

You were straddling him, perched pretty in his lap like sin, hips rolling in a torturously slow grind against the bulge straining through the open vee of his jeans. You hadn’t even pulled him out—hadn’t given him that much mercy. Just enough unzip to keep him trembling, leaking through the cotton, staining darker with each pass of your dripping heat.

He bucked his hips instinctively, chasing friction. You pulled back just enough to deny it.

“This what you wanted, huh?” you hissed, fingers curling in his sweat-slick shirt, dragging him forward so your lips ghosted against his, breath warm, biting. “You want me mean. Want me cruel. Want me to spit in your mouth and call it love?”

A flicker of pain twisted in his expression—but it folded into something hungry, fevered. He smiled, blooming blood from his split lip starting to turn his drool a light pink, eyes all glazed over like a man who’d sell his soul again just to stay beneath you.

“Long as you keep playin’ with me just like this, darlin’,” he rasped.

You slammed your hips down suddenly—sharp, punishing. The noise he made was half-moan, half-wounded animal, like it hurt to feel that good. His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, but not to take control—just to anchor himself. He didn’t dare lead.

A darker stain bloomed on his briefs where your slick met the wetness of his own undoing, the fabric clinging to the curve of his cock, soaked through. His thighs were trembling beneath you.

“God, you make such a mess of yourself.” you whispered sweetly, dragging your nails up the side of his throat.

Remmick just laughed—hoarse, broken. “Ain’t never begged for anything pretty as you.”

You tilt your head, slow and deliberate, like a lion studying prey that wandered too close to the den. Eyes sharp beneath the low glow of the bedside lamp, your smile stretches into something cruel—dangerous in its beauty, made all the more lethal by how calm you look.

Without breaking rhythm—hips rolling slow, punishing, and maddening—you reach lazily to the side. Fingers brush against the battered cardboard box of cigarettes like you’re selecting a weapon. You pluck one between your fingers, tuck it into the corner of your mouth, the paper bending against the curve of your plush lips.

"Light this f’me," you purr around it, voice silk and smoke, smile deepening until the cigarette tilts at a cocky angle. Remmick scrambles. One shaky hand grips the meat of your thigh, like holding onto you could save him from the torture you inflict on him. The other fumbles for the lighter, knuckles brushing your skin, reverent in his desperation.

The flame flares to life between trembling fingers.

He lights it for you like a man at confession, looking up through the smoke like he’s praying you’ll forgive him for whatever you’re about to do.

“Fuuuck me,” he groans, the syllables unraveling slow and thick, his voice dropping to something reverent—less a demand, more a prayer uttered at the altar of your body.

You inhale slow and deep, cigarette crackling softly as embers bloom at the tip. Your lips part just enough to exhale, a lazy plume of smoke curling upward as your head tilts back. Your throat glistens where sweat kisses skin, long and bare and inviting. Remmick leans in, like instinct pulls him, and drags a slow, reverent lick up the column of your neck. He groans into your skin as the smoke spills past your lips like sin, his fangs scraping alongside it but never fully latching onto your skin.

You laugh, low and wicked. Grind down with more purpose this time, making him twitch beneath you, whimper breathless against your skin.

“Keep beggin’, baby,” you murmur, flicking ash onto the floor without looking. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

And oh, the way he begs, like a man who knows he’s long past saving

#NAV.ᐟ jack o'connell mlist

[vcmpbyt]

† MAKE IT STICK. REMMICK.FEM!READER

⊹ A/N; yk that one part in LCL where oliver’s giving it to connie from the back,,,, YUPYUP,,,,

⊹ WARNINGS; porn no plot.

⊹ MASTERLIST

=͟͟͞͞ ✧

“goddamn, baby, you gon’ take it like that- ain't ya?”

he muttered it low, more ragged breath than words, as his hand splayed over the damp small of your back, fingers digging in like he was anchoring himself to the earth while grinding that leaking, angry red cockhead right back into the mess of you. he’s got you pinned flat, belly to the bed, no room to run, no give, no grace. he grinds his hips down, balls slapping heavy against your cunt with each hungry thrust. your cheek stuck to the mattress, your mouth open, drool pooling in the corner as your body jolted forward with each rut- his hips smacking your ass like they hated you for being this tight, this full of him. he spit thick into his palm, smearing it down the base of his cock like his own slick wasn't already painting your thighs. “fuckin’ hell, girl- tight as a noose, aye..” slurred and broken over the wet echo of his thrusts. your ass bounced from the force, cheeks flushed and shimmering with sweat where he’d been biting earlier. the noises filled the room- his cock plunging deep with slick, gasping squelches, wet from your own mess and the spit he kept feeding your cunt like it was starving. you can feel the curve of his cock grazing up into your womb every time he bottoms out.

“shhiiit, listen t’that, sweetheart,” he moaned, hips rolling in faster, shallower. “so wet I’m drownin’ in ya. pussy’s talkin’ t’me, beggin’- ain’t no fuckin’ way she don’t want me puttin’ another load in her.”

his cock twitches inside you, hot and soaked, thick with a curve that keeps punching into that gummy spot over and over, relentlessly. you can hear the squelch each time he slides back, a fat drag of slick sucking him in with a wet pop. “you takin’ me so deep, darlin’- fuck, my tip’s kissin’ your womb, ain’t it? tell me. say it, say it’s right there, lemme hear how good it feels,” he gasped, voice cracking, tongue flicking out over your shoulder blade. that good, thick stretch of him, curved just so, driving straight into the part of you that made your toes curl, made your breath catch and your cunt clamp down like a vice. he howled. whole body buckled, arms trembling as he folded himself over you- sticky chest pressing down your back, wet curls hanging in your face as he gasped and panted like a man on his deathbed. “aww fffuck, m’spill’n again,” he slurred into your hair, hips still jerking forward with every pulse. “didn’t even mean to. didn’t even fuckin’ mean to, darlin'- pussy just took it outta me..” he shivered, full-body and pathetic, he never pulled out. stayed buried, thick and still twitching, drool slipping from his lip to your neck as he nuzzled into the soft skin beneath your ear. “gimme a minute,” he mumbled against your damp skin, breath hitching. “jus’-jus’ gotta feel you a lil’ longer. shit’s so good.” your cunt was still fluttering around him, greedy and open. he groaned, and with a grunt, pulled out just enough to see the creamy mess stretch between you both before he slammed back in, slower this time. deep. “aw, baby… baby, please,” he whined, voice gone nasal, cock sliding deeper again, already firming up. “one more. gimme one more- i promise i’ll be good- fuck, i’ll put my name in that pussy- carve it in with this fat fuckin’ cock- one more, sweetheart- jus’ one more, i swear- lemme make it stick, yeah?”

