charliepoopyfart

[charliepoopyfart]

Ascensionism P1

A/N: Huge thank you to @mothmansbanker and @fuckoffbard for putting up with my ramblings, and thank you to @fuckoffbard again for beta-ing and helping flesh out my story. I would not have gotten this far without you<3

WC: 13k

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you endured blood stained visions of past lives disguised as dreams. You think they’re just that—dreams, until a strange man comes into town.

or

Remmick’s first love reincarnates as different people each time. After centuries of living without her, his humanity and morality chip away until he will do anything to keep her with him.

Taglist!: @boogiemansbitch , @faephoria , @doflamingadonquixote @2muchtosee2littletime @pom3granates Thank you for all the love on the excerpt!! (which takes place in part 2, whoops)

CW: MDNI 18+, Smut, Dub Con regarding Dream Sex, Unintentional Voyeurism, F!Modern!Reader, Mostly Soft!Pathetic!Remmick for part 1 but Dark!Remmick will make an appearance, Soulmates/Reincarnation, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Feral/Down Bad Behavior, Murder because this is Remmick we’re talking about, Author tries to be funny, crackfic taken seriously, gets better and darker at the end and in part 2 I promise, if i’m forgetting anything pls let me know

When the dreams began, they did so with merciful tenderness.

A younger, fresh-eyed you believed they were prophetic visions of a prince, the foresight of a romantic love story that filled you with a dangerous amount of hope. A hope accompanied by longing for that breathtaking moment where you would finally meet. In the beginning, they were benign, and the croon of a lullaby and wistful wonder would follow you into the waking world.

That naive innocence gradually degraded with each dream. As you matured, the grotesque intensity of them did too. 

There was still the gentle warbling of a lilting accent, the promise of eternal devotion, and the freefall into young love. But it was accompanied with the overwhelming smell of rot, the vivid image of bodies swelling in the sun, and the anguish of being faced with a choice of allowing yourself to be stolen away or having loved ones ripped from you.

Tonight, it’s a mashup of the two. There’s a heavy and hot weight to the air, twisting gnarled roots, an ankle-long tight-fitted kirtle that was outgrown years ago and a novel concern of status. You’re wearing a skin you distinctly recognize as not yours, speaking a foreign language, yet somehow you understand the words falling from your lips.

You met him under the sturdy bough of a sycamore during the wind-down of a festival. Skin dry from the salty breeze wafting from the shore, fingers cracked and peeling. He was a bard. You cannot make out his face.

Never his face.

But the blue of his threadbare linen tunic is dazzling. So is the lilt of his voice as he serenaded you. You feel the stretch of a smile across your cheeks. The syrupy stick of elderberries as you pressed them between his lips. Heard your laugh ringing out at the crass swipe of his tongue over your fingers. Felt the warmth rushing to your cheeks when that laugh alone looked to be his ruin.

You didn’t see him again until you’re married off. Until the scenery shifts with no rhyme or reason, and you’re left standing in the woods in a dress stained with blood and ash. A vague memory of being dragged from the altar by something that can only be described as monstrous. A persistent ghastly image of him that strikes terror through you, though all you ever remember upon waking are red eyes and dripping fangs.

But you’re not awake yet.

The village was burning. Smoke fills your nose, throat, expanding into your lungs. Immediate, violent panic seizes you. Your breath comes in agonizing, painful pulls. A numbness starts to spread up from your fingertips, threatening to bring you under-

A whisper of your name slices through the fog of panic. Not the name of the person you’re inhabiting, no. Your name.

“Where are you?”

You jolt awake in a fit of heaving breaths, shooting up in bed, left with the lingering taste of ash and blood clogging your throat. Chills wracked your body as the sodden sheets twist around your damp limbs. Your pulse pounds heavy in your temples with illusions of suffocation.

A quick, frantic glance at the clock tells you that yes, you only have 20 minutes to arrive at your shift on time. Two were spared trying to calm the jittery nerves that left you trembling, only marginally successful in convincing your autonomic nervous system to calm the fuck down. From your experience, the worst of the panic would abate in the next five spent in a light-speed shower.

This is how it’s been for years. Every night.

Different lives. Different experiences. Different selves. But they all had one dread-inducing thing in common. The same fuckass nightmare demon that plagued your piteous attempts at rest.

When tentative diagnoses and logical explanations failed, you took to researching what bleary remnants you could recall from your dreams. The creature’s face could never distinctly be made out, but you caught a few terror-filled utterings of attributed names.

Nightwalker

Vampyr

Even a Nosferatu at some point, but you chalked that up to an active imagination bleeding into your slumber after a horror movie binge.

Because of this seemingly unprecedented haunting, you’ve never been one for the romanticization of vampires. You needed reliable sources, not sparkly, religious-coded bullshit that muddies your research. Not to mention the many discrepancies in the lore that make the truth as elusive as the face of your demon. In a Hail Mary attempt to feel safe, you ensured a steady stock of garlic, crosses you got a sweet deal on at the antique store, and a mix of silver and iron items strewn around your house.

Settling in a small town has the benefit of putting your mind at ease by providing a consistent sea of faces. A cozy cabin bordering the outskirts made for a perfect spot to anchor down. You had wrapped up the welcome mat that came with like it had cursed your mother, roughly disposing of it in a manner befitting personal betrayal. If you wanted the presence of a blood-sucking leech, you’d have gone skinny dipping in the creek behind your house. The same effect without the trepidation of blood-soaked dreams and piss-poor sleep.

You’re not necessarily a true believer in the supernatural, but the protective measures you have accumulated over the years alleviate your troubled mind for reasons you can’t explain.

Your roommate was as decent as they come. Charming until he opened his mouth, and then that charm was ruined forever. But you both stayed out of each other's way, said all of five words to each other annually, and split the responsibilities and the rent. It just so happened that your roommate had also been your kind of crazy, if in a different flavor. He was into survivalist, apocalyptic-style bullshit, and had no problem crafting you your own nail-infused bat after an inebriated, vulnerable confession about your troubles.

For that, you considered him a damn near best friend until a week ago, when he skedaddled right off to greener pastures. Left behind a note barely a sentence long and a glaringly obvious lack of payment for the month’s rent. It smarted just a little, though your bank account smarted more, and occasionally the thought of seeing his car wrapped around a tree on the way to work makes you feel better.

The lack of warning stung for several reasons; the most pertinent was that he knew you were out of a phone after the landline to the house was found cut, though he assured you an animal chewed it. Your own cell was awaiting repair from a fatal crack when you were shoved in a drunken altercation at your job.

And so paranoia became a familiar friend along with faulty memory and constant fatigue.

That means it’s not worth losing sleep over (ha) when your belongings fail to turn up in the place you vaguely remember laying them. But when you begin to notice an uptick in the phenomenon, a certain possession appearing where you definitely don’t remember putting it, or going missing altogether, your mind has enough ammunition to fabricate a manner of explanations, each one more upsetting than the last.

A picture of you and your childhood pet vanished off of the out-of-commission mantle. The only evidence it was there to begin with was the pristine clearing among the dust. And then, more alarmingly, clothing started to disappear. You’re prone to misplacing an item or two here or there, but there’s only so much time that passes before they turn up.

And you don’t have that many pairs of underwear to begin with.

You curse your roommate again, it becoming a daily mantra at this point as you prepare your worn-out body for another tiring shift.

It’s fitting that you meet him on a day as dreary as your dreams. Rain fell in thick sheets, mist curling around the bases of aged architecture, rising against the asphalt like steam. It painted a lovely, tranquil view, one of the redeeming qualities of this dead, small town.

You approach the bar you tend with little enthusiasm. The building hails as the town’s crown jewel, standing proud and apart from the crowded nestling of the adjacent buildings.

You breeze in, make your apologies to your coworker who waves you off with a flick of her hand. There hasn’t been a full house lately and no one sticks around town long besides the old timers. If you haven’t been so out of whack, you would have noticed the man at the bar watching you, and had been for some time.

Time sluggishly passes as you serve drinks.

The consolation that usually comes from the pacifying, dimly lit area is nowhere to be found tonight after your nightmare. Each sensation seems to wear down your already high-strung nerves, pulling you back into that moment of panic-stricken terror. 

The hum of a ceiling fan and noticeable absence of a working air conditioner makes your skin slick with sweat. The permanent aroma of cigarettes and alcohol congest your throat, reminiscent of the phantom ash and blood you were hacking up this morning. The tumultuous sounds of revelry ramp up as the night goes on. More than once your trembling hands overfill a few drinks.

At least the rowdier bar-goers haven’t been seen for some time. You make an effort to be friendly enough to the customers, but the occasional, normalized harassment you’ve undergone would’ve sent you over the edge on a night like this. A murder charge definitely would’ve been in your future.

The monotonous swipe of the rag over glassware goes without conscious supervision. That dream still lingers in the back of your mind, digs its claws into your shoulders and amplifies the weighted pull of your limbs to the earth. It’s a constant effort not to shuffle your feet, but it’s a battle mostly lost as they’re leaden with the weight of fatigue.

“I think that one’s as spotless as it’s gonna get.”

A melodic drawl from the far end of the bar top pulls you from your trance with an irksome abruptness. You blink, eyes cut to a man you vaguely noted in your periphery since the beginning of your shift.

The ambient lighting curls around the angles of his face, handsome features toggling between accented and concealed whenever he adjusts his position. He meets your gaze with a seemingly sympathetic one, steady until he nods at the cup you’re holding.

His eyes glisten in the warmth of the light but they’re dark, discomforting in a way that has your grip tightening around the glass.

They’re leagues better than the beady, blood-slick ones that haunt your nightmares, but you’re still not a fan of these. There’s an emptiness to them, cold and prying and knowing, like they’re picking you apart without you having to say a goddamn word.

You blink again.

“That it is.” You offer to top off his drink as you get to working on the counters, but he politely refuses.

From your margin of view, you note his eyes seem to track your movements unabashedly. You pretend not to notice, it’s not your first time dealing with a scenario like this, and observe him as subtly as you can.

Although he was well-dressed, his dapper clothes carried a worn, lived-in appearance. The discernible smell you clocked earlier was revealed to be emanating from him. He had an earthy, musky scent that carried a faint metallic trace — not exactly pleasant, but you’ve smelt worse. A gold chain sat at the base of his neck, vanishing beneath his button-up as if weighted by a pendant or something with similar heft.

At some point during your sly examination, you notice his nostrils flaring slightly when you walk close enough. That has you pausing, second-guessing if the shower you took before work was another fevered, hyper-realistic hallucination. And yikes, wouldn’t that be karmic if you were judging this poor man and his coppery aroma when you yourself reeked of sweat and insomnia. Said sleep deprivation clouds your decision-making, and you not-so discreetly take a whiff of yourself.

Not one for subtly either, apparently – he clocks it immediately and begins damage-control, stuttering out appeasements.

“Oh– no, miss. You smell real nice. Woodsy. Sweet.”

You can’t say the same to him, but you’d been using the scent of coins and desperation as a grounding sense whenever thoughts of your nightmare reared up. So you guessed you owed him an only slightly apprehensive pleasantry, “Thanks.”

He perks like a flower receiving a plethora of water after a nasty dry spell, apparently taking your response as a go for conversation, and excitedly prattles on.

“Oh, it’s a gift of mine. Could’a been a sommelier, if my heart weren’t set on music.”

He gets a hum in response, but he’s still staring at you, and you feel more than a bit pressured to offer a stilted effort to converse with him.

“Maybe one of those airport sniffer dogs.” You muse. He does give off a feral energy. Kind of reminds you of the stray cat that comes around your house once in a while. Sweetly imploring for scratches until he decides halfway through that your hand is the enemy.

“Woof, woof!” The man chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll have to consider that if my passion doesn’t work out.”

You take some pity on him, eyes roving over the gradually emptying bar and the rustic clock above the pool table. It’s a while before your shift ends and admittedly, your curiosity has been tickled. “What kind of music do you play?”

He brightens like you just handed over the keys to the bar and open-access to the register. This man must not have an extensive social circle, evident for several reasons beyond questionable hygiene and his ardent interest in remaining here.

“Folk, mostly. But I dabble in just about anythin’. Say, you have live music here?” His eyes flit to the radio behind the counter, an almost distasteful glint in them that vanishes when they return to you. “I would love to offer my talents.”

“Sometimes. You staying in town long?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes ma’am. There’s just-” His face twists slightly, and you come to the weary conclusion that this man has a thing for dramatics, “just one little hiccup. I’m lookin’ for an affordable place to stay. Money bein’ tight and all.”

Something in the way he says it makes you pause. This whole conversation felt off to you, though you can’t accuse him of any ill-intent without sounding paranoid. This chat between the two of you feels as though he’s fishing for something; a pervasive theatricality wound through his every word.

“There’s an inn.” You politely ramble off directions, pointing out the obvious solution.

There’s an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, if you blinked you would’ve missed it. Not the answer he wanted to hear. It’s unnerving as much as it is vexing, but you tolerate your job and well-being, so you go for mitigation.

“Let-uh, let me hear something! Can’t promise you anything until I talk to my boss, though.” The rag gets abandoned behind the counter in favor of you leaning against it on your elbows.

Just like that, whatever tension was in the air dissipates. He amps up the prior enthusiasm, along with what some could refer to as charm, and pulls a hard case you never noticed from seemingly thin air, but really just under the counter top.

“Oh, you - wow. You really came prepared.”

“Sure did!”

It’s a banjo. Not what you were expecting but it oddly suits him.

He gets up with flair, brandishing the instrument like a fifth limb. And then he’s singing, a voice so dulcet and infatuated that it calls to your beleaguered soul. He had knelt for you, kissed your hand in a respect designated for royalty, unfitting of you. The echoes of it hum on your skin as you listen, enamored. You want nothing more than to find salvation in those fluctuating notes, those honeyed words offering no reprieve, voice going hoarse upon mentioning your beauty-

You flinch slightly. The striking familiarity of this scenario to the one in your dream makes you queasy, and bile with the incriminating viscosity of blood fills your mouth.

The man goes to pause, more than a little troubled by your reaction, and something like disappointment dawns on his face. You wave a hand, expression hopefully conveying the ‘it’s nothing’ you can’t ground out. Hopefully you passed it off as a bad case of acid reflux.

You shake your head slightly to rid yourself of the nausea and the residual blur cast over your vision. Now’s not the time to detach from your surroundings, and the poor dude only wants a gig. He’s just a flamboyant little guy, with no blood stained claws or grisly teeth. Get it together.

At least he’s playing a song you know, previous theatrics bleeding into his performance in a way you should’ve anticipated. His persistent efforts chip away at any lingering solemnity of yours, breaking you down until your laugh rings out in response to a few of his eccentric animations. He basks in the attention, is encouraged by it, if his increased vigor is anything to go by. The little blip in his performance seemingly slips both of your minds.

When he finishes, you applaud in a manner befitting a standing ovation. His excessive personality is contagious in his performance and successful in pulling you from your anxious, sleep-deprived funk.

“Thank you, thank you!” He accepts the praise humbly, executing a graceful bow that drags another giggle from you.

“That’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Once again, alarm bells ring in your head as that look creeps across his face again, a deceptive quality to otherwise earnest words. “Really? Ain’t that somethin’.”

The red flags he’s raising are put on the back burner as you two get to talking about music, the man - Remmick, he introduced himself as - displays a formidable intelligence of all facets of the topic, including ones broken off as subsequent tangents. At some moments it’s difficult to remember this man is a stranger, but damn is he disarming. Enough so that you allow minute aspects of your life to bleed into your answers until closing time creeps up on you.

The silent, ever-present skepticism rears its head when he stays after your last call announcement, after you begin cleaning up for the night, and after you give him a not-so-subtle hint that he’s welcome to go try his luck at the hotel you mentioned.

For a moment, you think he’s going to push the inquiry until he bids you a kind, if a bit crestfallen farewell.

Odd fellow.

—

The next day passes without the odd encounter at your work. You think you’re in the clear, until a knock at your door alerts you that your relaxing night is about to be rudely interrupted.

And of course it’s this fucking guy. All the land on God's green earth and he lodges himself nicely up your ass in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

You sigh, resting your forehead against the door with exasperated disbelief. Just your luck, truly. With a glance at your roommate’s innovative weapon in the corner, you reckon your chances of taking him are pretty high. He’s not exactly imposing, and the threat of him is mostly limited to talking you into a coma, so you open the door with no small amount of irritation.

“Look who it is!” His eyes widen in astonished recognition. Too quick. Too counterfeit. 

“What are you doing here?” Wariness has your response low and curt, displeasure ringing out clearly in your tone.

“I heard tale that a vacancy has opened up. Straight from the horse’s mouth.” His hands slide into his pockets, feet shuffling with beguiling innocence. He’s not fazed by your tone. In fact, you’d say he looks thrilled at your visible disturbance.

“…Wouldn’t that be me?” You’ve only informed a few people about your roommate jumping ship, but intel around here circulates like blood in the goddamn body. For all your chatting the other night, you took care not to broadcast that you were living on your lonesome now to an unusual newcomer. Damn loudmouths.

He laughs long enough for it to be awkward (yeah, even more awkward), shaking a finger at you like you had told him the first joke he’s heard all year. You don’t join in.

“I guess so! But no. Just word of mouth, y’know. Small town. Nice people.”

That last bit feels pointed. You get a feeling it’s a subtle dig at you. He looks right into your eyes as he says it, smiling, but forgoing his animated expressions to drive the point home. Silence stretches between the two of you and he clears his throat.

“Well, today is your lucky day, darlin’!”

Something tells you that you two have wildly different concepts of luck, seeing as Remmick is cheesing like a strange man at your doorstep is something you should be particularly enthused about. One that still smells like coins.

“Why.” Distrust pours off of you in waves.

“Rentin’ a place on your lonesome in this economy.” He shakes his head at the ground, face pinched as if the idea offends him. “And findin’ good housemates is as scarce as hen’s teeth. But! Here I am. Ready to offer you my company and my money.”

He says that last part conspiratorially, like your panties are supposed to drop at the mention of cash. Maybe pop out a tit or two. The confidence in his pitch has your mind bending over backwards trying to figure out when you were dropping hints that you’d love sharing a house with a man that checked off all the boxes of serial killer.

“What makes you think I’d be a good housemate?” 

“Why, from our chat at the bar! I can tell we’re similar. You like music-” He recites with raised eyebrows in a see how close we are expression, “And I, well, I happen to be a musician. We’ll get along real well.”

His convincing points seem to start and end there, but Remmick fucking beams at you. It’s as if he’s conversing with an old friend instead of someone he met days ago. You want to chalk it up to him being a friendly fella, but a nagging feeling tells you to be on your guard.

At your silence and more than likely suspicious expression, his brow creases. Doe eyes widen in a way that threatens to break into a pout, appearance ranging from a pathetic please be my friend to a more intense why don’t you love me. A true performance so dramatic it was painful. You nearly wince.

“Can you stop with that look?” You barrel on as his mouth opens in slight offense. “You’re acting like I kicked your puppy, man. Look, these things usually take interviews. Deliberation. Not drop-ins in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t recall being offered an interview when we met the other day-” His tone and countenance suggest that you’re the one being unreasonable, here.

“Are you kidding! You think I’m going to take roommate applications at my work? At a bar? With someone I just met?”

“I reckon we’ll be thick as thieves come the end of the week. I swear on my Mama, God rest her soul.” Remmick clasps his hands in prayer to emphasize his plea.

You have half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, and maybe his Mama too. 

“How about I give you my- shit.” You ignore his eyebrows shooting up at your vulgarity. There’s no working phone for him to have the number to, not that you’re particularly eager to share it with him, but you’d like to wrap up this conversation in the foreseeable five minutes. “How about you come back in a week?”

His hands slowly lower, dejected. He grimaces, hissing through clenched teeth as he prepares an answer you know will piss you off.

“How about somethin’ on a more immediate timescale?” 

“How about no.” You give him the best mean-mug you’re capable of, and he relents. 

“Then I’ll be on my way. But I’ll be around town, just in case you change your mind.” The show he’s putting on is truly impressive. He throws on a polite smile that conveys his disappointment, nodding to himself as he strolls away at an unhurried pace you know is fabricated, because this man is nothing but a ball of energy.

Your heart squeezes a fraction, but one quick gander at the situation in its entirety curbs any scraps of guilt you have. 

—

Remmick’s melancholic departure would be a lot more impactful if he wasn’t back the next night, claiming his shaded barstool in the corner, and you tell him as such.

“Y’know, your dramatic exit doesn’t hold as much weight if you just come back the next day.” You attempt a mirthful jibe, if only to kill any hard feelings that may be festering. He does know where you live, after all.

Thankfully, Remmick doesn’t seem to harbor any, because his demeanor enlivens at you making conversation with him, and he plays into the repartee with wit of his own.

“I held off long as I could. Gave you time to cool down...” He says that last part gingerly, like you being unaccommodating was the result of an unpleasant mood. 

“It’s not even been a full 24 hours!” You blurt, more than a bit incredulous.

“What can I say? Just can’t keep away from you.” His eyes flick over you, flirty, yet fleeting enough to be respectful for an action that’s more lecherous than not when performed by other customers. The dazzling smile he gifts you after helps more than a small amount. “Y’know, there was a time when women would find it flatterin’ to have a suitor.”

“Yeah? I can find ten of you at the gas station, so.” 

“Alright.” Remmick smiles a little too wide for a joke that was more than a half-truth, hand raising to clutch his pearls with a slight scoff. “Why’re you single then? That sunny personality?”

Ouch. He had a few half-truths, too. Though his good-natured ability to take a joke is contagious, so you figure you can play into the one at your expense as well. 

“Burns too bright, man. They can’t handle this.” You raise your eyebrows, shrugging in a ‘what can you do’ fashion. You hope the unsaid you can’t either rings out just as clear.

“I bet.” He stares at you, a crooked grin and that thoughtful intensity back on his face.

You hum, shaking your head as you go to serve someone else and ignore the way your skin burns with his eyes on you.

—

You should have expected the misinterpretation of your attempted friendliness.

That tick you had to pull out of your arm one afternoon should’ve been taken as the foreshadowing it was, because it accurately summed up the next few weeks. They pass like a fever dream, with varying, conflicting emotions to match.

You’re wary, sure. But Remmick doesn’t strike you as the typical tail-chaser, and nothing untoward has happened in your conversations besides the pleading to let him come live with you.

The look in his eyes does set you on edge, often triggering goosebumps erupting on your flesh when you just feel them on you. It’s not outwardly lecherous, though you have caught a hint of that, too. Several times when he thought you weren’t looking.

While the general populace was mostly cordial, there’s a few times where you’ve been on the tail-end of some seedy-as-hell looks that have you clutching your keys between your fingers on the way to your car. Once or twice things have gotten physical, but the miscreants responsible haven’t come by the bar for some time. A little before Remmick breezed into town, actually, with his banjo and comely smiles.

All that said, you could do worse in terms of admirers. It is a reasonable classification to make, because Remmick comes around your job and home like clockwork, as if he had all the time in the fucking world to pester you. He is frustratingly patient with your dismissal, unlike you.

You feel like a broken record as you rehash the same talking points with thinly veiled irritation.

No, Remmick, this is not your porch. No, Remmick, it isn’t acceptable to play banjo in a stranger’s yard at 2 a.m.. No, Remmick, you can’t live with me.

The bizarre image pops into your head of you parenting him with the No, David! storybook, a round-eyed Remmick sitting criss-cross on your porch, chin resting on closed fists, ooh-ing and aw-ing at the appropriate moments. Soaking in absolutely none of the pertinent lessons you’re trying to get across.

It’s fair to question whether he’s playing with a full deck here, given the amount of times you have to hold his hand through the explanation that he is a strange, strange man, and that just because you share a similar taste in music and films, it doesn’t indicate a compatible roommate arrangement. Though you’re fairly certain he was lying about sharing your taste in movies, anyway, because he couldn’t name a single plot point of one when you pressed him further.

Unfortunately, you begin to acclimate to his Remmick-ness the longer you’re around him.

It helps that Remmick has shown up on a few occasions with gifts that are…actually welcome. Scarily accurate to your current, unmentioned interests and needs. And because you’ve made the mistake of accepting one of his offerings, the walmart-brand sugar daddy he fancies himself as (yes, the one that begs to live with you) persists until you threaten not to open the door to him anymore.

Despite your best efforts to corral your foolish emotions, his affection and attention are more than welcome. Affection and attention, period. Full stop.

He’s not alone in his gift giving, because one day you find yourself offering him something in return: a few fragrance oils you have a fondness for. You tell yourself the thrill that comes with that has a psychological attribute that lies in loneliness and a lack of romantic experience, and has nothing to do with the primal satisfaction you get when he begins to smell like you.

Anyway, it’s more for your benefit than his. You can tolerate his natural, pine-scented musk, enjoy it on a good day, but those metallic whiffs you got occasionally had to go. Of course, Remmick’s ecstatic, like he usually is when you give him the time of day and you had no qualms finding a way to stifle his happiness. The one you land on is to inform him that he reeks of pennies, and you come to the heartbreaking discovery that he thinks he smells great, mouthwatering even (his words, mind you). You accept that the two of you will have a dissenting opinion on the matter.

That becomes a recurring theme in your relationship.

—

“It’s going to be hard to fight off rumors of my suitor when I have a man that’s constantly at my work.” You greet him with one night, taking a slow gander at the styrofoam cup he snuck in. “And don’t say it’s for the beer.”

“Nothin’s stoppin’ you from confirmin’ those.” Remmick’s lips close innocently around the straw. Outside beverages are against policy, but his rebuttal was that he needed all his money for a room after you denied him yours, and you waved him off before he could beat that dead horse. The alternative was a shift without Remmick, which would be peaceful if a little boring. He also quickened the closing process by helping you clean, so you let him keep his contraband. 

“I’m not sure how to interpret that.” Your heart skips a beat, and in a rush of bashful delusion, you’d say his eyes glanced towards the malfunctioning organ.

“Interpret it any which way that pleases you, darlin’.” His smile is complacent with a deliberate amount of irreproachability.

And if a grin of your own splits your face as you turn to grab a glass, that’s your business.

—

Remmick is a bit of an old soul. You clocked that from your first conversation, one you used to attribute as overwhelming, but now seems performative and stifled upon comparison with your current nocturnal chats. In the late hours of the night, his mask slips and he doesn’t take care to organize his words with his usual methodical precision. 

There’s times where you sit together in easy, cordial silence more revealing than some of your discussions. You, lounging on your swing with mellow contemplation as you study him, furtive. And Remmick, perched on a step with an elbow propped up on the porch, pen between plush lips as he ponders his scripture. The creak of the wood as he shifts to document a sudden thought, the scratch of his pen against the parchment.

There’s something familiar about him, yet he’s entirely unique to you. You’ve certainly never had a man dancing a jig on your porch late into the night. You’d wish he’d take that shit somewhere else, but, okay, he’s not bad. Pretty damn good, actually. And maybe you’re a bit sore because you feel the equivalent of a female bird, mesmerized by his impressive stamina and bones that are seemingly made of rubber. It’s all well and good until he tries to rope you into his antics.

“Dance with me.” He says, tone soliciting after he caught your intrigued stare over the pages of an abandoned novel. He extends a hand and wiggles his fingers alluringly.

“Tempting as that is, no.” You savour his petulant response. He must feel a bit more dramatic than usual tonight, because his arm falls heavily to his side, clearly peeved.

“That's your favorite goddamn word, isn’t it?” 

“One of them. Want to hear some others?” You huff, book thumping as it hits your lap. His responding sigh is all suffering, like this isn’t a hell of his own making.

“As long as they’re for me, darlin’.”  

—

A month passes and giddy expectation stains the hours leading up to each shift. You waited as long as you could to inform him that he did, in fact, get the gig. Just to see how long he’d stick around on his own. Remmick reacted with the fervor you expected, hands clasped to his chest in gratitude despite it being out of your hands. Sarcastically, you asked if he was pleased.

“I sure am, honey. Now I get to bother you on a frequent basis.”

“Already being done, I promise.”

—

On another night, you’re riding a nice high after finding your roommates stash of weed. You guessed a few clothing items was a more than welcome trade if this was the pay off. Hell, you’d ship him more pairs of panties if he let you keep it. But he would no doubt be back once he realized the gold he left behind, and for a moment, you seriously consider fighting him for it. You could, the kid was a noodle and at one point you had a steady streak of arm wrestle victories over the last pack of ramen. Those are fond memories between the two of you. Part of your annual five-minute interactions.

And now you’ve made yourself sad, wading down memory lane while you’re inundated with raw, unprocessed emotions. 

No one had ever stayed long. Romantic or transactional, last roommate not included. Not after nights of waking up screaming, with sheets soaked in sweat and terror. It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass about it. You’ve tried therapists — hell, even a few charlatan dream analysts on a reddit thread — but the gas money for travel got progressively less worth it when the night terrors didn’t diminish, only persisted vehemently.

It’s stifling. Maddening. Lonely.

But the cannabis helps, because for now, you’re hazy and hyper aware of every sensation that draws your attention, with less than half of them managing to keep it. It’s fine. It’s great, in fact.  Not to mention the potential of the blissful absence of dreams, or at least the memory of them come morning. 

Normally, a knock at the door while stoned will send you into rubber-room paranoia, but you know who it is. You know that knock, have heard it nearly every night. It’s your friend. Remmick, who was keen on wasting his own time for the simple purpose of wasting yours too. 

Tonight, you throw open the door with too much enthusiasm and pretend to nurture his demented idea of living together. He presents a hard-fought case, with potent impenetrable reasoning you find yourself nodding along to. Fortunately, you know better from your dreams, and promised yourself not to make any hasty inebriated-adjacent decisions after…the last few times.

And he’s talking about family now. You think it’s a bit of an odd topic to transition to when-

“... a damn shame how individualistic society’s become-”

The desolate realization hits you that you have never seen Remmick basked in full sunlight. Now that is a damn shame. A true tragedy. How those lustrous eyes would glitter, the LED glow of porch lights a poor match for the golden radiance that would wind around those dark curls of his. Those short, damp curls, brilliant shades of chestnut and auburn set aflame. How soft would they feel beneath your fingers-

“You listenin’ to me?”

You hum noncommittally. You need to get him into the sun.

“We need to get you in the sun.” You propose, butting into his draining spiel to pay him a very generous compliment.

Oddly enough, Remmick responds as though you’ve threatened to neuter him right then and there. Honest-to-God flinching back from you.

“...Why?” The slow stretch of the word in his pretty accent rings out into the night.

“No reason.” You shrug, finding a new aspect of his face to appreciate. The pull of his brow towards his hairline put those large eyes of his on display, providing an ample view of those perilous, dark beauties. You can see a prominent fang amongst cute, packed teeth, not at all like those dreadful ones in your dreams. Wait, why is he gaping at you-

“...you know somethin’?”

He looks incredibly suspicious of you, like you’re the oddball here.

“Not really.” You shrug, relaxed if slightly confused. Not exactly an unfamiliar phenomenon when you get high. Nothing to be alarmed about. Remmick doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “What were you saying?”

He cautiously pursues the train of thought you gracefully interrupted, tentative at first and still staring at you like you’ve grown two more heads. Soon enough it picks up full speed as he drones on, if a bit hesitant to outright allude to the selfishness of your actions like before.

He has you questioning if you were toeing the edge of too high, but the room isn’t spinning and there’s no perceptible sensitivity that accompanies a green out. Maybe your roommate’s shit was laced-

“…fellowship…family.”

The pronunciation of the last word gives you pause, the southern cadence falling away to something your head goes foggy trying to place. You fumble with your train of thought before offering up a solution that, in your humble opinion, is a damn good one.

“Look… there’s a community center in the next town that hosts some cultural nights you can go to, a Renaissance Fair or Comic-Con, maybe is what you’re looking for… I can give you the email-”

“No, no, no, that’s not-.” He sighs, hand making to pinch the bridge of his nose before he abandons the action, opting to settle his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “Thought small town folk were supposed to be friendly.”

Maybe it’s the ridiculous situation you’ve found yourself in, maybe it’s the weed but you can’t help it, you laugh. 

It’s abruptly loud, and harsh, and you’re gawking at him with a toothy grin and eyes that are probably bloodshot. All highly attractive. But one look at Remmick wouldn’t confirm the revolting wince you’d expect to find.

At first, he looks shaken, and your head spins when you take in the wistful, tender look he doesn’t attempt to keep off his face. And then, because he’s keen to see how far he can milk it further with an exaggerated, southern drawl, he carries on.

“But you,” He shakes a finger at you disapprovingly. “You’re meaner than a goddamn rattlesnake.”

You’re still giggling as he critiques your absent hospitality, pulling a plethora of recent examples you’ve armed him with out of thin air. Ticks each one of them off on his fingers and then holds his palms up in mock surprise to show you he’s run out. You wave a hand at him to stop, cheek pressed against the wooden panels of the door and split with an uncontrollable smile.

He beams back at you, faux indignation gone, and you’re dazed momentarily.

He looks so, so handsome when he smiles. So enraptured and pleased and drawn inexplicably to you. The authenticity of this look more or less confirms the weary suspicions you had about the genuineness of his previous ones. Those primitive survival intuitions claw through the dumb-struck haze clouding your senses, and you go to bid him farewell in your usual rattlesnake fashion.

“That lets me know I’m doing something right. Away with you,” You halt the closing of the door to throw in a saccharine, “please,” complete with fluttering eyelids.

Remmick seems desperate (when is he not, really) to keep up the hard-fought, genial momentum. In his haste, and with your absent cognitive faculties, the delivery of his next words is poor and easily misconstrued.

“Wait, wait, you gonna give me some?” He cocks his head, brows raised in mock sternness. 

“...Pardon?” You force your eyes to narrow at the assumed proposition. Now that was forward, and more than a bit slimy considering your altered state. You’re still flattered and slightly interested, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You reek like a muhfuckin’ skunk. You holdin’ out on me?” 

“Oh.” Ah. Right. 

You pluck the joint from where you stashed it on the ashtray, fiddling with a lighter and taking another hit yourself to irritate him. He wiggles his fingers out threateningly when you blow smoke in his face, muttering he’s gonna run out of toes to count on, too. You gingerly hold the joint out to him, careful to avoid his touch more than the burning tip, and he takes it between pinched fingers.

It's an instant regret for the rest of the night, because now your slutty mind has a fresh image to mull over. Remmick, with a J dangling from his lips, glowing tip battling a gust of wind as he strums a tune. Remmick, smoking and performing with a molten fluidity you’re jealous of just as much as you want to jump his bones for.

No. Hasty. Decisions. While. High.

You reprimand yourself with your full, government-issued name. It’s still a mighty effort to bite back the “come on in, partner!” you want to chirp at him, accompanied with an arm thrown wide to welcome him into your home. Take the tour straight to the bedroom. 

Strangely, extraordinarily, he doesn’t press the issue tonight. Bids you farewell with a good-natured ‘get on to bed’, complete with an authoritative eyebrow quirk and a raised pointer finger. You raise a finger of your own in return, laughing as he mentions something about ‘ladylike’ and a ‘mind your manners.’

__

You braved the journey to work the next day with only mild brain fog and an intimate amount of fatigue.

“There she is. You alright there, party animal?” Remmick greets you from his normal spot, fond amusement coloring his tone at your slightly disheveled appearance. 

“Please, I’m gonna live forever.” You joke, and something strange happens to Remmick’s face then. What was meant to make him crack one of those charming grins seems to drain him of energy. In a second, he looks haunted, or something of the like, eyes going unfocused for a brief moment. 

“Lord willing.” He smiles, but it’s contrived.

Even stranger, you feel something akin to…misery, is an apt description for it. It’s low-grade but tenacious. It makes you contemplative, makes you abandon your usual taciturn behavior. You glance at his hardshell case propped against the counter.

“Encore of ‘The Killing Moon’?” You give him your best smile.

His answering one is blinding.

—

When you retire that night, you dream a scenario so wildly different and obscure from your usual that your head spins trying to understand it.

You still retain some lewd memories before the indecent moment you jumped into. There’s a spike of elation at the thought of him coming back for you, at the praises and cherishing confessions lyrical on his tongue. He loved you, he told you so and he promised to do so for eternity-

Him, him, him.

Him, who? You want to ask, but the blissful thrall of love lulls you into pliant submission. Turns out you don’t need to, because the next thing you feel are strong, steady hands lifting your skirts to expose you.

“You look real good like that, baby.”

The one kernel of reason you retain latches onto that familiar cadence, but it’s quickly drowned by the voice shushing you and a bombardment of sensual gratification. The next few scenes flash by in rapturous succession.

You’re on your knees, face smushed against the mattress, pillows and sheets displaced from his devastating thrusts. That intoxicating, earthy smell of his engulfs you in willing delirium. Large, cool hands massage your thighs, roaming up and up until they’re settled nicely on the arch of your back, tilting your hips up to further present you to him.

Something tepid and sopping drips onto you, sliding through your folds. It feels so good, but you want to see him. You love him, and you need to see him.

Words fall from your lips — yours, dream-you, you don’t know — but you’re begging.

And he was never one to deny you anything.

The image shifts in the disjointed way dreams do. You’re enveloped by the fluff of a mattress, legs spread wantonly and in between them, is Remmick.

He’s pretty, or at least this conjured image of him your debauched mind created is. His length is thick, uncut and leaking against you, hips inching to-and-fro to glide against where you need him.

And oh, do you need him. You’ve never needed anything more.

“Then let me in.”

—

You return to the waking world, winded and warm and drenched in sweat and — oh God. A fucking wet dream? About a guy you met barely a month ago?

Admittedly, the relief from the traumatic nightmares feels so sweet you could sob.

And you do. You set aside a short period of time to weep like a babe before your shift. Then you dry your eyes, collect most of yourself with only your dignity and sense missing, and the realization hits that you have to face him.