[theeafterparty444]

Quiet Hours

Remmick x Reader

Summary: You and Remmick were supposed to be a casual thing—no strings, no feelings, just tension and release behind closed dorm doors. But when he shows up outside your room in the middle of the night, needy and jealous, it’s clear something’s shifted. What was once just sex has turned into obsession. He doesn’t just want your body anymore—he wants you. And tonight, he’s not leaving until he’s sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

Wc: 5.7k

He shouldn't be here.

That’s the first thought in your head when you see Remmick leaning against your dorm door past 1:30 a.m.—hood up, lips red, fists in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to knock again.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he mutters. “You were with that guy. From class.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes.

“I just don’t like people looking at you like that. Or you looking at them.”

A beat.

“’Cause I know what you sound like when you’re under me. Know how you taste when you’re shaking. And he doesn’t.”

Your stomach clenches.

You unlock your door and say nothing.

He follows you in like gravity, like he’s trying to stay chill—but his hands are already twitching like he wants to wreck you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, needy, a little reckless. You can taste the way he’s spiraling. His hands grip your face like he hasn’t touched you in weeks. Like you’ve been out of reach too long.

“You wore those shorts on purpose,” he pants against your lips, walking you backward. “The tiny ones. You wanted attention.”

“I wanted coffee,” you shoot back, tugging his hoodie off.

“Liar.” His lips move to your neck, biting just hard enough to make your thighs press together. “You knew I’d see.”

“Maybe I wanted your attention.”

He groans like it physically hurts.

“You’ve got it, baby. Fuck, you’ve got it.”

Your shirt is gone. Bra unclasped and flung somewhere. His hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, thumbs rolling your nipples until you're arching under him.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, huh?”

He drops to his knees and shoves your shorts down, mouth open and greedy.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh slow—then licks one stripe up your slit that makes you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “You taste like everything. I could live down here.”

And he proves it.

Remmick eats like it’s his last meal.

Messy, hot, tongue deep inside you while his nose presses your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he moans against your pussy like it turns him on more than it does you.

“Let me hear it,” he says between sucks. “Let them fucking hear you.”

You’re panting, hips grinding into his mouth without shame.

Then he slides two fingers in, slow, and curls them just right.

You scream.

“Atta girl,” he growls, fingerfucking you steady while licking your clit like a man possessed. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You unravel—loud, legs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

You gasp and writhe, trying to close your thighs.

He just growls. “One more. Be a good girl and give me another.”

He sucks hard on your clit and you snap—back arching off the bed as your second orgasm hits harder, messier.

You’re panting, dazed, but he’s already stripping—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock heavy and red and leaking against his stomach.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself slow. “I could fuck anyone on this campus and all I want is you.”

You crawl back on the bed, open your legs.

“Then come take it.”

He fumbles for a condom, but hesitates.

You blink. “You good?”

“I want you raw so bad,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ flutter.”

Your pussy clenches.

You reach into the drawer. “Wrap it up. If you go raw, I’m not leaving you alone again.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bet.”

He pushes in slow.

You both groan.

“You always this tight for me?” he grits, voice strangled. “Fuck—feel like your pussy’s choking me.”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper.

He starts slow. Deep. Rolling his hips until you’re panting.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So wet. So fucking full. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Say it.”

“I love your cock,” you gasp. “I love how you fuck me, Remmick.”

He curses and fucks you harder, hands gripping your hips.

You claw at his back, dizzy with the stretch.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Mouth open, eyes all dumb, begging for more. This pussy’s mine.”

You nod again, barely coherent.

Then his thumb presses your clit.

“Gonna come for me again?”

You cry out.

“Come on, baby. Cream all over me. Let me feel you soak this dick.”

You shatter, clenching so hard around him he stumbles into his orgasm seconds after, grunting deep in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—Jesus—”

He stays buried inside you, trembling.

You both lie there, covered in sweat and each other, breathing hard.

Then:

“I hate seeing you smile at other guys,” he whispers. “Makes me wanna fight someone.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m obsessed.”

You stroke his hair. “I know.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

He doesn’t move. “Try and make me leave.”

The End ❤︎

@001-side, here's your slightly needy Remmick.

[cherrishkissed]

𝓝𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑘 ᥫ᭡, 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌ℴ

Preview 𖥸, do bunnies love peaches?, remmick x black fem! reader, kinda proof read? 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 2.1𝓴

˚₊‧꒰ა 💌 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝒮peaking with him was a breath of fresh air. He wasn't a bad-looking man, either. After that night, I thought about it some more. My father had led a nice song throughout the night, and to my surprise, so did Remmick. He sat next to me, which I didn't mind. He told me where he was from—an Irish man coming down for a quick visit, he had said.

𝒞ℴ𝓊𝓅𝓁ℯ ℴ𝒻 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉ℯ𝓇

Early mornings and even earlier birds.

I wake up and rub my eyes slightly, trying to focus my vision. I then wash up and put on my morning gown. I brush and rinse out my mouth, the morning seemed nice and sunny. I was in the mood for something sweet to drink, so I headed to our kitchen and started making some pomegranate lemonade.

I was given some fresh ones that a neighbor brought over. I take them out of the woven basket and wash them off, and place the seeds in a bowl to be crushed.

I take some lemons and my brown knife to cut them. I then grab my momma's pitcher, the one with the fruit print over it. I add in some sugar and the fruit juices, I mix them up with the spoon.

As I mix I think back to him, why was I focused on him? It's been 4 days since I last saw him, where did he disappear off to?

“Yous up early,” my momma comes walking in the kitchen, her hair in her signature style.

Nicely rolled and pinned in place, her slippers slide against the floor as she walks over.

She stands near the counter, “Lemonade?” She asks me.

I nod, “I finally thought of something to do for them pomegranates,” I say and keep mixing. “You want some?” I ask her.

“Sure baby,” she nods. She watches as I pour her a glass, she glances to the screen door which appears…slightly open. “Did you open that door y/n?,” she asks me, staring at it.

To be honest I don't think I did, it was just closed. “Yeah I wanted some fresh air in, it's nice out” I say and sip my cup of lemonade. It was sweet and slightly tangy, the pomegranate and lemons was surprisingly a good combo. I enjoyed a little pulp in mine.

“You be watchful of that door honey,” she says and sips her cup. “When this evening comes close it.”

I nod to her. I knew what she meant, but we ain't had no problems with them yet.

She takes another sip of the lemonade, she seemed to enjoy it which made me smile a bit.

“Your father and I are going to head to Mrs. Solomon's farm for some stuff then go to the church, do you want to come with us?” She places the cup down in the sink and washes it out.

“Will she have peaches?” I ask my momma, I loved peaches, especially the big golden ones in the jars.

“Not sure, maybe, it won't hurt to look right?,” she lightly smiles at me. Sure, it won't hurt.

I quickly get washed up, and put on a nice dress. I picked something nice and flowy, since it was hot out. I put on one of my dresses that I didn't mind getting dirty, and some flat slip-ons.

I fix my hair in a cute style and head out with my ma and pa.

(The dress we wearing is similar to the first pic, your hair however could be either one. Two of my fav girls btw🤭iykyk!)

Pa drove the car down to Ms. Solomon's farm. Ms.Solomon was very nice. I enjoyed her talks and writings. She was a small writer, farmer, and a good friend of my mom's.

I sit in the car looking out the window, all the animals and many fields filled with produce. My father had the radio on, it played soft jazz which he liked.

I happened to bring along my purse as well, I took my stuff for crocheting with me in case I got bored. I started crocheting together a small brown bunny.

We finally get there and I hop out. I greet her and play with the animals for a bit. Unfortunately, she did not have peaches, so I got some apples instead.

However, I did enjoy playing with animals, who knew cows loved Jazz?

We drove back home and I walk inside the house. I place the fruit up and cut one up to eat. My parents then say they're gonna go to the church, I nod and tell them bye. My father walks out the house with his keys and hat but my momma stays for a bit.

She lightly pulls me into the corner, she seemed off, like she didn't have a good feeling.

“I really think you should come with us y/n, you can help with the crates and paintings.”

“Momma last time I touched them crates it nearly split my hand,” I say referring to my bandaged hand.

She sighs and nods her head, she then taps my hand lightly.

“Alright honey, just keep them doors locked. Don't open that door for nobody” she stressed on the words locked and nobody.

I nod and chuckle a little, “I will mamma, y'all gon be long?”

“I hope not, I do enjoy my bed and rest. Your father has got some meetings however,’’ she chuckles.

“Well I'll be here momma, did you want some supper when you all came back?”

“You're fine baby, we might go to a restaurant for a meal.”

I then nod and say bye to her, she kisses my head and walks out the door. After they gone I start putting up the fruits n vegetables. I then wash clothes just have time pass by. I then head back to the kicthen to wash the dishes.

It was getting later on in the day and im still washing plates and pots. As I'm washing the plates I hear a soft knock on the front door. Is Momma back already?, I ask myself. I wipe my hands on a cloth and place it on the table.

As I'm about to open the door I wait just a moment, if it was ma why would she knock on the door?

She literally has a key?

Instead of opening it, I walk back to the sink. I keep washing the dishes, scrubbing off extra food bits, which I hated. As I'm rinsing off the last plate I hear another knock, this time a little harder. I still wasn't gon open that door.

*knock knock knock*

Who the hell- I mumble, I then go to the door. I lightly opened it, I saw some shoes, I wasn't familiar with them, sure wasn't my father's. I opened the door and to my surprise stood that man Remmick.

“Hey pretty lady,” he says softly.

I lightly squint, now why is he here? I then smile and glance down at the jar of peaches in his hand. He turns over the jar to reveal the label brand of peaches. “Lil birdy told me you liked peaches, which happens to be good for me.” He says softly, “I love peaches.”

I was flattered in certain matters, but for one, how did he know where I lived? Where did he hear that I loved peaches? Ms.Solomon? My parents? Myself? No. I never told him that, I never-

“You're heads running huh?,” he chuckles, showing that smile. “I had, saw your old man at Ms.Solomons a little earlier, he was talking to her about peaches. And, you're the sweetest thing close to it, so I figured that be somethin you'd like?”

I lightly smile, how sweet… no what.

I stood there lost in thought before he broke my train of thought. “You gon take 'em? Or do I eat em myself?” he asks lightly, tilting the jar, he then holds out the Jar. I then slowly grab if from him and go to place it on the counter, I then come back to the door. “Thank you” I say trying to control my smile.

“Shouldn't leave that door wide open miss, anyone could walk in” he says, leaning against the door frame.

“You didn't walk in here?” I ask and fold my arms.

“I haven't been invited in yet, can't be rude to a lady. Need to have permission.” He says, eyeing me, “Do I have your permission doll?”

The name rolls off his tongue so easily, almost to where I was about to let him in.

“No sir” I say and scoff. “Sweet talk don't work on me,” I say firmly and stare at him. He smiles, and sits up from the frame, “Was worth a try hm?”

I roll my eyes and shift the weight to my other foot ,“It's late, you eat anything?" I asked him, why? I don't know, just for conversation. He did bring me a big jar of peaches.

He shifts his eyes back to me slowly.

“You worryin’ ‘bout me now sweetness?” he replies not mockingly, but softly. As if he was testing the words that came out his own mouth.

I roll my eyes at the name, “Don't flatter yourself, I just don't want no man fainting on my mommas porch, das all,” I reply.

He tilted his head just slightly, gaze drifting down the road like he was remembering something.

“I had somethin’ earlier,” he said, voice low. “Did the trick.”

That pause hung heavy. Not too long. Just enough to make the air feel thick. He didn’t look at me right away.

When he finally did, it was with that quiet, unreadable half-smile. “Don’t need much.”

“What kinda something?” I ask, turning fully toward him now.

That smile of his pulls at the corner of his mouth—slow, unreadable.

“Somethin’ warm. Quick, no fuss…”

Speaking in riddles I see…I think to myself.