It’s not like you did anything wrong. For all your hoping and pleading with whatever is listening to have one peaceful night, you never could have guessed this was in store for you. And it’s not like he would know, so there’s absolutely no reason to feel any guilt.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you prepare for work like you’re heading to the hangman’s noose. You tell that to yourself again as you contemplate the accuracy of those dreams. 

Would he be sweet with you? Take his time? Your subconscious sure seems to think so, since it’s already assigned him the role of service top in your wildest fantasies. But what if it was rough, feral as he fucked those so-called manners of his into you-

All too soon you’re behind that counter, that intense reverie consuming your coherent thought, looking every which way but his. Remmick’s chatting your ear off about something or other, and you mutter revealing little half-replies. The similarities of his voice and the one your depraved self delightfully calls on makes you lightheaded. You have a hard time looking him in the eye, but when you do, the glass in your hand damn near dive-bombs to the floor.

He’s staring at you. A proud glint in his eye and too damn smiley for your liking. Smug, pleased, and reeking of satisfaction.

He knows. Your traitorous mind squeals. No. There’s no way-

“Huh?” You blurt, elegantly.

“You goin’ for employee of the month?” He lifts his head from where it was propped on a hand to nod towards the glass you’re polishing, a repeat of your first conversation. That close-fitting shirt of his revealing every flex of his well-built back that’s curved over the counter. The more time you spend with him, the more apt the comparison of him to the street cat becomes.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well.” You mumble, and while he��s been sympathetic about your confessions of sleepless nights up until this point, it seems to be the worst thing you could’ve said.

If anything, his smile widens. Head flops back on his hand, eyes impish as he just stares. He halts fingering the rim of his drink to drum a tune against the counter top.

“What?” You press.

“Nothin’.” He chirps, which tells you that, yes, there’s something, “Have a drink with me.”

“No,” You reply, immediately. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What's gotten into you? You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

He gets to his feet, and for a stupid moment your heart lurches, afraid he’ll leave. But then he reaches behind the bar top to pluck up a shot glass that you just finished cleaning.

“Hey.” Your eyes dart around, but no one pays much mind to the two of you. It’s the tail-end of another slow night.

“Hey yourself. Drink with me.” He fixes you with those puppy-dog wonders of his. Seriously, he must’ve been mastering that look for years. An A+ student in Manipulations 101. Because you seem to have a hard-on for bad decisions, you grab a bottle of vodka and pour the both of you a double.

You down it in one go, the drink burning a path from your throat to your belly. Remmick hoots and hollers and you swat at his arm, missing entirely when he leans back.

“Look at you. Hair down, all carefree. You look real good like that.”

The vodka nearly claws its way back up your throat as you choke.

You look real good like that, baby.

“Y’alright?” His tone sounds genuine, concerned with a hint of amusement. You focus your eyes anywhere but his, and unfortunately those lustful bastards land on the open collar of his shirt.

“What’s that?” You nod to the chain there, amongst a smattering of chest hair.

He looks a little peeved at his words of concern going ignored, which delights you, but those expressive eyebrows go up and he playfully jerks as if there’s a bug on him. Plays stupid. “What’s what?”

“Your chain, babe. Your chain.” You snort at his antics, but the reveal of the ring as he pulls it up and over his shirt sobers you. “Oh.”

You had noticed a ring on his right hand before. A simple gold band wrapped around his ring finger; the spitting image of the one he just revealed to you. The one he wears around his neck dangles until his palm closes around it, easily dwarfing it in a way that reveals it’s meant for much smaller fingers. Your mouth goes dry. Remmick’s eyes dart towards your chest where it feels like your heart’s halted with your breath. Just as you remember oxygen is a necessity, he fills the stunted silence with a bemusing chuckle.

“Ah, this? I’m holdin’ onto it for someone.” His fingers grasp it with a tenderness that nearly has you grinding your teeth down to nubs. The delicate web of veins in his hand flex as he caresses an inscription on the inside that’s concealed to you.

“Is that…for a friend?” You joke, weakly.

“You can say that, yeah. A dear friend. Just waitin’ to give it to her is all.” Remmick ducks his head with a smile that is both sentimental and entertained.

Spikes of unwanted jealousy eat away at you. They revamp every time you see that stupid chain, each glint in the light a lacerating taunt. You feel nothing short of wounded for reasons that are baffling and arbitrary.

The mood shifts for the rest of the night. Or at least, yours does. You’re unintentionally short with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, he brightens in response to the change in your behavior, and you wonder what it conveys to him. You’re internally lamenting over a bruised ego, and Remmick’s keen to prattle on about the state of modern music and the lack of allure it brings to the table. All while you’re trying not to have a meltdown that would put a three-year-old’s to shame.

“-and now it’s just ear-candy, no substance worth mentionin’-”

“Can you get to the point?” It always fills you with a bit of sadistic satisfaction when you manage to irk him the way he does you, but it’s extra rewarding now.

“I’m fixin’ to!” He gives you an accusing look that says and this is why you’re the problem. “If you’d just- oh!”

He throws his hands up in sudden remembrance. Then goes to dig around in his pocket. Curiosity piqued, you abandon some of your sulk and lean slightly over the counter to catch a glimpse.

“Forgot. My down payment for the room.”

“What room-” Your incredulity cuts off when he produces an odd-looking gold coin.

“For when you say yes. Uh-uh, doesn’t have to be now! Don’t get started on me,” he says, sternly.

Sure enough, your mouth had opened to retaliate. You slap away the wagging finger in your face and sigh, examining the engravings on the coin. You’ve seen it somewhere before, but now you’re drawing blanks.

“And this is some kind of currency? I thought you said money was tight...” You look up to see a contemplative Remmick, gazing at you like the sun shone out of your ass. “What?”

“It’s the solid gold kind, darlin’.” He nods to the coin, unhelpfully ignoring your other inquiries altogether.

“I don’t believe you.” You shrug, extending the ‘gold’ piece back to him. “And even if I did, if it’s anything my landlord can’t immediately go off to buy booze with, he’d take me out back and shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, now that you have me to protect you.” Remmick doesn’t say it like a joke. It should piss you off, or make you uncomfortable, but you cherish what his odd segue reveals.

“Sure.” You laugh, foul mood lifting slightly. He still wants to stay with you. Still chooses to be here with you. “Start helping me clean up.”

“Yes ma’am, y’know I can’t deny you anythin’.” He says, smug and charming as he hops enthusiastically off his barstool.

You’re halfway through conjuring an unimpressed response when the words sink in.

He was never one to deny you anything.

You whip around to gape at him in a manner that would have him poking fun at you for the rest of the night. Instead of the gloating grin you expected, you stare at the expanse of his back, whistling as he begins to wipe down tables.

—

Remmick had a rudimentary understanding of personal bubbles. He wasn’t necessarily touchy – was more than respectful in that regard, actually – but he had a proclivity for standing and/or walking too close for comfort. More than once he’s bumped into you from a lack of maintaining appropriate stopping distance. You figured it was an effort to drive you crazy, because he always seemed to know when he did something that made your heart race, if his pleased little noises were anything to go by. As for your heart racing…

The delicious images you have been waking with throw you straight into a drunken stupor. Afflicted emotions from your dreamstate follow you, bleed into your interactions and infect your sense of reason until you’re never not smiling at him. 

He frustratingly remains a gentleman despite his boyish flirting. So the first time his fingers are the ones to initiate contact and he freezes, as if debating some intricate meaning of the gesture, you roll your eyes and leap on that opportunity like fucking spiderwoman.

“No, that’s–it’s okay. Seriously. Hold my fucking hand, Remmick.”

He glows, and you get the feeling you just settled a timeworn decision for him.

For all his expressiveness, he’s never touched you. You understand why now. It’s like a dam burst, indomitable and perpetual. Now, his hands seek you out almost habitually; winding around to rest on your back, offering a playful elbow in the illusion of being a gentleman (you know he’s not, much as he says so), and, most devastating in effect, the gentle hand laid on the nape of your neck, a final, grudging squeeze before he surrenders you to the impenetrable residence that is your cabin.

Suffice to say, there is undeniable mounting tension between you two.

It’s there when you share the trivial matters you agonize over (to lessen the severity of other, far less trivial matters) and he hits you with astute advice and a kind, “Stop worryin’, huh?” 

And you do, because his worn, calloused palms shuck off your shoes after a tiring shift, thumbs digging into the arch of your foot draped over his lap with doting attentiveness. 

It’s there as the two of you are slumped together on the porch swing, leaning closer and closer until your forearm rested languidly on his shoulder, legs tossed over his thighs. You’re antsy with the dizzying proximity of him, weary fingers going to toy with that chain you have a strange penchant for, occasionally slipping and grazing the length of his collarbones. He shivers, hums out a soft ‘don’t stop’ whenever you pause.

He pretends not to notice the top view of your plush, warm breasts, and you pretend not to notice the budding erection under your knees. It’s a long while before you can convince yourself to move, limbs cozy and listless. 

It’s shortly after that, and by shortly you mean that very night, you realize you may be in too deep. 

You threw on a film in an attempt to convince yourself you’ve attempted other activities besides brooding. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, because you find yourself wondering about Remmick’s thoughts throughout it. You guessed right that he wasn’t a big movie-watcher, though he seems perfectly content to listen to you prattle on about them. Therein lies the issue of wanting his thoughts on a score, wondering what jokes he would make during, and planning conversations and taunts based on those things.

For all his silliness he is wickedly intelligent, often spinning a cursory topic into a long-winded conversation lasting well into the night. Before, the days were long and the nights were endless. Now…

You blink and your shift passes. You catch yourself more and more frequently wondering what he would think about a movie, a book, a song. He’s burrowed himself into your head, clawed his way into your veins so that you don’t even dream of monsters anymore. Just him.

That night, you’re fighting restlessness with negligible results. Remmick, unbidden and evocative, infiltrates your mind and brittle peace without being physically present.

You sigh. Count the water stains on the ceiling. Count them again.

“Fuck it.” Your fingers slip past the hem of your underwear, past your puffy folds to where you’re ripe with need.

You get yourself off while envisioning a particularly vivid scenario of Remmick and his dexterous hands. Those large hands that always seem to be active, whether they’re rapping on the counter, fussing with that gold coin, or twiddling in the air as he talks like he’s playing a pretend instrument. Your enamored recall takes a debauched turn when that imaginary hand dives into his own trousers, this time, half-mad with lust as he watches you come undone.

As you lay there panting, left with the remnants of his name lingering on your tongue, your heart squeezes at a blinding truth.

You want him.

And as long as Remmick had a place in your life, you’d want him.

—

The spare key bites into the flesh of your palm, metal teeth of it grounding you as you mull over a scripted dialogue to go with your presentation. You had stared at it for all of ten seconds this morning, feigning deliberation of a decision you had already made. After scraping the tape containing your roommates name off the bow, you coated it in a layer of red nail polish, a favorite hue of Remmick’s.  

When you enter the bar, you don’t notice him in his usual spot, but he sometimes likes to be sneaky and startle you, so you’re not worried. You’re not ashamed about last night’s finger-bang, either. Maybe it’s the anticipatory thank you for making me your roomie sex you’re betting on, knowing his control would fray and snap with one sign that you’re interested. Let you tell him so at the bar, and he’d probably take you right there over the counter.

You serve drinks in a haze, attention split between the pouring and deciding if you should hide the key in his drink, proposal-style. You can see him laughing in your head, those cute, jagged teeth of his on display. And then the two of you would go home, fuck, watch Netflix, maybe fuck some more, all while you make fun of his less-than-impressive repertoire of films. It’s a concrete plan.

You’re a bit sad that the running gag of him permanently stuck on your porch is coming to an end. It made you feel like a teenager, sneaking around in an experience you never got to live. You find solace thinking of the future domestic moments you’ll share together, eagerly keeping an eye on the door.

Only he doesn’t show. The next hour goes by, and you feel like a dog waiting by the door for her owner.

—

Remmick doesn’t come by that night. Nor does he come visit you at your shift the next day.

Or the next one. And the next one.

His silence is more than a little alarming, a phenomenon as unnatural as the clouds pissing blood rain. He wasn’t meant to vanish. He was meant to sing and strum and park himself on your porch after an already tiring day. And you were meant to gripe and sneer and tell him to get lost, all while anticipating his next visit. You had begun to count on it.

And you miss him more than you’d care to admit.

The annoyance he provided served as a balm to the mundane droll of daily life. That’s all it was. Chatting with him, arguing with him. Admittedly, you were lonely, and he listened.

Remmick listened like every word of yours was sacred.

But he had no obligation to you. Nor you him. Perhaps whatever fleeting infatuation that caught his fancy finally ran its course, and he’s probably off chasing skirts in another town. You wished that thought wasn’t as devastating as it was.

You carry on, of course, like you always do with a shift in mood prominent for someone who knows you better. Your coworker notices and even the frequent patrons catch on, but they choose to remain silent while their pitying glances are anything but.

You’re nearly reconciled with the fact that you’ll end up alone when the soft, flowing twang of a banjo reaches you a few nights after his disappearance. Your heart lifts, stupid, foolish hope setting you alight. And then the rage hits. Your eyes roll so far into the back of your head they threaten to stick there, and then you’re yanking the door open to spew out,

“So this is what you’re doing? Taking up residence on my porch again?” Your tone is laced with condescension.

“Where else am I supposed to be?” No added flair. Just blatant truth. He barely looks up at you from his place on the rickety swinging chair, rusty creaks slicing through the melody that irritates you for all kinds of reasons. 

There he is. The object of your affliction and affection. He’s cloaked in dense shadows but you can still make out the trace of purple, bruise-colored circles under his eyes and skin that’s a bit paler than usual. The distance between the two of you seemed to affect him, too, with even his indelible mood notably drained by your absence. The charismatic demeanor and energy you know and love him for dampened. It tugs on your heartstrings, as it’s meant to, but you can’t find it in yourself to comfort him, not when you need that comfort yourself.

“It ain’t polite to st– y’know what, nevermind-” His eyes lift when no barb is thrown his way and you must have overestimated your ability to remain composed, because his face drops further with concern. “What’s the matter?” 

Damn him. Damn him and his wide, disney-princess eyes that see far too much. You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain steady just yet.

“C’mon, honey. What’d I do, huh?”  He slings the banjo strap over his shoulder, setting it down haphazardly as he rises to approach you. His prized possession, thrown aside when faced with your distress, with the mere presence of you. 

“It’s just…you’re back.” You groused, and it didn’t come out as monotone and unaffected as you meant it to. The silliness of your reaction is made apparent by the sudden realization that it’s only been a few days, and here you were, acting like a grieving war widow. Surely it had to be longer than that, right? Were you that starved for companionship? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

He seems to read a hell of a lot into your silence, or maybe spots the tears burning behind your eyes because he gingerly grasps your shoulders, rubs soothingly down to your arms.

“Darlin’, you thought I left you. Aw, no.” His eyes squeeze shut, as though the idea of that causes him physical pain. He tugs on your elbows to uncross the limbs folded protectively around yourself, pulling you closer until he can encompass you in his embrace. At first, you go rigid, and then the weight of the past few days catches up and you melt against him. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not your keeper.” The orneriness is zapped right out of you, his rocking hold a balm on the distress you’ve accumulated in his absence. Remmick hums – a forlorn, amused little noise – and nuzzles your head softly. Too softly. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had in years. I care about you. So when you left- I just-” 

“Shh. S’okay. I know, darlin’. I missed you too, baby.” His voice was low, murmuring platitudes into your hair that shouldn’t have been soothing but were.

Tucked into his embrace, you’re able to envelop yourself in his usual aroma; the aromatic scent of rosemary oil, fresh pine, and those cloying traces of copper. Subtle, faded, as he attempted to mask it in his normalized routine of freshening up for you. It’s instinct really, that has your eyes cracking open to narrow at nearly imperceivable, spackled stains around his collar. Dark.

Your heart pitches violently, plummeting to your feet as the blood drains from your body. You don’t react outwardly, and that’s what does it, because Remmick halts his swaying and tenses around you.

“Somethin’ wrong?” His words are terse, the warmth and solace they previously offered distinctively absent.

“No. Nothing.” The response that leaves you is pure impulse. You want nothing more than to tell him what’s wrong, so he can fix it like he always does. The idea of it, though… feels unsafe.

Remmick’s grip tightens, almost uncomfortably. Possessively, like you’ll be torn from him at any moment. He hums in reply to your answer, unsatisfied.

That roaring desire you had to see him is all but snuffed out. Your jovial, warmhearted Remmick is somewhere else. This man that’s holding you in his arms is a stranger. Even as he ceases your beginning movements to extract yourself, as he shifts to press a silky kiss to the side of your head. His lips linger a bit too long. Hands hold you a bit too tight.

His shift in demeanor gives you whiplash. He could have detected your hesitation but… you were calm, externally. Could he sense the pound of your heart from close proximity? There’s no other way-   

A heavy, sharp realization settles into your bones, one your mind hasn’t yet caught up with. Refuses to. Intuition and limerence battle for precedence. You don’t ask where he’s been, and he doesn’t offer. He doesn’t even ask to come in that night.

You think of that key the whole time, but you’re hurt. You’re hurt and angry and that suspicion of him that’s lain dormant is now making its rounds while that rage is still fresh.

—

Maybe it’s triggered by the off-kilter, fragility of your mindstate, but the peaceful nights cease just as abruptly as they began, the nightmares returning with a wicked vengeance.

It’s fitting that it begins with a feeling of betrayal so heavy it sits in your belly like a stone. Your other senses catch up, each one thrown at you in a dizzying, desperate effort. Bleary flashes of viscera on cobblestone, a chest tightened with ruinous grief and a throat burning, raw from screaming.

A man is in front of you. The one that had whispered such pretty lies in your ear, had promised you forever and everlasting pleasure as you rode him in the back of a carriage. Only this time, his face wasn’t barred at all from view or memory. He was there. In front of you. Red eyes, fangs and all.

Remmick.

This wasn’t- he wasn’t- no.

No.

You felt the world tip on its axis. Your heart rattles against your ribcage, shattering at the betrayal that spans across lifetimes. Your consciousness struggles to grasp the situation in its entirety, the reluctant friendship and trust you built with this man pulled beneath your feet. Someone’s screaming — dream-you, you realize. You’re too far gone into the wounding treachery that you struggle empathizing with getting fucked-over by the same man, and unsuccessfully wail back for her to shut the fuck up, she’s hurting your throat.

You’re such a goddamn fool.

Of course it’s fucking him. Hands in his pockets, casual, collected like he isn’t standing over what you can’t see is a corpse but somehow know is. A viscous pool of blood surrounds the body, displaced as broken hands move — it’s fucking moving, that’s not possible- but your incredulous suspicions are confirmed when he manages to get to his feet. It’s a man, jugular torn to shreds, skin hanging in ropes from what you can see is from a brutal mauling. His eyes find you, entirely unconcerned with the proximity of his killer, and what was once sweet hazel morphs into something purely animal. No, not just a man, your friend-

“No, no. Don’t look at that.” A disembodied voice cuts through the terror. Guiltily, almost but more so desperate.