His tone don’t change, but the air does. It gets heavier. Still. Even the night sounds seem to hush down to hear what he’ll say next. I don’t say nothin’. Just stare.

“What did you eat?,” I ask him carefully.

“Rabbit” He says too smoothly. “Rabbits can be fast, but get tired quick”

“Hm, I ain't never had rabbit, what it taste like,” I ask him, still feeling a little off about his answer.

He pauses, then answers plain. “Gamey. A little bitter, if it’s been scared too long.”

I look at him sideways. “That a thing?”

He nods once. “Fear changes the flavor. You can taste it. Makes the meat tough.”

I just continue to stare at him, fear changes…flavor….

He pushes off the doorframe slowly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“I should get going. Gettin’ real late.”

“Yeah,” I say with a small nod, watching him.

“You enjoy them peaches now,” he adds, stepping back a bit. “And tell me how they taste.” That felt, oddly, intimate, or maybe I was just thinking with my flesh at the moment.

I let out a quiet chuckle, easing up just a little. “I will Remmick.”

He pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder.

“You remembered my name.”

It doesn’t sound like a question—more like he already knew I would. He pushes off the doorframe slow, sliding his hands into his pockets.

He steps down off the porch slowly, like he’s takin’ his time with the gravel under his boots. Doesn’t say much, just listens to the night for a second.

Then he looks back at me, a half-step into the dark.

“You get some rest, alright?” I nod, watching him.

“You too.”

He gives a little tilt of his head, a smile soft but sure.

“I ain’t the restin’ kind.’’ He holds my gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, then turns and walks off, like we’re gonna pick up the same talk tomorrow. I close the door and think to myself.

The way he said it. Like he meant more than the words.

I press my lips together, shake the thought off, and make my way to the back. The house is still, cool, the hum of the fan in the corner the only sound now.

I slip off my shoes, climb into bed without turnin’ on the lamp. Lay there in the dark with my hands folded on my stomach, starin’ at the ceiling.

He ain’t do nothin’ wrong. Not really. But still...

Something about him just don’t sit right.

And yet...

I turn on my side, pull the cover up to my chin, and let sleep come slow, my last thought caught between his voice and the sound of boots in gravel.

𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏���𝒈���𝒕 ✦ ⋆ ࣪.

My door creaks open, ‘’Y/n?,’’ I hear my mommas soft voice. I rub my eyes and sit up from my bed, ‘’Momma?,’’ I ask tiredly. She seems a little sad, she then comes over. ‘’What happened Momma?’’ I ask her still half awake.

“They found a body down at the juke joint,” the words come low, almost whispered—like speakin’ ‘em too loud might call the devil back to finish what he started.

“Said it wasn’t no accident neither. Blood all over the back steps. Like whoever did it… wanted to make sure folks saw.”

My eyes widen, ‘’what?’’

@𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝

☾.꒰ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ꒱˚✿˖°

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 !

HIII thanks for the reads on the last chapter, I'm lowkey liking this fanfic I'm writing ngl. As always pls like n share, feel free to give tips as well <3

[thegr33nc0met]

remmick from sinners thought👁️👁️

thinking about reader giving remmick a challenge: making him play a song on his banjo while they give him some sloppy toppy teeheehee😇

maybe if he messes up, he has to start over and they keep edging him. he’s having fun at first, smirking and laughing and taking it like a champ until it’s getting to be a little too much and he gets all frustrated when he’s so close to cumming but- oh, no! he struck a wrong chord! guess he has to start over again…

[wildfll0wer]

Love Marks | Remmick x GN!Reader

Obsessed with the idea that remmick would sink his claws into your thighs while being on his knees for you

Not to hurt you, just enough to draw blood and leave marks, when he feels the blood coming out of the little bruises he would drag his attention off your center to lick clean and suck each one of the marks left by his hands

He would take the opportunity to leave bites along with the little cuts on both sides of your thighs, and once he felt satisfied, he would lean back to admire his own work with a proud smile on his face as you tremble and pant in pleasure.

English is not my first language, sorry if there is any mistake

[mill3rd]

REMMICK DRABBLE #1 | disco dancing and soaked collars

note—based off of a request !! 1.3k words

the night stretches out like a lazy god, soaked in neon and the giddy throb of speakers bouncing bass from car windows. somewhere in the humid depths of 1998, you and remmick walk the city like it belongs to you—and maybe it does. you haven’t been refused anything all evening. not entrance. not drinks. not the brief taste of the couple in the alley, whose flirtation tasted like mint gum and too much cologne.

now you drift down the sidewalk with the casual grace of ancient things dressed in polyester and velvet. remmick’s suit is wine-dark, snug against his burly frame, the top buttons undone just enough to show the hollow of his throat and reveal a chain. you wore black, of course—simple, devastating, with a slit up the side that makes walking less of a movement and more of a tease. you match without matching. you always do.

your collar is darker now, not from sweat but from something thicker. so is his. a brownish damp around the edges, subtle in the streetlight, masked by the glow of store windows and the blur of cars. no one looks too closely. not anymore. the world’s too busy being loud, fast, and mostly oblivious.

still, people stare—but not for that.

remmick has his arm slung around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. you’re practically in his lap despite walking side by side. you laugh into his neck, lips brushing his skin, and his eyes flutter. you kiss there, because why not? he tastes like cheap wine and the pretty girl with the red curls. you sigh.

"you’re insatiable," he murmurs.

"you like it," you whisper.

he does. god, he does.

back in your day—back in days, plural—such behavior would’ve had you shunned, arrested, or burned, depending on the year. you remember cold stone and candlelight. you remember being subtle. but subtlety is wasted now, tossed out with the rest of the century's caution. it's 1998. pda is currency now, traded in moans at the back of bus stops, in half-naked couples pressed against brick walls.

but even in this world, you're too much.

you hear it in the click of disapproving tongues, in the awkward shuffle of a guy holding his girlfriend’s hand when he sees the way remmick cups your face like he’s starving. you hear it when you groan softly against his mouth on a crosswalk, and someone mutters “jesus” under their breath.

you grin against his lips.

remmick pulls back just far enough to smirk. "we’re indecent."

"and?"

"and i love it."

you adjust his collar absently, smudging the dried stain there with your thumb. he lets you, eyes lazy with affection and bloodlust sated. his pulse doesn’t race anymore, not really. you took that from him centuries ago. but he breathes deeper when you touch him, like he’s never gotten used to it.

"let’s find music," you suggest.

"let’s find a bed," he counters.

you kiss his cheek. "we always do both."

the club you wander into next is called diorama, all glitter and smoke and velvet rot. pipes run like veins along the ceiling, pumping bass into the bones of the place. bodies move like they’re half-melted, glossed with sweat and cheap perfume. you slip through it like breath, unseen until you aren’t.

you pass a mirrored wall near the bar. it’s never the mirror that gets you — it’s the people. the moment their eyes find what isn’t there. one girl blinks too many times. another grabs her friend’s arm. the panic spreads fast and quiet, like a ripple in oil. you hear the shuffle of feet behind you as they change direction, fast, muttering like you’ve brought winter in behind you.

you forget, sometimes. the absence.

in the glass, only remmick. tall, too still for this place. light cuts across his face like a blade. he’s watching your reflection not be there. his mouth curves, barely — a smirk that means you’re still exactly what they fear.

you tilt your head, just enough for him to see the grin you can’t see yourself. the mirror offers you nothing. but remmick does. always.

“honey, do i look okay?” you ask, insecurity seeping into your tone. and even though lipstick’s smudged at one corner of your lips and your hair’s freying in certain directions, he tells you what he has done for the last one thousand years, “you look beautiful.” remmick’s hair looks like he’s been dragged a through a car ride with the windows down—charming, wild.

but you don’t tell him that. instead, you turn your attention to his neck.

"your collar," you mention, pointing to it curiously.

he glances. "yours too."

you both laugh.

there's a corner booth shaped like a coffin—tasteful. you slide in first and he follows like a shadow, one leg draped over yours immediately, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh under the table.

the bass here is lower, more suggestive than aggressive. a girl with too-dark eyeliner and plastic butterflies in her hair offers you shots in test tubes. you buy six, just to watch her smile.

she lingers. she stares at the way remmick presses his lips to your shoulder, slow and deliberate, right through the fabric. she doesn't know what to do with it—too genuine for lust, too intimate for fun. you're not putting on a show. you're not performing. you're simply… being. and that, in 1998, is the freakiest thing of all.

she looks away when the shoulder kisses turn. soft at first — nothing much, just mouths brushing skin — but then the angle shifts, and suddenly it’s neck, jaw, throat. the kind of kissing that pulls the breath from the room. heat spills off them in waves, bodies tangled, hands bold and unapologetic. it’s all wet mouths and low sounds, the kind that stick to the inside of your chest.

moaning. gasping. the smack of lips, the drag of teeth. remmixk whispers something filthy and sweet, and you laugh — a breathless, hungry sound. you’re pressed so close that you both might as well be devouring each other.

she looks away fast.

not out of shame, not really — but because if she watches too long, she’ll start to feel it too deep. the pulse of it. and she cannot risk her composure on the back of your’s and remmick’s hunger.

not tonight.

later, you dance.

remmick doesn’t dance like a man of this era. his movements are all control and release, like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. you move around him, through him, past him, and always back into his orbit. people part like water when you twirl into each other’s arms. you don’t notice anymore. you only notice the way he mouths the word mine against your ear before biting gently—not breaking skin, just remembering how.

he remembers everything and he never fails to remind you that he does. suddenly, he’s laughing into your neck, "do you remember vienna?"

you chuckle. "which time?"

"the one with the opera singer."

"ah." a single syllable and your smile sharpens, "yes. i still have the ring she gave you."

"she thought i was a prince."

"you are."

"flatterer."

you lean in, voice low. "killer."

that, too.

outside again, the night is thicker, the air clinging to your skin like perfume. you lean against a streetlamp, and remmick nestles in behind you, arms wrapped like a scarf around your waist. you sigh, full of blood and memory.

"do you miss the old days?" he asks suddenly.

you tilt your head. "which ones?"

"before disco. before color television. before plastic."

"sometimes. i miss the quiet."

"not the torches and pitchforks?"

"i miss the velvet. real velvet."

he nuzzles your neck, "you still have it. in spades."

a group walks by—young, loud, full of 7-eleven slushies and vodka. one of them whistles. another calls, “get a room!” in a voice that cracks on the last word.

remmick doesn’t flinch. you just laugh.

"we had rooms in castles," you murmur, reminiscing and missing what life was like merely five hundred years ago, "now they have bedrooms above gas stations."

he grins against your skin. "still, they can shout whatever they like. you’re mine."

"and you’re mine."

the words are ancient. the truth is older. and the city, for all its noise and neon, feels briefly like something sacred again.

[virelaisnox]

kiss the damn nurse

a/n: reader has a name "aruna," but people usually call her "rune" (yeah, like the ancient rome alphabet—magic significance)

summary: Rune, a former nurse turned runaway, met Stanley by chance. They’ve benefited each other ever since—she sells drugs, patches fighters, and keeps quiet. Then there’s his brother, Lion Kaminski—a broken mess wrapped in beautiful skin. Most don’t see him that way. Rune does. He flinches at her touch, but aches for it the moment she pulls away. She always tends to his wounds—no questions, no moves. But something's shifted. His gaze lingers longer. Her hands stay a second too late. And in those shared silences, something deeper begins to take root.

warning (s): not much, really. fluff. slight mentions of sexual activity. mention of drugs?

pairing: Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

The gym smells of old sweat and leather, the air heavy with the scent of effort. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a pale glare over scuffed mats and stained concrete.

“Wait, seriously, do I look like I'm married?” Your voice inquired. He doesn't need to look up at you to notice the smile blooming across your face.

“Yeah, you- you kinda are..” he'd replied, averting your gaze.

“Bu- how? I don’t even got no ring on, yet people keep guessing that i am.”

“Cause like—” he looks up, it took him a lingering second to drink in your presence alone, “look at you. You're glorious, fucking gorgeous, you're beautiful, a true goddess.” He said it like it was a prophecy written on your veins. “Don't need a ring for that—people could tell. I mean, who doesn't wanna wife you up?”

You giggle, not buying his crap, “you're a flirt, Walter.”

“No!” He rushed but then realized how it only did but startled you. He quickly lowered his head and softened his tone. He linked your grasp on him.