There’s no flash of light, no dramatic indications before the environment alters. What was once solid ground becomes sturdy wood pressed hard against your back, underneath your thighs, contrary to a softer, calloused touch holding them open. What the hell-

“Look at me.”

Your eyes fly open, you were unaware that you even closed them. If the previous dreams pulled you in with shaken, inexperienced hands, this one was adept with a hardened intensity that left you bound to the memory. Anchored to your surroundings in a way you never were in the others. Every sensation more vivid. And then the reason for the changes became apparent.

The voice that haunts your dreams—Remmick (your adoring lover, your new self unhelpfully supplies) on the floor in front of you. He doesn’t look at you right away, busy taking in the new setting like you were. Then his eyes are on you. Those scarlet, piercing eyes-

“Ah, hell. It was supposed to be a different one.”

You’re in some sort of shack. Fuzzy so that you know it’s still a dream, but corporeal enough for you to retain the previous terror and newfound understanding. What-

“The hell?” The recognizable southern drawl finishes for you and clucks his tongue. “C’mon now. You’re a lot sharper in person.”

It’s him, your mind screams. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

It’s Remmick’s hands that are on you, holding you apart. Him knelt between your legs. And that’s-

Oh God.

That’s you around his mouth, covering the beard he adorns in this version of him. You can feel the slickness at your center, still feel the ache and used condition you’re in.

“Remember. It ain’t all bad.” A soft, soothing kiss presses into the corner of the knee thrown over his shoulder. “Remember, baby.”

You awake with his laugh ringing in your ears, but it’s all wrong.

Your movements are fuzzy, detached, though it’s not unusual for you to still feel disoriented upon waking.

Alarm bells should go off when you sit up, fingers sliding through the blankets like parting water. But your focus remains on the fact that it’s your blankets, in your room, your house. Instead it hits you as you walk through the doorway and straight into the kitchen, the hallway failing to manifest in your dream state. The jarring inconsistencies of dreams are all too familiar to you, but not your autonomous lucidity. Something is different this time.

And then, to solve that mystery, Remmick’s there, sitting at your table and strumming his banjo with infuriating nonchalance.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Figured you wasn’t gettin’ the right idea of me. Meant to show you somethin’ a bit more virtuous but I’m still gettin’ the hang of this myself.” Never-mind the fact that he doesn’t sound the slightest bit apologetic, but the smarmy smile kills any lingering authenticity. He ducks his head with feigned bashfulness, “And that particular scene is one of my favorites.”

Unbidden thoughts arise at his shameless admission. You can’t be sure what time period that was unless you ask — you won’t — but the few palpable senses available in your ‘dream’ offer some hints. The musk and sweat you felt clinging to your skin from the trek to the cabin being a memorable one. Toiletries and frequent baths must’ve been a luxury.

But one of his favorites?

Pure, unadulterated fury bubbles at him, for his pitiless deception, and you, for your mindless trusting and the consequences that came with it. He had gotten into your head. Literally. And you might as well have opened the door for him.

He was a dirty pervert. Slimy, smelly, little man. You tell him as such in a shrill shouting fit, trying and failing to pick up objects for throwable ammunition. He does nothing but stoke the flames of your anger when he laughs, positively delighted, holding the banjo out as a shield when you approach him.

“Didn’t mean to, on my Mama!”

“Stoptalkingaboutyourmother!”

In an attempt to rip the instrument from him and bludgeon him with it, your hands pass through like an apparition. His chortling rings out — he’s damn near giggling, this ancient creature — and it’s resonating through your head and the ethereal space around you.

“How are you– how long could you do this?” You accuse and cease your attempts at picking a fight. Whatever this is, whatever he is, he clearly has the experience here. You can’t pluck a goddamn string let alone play a tune like he did. If you were to wage war, there’s no doubt he would have the upper hand.

“Now this,” He breathes, breathless from laughter (do vampires need to breathe? That’s what he is, right?) and looks around the spectral surroundings with his usual theatrics, “-this is a fairly recent development, courtesy of our meetin’.’’

It’s pure indignation when you huff through your nose, unable to feel the breath or the act of it. You’re you, at least. It’s your own skin you inhabit in your slumber for the first time in years. For all intents and purposes, it’s as normal a dream can be if you ignore Remmick.

“Well I’d be much obliged if you just- fucked off out of my head.” You can’t hurt him physically, but mocking him makes you feel better.

“No can do. Now all’a that-” He clucks his tongue and gestures in a way that references the nastiness of the previous memories, looking put-out like he doesn’t hold a shred of responsibility for them, “I can’t control. But that invitin’ little reminiscence, that I can do.”

“How charitable.” You grit out through clenched teeth. He hums in agreement, either missing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it entirely. “But I’d rather not think of you at all.”

“That just ain’t true. You liked ‘em well enough the past few weeks. You call for me.” He states, back straightening, arm slinging smugly over the neck of his banjo. Looking satisfied as a bird preening its feathers for his mate, like what he just said wasn’t offensively untrue.

You table the information with all of your newfound knowledge to digest later.

“I sure as hell don’t. Call for you to stay out of my fucking head, maybe.”

“Now I won’t lie, your… guarded behavior at first made me think you weren’t interested. But after I sent those sweet little remnants, I knew I still did it for you.” The words are dirty – though the look he’s giving you paired with that lazy smile, mouth parted slightly is affronting in and of itself. 

The truth out in the open appears to make him giddy, non-existent soul unburdened and whatnot, but he seems to come back down to Earth in that moment. His smile doesn’t fade, but the intensity does. He stares at you, seeming content to just take you in, only to drop the mother of all confessions.

“I’ve waited lifetimes for you. Endured loss, destruction, atrocity,” His accent wavers towards the end with something you’re familiar with. Devotion drips from his voice. “-just to find you. To be here for you when you come back.”

And just who’s responsible for that loss, that atrocity, you want to yell. Remmick senses your fury, of course he does, because he’s staring hard enough to cut through you. Your descent into wrath and despair radiates off of you in waves, permeating the ambience of the dreamstate. He sighs, adopting a pitying expression and trying his shitty hand at consolation.

“You’re bein’ misled-” 

“Yeah,” You scoff, tone acidic and filled with scorn. “Big time.”

He shakes his head, weighted and resigned like you’re a misguided soul. Switches tactics from beguiling long-winded confessions to something more vague and preachy.

“We were meant to be from the very beginning. Everythin’ else was just noise.”

That … sounds as ominous as you’re beginning to expect from him. Definitely not the romantic, panty-dropper line he meant it to be. You can tell, because there’s always an undercurrent of frustration when the tools in his arsenal fail to woo you. It’s no different now.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He looks at you like you’re going to disappear.

“You did. For a long time.” Remmick responds to the part you didn’t say aloud, his pleading expression carefully crafted to appeal to your sympathies. It fails.

You burn, feeling violated and betrayed and you’d like to slip into sweet, blissful darkness and not come back up.

“Leave.”

His eyebrows lift, but he makes for the door. Head down, but no true remorse on his face. That bastard is smiling.

“See you tomorrow.” He throws a nod and a grin over his shoulder.

“You absolutely won’t-”

The door slams behind him, his laughter still reverberating in your skull.

—

You email your boss and tell them you won’t make it to work the next day. Then the next.

Mercifully, Remmick doesn’t show. He seems to be taking his role of a good, upstanding vampire seriously, because a mob doesn’t show up to your house to arm you with a torch and pitchfork and recruit you for the hunt.

His time must be occupied by something else that distracts him from razing a town. It’s not hard to guess what that ‘something else’ is, because he perseveres with a vengeance now that the other shoe has dropped, and the dreams persist in their relentless entirety.

Their relentless, vulgar entirety.

You’re not in your body, pelted with emotions that aren’t yours but that’s nothing new. What is new is the chain around your neck, ring cool against a flatter chest, a strange appendage between your thighs—You are in your bed though, the same salacious warmth pooling in your belly, filled with such need, yearning, you just want the scent of her to last a little longer-

The scent of you.

Woodsy. Sweet.

He’s thrusted you into his dreamstate this time. It wasn’t enough that he pervaded your waking thoughts, your slumber, but now has somehow accessed your memories, knows the layout of your room, your belongings.

Like its predecessors, you cannot control what you see or what you feel. And boy, are you feeling a hell of a lot. It’s him that’s rutting against your sheets, hips jerking, cock wrapped in a panty-covered fist, but it’s you that’s now experiencing it firsthand.

Ah. So he’s further invaded your mind and is aware of the item taken by your thieving roommate. And has now incorporated it into this fantasy wet-dream.

The unholy squelch of your (his?) skin sliding against the drool-soaked fabric fills every crevice of the room’s acoustics. Fabric you’ve sunk your teeth into, know the taste of, fabric that no longer smells like her-

You try to make sense of his nonsensical ramblings — now your thoughts— echoing in your head. It’s difficult to focus on anything but the wet rasp of your–his panting against the pillow, the crying, the whining as the heady smell of you fades.

Sweet merciful-

Your teeth ache when you think of her, the spearlike canines elongating when you think about how she looked like a dream lounging half across your lap, half on the seat. The way she touched you so casually, with an ease that you would've been beggin’ for if you knew it’d feel so sweet. How her featherlight touch danced along your skin as if it wasn’t ruinous, as if her putin’ those claws away for once wasn’t the damnedest goddamn thing-

You just know that you can’t be around her yet, not when you’re half-feral with the taste of your favorite girl, can still smell the way she touches herself through the damn door-

“You see what you do to me?”

That was definitely not part of the scene, nor was it in the thoughts you were experiencing. You sever the connection with incriminating quickness and awake, in your bed, your body this time, left with a debilitating headache and blazing guilt.

—

True to his word, Remmick seems to have gotten a hold on this dream-bond thing, because your ensanguined night visions have been few and far in between. You begrudgingly admit, they have been more ‘inviting’, as he puts it, but you feel like the choice between gory tragedy and mind-bending sex is hardly a choice at all. Not when they conclude so softly, with the two of you lying together, sweaty and sated, side by side and melded together as one being.

He’s been sending you to a specific one, lately. A lifetime lived of adultery, tender defilement, and stolen freedom in its naked entirety. You’ve awoken sneaking through a garden in pursuit of him, only to have him startle you from behind, the novel sight and feeling of his scruff tickling your neck. As the insidious pull of lust creeps down your abdomen, it’ll shift and suddenly he’s on his knees for you, again. It does seem to be a favorite of his; his fingers buried in you, mouth playing your body as adept as he is with an instrument, a leg hanging over his shoulder.

All while you keep an eye out for your husband.

Goddammit, Remmick.

—

The time spent apprehensively cramped up in your safehaven-slash-prison is filled with enough rumination to need at least ten therapy sessions to cover. It’s not as though it’s difficult to put the broken, bloodied pieces together, rather it’s unsettling in the grand scheme of things.

I’ve waited lifetimes for you.

He could’ve slipped you something at the bar. Maybe all that sleep-deprivation deteriorated what was left of your logic and sanity and you were muttering to yourself in a padded cell. You would heavily consider this to be an elaborate prank if those appalling dreams had not haunted you through life.

It makes you recall the recent ones with mortified contemplation. Raunchy visions haven’t been unfamiliar to you for some time, but the frequency of them is worrisome. And if it was him who was responsible for the latter, debauched dreams (and by proxy, the rest), then it was also him after the initial passion-filled sequence, sat at the bar the very next day oozing male pride and looking entirely too pleased to satisfy you.

Ah. So, he did know, then. And enjoyed fucking with you about it. At least you weren’t making that up.

And that one with him in your room, a depraved fantasy of his? Memories stolen from the very source, the enticement of the forbidden fruit that is access to your residence, your bed. This intrusive assessment has you teetering on the edge of insanity more than your self-inflicted seclusion does.

Any blissful reprieve the dreams offer only lasts until you wake, wanting and primed and wet for him. It’s like something has awakened within you, a primordial ache laid dormant until Remmick got his specter-adjacent hands on you. The languid ache of pleasure brought to you years ago, the cathartic satisfaction still burning bright in your bones. And that’s not all that they’ve stirred in you.

Unwelcome emotions have accosted what little peace waits for you in the daylight. You’ve always had a propensity for intense emotion in several aspects of life, but jealousy was an emergent one. You’re not sure whether it’s truly you that’s feeling it. The consequences of your dreams stretch far beyond sleeplessness now, and you often wake up with the residue of intimate endearment and a sharp, pining ache for Remmick. It’s to be expected, surely. He worked tirelessly to dig his way into your head.

But what does that make you? A cheap imitation of his dearly departed? Was he even seeing you, when you laughed and flirted and-

Are you seriously feeling territorial of him towards other women that were…you? 

Alone in your room, you seethed, and cried, and then seethed some more. To date, this was the most contradictory and unique position you’ve found yourself trapped in. Exactly why you’re still thinking of Remmick as a man and not the monster he’s repeatedly revealed himself to be, is beyond your understanding. Perhaps it’s the friendship you’ve built with him over the past few weeks that stains your view of him as a silly, reliable confidant that’s capable of brightening your day without the presence of the sun. 

The sun. 

You recall musing about him in the sun with the consistency of faded dreams. You were high then, busy waxing poetic so the realization and what should have been alarmed suspicions entirely slipped your mind. You had never seen him in the sun. The most crucial, reliable fucking weakness of vampires and he had lured your attention from it like a siren’s call as he sang and danced and bickered with you.

In your defense, the prophetic dreams could’ve been a little more fucking clear. His face should have been plastered on wanted posters in your dreams. 

Unwanted: Fuckass nightmare demon Remmick. Crimes: not worth the waste of paper it would take to list all of them on. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT FEED.

More justification on your behalf is that he has an impressive resume with experience of manipulating young women, and has quite literally made it his full-time purpose in his unlife. The careful crafting of the confusing wet dreams and the pleasure they promised, more manipulation on his part. Probably had a heavy hand in concealing his face from your waking memory, too. Past yous have doubtlessly fallen victim to the cycle, ignoring prescient warnings with similar love-struck idiocy. 

Not-so in your defense, these seductions and betrayals went platinum in your head every night for years. Your past selves must’ve been rolling in their graves, shouting well-deserved insults as they watched you get close to him. Their tormentor. 

Yours.

—

Maybe the isolation and idleness gradually degrades your sense of reason, because when it’s past the point of acceptable call outs, you reluctantly prepare for your shift. Hide a tiny mason jar brimming with garlic juice inside an inner pocket of your jacket, nevermind the fact that it’s sweltering outside and you’re running plenty hot from the misfiring of synapses in your brain.   You rehash the plotted route to your car in your head and exit the house with a wince and a prayer. Every noise is the equivalent of mortar fire.

You’re actively scanning the treeline for a Remmick-sized mound loitering among it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out with a ‘rah!’ The sylvan area provided considerable cover for him to be lurking and if you weren’t borderline hysterical, the idea of him squatting in some moldering branches would make for an amusing mental image. If he were to get the jump on you, you’d at least have the pleasure of making fun of him before you ate it.

You clutch the jar of garlic juice tightly, damn near tip-toeing along the graveled path to your vehicle, and you make it without the expected altercation. Problem was, you didn’t expect to find your tires slashed and sagging sadly into the grit in an accurate depiction of your mental state.

“Fuck!” 

For several reasons, you’re not too keen on the idea of involving police into what you aren’t sure isn’t a mental break. Disregarding the probable incompetence and unskilled assistance you’d receive for the threat of an actual vampire, you’d be the source of gossip for months. Even if this isn’t a figment of your imagination, you have no evidence he committed a crime. Though the psychological warfare he’s committed – in your opinion, was a goddamn crime. Considering the vandalism of your vehicle and several historical accounts of stalking, he was proficient in them.

Half-way during your heated debate with yourself, the skin on the back of your neck pricks. Your heart thuds to a halt. Primitive prey instincts kick in, and you freeze, attempting to detect what you feel is amiss. You take a deep breath to steel yourself, listening.

There. A hovering, sinister presence, two pin-points burrowing into your back. You’re being watched. Hunted. He’s behind you, isn’t he? Or wait, no-

You look up. A buried remnant of vampire knowledge hits you like a freight train. Knocks the breath from you just as much as the sight above you does.

That fucker can fly.

[charliepoopyfart]

There was this Remmick fic I read where the reader was a bar tender and Remmick just kept showing up at her bar, AND I CANT FIND IT SOMEONE HELP PLEASE

[charliepoopyfart]

i got a wife like honeycomb

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're all alone in your brother-in-law's farm in Texas. Your fiancé recently passed, mauled by some horrible beast. A man shows up asking for shelter from the rain and you can't just turn him away...

author's note: haigh all here's your cowboy remmick fic. grma for the love on the paddy fic and hope yous enjoy! warnings: grief, animal death (remmick eating them), horror elements, a bit of graphic vampire violence, oral sex (fem receiving), spit/drool kink, vampire drool as aphrodisiac, f/m sex

You wake in the night to the sound of coyotes. The sound is distant, but loud enough to make you shiver in bed. You’ve been alone on this farm for a week now. 

You’ve been staying with your brother-in-law, a kind courtesy after your fiancé passed. He’s a Texas Ranger like your man was, and he left last Thursday. You don’t mind being alone too much. There’s only two horses and one cow, nothing too much for you to handle on your own. 

It’s the nighttime that really gets you. 

You used to pride yourself on being a brave girl. Never afraid of a spider or a mouse. The Texas Rangers said your fiancé was mauled by something big with sharp teeth. A bobcat, most likely. But it mighta been bigger. That’s all it could have been with the way he was left. Or rather what was left of him. You remember they sent the kid with the kind face who held his hat and looked at his shoes as he stammered out the gruesome fate of your poor sweet love. 

Now it’s Thursday again, and as the big grandfather clock in the house ticks closer to Friday morning, you hide underneath the blankets of your bed. 

I’ll be back on Tuesday around noon and the shotgun is just-

The coyotes stop howling and the still night air feels loud as church bells in your small room. A horse outside neighs faintly. 

And the knock on the door is deafening.

At first, you almost think you imagine it. Not at this hour. Not this far away from any towns or cities. The little part of your soul left back in Houston thinks it could be a neighbour, but there are no neighbours here. Nobody here to borrow sugar or ask for a favor–

Your train of thought veers off the tracks when you hear another knock. You slowly rise and descend the stairs, pulling on the boots strewn on the floor and the coat hanging off the railing. You’re in your nightgown, but you’ll peek first before you open the door. The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you look out of the window and see a man in a black hat. He almost seems to not breathe, standing so still you shiver in your boots. 

He reaches to knock again and you stand up straight, trying to remember where your brother-in-law had stashed that shotgun.

“I-I heard you,” you say without opening the door. You deepen your voice, trying to sound manly. 

“Evenin’, now,” a smooth, cold voice responds. “Is your mama home, by chance?”

Oh, Lord. He thinks you’re a boy.

You open the door cautiously. He takes off his hat. 