“No, I'm dead serious, Rune. Stop denying your own beauty. The only thing that's unattractive about you is that low self-esteem.” A beat lingers. The playfulness once present disappeared into thin air. The room felt like it was closing around you. The moment stretched and felt like it was going to last for eternity, and you hoped so to God.

He winced as you pressed a cotton poured antiseptic once again to the wound across his ribs. The cross tattoo ornating his skin seemed to fade with time and each scars he earned after every fight.

“Stay still.” you warned, feeling his body started to squirm uncomfortably. He glared at you—a look if translated spoke; “are you fucking serious?”

“You realized it's not exactly like a poke to the nose, right?” He asked, unamused.

“Yeah I do. But still. Stay that way.” The firmness in your tone didn't lessen as you've come to the final steps. You pressed a bandage to his wound, tore open a strip of plaster, and stuck it to the cut on his cheek. His gaze fixed on you, watching as you work with gentle but determined hands.

“There.”

He sighed heavily, head hung low, inspecting every bruise and swelling on his body. His unsteady hands with fingers that tremble and twitch, an evidence to long, hard-laboring days in the sewing factory. The corner of his lips tugged upward and formed a lazy smile.

“Thank you.. truly..” He said, sincerely—in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to do more to thank you— to make it up to you in ways far deeper than words could reach.

“Don't mention it,” You said, offering him a moon crescent smile as you bent to press a kiss to the wound along his ribs—then one more softer, to his cheek.

That earned you a flinch and a gasp—his heart skips a beat, then his body goes still, more so than you like when you were tending to his wound.

“You're too good for me.” His breath catching as he felt your lips on his skin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.. you certainly are.”

“Well, kiss the damn nurse, then!” You said with a chuckle, playful as you tapped your cheek. You almost stumbled when he crashed into you full force, sealing his lips with yours like a promise meant to be.

Your body went rigid. This wasn't even on your list, and therefore, the event took you by surprise. You savored the sensation of his lips against yours, his tongue seeking entry, and it felt as trained as his skilled fist when it delved deep inside.

Your hand gripped the fabric of his shirt while the other settled at the back of his head—pressing him closer. You realized you've grown more greedy—mapping your territory—as your teeth sank into his lower lips, just enough to leave a sting he'd feel later.

He pulled away just enough to give you both a space breathing in each other's oxygen.

“There. I kissed the damn nurse. Now, would the nurse let me thank her further?” he asked, a sly grin spread across his face.

Well, what have you got to lose, right?

"My place."

[roomiesoreo]

Listen I fully accept that this is disgusting but I’m imagining domestic Remmick and I think that freak would be obsessed with swapping spit with you after you floss and your gums are bleeding a little bit…it’s his crack.

He’d be all up on you when you’re in the bathroom getting ready for bed, brushing your hair, putting on lotion, brushing your teeth. Then you floss and you notice traces of red around your teeth and he’s already sticking his tongue in your mouth. Mumbles that you’re so sweet, his little midnight snack.

[hatethysinner]

Saw you were taking requests and I’ve been thinking about what would happen if one of your OCs gave Remmick a gift. You know this pathetic wet man would not have a normal reaction

ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴅ

I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS REQUEST! i think it'd be so fun to return to my previous fics and do requested add-ons! no warnings for this, just pure unadulterated pathetic!remmick fluff. this will be a an add-on to the weary blues, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

The hour was late. Not just late in the way clocks measured it, but in that shapeless, misty sort of late that made time feel slippery. The bookstore breathed around you, shelves and walls wrapped in deep shadow, the kind that folded itself politely out of the way so nothing would feel truly alone. No people passed outside. No wind stirred. Even the moths had given up circling the single lamp hanging on the other side of the tinted glass.

Remmick was here, of course.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine curved against a low shelf, thumbing absently through a forgotten paperback whose cover had long since faded. His coat was off, neatly folded over the back of your favorite armchair. His sleeves were rolled past the elbows, exposing pale forearms marked with the soft dents of old scars. Every few minutes, he glanced up. Not like he was expecting anything, just to check that you were still there.

That you hadn’t disappeared.

You were at the counter. Pretending to tidy something. A stack of journals, maybe, or that tin of bookmarks that no one ever bought but he always seemed to mess with. Your fingers moved in idle little patterns, but your mind wasn’t on the task.

It was on the box in your pocket.

Small. Softly wrapped. The kind of thing that would disappear in someone else’s hands, but felt almost too large here, in this strange, suspended pocket of midnight and quiet.

You hadn’t meant to give it to him tonight.

It hadn’t felt like the right time. Then again, you weren’t sure what the right time looked like. There were no birthdays tonight. No holidays. No calendar hanging by the register to count down days or circle occasions. There was only now. The dark, and the dust, and the low crackling of the candle you'd light when the chill tried to settle too deep into the floorboards.

But tonight had been soft. That rare kind of soft, the one that didn’t ask for anything but gave something anyway. You’d spent most of the evening in shared silence, passing dog-eared books back and forth, occasionally reading aloud when the words called for it. Remmick had listened like it meant something, like your voice could reshape the air around him if he let it. He hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

His quiet was never empty.

You watched him now as he flicked through another page, mouth twitching faintly at some line that landed just right. There was a smudge of ink on his finger, probably from that pen he kept tucked behind his ear. His hair had dried funny after his earlier shower, curling up at the ends like it had forgotten how to behave.

He looked good.

Not polished. Not composed. But full.

Alive in the way that only people who have been half-dead know how to be.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box in your pocket again.

You weren’t sure what he’d do when he saw it. If he’d laugh. Or cry. Or try to give it back. He wasn’t used to gifts. He’d said that once. Quietly, like it wasn’t important, like it hadn’t gutted you on the spot.

He’d never had a proper gift before.

Not one that wasn’t transactional. Not one that wasn’t a favor owed or a mistake forgiven. Just… something someone saw and thought, this is his. Just because.

And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.

Found them in a little antique shop two towns over, tucked away in a velvet-lined tray between cracked lockets and pins with missing stones. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t modern. Just a pair of old silver squares with the faintest etching at the edges.

You’d known they were his the second you saw them.

You weren’t sure why. Just that they were. Like they’d been waiting. Like he’d left them behind in some past life and they’d been clawing their way back to him ever since.