“Ma’am,” he greets you. “Did I just talk to you like a little boy?” You nod, embarrassed. It seems he is too, shifting from foot to foot.

“It’s awful late, mister.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my… my poor horse broke his leg in them woods out there… ‘n I had to shoot him. Now I’m on foot ‘n… well, you were the first place I could find.”

He’s got a funny accent. He’s certainly not Texan. He looks bad, all sweaty and plenty dirty. His clothes look ragged and dirtier than he is. 

“You’re not… some kind of outlaw, are you?” you ask. 

You realise it’s a stupid question as the words leave your lips.

Your pretty, pouting lips, Remmick thinks, starving. He couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. Even when he thought it’d be a young boy and his mother, he thought he’d hit a jackpot. But this? One little lady all alone on a ranch? It was perfect. 

His cold heart beats slow in his cavernous chest, a percussive lament for a lack of fresh blood. The outlaw and horse he ate satisfied him for only a moment, and he’s fiending for more hot flesh to rip into. His current concern is time, and the sun loaded in God’s pistol ready to rise and serve as the anticlimactic ending of a poorly told story. 

He chuckles, doing his best to seem charming and not like the desperate animal he is. 

“No, miss. Just an unlucky cowboy.”

You sound maddeningly familiar, but he can’t quite place your accent either, but he hasn’t had too much experience in the States. His nights are occupied by running and killing what he can, when he can. 

“Do you have a gun?” you ask him, your scared eyes flitting to his sides.

He holds up his hands innocently.

“I do not.”

You think it over for a moment. You really shouldn’t let a stranger in. But it’s an hour ride on horseback to the nearest town and you can’t give up your brother-in-law’s horses. It’d be more wrong of you not to give this man shelter.

Remmick watches your face change as you think. You’re a sweet morsel, and he’s dying to sink his fangs into you. He can hear your heartbeat and smell the cold sweat on your skin. When you look up at him he watches a thought form in your face. You realise something, and it shifts your brow ever so slightly. Remmick feels another want deeper in his chest. The steady death march of his heart has sped up to a rolling drum.

He doesn’t just want to eat you. 

The shotgun is under the bed upstairs. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Remmick, miss.” 

You give him yours, which he repeats in a voice that makes you shift in place. You really should make this man sleep in the stable.

But that’s not what you say.

“Well… why don’t you come in and get out of the cold, Remmick?” 

Come in. 

He feels a weight lifted off of him and he grins. 

“Thank you, miss.”

You open the door for him and he steps through the threshold, his eyes almost rolling back in his head from the smell of your home. There’s a man who usually lives here, he can smell that lingering staleness. It smells like fear and loneliness, but your blood is hot and he needs it. Bad.

You lead him to your kitchen where he sits, legs spread wide, the way your fiancé used to sit when he was waiting to grab you and tug you into his lap. You suddenly feel that crushing loneliness again, accompanied by a vast and ugly feeling of want. You haven’t wanted a man since that creature took yours.

It’s a foolish thought. You’re all alone and you’ve known this man for all of– you count the grandfather ticks in your mind– five minutes. 

“Do you want something to eat? Or… some tea, maybe?”

“That’d be very nice,” he says with a toothy grin.

His grin is wide and his teeth are scary white, like staring down the snout of a coyote. You know where the shotgun is. Your brother-in-law didn’t bother to show you how to shoot it but that won’t stop you from firing it. 

You brew Remmick some tea and place the mug in front of him. He drinks it down, maybe too fast, he can see concern on your face.

“Jeez, wasn’t that hot?” 

“I’m freezin’,” he lies. 

You feel cold yourself, and exposed. You button the coat around your waist. 

“Oh, and you must’ve gotten rained on,” you say as you remember it had been pouring earlier. “Let me getcha some clean clothes to wear… I… I think those ones you oughta just throw out. Except that hat.”

“That’s so kind of you, miss. Thank you.”

Dressed in your brother-in-law’s clothes, washed up, and hat on the table, Remmick sits there like he belongs. Legs once again wide and elbow on his thigh, leisurely leaning to the side as he watches you. You could hardly sleep and decided– for some reason you truly can’t understand yourself– to make cornbread.

“Are these your… husband’s clothes?”

You should lie, but you’re too focused on stirring to be that smart.

“My brother-in-law’s, actually. I’m a widow,” you admit absently. “Well, not a widow. We never married.”

You’ve said those words a thousand times before. You don’t get choked up anymore. It’s like stating a fact you’ve always known, like where you were born or your height.

“I see. He’s not here, then?”

“Not tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow,” you lie.

“Was he a soldier?” Remmick asks, looking around the house.

It’s not organized, everything has a woman’s touch. He feels like it’s not yours, something about you is too freshly frazzled to be so warm. You seem sweet, though. Suspicious, but he could sweet talk anything that had ears to listen. 

“He was a Texas Ranger for a while. My fiancé was, too. He died on duty.”

“Brave man.”

“Well, it wasn’t an outlaw that got him. It was some kind of… animal.”

Remmick tenses up, but doesn’t let you see.

“Like a bobcat?”

“They think, but… they said he has these… bites, but only on his neck, and no animal in Texas has got that kind of teeth.”

“Strange,” he says, eyes looking into his tea.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

Your fiancé clutched his broken arm, scrambling back on the stony ground, trying to escape the monster before him.

“No, no, I’m beggin’ you-”

“Well it ain’t workin’, ranger.”

Remmick was starving, in his full form. Fangs bared, claws sharp and long. His hands felt heavy as he swung at the ranger. There was something funny about a grown man crying. Hunger and exhaustion had made this monster more cruel than he cared to be. There was no unity with this meal, only a fix of blood before he had to hunker down in this cave and continue on foot the next night. 

“I’ve been eatin’... vampire bats and fuckin’ salamanders for a month now, and you look pretty good.”

“Please, please, my girl’s waitin’ for me-”

“Oh, I’m sure she is, loverboy. Maybe once I drink all your blood and leave you for the vultures, I’ll go and find that girl, huh?”

“No, no-”

“Yeah. I’mma go find her, fuck her good ‘n right.”

“-you goddamned son of a bitch-”

“Yeah. I’ll go ‘n fuck your girl so good, she won’t even remember you.”

The ranger howled as Remmick bit into his neck. Memories flooded his system, a sweet thing with her skirts pushed up telling him hurry, hurry, before your brother gets back. The soft feeling of two thighs pressing against the side of his head and the pretty litany of moans falling on his ears like they came from heaven. Yes, right there, oh, don’t stop, yes! A tight grip on his cock and sliding, in, out, in, out, and breathy whines that made his eyes roll back.

He pulled away from the ranger, twitching and choking. Remmick sighed, sitting back on his haunches as blood and drool dripped down his chin.

“That’s a helluva girl you got,” he thought out loud. 

He sat for a moment and realised the ranger would be waking up any moment now, rejuvenated, with a little part of Remmick in him. He didn’t have time to teach a fledgling how to act, or to deal with a traveling partner. He searched for a large rock and sighed.

So much for fellowship and love.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

You. 

You are that girl with the trembling thighs and the tight cunt he’s had so many dreams about. Absorbing the memories of everyone he turns can be a blessing or a curse, and he really didn’t mean to turn your man. He was just so damn hungry.

He’s so damn hungry, he’s feeling like he could give up on chivalry and kill you right now. You’d make a pretty little partner. He saw a cabin in the woods you could live in, hunt at night and board things up during the day.

You put the cornbread on the stove to cool, and you’ll eat it in the morning, which is coming soon. You set up Remmick in your brother-in-law’s room. Simple. Stern. He’s more of a soldier than your man was, never silly or playful.

“G’night, Remmick.”

“Goodnight, miss,” he purrs in a voice that makes you feel scandalized.

You quickly ascend the stairs and kneel, crawling under the bed to pull out the shotgun. You don’t even know if it’s loaded, but you sleep with it anyhow.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

You wake up hot and sweaty, squirming in your nightgown. You dreamt about your fiancé, his strong hands and kind eyes. You sit up and sigh, shaking your head.

You manage to accomplish your morning tasks on the farm. Feed the chickens, get the eggs. Feed the horses, feed the cow. Earlier than you’d like, the sun completely disappears behind gloomy gray clouds and it begins raining. You dash from the stable to the house and still get soaked, shivering as you seek refuge under your porch. You gasp as you almost trip over a dead raccoon. You shriek and Remmick comes out to find you.

The stormcloud cover keeps him from burning but it is giving him a nasty headache. He kneels down and pretends to be disgusted by the thing he killed. The evening before he left some food out on the porch and lured the thing in, lurching out to grab it. Leaving meant needing your permission to re-enter the house. And that was not an option.

“Wh-what kinda creature does that?”

“Coyote, probably.”

“Th-they kill like that?”

“Time to time,” he lies. 

You can’t help it as you begin to cry. Remmick takes you in his arms. He’s strong and he smells nice, like the woods and a warm fire. You’re so wet and cold, and he doesn’t do much to warm you. It really is freezing, you think.

“I’ll get rid of it, honey,” he coos softly, holding your face.

Honey. That struck you. It plucked a taut cord in you and made you blink at him stupidly.

“Oh, no. Don’t touch that thing… what if you get sick?”

“Reckon I’ll be fine. You leave it out here, you don’t know what kinda things you’ll get up on this porch.”

He does his best not to show you a smug grin. 

“Well… okay. Just… put it in the woods.”

You offer him a thick jacket to drape over his head in the rain.

“And then come back in, you’re gonna catch cold out there!” you call out to him.

You almost make it too easy.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

That grandfather clock ticks away and you realise you’ll have to amend your lie. Your brother-in-law is not returning today. You don’t exactly want Remmick to leave. He’s charming and funny. He sang a little song today while he read a book, and you found yourself tapping your foot as you embroidered in a hoop. He calls you honey again three times, and you’re getting real used to the attention.

You like having a man in the house. It reminds you of when you first started to live with your fiancé and his brother, however taboo that was. Neither man cared, and your brother-in-law didn’t mind leaving to go on a ride around the area while you and your man made love.

Remmick can feel the ranger’s memories, triggered by little things here and there. The way you stick your tongue out in focus has him biting back a groan at kitten licks on the head of his cock. You lean over the kitchen table to grab a spoon? He remembers bending you over it and driving into you, and the wild way you begged for more, more, faster, yes, that! You say his name but all he can hear is the sound of your voice whispering in his ear about sooner you put a ring on this finger, sooner you can put a baby in me. He can’t even make babies, but he’s fiending for your cunt so bad he’s starting to get stupid.

“Remmick?”

“Yes?”

“I… I’m guessing his train got delayed. So, he’ll probably be here tomorrow.”

It’s a clumsy lie.

“I can get out of your hair any time you want, honey.”

“No, no. I… I was going to invite you to stay another night, you’ll just have to leave in the morning.”

“I’d like that very much. I just can’t get enough of your cookin’,” he flirts.

It’s charming and it has you blushing. 

“Thank you.”

He’s on a deadline now, and a creature that can only thrive at night lives and breathes a deadline.

The rain calms to a light sprinkle when the sun makes the sky glow orange, and Remmick has– with complaints of a headache– retired to lay down for a while. You go upstairs and decide that you should move the shotgun. It scares you to have it so close to your bed, and you stash it just above your cupboards. It’s a little bit of a reach, but maybe if you feel really unsafe, Remmick can get it down for you.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────── 

You continue like this for three days until the sun sets on Monday evening. You know your brother-in-law returns tomorrow, and you are so frightened. Whatever creature is lurking in those woods has been leaving dead animals like lambs on an altar every morning. You know it’s not a coyote doing it because this morning, it was a damn coyote. A ravaged little creature that you felt pity for. You said a short prayer, which made Remmick twitchy. 

This man was a strange one. He slept until late in the day, and any time the rain calmed down, he had an awful headache. You knew of old folks whose bones ache when it rained, but never someone who was ailing without a downpour. You wonder if he usually smokes or quit chewing tobacco, as he’s mostly twitchy and excitable, but calculated all the same. He fiddles with his hands and he claims to enjoy your cooking, but he seems to be choking down gags every time he eats. Maybe he’s an opium smoker or he’s usually on the sauce– your brother-in-law is a militant teetotaler, which saved you from becoming a drunken mess after your man’s massacre. 

Monday evening is cold and dark. The ground is soaked with mud and yet Remmick decides he wants to take the air.

You oblige him, and he dons those black clothes he met you in to go hunting.

He’s stalking a deer for a while when he hears something distantly. The voice of a man grumbling to himself. The ranger’s memories flash again. Two boys fighting over a pop gun, two teenagers fighting over a girl. No fair, I saw her first, met with she ain’t a damn penny, stupid! Then the serious promise of I’ll keep an eye on her, brother, you know I can handle her. 

He grins.

Your brother-in-law is home early. 

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

Your head shoots up when you hear a man’s voice outside. Remmick has returned.

“What’d you put those awful clothes on for?”

“Figured I wouldn’t get those clean ones dirty.”

It was almost clever, but exceedingly strange, as you knew him to be.

You share the dinner table and when you stand to clear it, Remmick reaches for your hand.

He says your name. You pause and try to pull your hand back.

“It’s a shame you never got to be a wife, honey. You’d be damn good at it.”

The grandfather clock ticks as you stare him down, your mind empty. He sees the corner of your mouth twitch and he can remember just push my dress up, c’mon, nobody’ll know.

“You need a man to take care of you, sweet thing,” he offers softly, ever so slightly tugging you to him. You stand between those wide-spread legs as he looks up at you, cupping your cheek in a rough hand. It’s half-reverent, half-predatory as he traces your face with his knuckle.

You want to deny it. But you’re so scared, so incapable, so alone. You give him a quick and shameful nod, unable to meet his eyes.

“Want me to take care of you, honey?”

You see through the corner of your eye that he’s drooling. Not a little the absentminded dribble of getting hot and bothered but the serious drool of a dog waiting to be fed. 

You should probably be disgusted. And if you were a little more attentive, you would notice his glowing red eyes, too. But if anything, it fans the fire in your belly.

“Lemme take care of you, baby,” he pleads, gazing up at you. “Fuck, I’m crazy for you. I can smell you… Christ, it’s drivin’ me wild, the smell of you.”

“What smell?”

“Old books and chamomile tea…”

He winces, his nails digging into your wrist. He quickly looks up at you, sitting back on his haunches.

“I can smell that pussy, mo ghrá,” he purrs.

You take a sharp breath at his words. 

“Wh-what’s that mean?” He inhales deeply, shakily exhaling as his eyes close. A smile spreads across his face. 

“You want me too, honey?” 

You’re quiet for a moment.

“Yes,” you answer softly.

“What do you want?”

You swallow, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“You… your hands.” 

You spot his hips rocking in place, desperate for your touch.

“What about my hands?”

“You’re so strong, Remmick. Last night I was thinking about… how the… the veins on your arms pop out,” you manage, your breathing laboured.

He successfully hides his grin, clasping his hands.

“Please, baby, doesn’t it hurt? God, it fuckin’ hurts,” he snarls. 

You nod, close to tears. You feel feral and untamed, and you need him to rip your clothes off and take care of you.

“I just want to help you, mo ghrá, please,” he whimpers.

“Just fuck me, please!” you blurt, slapping your hand over your mouth. 

He’s on you in an instant, pushing the chair back behind him. He noses at your neck, inhaling the smell of you. He can hear your heart pounding as he backs you against the kitchen table, your backside bumping into it.

“Remmick,” you start carefully.

“Yeah, baby?” he says, sickly sweet as he grins at you.

“Be gentle now.”

“Course, honey.”

He lifts you to sit on the table, kissing you deeply. It’s sloppy and hot, and you can feel the drool dripping down your neck. 

“Lemme eat you, baby. I’ll lick you so good- oh, fuck,” he hisses when your hand palms him over his trousers.

He chuckles, his breathing heavy.

“I’ll lick you so good you forget your own name,” he promises.

He meets your eyes and you nod at him. 

“You have to say it,” he breathes against your lips. 

“Please,” you whisper.

He takes off his suspenders and rolls up his sleeves, eyes stuck on you. You quickly shove your layers off with his help until you’re only left in your shift, half-bare to him. The cream coloured fabric is sheer and he can see your nipples hardening underneath. He drops to his knees, rucking up the skirt and wrenching apart your thighs. He groans loud when he spots the soaked fabric of your bloomers. 

He kisses the side of your knee, gazing up at you from between your legs.

“Can I?”

“Quit teasing,” you beg him. 

He leans forward and slips your bloomers down your legs. He brings the fabric to his face, inhaling your sweet scent and bucking his hips unconsciously. He tosses them behind him and rucks your dress up, moaning at the glisten when your wetness catches the light. 

He dives forward, licking a stripe up your slit and lapping at your clit.

You gasp, a hand threading in his bronze hair.

“Fuck me,” he grunts.

He pushes his tongue inside of you, making you squirm. He holds you down with his strong hands, veins in his arms bulging. You have to plant another hand beside yourself to stop from fainting backwards.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he breathes, pulling back. your wetness makes his mouth shine, and one strand of drool drips from his lips. You’re soaked, and your movement makes a sickly squelching sound. He works one finger in and slowly adds another.

“Oh, Remmick,” you whine. 

He curls his fingers up like he’s trying to get you closer, but if you were any closer to his face you’d be a mask. Your fiancé never did anything like this, you didn’t even know you could feel this way. Everything is so slick and hot, his drool and your wetness combining as he drinks it all down greedily.

He hooks under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the table and continues. He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard. You shout, covering your mouth and laying flat on the table. He rocks his hips to seek some touch, only feeling the light brush of his own britches. Your hips buck into his mouth and he lets you as he lavs at your clit endlessly.

“Remmick, w-wait-”

“Nearly there, mo chroí.”

He traces the letters of his name with his tongue, your legs hooked over his shoulders.

The taste of you is supplemented by flashes of you in different positions, on your knees, in his lap, behind a pew. Dirty girl. He crooks his fingers, licking flat on your clit slowly, pressing in.

You cry out, grabbing his hair and yanking as your back arches. You gush into his waiting mouth, which he drinks down gratefully.

“Thank you, thank you, fuck, don’t stop, k-keep bucking like that,” he mutters encouragements, kissing at your clit every few seconds to keep you jolting.

Finally he winces and squirms, cock twitching in his trousers. He stands on wobbly legs, looking down at you. You exhale and sit up. He kisses you softly. 

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” you puff out against his lips.

He scoops you up and carries you up the stairs to the bedroom, setting you down. He stands in front of you and you undo the buttons on his shirt, parting the fabric. You smooth your hands from his toned stomach to his muscular chest. 

He breathes softly, his eyes closing. You feel his pectorals, biting your lip at the plushness of them and how they’re cool to the touch. You reach down and unbuttons his britches, unzipping them and trying to push them down. He pushes your shift up your body and tosses it to the side. You’re bare to him, and he’s nearly there.

He shoves you back onto the bed, snarling as he climbs over you. He kicks off his britches.

“Mo shíorghrá,” he pants, nosing at your neck. His teeth scrape at your skin. 

“What is that?”

“Hm?”

“What does that mean?” 

He hesitates. 

“It’s Irish for ‘eternal love’,” he explains quietly, his breath on your cheek. 

“Forever?”

“Only if you let me make it forever,” he utters, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone. 

“Can we do this forever?” you sigh, draping your arms around his neck.

“Of course we can, mo ghrá,” he says, sickly sweet, hooking your legs over his hips as he grinds against you.

Your hand darts down to grip him at the base and guide him in.

“You opened the door for me and now you let me in so nicely,” he teases, pushing into you slowly. 

A bell should be ringing in your head, but all you can think of is the divine stretch of him sliding into your cunt slowly. 

“Feels good, baby?”

You nod wildly, your nails digging into his chest as you brace yourself. He gasps when he feels you envelop him, a hand fisting the bed sheet next to your head. 

“F-fuck,” he breathes shakily. 

“It’s so good, angel,” you mewl, your nails digging into his back. “Oh, Remmick… oh, honey,” you whine, twisting when he bottoms out, panting.

“Oh, Jesus,” he wheezes. 

He gazes at you, half-lidded and drunk on the feeling. He’s so hungry, and he can’t help when his fangs slide out of his mouth.

He leans down to the scarred spot at the top of your breast. The pearly white points in his mouth pierce your skin. 

You cry out.

“D-did you bite me?”

The feeling of pain lasts for a moment, and suddenly all you feel is warmth in your chest. Blood beads at the wounds and he latches on, sucking the blood from the wound and swallowing noisily as he does. He continues to move his hips, fucking in and out of you as you whimper.

“Remmick, th-that hurts…”

He moans against your skin when you tighten around him. 

“Fuck… d-don’t do that,” he puffs against your skin, your blood all around his mouth. 

“Do what? This?” you giggle, flexing your abdominals to make his eye twitch. 

You’re fucking giggling, and he’s about to make you his forever.

You smirk, turning him over when he’s lost in it. He holds your hips and lavs at your wound until it closes.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

You plant your hands on his chest and raise yourself up with his help.

“So good, honey, so good,” you chant, eyes closed.

“Yes, yes, fuck… damn it to hell, girl, g-go faster…” 

He helps you, pulling you down quicker and quicker on his cock until you’re bouncing on it, lip between your teeth. 

“Baby,” he manages, his voice shaking. He twitches inside of you as he hits the spot that has your vision spotting.

You’re breathless, you can’t even think. There’s just the in-out, up-down drag of his cock filling you up like you’ve never known before. You see fangs in his mouth and you aren’t even scared.  

“Cum with me, c’mon, please,” he mutters, his face in the crook of your neck.

You both stiffen up and break. He growls, biting at your neck as your back arches. You feel alive and dead all at once, like every inch of your body is being kissed and bitten. He drinks more of your blood, drool and sweat and tears all trail down your body. You go limp and Remmick falls back. You moan as you rest on his chest. He whimpers softly and cradles you. 

You drift off briefly and awaken feeling loose and rejuvenated. You reach to touch your neck and Remmick takes your hand. You see claws on his fingers, and notice that your nails come to sharp points too.

“Aren’t you glad you let me in?” he jokes in a black honey voice.

You hear it with your ears but you can hear him in your mind, too. He's all over you, inside of you, right in your chest. Your heart is hardly beating, in exact time with his.

“Mhm,” you murmur, curling up. You feel the warm, wet sensation of blood pooled around your body, but you don't care.

“Aren’t you glad I killed your stupid fiancé and his dumb fuck brother, too?”

"Yeah."

“You’re gonna be my little wife now, baby. All fuckin’ mine.”

[charliepoopyfart]

god forbid a girl has a preference

mfs will slam heroin but tell wendys no tomato on they burger

[charliepoopyfart]

giver (no woman like you)

PAIRING: roy goode x fem!reader

WC: 8.2k

WARNINGS: mentions of parental issues, male violence, misogyny, guns/weapons, sexual insinuation, hunting/killing animals (for food), reader is stubborn and unaware, death, violence (shooting), drinking, pining/yearning, use of ‘whore’ for prostitute, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, bath/shower sex, dirty talk, praise kink, riding (girl on top), nipple play, creampie, cute cuddling

A/N: well…this is it, everybody. big thank you to @spikedfearn for a discussion on how roy’s praise kink, @amaranthine-enihtnarama, @iceemochaa, @remmicks-salvation for the motivation to write, @fuckoffbard for literally everything, @confetti-cakemix and my lovelyyyy wifey @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! this fic is based off of this request, so thank you anon 😌 roy goode is my no. 1 jack role so this is long overdue! this takes place before godless, so no need to watch/know the show. please enjoy!

masterlist

You had a habit of finding yourself in places where you didn't belong. As a child, it was your father grabbing you by the back of your frock after he found wandering near the library. "Girls don't need to concern themselves with books," he'd said. Didn't stop you from reading almost every one of them.

It was back in Courthill when he caught you watching the deputy's target practice.

“You should be courting the boys, not shooting at ‘em.”

So, it was no surprise that you found yourself as another lonely wanderer through the vast Western frontier. You’d slipped out the back door of his farmhouse that had never been a home. And considering there hadn’t been a single sign of a search for you in the past five years, clearly, you weren’t missed. Maybe you’d been presumed dead.

It was no matter to you now. Courthill was long behind you, and living on your own as a young woman in the West had taught more than your father ever had.

You’d done bad things, but no worse than any man. You’d killed, but no more than a woman’s survival called for.

Now, as you found yourself wandering in some forsaken town during the hottest month of the summer, you couldn’t help but remember your father’s words. There was no telling if you were even in Texas anymore. Your only possessions consisted of a sack swung over your shoulder carrying spare clothes and a canteen.

Your boots crunched the scorched dirt underneath you. This town wasn’t yours and you weren’t about to stroll around it like it was, but no matter how low you held your head, you felt the glare of cautious, watchful eyes.

It wasn’t everyday someone would see an alluring woman like you dressed in her father’s trousers—a few sizes too big—boots that were stuffed at the toe to fit, and a gambler hat faded by the sun. The most noticeable accessory was the silver pistol on your belt. But it wasn’t the stolen clothes that gave it away.

It was your hair. Uncut and hanging just above your waist. And the fact you hadn’t made an attempt to hide it under your hat showed you weren’t trying to be someone you weren’t.

You were just another runaway.

There were whispers, none of which you could make out, but enough to know you weren’t exactly welcome in this place.

You had to leave. Soon. But the next civilization wasn’t for another eight miles—too far to go on foot in this heat.

“Who is that?” A young boy asked his mother; she shushed him, and turned him away.

Like the sight of you was a walking sin.

The rim of your hat hid your eyes as you walked past them. A sharp turn to your right led you to another street lined with wooden buildings bent from the Western wind. This road was quieter and emptier; you preferred it that way.

Then, like a miracle, you heard the sound of a deep, throaty snort. Your gaze shifted to an alley between a small house and the telegraph office where a hitching post stood in the dirt. Tied to it was a black mare, standing strong despite the sun beaming down on her.

Bullseye.

You were careful not to make any sudden sounds as you approached the post. She shifted her weight, head hung low just like yours as steam faintly curled from her nostrils.

“Easy, girl,” you hold your hand out gently.

On her back was a worn leather saddle and two sacks hung over her hips. Braided reins wrapped around her snout. This one belonged to someone, and as a stranger to this town, you had no place in taking her.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, you thought to yourself.

Once you were close enough, you set your hand on her cheek, gently rubbing the soft fur with your thumb. “Long day?” You half-cooed, scratching underneath her chin. The mare snorted in response.

Looking over your shoulder to see that no one had noticed you yet, you began to sort through the sacks. An empty canteen. A couple of golden, shotgun shells. A stale, half-eaten piece of bread wrapped in cloth. A handful of silver dollars. You took the money, but everything else was nothing of value to you. You threw the sacks to the ground so the dust floated in the air like a cloudy sky you hadn’t seen in days. A bead of sweat dripped down your cheek as you hurriedly tied your own bag to the saddle, moving to undo the knot around the hitching post.

If your heart hadn’t been beating so hard that you could feel it in your eardrums, you might’ve heard the quiet footsteps behind you.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” a low, gentle voice called out to you.

You almost gasped, your fingers still fumbling with the reins. Turning on the heel of your boot, you noticed the figure at the end of the alley.

A man dressed in black half-smiled at you.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Is there, uh,” he began to slowly approach you, and you readied yourself to pull the gun from your side. “something I can help you with?”

Perhaps he was just a kind man looking to help a random woman in trouble. But you didn’t plan on finding out.

“Oh, not at all,” you smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

You finished untying the knot of the reins, quick to get out of this town as soon as possible.

But before you could secure it in your hand, the man behind you clicked his tongue against his teeth. In almost an instant, the mare rushed to him, the reins slipping from your hands with a burning sensation. You hissed at the feeling and immediately pulled the pistol from your hip.

The horse stopped by his side. The man looked over to see your gun aimed directly at his chest for his heart.

Roy Goode had met a lot of strange people in his life. He’d been to a lot of strange places, and never had he met such a woman like you—standing in your stolen boots and holding your pistol at him; you could take his life in an instant, and he doesn’t doubt it. He takes the reins in his hands and twists it around his palm.

“Thieves don’t do too well here,” he said, though it didn’t feel like a threat.

Dust swirls in the space between you. “I didn’t know it was yours,” there’s an edge of defensiveness and even shame to your voice. “I’ve stolen worse from worse men.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his face. The man studies you for a moment and nods once. “That why you’re out here alone?”

If you had thought of something clever enough to say, you would’ve, but your mind draws a blank. You’re fixated on the pair of blue eyes watching you. Without noticing, you’ve lowered your weapon to your hips already.

“What’s your name?”

You glared at him for a moment. “And why should I tell you?”

He smiles. “It’d be kind, at the very least. Wanna know who I’m talking to.”

“(y/n). (l/n).”

The man nods. “Well, Miss (l/n), horses aren’t just toys to be stolen,” he says, gently petting the mare’s chin and running his fingers through her mane. “You want something that runs, you earn it.”

“And how would I do that?” You tilt your head.

The man mounts the horse with an impressive ease. He settles into the saddle like he’d been doing it his entire life. Now, the tilted smirk on his face widens. “Don’t suppose you’re any good with a rifle?”

You glance off in the distance for only a second.

You could bolt off right there and then. It’d probably earn you a bullet in the leg, but you were quicker than you looked.

Most men in the West would have shot you on the spot for messing with what was theirs. Not this one. You clicked your teeth at the realization that your options were severely outweighed.

Any good with a rifle? “Good enough.”

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t completely with the law.

Yet, he didn’t seem to think himself above it. You nearly objected when he paid a rancher on the outskirts of town for a horse, saddle and all, but who were you to deny a gift? Besides, it had a lovely chestnut coat that you admired.

The town was far behind you as you slowed the horses’ galloping to a gentle stroll beside one another. To anyone who didn’t already know you, the two of you actually made quite a nice-looking pair.

Canyon walls surrounding you stood tall, practically glowing a golden rust in the late afternoon sun. Gravel and dirt crunched underneath the horse hooves; small songbirds gently chirped off in the distance; the dry air whistled a tune. The sweet music of the West.

Neither of you spoke much.

There was a polite “thank you” for the horse and a brief conversation about sunburn, but other than that, you were complete strangers. Perhaps it was a way of leaving the scenery undisturbed, or maybe it was that you didn’t have anything to say until one of you was sick of the silence.

Fortunately, he gave in first. “So what’s a young lady such as yourself doin’ in these parts?”

“I’m not a lady,” You had no qualms against this man, but a part of you scowled at him. It wasn’t the first time someone thought they’d figured you out because of what was between your legs. “And I’m from Courthill. Texas.”

He whistled. “You’re a long way from home.”

“How long?”

“About two weeks that way.” He pointed to the left.

For the past few days, you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint your location on a map if it was laid out in front of you. It was odd to think that home—a place you never wanted to see again—was so close yet so far.

He spoke again. “I don’t suppose you made the whole journey by foot.”

You scowled, turning your head so he wouldn’t notice it. As of now, he’d only shown you kindness. You couldn’t shake the stubborn, defensive barrier that came with being a woman on her own.

“I had a horse,” you shifted the reins in your hands to avoid a large rock in the path. “Couldn’t keep it fed, so I sold it to a woman who could. A Miss Alice Fletcher.”

A brief silence settled between you before he broke it.

“Surely, there’re ways for a- uh, woman to, uh,” he cut himself off, gently stumbling on his words. You knew damn well what he was going to say. “You know…”

“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

If your hair had been tied up, or you’d worn a thicker jacket to cover up the curve of your chest, Roy would’ve fairly assumed you were a thieving, conniving, worn-down man like him. But you weren’t. And he enjoyed seeing you in pants rather than a skirt. He didn’t even try to picture the latter.

There was dirt on your cheek. Mud smudged over the knees of your slacks. A small, red scar on your collar bone.

“No, ma’am.”

Good. That’s that. You thought. But he spoke again, just above a mumble like it was only meant for himself.

“You’d make good money as one.”

You sighed. A spiteful grin on your face. “So, would you.” It was meant to be offensive, something degrading and sarcastic. He hardly took it as one.

“Why, thank you.” He perked. You shook your head at your lame insult.

Then, he motioned to the hat on your head and the boots on your feet. “So I’m guessin’ those ain’t yours?”

Well, you’d hoped it wasn’t noticeable that they were a size too big. Your eyes trailed across the scenery, an embarrassingly obvious way of forming a quick lie. “A farmer from Oklahoma gave them to me.”

Of course, he saw right through it. “That don’t look like a farmer’s hat to me.”

“I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.”

“You did try to steal my horse.”

Touché, unfortunately. Without a moment to spare—because you really didn’t feel like opening yourself up to this man—you changed the subject. “Why’d you bring me along?”

He cocked his head. “Is it my turn now?”

You ignored the smirk on his face.

With a shrug, he continued, “There’s a man I’m lookin’ for, lives down in Tucson.” That nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. You pulled back on the reins and he turned at your sudden halt in the path. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t even know who the hell you are,” you sighed. It might’ve been better to speak a little quieter in a valley where anyone could be hidden, but you weren’t exactly aiming for security. “Look, I appreciate the horse, and I’m sure it’s a lovely ride to Tucson. This has been fun and all, but I’ve got other matters to deal with. You can’t even tell me the man’s name and I’m supposed to shoot him down for you?”

He didn’t necessarily smile at you; his lips only tilted slightly. It was his eyes that looked amused at your sudden burst.

The world you lived in wasn’t kind to women who used their mouths. You’d learned that the hard way from your father first. There were plenty of men down the line who’d shown you as well, mostly with their fist to your cheek. You weren’t wrong to feel angry or misled, but you hadn’t meant to raise your voice with a stranger.

Maybe he’d shoot you right there. Leave you for dead in the middle of nowhere.

But there was no firm slap across your face nor the ringing of a gun piercing a bullet in your side.

Just the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.

“Now, that’s a mighty fine stallion, so you’re welcome for the horse. And yes, it is a lovely ride to Tucson. I think you’ll enjoy it. I wouldn’t say this has been fun—is this what you consider fun?” You scowled. “But I enjoy the company. And seein’ that you’ve made no attempt to outrun or rob me—again—I don’t think you do have other matters to attend to.

“The man’s name is Les Moore. He’s a banker-turned-bandit. We’ve got unfinished business I don’t plan on disclosin’, but I do plan on shooting him myself. I simply need someone to watch my back. And my name is Roy.”

He paused again, but this time, it left a noticeable weight in the air.

“Roy Goode.”

You knew that name. There wasn’t a soul throughout the West that didn’t know that name. You’d heard it in folktales and stories around campfires, seen it written in thick, blank ink on wanted posters across a hundred different towns.

Even further, you knew that the man it belonged to had a certain friend you didn’t want any association with.

“If you’d like to go your own way, be my guest.” He continued. “But you don’t seem to know these parts and a lot of men stronger than you have died here. It’s up to you…ma’am.”

A long silence followed.

Your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek because, deep down, you know he’s right. And you hate being wrong. The two of you stood still in the middle of the canyon. Even your horse sighed with impatience, but Roy kindly awaited your response.

“Fuck,” you said under your breath.

Then loud enough for Roy to hear, “Fine. But know this, Roy Goode,” You clicked your heels against the stallion’s belly. “Ain’t no man in the West who’s stronger than me.”

Not a single bone in Roy’s body doubted it.

“Careful, now.”

You clenched your jaw so visibly that Roy could see you were in no need of his advice. The rifle rested so comfortably in your hands, he had to wonder how many times you’d done this.

“I know how to shoot, Goode.”

“I believe you,” He dryly chuckled. “So take the shot.”

He had a point. It only pissed you off more. You shifted quietly enough that the small, dirt-colored rabbit off in the distance never noticed your presence. At this point, it would’ve been Roy’s voice that gave it away.

“Shut up,” you hissed.

With your left eye squeezed shut, you focused your sight on the rabbit. Not even your heart could beat hard enough to throw off your aim, but a gentle breeze blew a strand of hair into your face and ruined your line of vision.

“Let me do it,” Roy moved to take the pistol from his side before a shot rang from beside him.

The rabbit dropped to the ground with a gentle thud.

You grinned at your new partner in crime. “You were saying?”

An hour passed before the sun sat low in the sky, just above the line of the land, casting a golden hue across your surroundings. The rest of the sky was somehow an inky shade of black, illuminated with more stars than you’d ever seen in your life. Strange you thought to yourself. Embers from the small fire Roy had started with spare branches and weeds floated above you, glistening amongst the stars.

He watched you take the blade hidden in your belt, dragging it against the rabbit’s fur and pulling its skin from the meat. The women he knew would’ve gagged at the sight of blood or ran at the simple thought of killing an innocent animal.

But not you.

“Now, where’d you learn to do that?”

You chuckled, a faint smile coming to your face, at a memory. “I can’t go givin’ you all my secrets.”

There was something about you that knew survival. It was gritty and dark, and though he would never admit it, Roy ached to know more.

He hung the meat above the flames on a spit, gently twirling it so the skin had an even, roasted color all over. Your mouth watered at the sight of it. Once it was ready, the two of you ravaged it with desperate fingers like starving wolves. It was, in no way, a good meal. Dry and flavorless, and split between the two of you, one rabbit was hardly enough. But it was the first time in days that your stomach had been able to settle over anything.

“I lived off of lizards for a time,” Roy said once there were only bones left. The two of you wore soft, tired smiles that came with good food and good company. You’d licked your fingers clean and now used your leather sack as a make-shift pillow. “Can’t shoot the fuckers. I had to chase after them with a blade.”

You laughed softly. Roy enjoyed the way a smile—not a flashy, pretty one put on to appease the men around you, but a distant, reminiscent one—looked on you.

“I’ve been there. I was near Mexico when all I had were tree leaves and cactus meat. Boiled it with river water.” Roy hummed a chuckle. The horses, tied to a withered tree, shuffled nearby. You glanced over your shoulder at them. “I like to think they’re talking to each other.”