He shifted, drawing your attention back. His foot knocked against a stack of books, and he winced like he thought you might scold him.

You didn’t.

You just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the sharp angles that softened when he was tired. At the curl of his lashes, too long for someone who hated being seen. At the way he held the book like it was breakable, even though his own hands bore proof that he rarely was.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter what the right time was.

You just wanted him to know.

That he was thought of.

That he was wanted.

That something in this world had been chosen for him. Not because he earned it, not because he begged for it, but because someone looked at it and thought, yes, this belongs to you.

You closed the distance slowly.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

And the box in your pocket felt heavier with each step.

“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t already been in the same room with you for hours. His voice was soft, a little warm burst in the cold bookstore air, and when you looked at him fully, his whole face lit up. Like you were the one thing in the world he’d been waiting for all night, even though he’d never left your side. “Ya looked busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”

His thumb held his place in the book, but the rest of him leaned in your direction. Eager. Not in a loud, desperate way. Not like the first night, when he clung to your presence like it was the last lifeline he’d ever have. This was smaller. Gentler. The kind of eagerness that didn’t ask anything, only bloomed quiet and patient in your light.

You felt the box again, the corners pressing faintly into your palm where you'd slipped it free from your skirt. For a second, you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because something about this felt so sacred, it needed to be right.

“You weren’t botherin’ me,” you said. Your voice was low, meant just for him. “I was just… thinkin’.”

He tilted his head, that little inquisitive tilt he always did when he sensed something beneath the surface. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He gave you the space, like always, but you could feel his attention. Sharp as a blade, soft as a breath.

You took the few remaining steps that brought you close, until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t sit down yet. You just watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he looked like this. Curled up and content, but always on the edge of some deeper ache.

“I have somethin’ for you.”

That got him. He blinked up at you, startled. His fingers fumbled slightly over the spine of the book, and he sat up straighter, gaze flicking between your face and your hands. “For me?” His voice cracked a little on the second word, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Why?”

You held out the small box. It wasn’t wrapped extravagantly, just enough to protect it, just enough to keep it a secret until now. He didn’t take it right away. He looked at it like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“Because I saw it,” you said, your voice steady, “and I thought of you.”

That did it.

He reached out slowly, reverently, and took the box with both hands. His fingers hovered over the lid like he didn’t want to ruin whatever magic kept it sealed. For a second, he just stared. Then he glanced up at you again, like asking for permission. When you nodded, he opened it.

The cufflinks caught the faintest sliver of light from the lamp above. Silver. Old, quiet silver. The kind that never shouted for attention but demanded it anyway. Etched at the corners with delicate, almost-forgotten lines. Not a pattern, exactly. More like a memory.

Remmick went still.

Completely still.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“...What are they?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, though he already knew. He just needed to hear it. Needed to make it real.

“Cufflinks,” you answered softly. “For when you want to feel like yourself. Or someone you used to be. Or someone you might become.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on them, wide and dark and glassy. His hands trembled a little. Just enough that you saw it. Just enough that he knew you saw it, too.

“I’ve never had…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not somethin’ just mine.”

You sat down next to him, close enough that your knees brushed. His shoulder leaned into yours automatically, seeking warmth, steadiness, anything to anchor himself in the moment.

“They’re yours,”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely caught it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

He said it like a prayer.

Like the world was about to crack open under his feet and this was the only thing that might hold it together.

And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.

He kept staring at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Still cupped in his palms, the cufflinks looked small. Delicate, even. A stark contrast to the calloused stretch of his fingers. The silver caught the lamplight again, this time bending it into something gentler, something more secret. Like moonlight in a locked room.

“Do you wanna try them on?” you asked.

He startled, just a little, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Now?”

You nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. His thumb brushed one of the cufflinks again, like he was reassuring himself they were real. “No, I-I wanna.”

You smiled. He looked like a man asked to wear something sacred, too stunned to argue but too enthralled to rush. You let the silence linger, soft as silk, while he reached slowly for the buttons at his wrist.

He worked them loose with unhurried hands, his sleeves coming undone without fanfare. You could see how he rolled his cuffs neatly back each time. Habit more than style, probably. He always looked like he was halfway between rest and running, like he never knew which the night, or you, would ask of him.

“Here,” you said, holding your hand out gently. “Let me.”

He hesitated for a breath, then gave you his left wrist.

His skin was warm. A little clammy, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away. He let you unroll the cuff and align the holes, his knuckles twitching every time your fingers brushed bone. You took one cufflink, turned it just so, and slid it through with ease. It clicked softly, the metal cool against his pulse.

He stared at you the whole time.

Not intensely. Not like he did when he first met you, all nerves and hunger and that shaky, desperate pull. This was quieter. Like he couldn’t believe you were here, doing this. Like you were something delicate he was afraid to breathe too hard on.

You moved to his other wrist. He offered it just as easily.

The second cufflink slid in just as smooth. When it clicked into place, his breath caught.

Not loud. Not sharp.

And then you looked up, and the light hit his face differently.

It wasn’t dramatic, not really. The lamp on the shelf behind you didn’t flicker. The air didn’t shift. But something in his expression sharpened, just for a heartbeat. His lips parted slightly, and the faintest glint of teeth showed. Not sharp enough to be a threat, but too pointed to be forgotten. His canines always gleamed, small and precise and not quite right.

And his eyes. His eyes, already so deep and unreadable, caught a color you hadn’t noticed before. In the heart of that ancient blue, there was red. Not bright. Not fire. Just a thread of it, like old embers buried under ash. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t look away.

You liked his canines. You liked the strange glow in his eyes. The way it made him look like he belonged to something older than night. You didn’t flinch. You never had. Even when part of you knew, knew he wasn’t just some poor soul from the road. Even when nothing about him quite added up, you’d let him in anyway.

You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.

“They suit you,” you said.

He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his wrists, then turned them gently in the low light, watching the silver catch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a stunned, breathless awe. Like you’d handed him a second name.

“Do I look,” he said, hesitating, “like I belong to somethin’?”

You paused. Then leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You look like you finally believe you do.”

He let out a small, helpless sound. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Just something deep and quiet that lived in his chest and finally found a way out. He pressed his cheek into your temple, breathing you in like he didn’t need air, just this.