“They are,” he said, throwing the last of the bones into the dirt. “June’s got a lot of stories to tell him.”

For a brief moment, you thought it odd that he referred to the horses like they were the same as him—or that he was one of them.

You arched a brow, “You named her June?”

Roy could see that you were amused. “Thought it was pretty.” He almost shrugged.

You hummed in fairness. Glancing back at your horse, you realized it didn’t feel right to leave him nameless. And despite Roy having bought it, the stallion was yours. “Johnny.” You said plainly.

“Come again?”

“I’ll name him Johnny.”

Now you were talking like you were one of them too.

Roy wondered then who Johnny was to you. Or maybe it was someone from a past life. He gazed at the remains of the fire before glancing over at you.

Maybe it was the gentle light in the vast darkness, but there was a newfound softness in your face. He could see the tiniest of imperfections—small scars won in battle, a minuscule bump on your chin—of which most women would cover with powder.

But not you.

He’d seen beautiful women before. Plenty of them. And here you were, resting near the flickering fire and under the iridescent moonlight, forcing him to question if he’d ever really understood beauty before he saw you.

“Johnny and June.” He said out loud in thought.

You met his eyes, unaware of how long he’d been looking at you. “It has a nice ring.”

Roy nodded. “That it does.”

Three days of riding had taken the two of you to a small town called Tombstone, just a day’s journey to Tucson. Roy’s name was known around here, but, thankfully, his face wasn’t.

With a pair of crinkled, ten-dollar bills, he reserved two separate rooms in a lodging above the general store. As he paid, the clerk didn’t miss her chance to shoot a half-confused, half-cautious glare your way. “Each room’s got a tub,” she noted, motioning to the smudged dirt on your cheek.

You gave her a tight smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Roy handed you a key and kept one for himself as the two of you scaled the stairs to the second floor. “Hungry at all?”

“You got the money for dinner?”

He shrugged, “Enough for more than rabbits and lizards.” You reached a long hallway. He pointed to the second to last door marked with a 6. “I think that’s your room there.”

“This says four,” you read the engraved number on the key. The correct door was only two away. Roy only hesitantly chuckled to himself. You glanced at his key, “And you’re three.”

“Right,” he said, awkwardly but gratefully nodding. He seemed to know numbers well enough when it came to money.

Without saying more, you started to fumble with the keyhole of your door. The lock clicked open before Roy spoke again. “There’s a saloon on the corner. Meet me there a little after the sun sets? Give you some time to rest up.”

You were surprised to instantly nod at his request. “Sure,” you smiled before you went your separate ways.

The room wasn’t much by anyone else’s standards, but it was more than you’d seen in weeks. A wire-framed bed with two quilts and an oil lamp sat to your right; a wardrobe for clothes you didn’t have stood tall in the corner. A metal basin in the other one. The windows were adorned with dusty lace curtains that filtered the sunlight into the room.

You locked the door behind you and tossed the sack on the ground, immediately collapsing onto the bed. The springs squeaked underneath your body, but the mattress was comfortable enough.

Better than rocks and dirt.

Before you let your eyes close, you watched the ceiling, noticing the slight cracks in it. They began to form a shape, soon morphing into a familiar face. Blue eyes that always seemed to gaze at you when you weren’t looking. A pair of soft lips that hardly ever smiled, but on the canvas of the ceiling, they did.

You laid on your side and forced your eyes shut.

But even in the darkness of your mind, a place of purgatory between dreams and wake, you saw him.

When you woke, you swore you could feel something grazing your arm. But you turned over to see that you were still alone in the room. The sweet, golden light of day was gone now, replaced by the ghostly, glowing moon. A gentle hue of purple sat over the horizon.

It hadn’t been dark for long. You thought this while mentally praying you hadn’t kept Roy waiting too long.

You hurried to grab your hat and leave the room, rushing down the stairs and out the door. Just as he’d said, a saloon stood tall on the corner of the street. A few men grouped together with smoke curling from their mouths watched as you approached the entrance.

“Evening…ma’am,” they said hesitantly at your appearance. You only nodded.

With one step into the bar, you seemed to catch the attention of nearly everyone inside. You noticed then that there didn’t appear to be a single woman. Even the man at the piano stopped playing his song, only missing a beat before starting again.

Silence. Your boots clicked against the wood floor.

You glanced around the room for your traveling companion before a man with a thick beard approached you. His broad frame seemed to block you from entering further.

“Ma’am.” He grinned, revealing yellow teeth and two silver caps. His eyes drifted up and down your figure. “I think you may be in the wrong place. Sally’s cafe down the street doesn’t close for another hour.”

You tightly smiled back. “I assure you, sir, I’m in the right spot.”

You began to move forward again before his firm hand pressed itself over your stomach. The contact, unexpected and unwelcome, made you suddenly feel trapped.

“Good men don’t go puttin’ their hands on young women,” a voice said from behind you.

The man slowly dropped both his hand and his grin. You turned to see Roy standing just as he had back in that alley. He offered you a small smile.

“You with him?” The man sneered, glancing back and forth between you and Roy trying to discern the dynamic. You shook your head.

“He’s with me.”

As the man backed away, retreating to his spot at the bar with his friends, Roy’s footsteps halted at your side. He pulled out a chair from a table nearby and held his hand out like a gentleman. You kindly took the seat.

Roy sat across from you, placing his hat on the table. “Two whiskeys,” he ordered once a server came by. “What’s your finest meal?”

“I’ve got a beef and bean stew.” The server offered.

“Two of those,” you smiled. He turned away, leaving just you and Roy alone again.

And despite the other men in the room cautiously eyeing you, not a single soul seemed to exist then. The server returned with two glasses of whiskey before the bar guests called him back over.

“That happen anytime you go somewhere?” Roy asked with the whiskey at his lips.

You twirled your glass, careful not to spill a single drop. “For the most part,” you shrugged, though you don’t appear to be at all fazed from the gentle smile you wore. There was a distant, amused gleam in your eyes where Roy could see a thousand thoughts running in your mind.

“I don’t need saving, you should know,” you added a little quieter.

Roy wasn’t offended. Not at the very least, but he thought it odd that you hadn’t fully appreciated his incursion. Now that he considered it more, he would’ve liked to see you handle yourself.

“Well, I respect that,” he said. You nodded in gratitude and he blinked.

“You’re a respectable woman, Miss (l/n).”

Your body froze as whiskey hit your throat like flames. “What makes you say that?”

He gave a small shrug. “There aren’t many women out in the West who carry themselves with…strength.” He held his hand up defensively and chuckled. “I mean no offense, I think all women are respectable. More than any man, that’s for sure. Hell, my mother died when I was young, but I knew she was formidable.”

You knew that kind of pain. Your heart clenched, but your expression didn’t change.

“I guess, you somewhat remind me of that about her.”

You’d been complimented before, much more in regards to your looks, but there were many who’d commended your skills with a pistol or aptitude for words. No one had gone so far as to say you were formidable.

And deep down, you’d always considered yourself so.

But it was different to finally hear it from someone else. Someone other than your mind who could see you for what you were.

You knew you were strong. And Roy Goode knew it too.

“My mother died when I was young, as well,” you added. “Don’t remember her much, and my father didn’t like to talk about it.”

He studied you for a good moment. Then, knowingly, “You ran away?”

“As soon as I was eighteen,” you hummed. “Should’ve done it sooner. Woulda saved me a lot of trouble.”

The subject of parents was a risky place to go with someone like Roy Goode, but there wasn’t a bone in your body that was afraid of it. “What about you,” you amused. “Mama died and you come across Frank Griffin?”

His eyes snapped up to yours like a threat, but you weren’t afraid of him. At all.

“Everyone knows who Frank Griffin is,” you downed the rest of your drink. A little more would go to your head soon. “I’m not stupid.”

Then, Roy’s eyes softened.

“You can read,” was all he said.

“What?” Did he even hear you?

Roy quickly caught himself and shook his head. “Nothin’.”

The server returned to the side of the table and refilled your glasses. Once he was out of earshot, Roy rested his elbows on the table. “I met Frank when I was younger. He and his brother saved my life.”

You arched a brow. “Frank Griffin saved your life?”

“Careful, ma’am,” he finished his second glass in one gulp. “Don’t go sayin’ his name too many times, or you’ll summon someone worse than the devil.”

“Guess he can’t be too bad if you’re with him.”

Although you expected Roy to chuckle, or at the very least smile, at your comment, he didn’t. He instead thickly swallowed as if he’d suddenly gone nervous. You could see his knuckles tense.

It was maybe a miracle when the server then arrived with two steaming bowls of stew. The smell that it emanated was that of bitter salt and old potatoes, but as you dragged your spoon in it, it looked fine enough to consume. The two of you hesitantly and simultaneously took one mouthful before furrowing your brows in thought.

After a moment, you set the spoon down and shook your head.

Roy’s lips curled in disgust. “I think I almost prefer the rabbits and lizards.”

You instantly broke out into a synchronous chuckle, one that almost made your smiles reach your eyes. He tried to take another bite before swearing it was poison. A few other guests at the bar sent some questionable glares your way—your laughter was nearly louder than the piano.

But the two of you could hardly notice anyone else when you had the other right across the table.

It was surely late enough to retire back to your rooms by the time you’d finished at the saloon, but the combination of your earlier rest and the whiskey running through your veins left you both awake.

The street lamps had been lit as the two of you strolled down the side, passing by the few townspeople who’d decided to enjoy the pleasant evening air.

For the first time in a while, it wasn’t blistering hot, even with the moon in the sky.

Your conversation from dinner hadn’t ended for a single moment during your walk. “You’re some kind of horse whisperer, then?” You asked after Roy had told you he ‘understood them’.

“Maybe I am,” he chuckled, hands lazily in his pockets. “Maybe we share the same kind of brain. I can hear them.”

You shook your head with a grin, the whiskey still hot in veins. “You’re something else,” you mumble. “You got June well-trained, I’ll say that.”

But Roy tutted. “It’s not ‘trained’—your first mistake.” You nodded for him to continue. “I respect her and she respects me. It’s a relationship.”

“She respects you?” You asked in amused disbelief.

He hummed. “It’s a balance, like an exchange.”

Though you can still sense the humor in your voice, you momentarily ponder that what Roy said was deeply beautiful. You’d never given it much thought, but riding a horse was much more than mounting it and yelling at it until it went.

Roy had a profound tenacity for kindness that you hadn’t encountered in very many, if not any, men. In a way, it puzzled you. He was a complicated, tangled string that became a fascinating image in all of its knots. You were vexed by it just like the constellations in the sky as the two of you gazed up at the end of the road.

“I do hope Heaven is real,” you say out loud. You didn’t actually mean to.

But Roy knew exactly what you meant.

“Me too,” he said softly, carefully shifting his gaze to you for only a moment—taking in how perfectly moonlight hit your skin, shadowing and highlighting all of the right parts.

You were the type of woman someone carried a picture of with them for the mere hope they’d see you again.

He looked down at his boots in the dirt. “Doubt I’d make it there.”

You turned to him. “You don’t think so?”

“Well, bad men seem to do well enough down here,” Roy smiled softly to himself. “I don’t think I know anyone who’d make it up there. Good, bad…I used to think there was a difference. It’s just two ends of the same spectrum.”

“And what about me?”

Roy looked at you then, almost puzzled. Bewildered. “What?”

“You said you don’t know anyone who’s good enough for heaven.” The slight tilt of your lips was more intoxicating than the whiskey. “What about me?”

Despite the burning in his pulse, Roy held himself back from saying what he wants: Wherever it is, I hope it’s with me.

Instead, he professed, “Well, you just might be an exception.”

And for the first time since you met Roy Goode, you let yourself feel the blood in your body rush to your heart. It moved to your cheeks, and you mentally thank God that it was too dark to see how red they’d turned.

But there were worse matters on hand than the flush on your face. It was the horrible ache between your legs that hadn’t been relieved in…too long.

“C’mon,” you mused. “We should get back before it’s too late.”

His bashful smirk matched your own.

Roy’s eyes don’t pull from your figure for a single second as he follows you up the stairs…the sway of your hips with each step, how you glance over your shoulder to see if he’s close behind.

And each time you look, he’s exactly where you expect him to be.

The sound of your boots comes to a halt as you stop at the door marked four, your fingers brushing over the handle. Roy’s presence lingered behind you like a ghost.

“Today was a hot one,” he says quietly, as if anything too loud would have you running away. “Left me feelin’ grimy.”

Like you’d said: You weren’t stupid. “Best to wash it off, then.”

He nods back slowly with a soft smirk you haven’t seen him wear yet. You wonder then what it’ll be like to undress it.

You push the door open with a sudden ease from Roy’s weight pressed against you. His hand graces over your hip as he closes the door witht the heel of his boot. Once his touch becomes firmer—but still respectful—you speak again.

“You’ve helped me an awful lot these past few days.” You didn’t expect yourself to speak so softly. His other hand sets his hat on the side of the bed. “Buying me that horse, this room…”

In the corner, the large metal basin sits empty. Waiting.

“You treat every girl who robs you like this?”

A quiet chuckle comes from the depths of his chest. “Just this one.”

Your eyes glance at his, before drifting downwards to where your hand ghosts over his belt. A shaky, almost inaudible breath falls from his lips. “I almost feel like I owe you.”

“Oh, no,” he drawls. “Darlin’, you don’t owe me nothin’.”

He tilts your chin upwards so your eyes meet his again. You don’t even notice you’ve taken your bottom lip in between your teeth, and he nearly moans just at the sight of that.

“I’m a giver,” he says softly, his thumb dragging over your lip. The metal in his belt clanks as you fumble with the buckle.

He leans in even closer. “And I could give you something more.”

So close. Close enough that he can undo each button of your blouse, so slowly you swear he’s trying to make your skin crawl. Close enough that he can feel your lips brushing over the corner of his mouth.

It’s not an invitation. It’s a seal of approval.

And so with it, Roy lets his body move before his mind can stop him—not that it ever would. You mold so perfectly against his lips like he was made to kiss you and no one else. It’s warm and wet when he drags his tongue, brushing over your teeth and finding your own.

You’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Never so sweetly yet vigorously. He pulls your top from your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, your trousers soon after. You toe your boots off before unbuttoning his own shirt.

He pulls from the kiss to drag his lips across your jaw, grazing over your neck.

“Been wonderin’ what was underneath all this.”.

“You like what you see?” You giggle.

He stands back, and you’re left vulnerable and naked. The air is cold without his touch. You almost feel unsure of yourself.

Then you realize he’s looking at you with the hunger of a starved wolf.

“Darlin’, I ain’t sayin’ I’m gonna ruin you—would never ruin you,” his chest rises and falls with a heavy, steadying breath. “But you just might beg me to.”

Your knees almost buckle. He moves to switch on the faucet to the tub, and you take the moment to appreciate the parts of him you can see. His belt hangs slightly open, the zipper of his jeans pulled halfway down.

You run your hand through the water once it reaches a high level in the tub.

“‘S perfect,” you hum, a warm smile on your face that soon disappears when Roy lifts you from your feet.

He sets you inside the tub, leaning over the edge. Cupping the water with his hands, he runs it over every inch of your body, making sure there isn’t a single dry spot apart from your face. When his fingers graze your skin, you shudder.

“Aren’t you gonna join me, Goode?” You ask with a tempting smile.

“Lady’s first.” He takes a soft rag by the side of the tub and lathers it with a citrus soap, rubbing it smoothly over your figure.

You sigh contently. “No point in washin’ the sin off me now if we’ll be making more later.”

Your eyes meet his. Temptation mounted his face with an alluring darkness settling over his eyes.

A pressure began to build in the space between your legs before you realized it was no phantom feeling, but instead Roy’s two digits submerged under the water. He’d dropped the towel in the water with his mind focused on something else now. His fingertips brushed over your pearl before completely pressing against it.

He acted as if there was no time to waste, setting a consistent, circular motion over your clit. Your eyelids fluttered close blissfully.

“Fuck,” Your brows knitted together, a soft, restrained curse fell from your lips.

Then, he pulled his hand away.

Your eyes shot open again to meet his. He warned, “Don’t hold back from me now, baby.”

You nod as he pressed a little harder against you. You swear his hand is made of iron—hot, smooth metal that knows just how to perfectly work the most beautiful sounds from you.

As you writhe in the water, eyes squeezed shut with your mouth gaped open, Roy’s eyes remain on you.

“Someone’s gonna hear you, honey,” he presses his forehead against your temple. “They don’t deserve to.”

You instinctively lean against him, grinding your hips into his hand. The pads of his fingers drift down to your puckering hole, but no more than that.

“Please, Roy,” your hand reaches out of the water to curve around the back of his head, pushing his mouth closer to yours.

He chuckles. “I told you, you’d be begging for me.”

Then, like he was trying to make you cry, he pulled away and rose to his feet so he towered over you. His bottom lip, swollen from your kisses, hung heavy and glistened with your drool as Roy’s hands pulled his belt from the loops. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, his jeans following soon after.

You stood from the tub and reached for him, your hands drifting down to the last thing covering him from you. And once he was fully bare, the two of you stood still for a moment.

Shamelessly, you drifted your gaze down his body, taking in what it was like to see Roy Goode in all of his glory.

Glorious was the right way to put it, for sure.

He smiled as he watched you scan him before taking your lip in between your teeth again.

“C’m’here,” he says softly, taking your hand in his.

You stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the wood floor. It’d surely leak through to the ceiling above the poor woman downstairs.

Before you could say anything, Roy’s mouth landed on yours again, his fingers running through the dry roots of your hair.

“Can’t get enough of you.” His words came out muffled and broken through the kiss.

“It’s yours,” you say, placing your hands on his chest and breaking the kiss. A small, gentle push has him settling on the floor, and you’re quick to take your seat on top of him.

His eyes softly close when your folds envelope his cock with an insatiable warmth.

“I’m yours. From the moment you showed me,” you relax and feel his solid shaft right under that swollen pearl. “Kindness when I did you wrong.” Your fingers lace with his. “I’m all yours, Roy. So take it.”

His right hand lifts your hips the slightest bit, allowing him space to take his cock in his left hand. He strokes it gently with a tight fist. The tip of it bumps against your hole, and you can feel it leaking against you.

“You ain’t real,” he whispers, eyes focused on where you two touch. And in a moment, you become connected. “Are you?”

One swift move of his hips pushes his full length past your folds. Your jaw drops open, but it’s the overwhelming feeling of him splitting you open that leaves you surprisingly quiet.

Roy doesn’t seem happy at that. He juts his hips upwards at a different angle so a sweet yelp cuts through the air. “Fuck, that’s good,.” He pulls you so close that your flesh nearly melts around the bone. You’re putty in his hands. “Pretty cunt’s grippin’ me like a vice.”

Everytime Roy’s hips draw from you, only to vigorously push themselves into you again, you swear you see God.

The skin on your knees splits against the splinters of the floorboards. A pleasurable pain. You steady yourself with your hands on his chest.