His arms came around you, hesitant at first. Still so careful, like you might vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, solid and real and warm, and he sank into it like it was the first real place he’d ever been allowed to rest.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. You just stayed like that, curled together on the floor between bookshelves and forgotten time. The town beyond the window didn’t exist. The cold couldn’t reach you here.

Eventually, he whispered, “Nobody’s ever given me anythin’ like this.”

You drew slow patterns on his sleeve. “You deserve things like this.”

He kissed your head. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just once. Just thank you.

Then: “You’re not scared of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you said, eyes closed.

Even when you should be. Even when something old stirred just beneath his skin. Even when the shadows moved different around him than they did around anyone else.

“No,” you said again.

He was quiet after that. His breath slowed. His shoulders eased. You stayed tucked into him, cufflinks catching the glow of your little lamp. He held you like a promise, soft and otherworldly, and you let him.

This was your secret, after all.

Yours and Remmick’s.

And out in the world, maybe that wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe they'd hate it if they knew.

But here, here in this forgotten bookstore, in the hush between hours where nothing else dared to breathe, it meant everything.

[iamyourwayout]

So I finally got my hands on some deleted scenes (courtesy of the Remmick Discord🩷) and we see Bert playing a guitar and singing with Joan right before Remmick comes.

Which means they were singers and musicians already, and the instruments (that I assumed were stolen or something) actually belonged to them.

And it got me wondering about just how far Remmick's influence goes -- I assumed that via the hive-mind, his thralls would just absorb his abilities / talent just like they absorb his memories, but maybe that's not the case?

He does of course dictate what and how they sing, but do these abilities have to be there in the first place?

Later in the dancing circle, everyone knows the moves, but you can see (like with Cornbread for example), that not all of them are experienced dancers like Remmick.

It's just interesting to see that the control is mostly in the mind, and doesn't necessarily affect muscle memory and physicality in general.

[vcmpbyt]

Waiting for the all-desired face sitting fic for remmick…

† REMMICKxFEM!READER

⊹ A/N; well... its been 25 years.. ITS HERE,, !! this could count as a second part of this drabble ! i'm going through the most insane writers block and everything i write feels repetitive so bare with me remmick nation ;;

⊹ WARNINGS; porn no plot. no distinct descriptions of reader. not proofread at all </3 . ⊹ MASTERLIST

=͟͟͞͞ ✧

his mouth parted, eyes wide and gleaming, the ghost of his own orgasm still twitching through him. sweat glimmered at his temples, his lips were slick, and so was his cock, soft now, resting against his thigh, glistening from the mess you’d made him make. he blinked up at you, already slack jawed and glassy eyed, pupils blown wide with need. remmick looked wrecked- without ever having gotten inside you. “you earned it,” you cooed, dragging the pad of your thumb across his cheekbone, smearing a little of his own spit there. “you did real nice. sat there, touched that cock like i told you, didn’t cum on my couch this time,” you grinned, “reckon you want a taste now, don’tcha?” he nodded so fast it looked like his neck might snap. “yes, ma’am,” he breathed, voice wrecked. his hands slid under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the couch, his breath hitched when he saw how wet you were. it wasn’t subtle- your folds glistened, flushed and needy, your clit swollen from the teasing and the show he’d put on. he dove in like a man starved, his tongue was wide, flat, desperate, licking up your folds with a groan that vibrated into your skin, shooting up your spine and making your thighs twitch. he nuzzled his face in it, the noises getting louder and louder, nose pressing right against your clit. he flattened his tongue against your slit again, dragging it up agonizingly slow. he didn’t suck when he reached your clit, just gave it little kitten licks, his eyes flicking up to watch the way your mouth parted, how your hips shifted forward just a bit. “look at her,” he murmured, lips brushing against your folds as he spoke. “all soaked n’ swollen for me. she’s starvin’, ain’t she? been beggin’ for a mouth like mine.” his tongue darted out again, sloppier this time, licking circles around your clit while two fingers spread you open. he stared at your pussy, letting a line of spit fall from his mouth and land right on your entrance, mixing with the wet already there. “so fuckin’ pretty, so warm- bet she could break my nose if you let her- i’d let her.” you rolled your hips against his mouth then, his nose bumped your clit again as he pushed his tongue into your entrance, and the filthy sound he let out made your cunt flutter around his tongue. “that’s it,” you whispered, fingers tight in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his mouth. “keep goin’. just like that, you make me come, i’ll think about lettin’ you sleep in my bed tonight.” remmick moaned, loud and broken, he redoubled his efforts, tongue fucking into you while one hand moved up to press against your stomach, holding you still. 

you’d lost track of time, lost track of which round of pleasure this had been. you were straddling his chest now, thighs on either side of his head, just far enough above his mouth- a tease. his neck strained, tongue out while his hands dug into the plush of your hips. “let me have it- let me eat it proper, like you deserve- ” your cunt hovered just above his open mouth, and he whimpered at the sight of it- already soaked lips parted. you lowered yourself slowly until the soft, swollen lips of your pussy kissed his mouth. his tongue circled your clit, lapped at your entrance, pushed inside and pulled out again. his hands were everywhere- gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against his face. you rocked your hips just slightly, grinding down on his tongue, and he choked out a moan, hands digging bruises into your thighs as he sucked your clit into his mouth and stayed there, mouth fluttering around it. “ye’r so sweet,” he muttered drunk off your pussy, “fuck- i can’t breathe, and i like it- ” as if he could’ve in the first place. his face was a mess, your arousal smeared across his chin and cheeks, hair stuck to his forehead. his eyes rolled back when your hips started to move faster, you grind down hard against his mouth, your thighs closing around his ears, your hands finding his hair and pulling. he opened his mouth wider, letting you ride his face fully now, tongue dipping into your entrance even deeper. “that’s it, use me,” he slurred, “use me how you want. rub that pretty pussy all over me- fuck- don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop- ” you rocked against his mouth faster, feeling the edge building, the tension tightening in your gut with every filthy word he moaned into your cunt, and he could practically smell it. your orgasm hit hard- spine arching. you didn’t even moan- just ground down against his mouth, thighs trembling as you rode his tongue through it, used his filthy, ruined face to come just like he’d begged for while he licked every drop. his face was soaked, cock was leaking against his stomach. when you finally shifted off him he whimpered like a kicked dog.

“did i do good?”