“‘S my turn, now,” your words slur together, eyelids heavy from how sweetly the tip of him kisses your cervix. “Gotta give you something too.”

He doesn’t object. His hands settle like a loose weight over your hips as you start to move yourself. Your hips grind against him, letting his cock rub against every inch inside of you. The motion is too familiar. For a second, you swear you’re riding off into the sunset with heaven in your pocket.

Your eyelids flutter close when you begin to bounce. And though you can’t see it, Roy can. His chest under your hands lets out heavy breaths as he gazes at how you swallow his entire length like it’s nothing.

But he knows it’s not. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he feels his body go loose. He lets himself give in to you. “Ride it.”

Gravity pushes you down just for you to lift yourself back up again. Your tits bounce in the most mesmerizing way, and Roy’s hand reaches up to grab the flesh of them. His thumb rolls over your nipple.

“You’re beautiful,” he grunts out, bending his legs so you can rest your back against them. But your movements don’t stop.

And neither does the way Roy looks at you like you’re the only thing worth living for.

When you catch his eyes on you, you clench around his girth, pulling another sharp moan from him. Suddenly, his hips begin to meet yours in a pleasurable rhythm; the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breaths, and your delicate yet guttural moans make the most beautiful music.

“Don’t stop, sweetheart,” Roy pleads.

Your mouth curls, “Who’s begging now?”

He chuckles. A soft tension around his cock grows into a desperate need to finish off how good you feel around him.

“You got it, baby.” His drawl leaves your hips stuttering, and he can tell from how you’ve tightened around him, you’re feeling just the same as him. “Make yourself feel good on it, just like that. Wanna see you turn to pieces all over me.”

Suddenly, your head is too heavy to hold upright. It lulls back onto your shoulders, all of your energy going towards the way you ride him.

“You feel it? Gonna make a mess for me?”

You nod, rapidly and loosely.

“We’ll just have to clean you up all over again.” He mutters to himself, and you can hear the smirk on his face. It stays there even as his brows furrow together, a mixture of bliss and pressure.

You feel the pad of his thumb press against your clit again. You instantly break at the contact. He feels your orgasm wash over him, a lush shower of warmth that brings his own release.

It mixes together inside of you like the sunrise bleeding into the remainder of the night outside your window. It’d be illogical to sleep now, but you can’t find it within yourself to keep your eyes open as your cheek rests against Roy’s chest.

His hand lazily rubs over your spine. “S’pose Les Moore will have to wait to die another day,” he whispers.

You chuckle, “Don’t waste your bullets on that man. I’ll do it myself.”

Roy cocks his head. A few days ago, you would’ve protested at any mention of doing his bidding. And here you were, now, ready to make yourself a wanted woman.

There were many women he’d slept with. Many women who’d opened their doors, shared their beds, held him in their arms. Many women who’d sing him to sleep thinking it’d make him maybe even love them.

And sure, he’d been with whores. He’d paid good money to see fine women dance like there was no God above. Maybe even paid them off enough so they wouldn’t have to suffer under any more men with a heavy fist.

Many women who’d liked the color of his eyes. Who’d gasped and shuddered at the sound of his name. Who’d fawned over the sight of him.

But never a woman like you.

He tells himself to remember that forever as he carries you to the bed.

You’ll wash in the morning he thinks when he pulls the covers to your chin. And when Roy moves to draw his own bath, he hears your tired voice from behind.

“Don’t go,” you call out to him.

He hums. “I’m only right here, darlin’.”

Your eyes are closed shut, lost in a dimension between sleep and wake. “Here,” you say softly, motioning to the spot in the bed next to you.

He ignores the sheer layer of sweat clinging to his skin. He ignores that there’s still dirt in his hair from earlier in the day. He ignores the grimy feeling underneath his nails and the ache in his feet. Roy carries himself to the side of the bed.

The sheets are cool against his skin as he takes the spot beside you. Then, he feels the warmth of your arm draped over his chest. He stills.

“You never held a woman, Roy Goode?” you tease with a tired smile.

“Sure, I have,” he says. “First time it’s felt right, though.”

You move your head so he can tuck his arm underneath it. He feels your soft, mindless clouds of breath against his skin.

This is it he thinks. Heaven.

© faestunna 2025.

[charliepoopyfart]

letting the right one in (little remmick bite-sized smUt)

explicit 18+, oral, dirty talk, filth, period sex brief brief mention, no vampire horror in this one really just soft soft yearning <3 might do other bloodier ones later. this was supposed to be brief head canon style beats but got uhhh carried away….

—————————————————————

remmick licking his fingers before stuffing you full

remmick getting giddy whenever you’re on your period to eat you out the entire week to ‘get rid of the pains’

knowing right when the sun goes down that remmick will be crawling up through your bedroom window, whether you’re asleep or awake

tonight specifically he comes in when you’re already passed out, creeping to your bed and throwing his legs over you to trap you underneath him, sitting himself gently on your waist and leaning down into your neck to breathe your scent in

rem…. remmick…

your body tries to toss and turn under the weight of him but he grabs your wrists, lying kisses on your jaw

s’me, baby, s’just me. wake up, beautiful, I’m here for you.

you blink up at him before it registers who’s above you

let’s have ourselves some more fun, ey? you miss me during the day, love?

he gently licks and pecks your neck, joining your wrists together to pin them above

know I’ve missed you. feels like I finally get to breathe again…

sniffs your hair, nuzzling his nose into your scalp while you grin through a laugh

just gonna breathe on me then, are you rem?

he knows you’re teasing but he can’t help but play along

mmmhm, all night. just gonna.. just gonna breathe on each other. breathe you in.

remmick keeps digging his nose in you. your neck, collarbones, shoulders. even goes down as far as your ribcage and your hip bones, scooting himself down to kneel to you, reaching your hip bones

where he noses along your waistline, turning his head to the side after a while and making an impatient gesture of sticking his pointer finger in the waistband of your panties

staring up at you with drool dripping out of one corner of his mouth

you want me down here as bad as I wanna be down here or what, angel

your hair is sprawled out on the pillow before you lift your head up to meet his hungry eyes with his same exact expression mirrored back at him

his nails begin gently tracing your thighs, mesmerized by the feeling of your skin

you let me in your home, you gonna let me in these panties again too?

he waits for that breathy moan and that affirming nod to snake your panties down your legs, both at a time

wearing these pretty ones for me?

your scoff mixes with your laugh. those old ones? you nod to the plain cotton pair now getting pulled off your feet, probably now shoved in the back of his pocket

still sexy to me, he shrugged. planting needy kisses all around your pussy, feeling proud of the rewarding squirm your body trembles around him

lie back, lie back for me. or what, you wanna sit up and watch me lick you? huh?

you keep your legs spread as you sit up enough for your back to take leverage to the headboard behind you, eagerly waiting to eat up the show he gives when he goes down on your pussy, feasts on it

mmmkay, dirty girl… always wanting to watch…

remmick intends on exciting you visually just as much as he already can physically

peering up through his eyelashes at you as he takes the first teasing lick, swiftly flicking it around and around

briefly closes his eyes to savor the taste

hums like you’re the one that’s pleasing him by opening up

fuck… fuck, oh, god—

remmick just hums knowingly, flicking your clit around some more before smoothing his lips on your own, warming them up before slipping the flat of his tongue along your open slit

it’s filthy how much sound he makes as he’s feasting, drinking everything in that your cunt drips

the hard on begging in his pants bulges out like it wished to be touched for relief, but he ignores anything in favor of just touching you

licking and suckling

your hands paw at his scalp and gently grasp his locks between your knuckles, whining while his tongue swirls around your button rhythmically

only swapping his speed for a slower, more agonizing one when he felt like you were getting too close to the finish line

baby, you’re too good to me. too fucking good….

it pleases him to hear any sort of praise, growing his devilish grin by miles even as it’s busy licking your sensitive spots again and again

only treat you the best cause you deserve the best, baby, he quips, kitten licking the side of your clit, keeping the hood pulled up with two of his fingers

taking long strides and wiggles of his tongue in zig-zag form to feel your pussy clamping down on any part of him he gives you

a singular digit of his joins a moment later, teetering over the rim of your pussy before plunging in and curling up

his lips wrap around your clit and suckle, pistoling his pointer finger in and out with the helpful slide of your arousal dripping down his own jaw and lips

ffffuck, remmie please, please don’t stop—- don’t tease me this time baby, I’m about to-

I know you need it sweet thing, go on. cum on my mouth

as he dives back in face first he deliberately keeps the pace of his tongue and his one finger steady to the one that got you close in the first place, flicking his tongue and gliding it along your flushing skin

cum on me, cum on me baby, fucking better cum hard

his voice reverberates between the sounds of his mouth on your pussy, quenching his thirst as your posture straightens up. your throat seizes, your toes now curling and your aching pussy leaks all over his face

leaving his own lips shiny with your slick while he cleans the mess up with probing licks

yeah… yeah that’s it, love. relax for me. rest, he heaves, leaving messy wet kisses along your open thighs

fucking beautiful laid out like this under me, all fucked up from my tongue, remmick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a sloppy mix of your cum and his drool

he goes in to lick it up off his hand too before pausing

sheds his pants just below his waistband to take his throbbing cock out and pull on it with the added lube of the mess still slathered all over his hand

love feeding off you, fucking riles me up every time…

his cock bobs up to slap him in the stomach, still unencumbered by the man who’s eyes are glowing as they stuck to you and longed for your tantalizing body spread out in the open beneath him

so sexy… mmmph, I got so lucky…

his murmurs are half assed while his wet fist glides up and down his cock, aiming the head just centimeters away from your weeping pussy

I’m the luckier one, you grin, tickling your fingers up his hip until your palm finds his and strokes with him

leaning down only to spit a glob on the head, adding more to the mess on his dick

the veins on his cock twitch, balls tensing up and his whine accompanies your name while you swiftly pick up the pace he lost for him

yeah, yeah that’s right sweet thing… help me cover this pussy in my cum. that’s it

he guides you along, shoving and canting his hips right in your fist like it’s your pussy he’s fucking

stuttering his hips and twitching like a mad man when you tease a lick down the crown of his head

you don’t even get ten licks before he’s ready to burst, shooting ten strong ropes of cum across your mouth and eventually landing a couple stripes on your naked pussy

his head goes down as he’s pulsing, howling almost like he was in pain

grabbing you by the thigh before leaning down to smash his lips down into yours

messy and possessive as he claims your mouth with his tongue, dancing shapes along your back with his fingers

the face planting collapse he does in your bed after every orgasm you ring out of his cock visibly deflates him, arm only coming up to snatch you up and keep you locked onto his side

just when you think his battery was out for the night, he swoops back up and lays a kiss on your cheekbone, fingers delicately moving your hair back from your face before murmuring

don’t worry love, I’ll lick the mess off you

—————————————————————

[charliepoopyfart]

ꜜ﹒﹒REMMICK P LINKS

Remmick/reader

WARNING - You must be logged into twitter already for these to work

DO NOT OPEN IN PUBLIC

A.n - This is my first time posting p links and honestly I don't often search them out so if this post isn't what you're typically used to in that sphere that's why!

Once Remmick finally convinces you to sit on his face? God, you're lucky if he ever lets you sit anywhere else Remmick talking you through it because —unless you preoccupy it— that mouth is always running. And, always expects an answer.

Gripping Remmick's hair while he worships your cunt, give it a hard tug, he loves when you're rough Sometimes you think Remmick is trying to devour you whole when he eats you out, and maybe he is Pt. 2 Remmickis no stranger to the outdoors, nor is he shy about taking you where he wants you. He takes his time with you too, after all there's no other place he'd rather be

Remmick loves fucking you stupid on his fingers while he holds you close and swallows all your pretty sounds He can’t help himself when you wear those pretty dresses for him You're no stranger to being on top but Remmick has one condition, he has to be able to see your face as you fuck yourself on his cock He's not a patient man, Remmick will eat you through your panties if he has to

Being a vocal man, Remmick has never been good at hiding his moans when your pussy grips him so good

Remmick using his vampire strength to bounce you up and down on his cock He can get so mean when he’s hungry, good thing you’re there for him to pound his frustration out

It can be easy to feel like you're the inhuman one when Remmick worships your body like he's an offering at your altar, but he's quick to kill that thought when he fucks you like the animal he is   pt. 2   Pt. 3

[charliepoopyfart]

cannot even FATHOM how racist you gotta be to leave Sinners (2025) and be obsessed with REMMICK. that's just fucking crazy. crazy. no saving a lot of you

[charliepoopyfart]

𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝕸𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨. 𝙇𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 9,1ᴋ

It’s not even noon when you hear the doorbell ring for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Mondays were always bustling with customers because of the early weekend closure. The business complex was small compared to the big chains downtown, but older folks and local regulars much preferred stopping by a small center rather than driving miles to reach a larger one and stand in endless checkout lines.

You barely lift your gaze from near the stockroom, where you’re logging invoices to send to your trusted accountant at the end of the month. An elderly woman leaves with a polite smile and a bag that jingles.

You hurry to thank her, and she responds with a slow, gentle nod before disappearing into the gray street.

Outside, the sun is scorching the pavement even though it’s only early spring. When the door opens, the smell of freshly baked pizza from the bakery next door makes you sigh with pleasure. But no—you had to hold out until the evening. Remmick was surely cooking something while shut in at home, far from the sunlight.

You smile at the thought of how essential he had become in your life. When you came home from a hard day, he was always there—waiting, comforting you—and like magic, all the fatigue would melt from your shoulders.

His cooking skills were slowly improving, and even though he had no real need to eat, he still did it for fun. He was dead, and normal food didn’t satisfy him, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste buds.

You close the folder and slide it onto the shelf. Then you stretch your arms above your head, yawning slightly. The morning had been calm—aside from the usual parade of indecisive customers and two men asking where to find the most ‘aesthetically pleasing’ toilet paper.

Your coworker, Iwan, is lost somewhere between the shelves. He’s stocking boxes full of new kitchenware—bamboo spoons, decorative cutting boards, all those cute and useful things people buy when they need a little comfort.

Your boss had decided to hire another employee due to the increasing customer flow, and you were grateful—it was getting hard to keep up with everything alone. It hadn’t been a difficult selection. The guy showed up with politeness and precision, a university student, perfect for a part-time role. And you were always happy to help young people who, even while studying, rolled up their sleeves to become independent.

You’re about to dive back into bookkeeping when you hear him arrive.

Fast steps. A thud. Then a low, almost choked voice calling your name.

You’re distracted by a paper your boss left under the register and only look up when he knocks twice on the counter with his knuckles and adds:

“Something happened.”

You frown. Iwan was always a nosy gossip. He knew everything about everyone, and the old ladies loved hanging around the shop to chat with him and whisper the latest news. Of course, he always rushed back to tell you everything—even though you were never much for gossip—and he always had that excited look.

But not today.

Iwan has a face you’ve never seen on him before. Not scared.

More… hollowed out. As if reality had gently taken the words out of his mouth.

“Go on,” you say, concerned. “What is it?”

He removes his baseball cap, holding it in his hands, twisting and turning it like there’s something alive inside.

“Have you heard the news?”

You shake your head, as usual. Ever since you started living with Remmick, your world had shrunk into a bubble.

“No. Why should I?”

“Because… they found a body. In the river. Early this morning. Right behind the spillway, under the small bridge—the one near here.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn’t unusual news, especially in recent decades with the whole hunt for night creatures and everything else, but the fact that it happened in the little suburb where you lived—where nothing much had happened in a long time—sets off alarm bells.

“A body?”

Iwan lowers his voice and leans over the counter, getting closer. He looks left, then right, like some browsing customer might overhear and eavesdrop.

“It was one of the guys who came here often. A man around thirty, thirty-five. The one who always had his shirt unbuttoned and wore sunglasses even when it rained.”

You freeze. Your hands stiffen on the counter. A small knot forms at the base of your throat.

“Oh…”

Iwan nods.

No names needed. You remember him perfectly.

He’d come in at least five times over the last few weeks. He’d stand between the shelves, staring at you. Asked dumb questions. Always tried to get closer than necessary. One time he even asked if you lived alone.

You told him: “Just with my pets.”

He had laughed.

You hadn’t.

“A guy from the police said it at the café next door. They found him at dawn. Floating face-down. But the weird part is… the neck. It’s not just broken. It was torn.”

He continues, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it won’t be long before the Custodians show up around here.”

A cold, slimy shiver runs down your spine.

“What do you mean… torn?”

You try to sound skeptical. But your voice already drops lower.

“I don’t know. They didn’t explain it clearly. Just that it wasn’t an injury from a fall. It’s something… unnatural. Like he was bitten—”

Iwan stops, noticing the expression frozen on your face.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You snap out of it, erasing the look from your face and shaking your head.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… a big thing to hear.”

You step away from the counter. Your hands tingle.

Part of you wants to ignore it all. Close your ears. Say you don’t care, that the guy was deeply creepy and whatever happened to him, he probably deserved it.

But that’s not true.

A man died.

And in circumstances that seep into your skin and your mind, feeding your unease.

At 1:43 pm, you step out of the shop with a weight pressing on you that you can’t shake off.

You asked Iwan if he could extend his shift today, said you weren’t feeling well and didn’t feel up to continuing, and he only nodded, his face locked in that silent kind of concern that kind people wear when they’re unsure whether they should ask more.

You didn’t let him.

You politely greet the people you know and the customers heading into the shop as you walk toward your home. The sun is still high in the sky. There’s no wind, but the air has that sticky, heavy quality that comes before slow thunderstorms—the kind that simply weep melancholy onto the sidewalks.

You cross the bridge that separates your shop from the river, and for a moment, you stop.

Down there.

Exactly down there.

Dark green water. Murky. Slow.

And in the center of that unremarkable canal… early this morning… there was a body.

The body. You knew that man. You’d rung up his groceries, talked to him, looked him in the eyes.

Now his neck is broken. And not because he tripped.

No. Iwan said that part clearly.

Like it had been torn.

You inhale.

The smell of the river hits your nose—iron and moss, with a tired trace of mold. The kind of smell no one really notices anymore around here.

But today, it stings your throat. Clings to you.

You turn away quickly and head down the plane tree-lined boulevard, walking straight home.

Every step feels heavy.

Not because you’re tired—physically, you’re not at all—but because of that feeling in your gut. That feeling that things are starting to line up.

And you’re just pretending not to notice.

A subtle tension walks beside you like a shadow—unseen, but constant.

You grip your shoulder strap tightly. Your headphones dangle from your bag. You don’t feel like listening to music. Not today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—just once. A notification, maybe your boss, maybe Iwan, maybe the police.

You don’t check.

Beneath your feet, the cobblestones are damp with moisture.

Now and then your heel slips a little, but you don’t stop.

And then you remember that conversation.

Not yesterday. No. More than a week ago. One of those evenings when Remmick had come to see you for no apparent reason. He was sitting by the radiator in the shop—even though he didn’t need it. Legs drawn up, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you like he was studying your existence in quiet sips.

You had mentioned the guy to him, just in passing. To fill the silence. To include him in your day—usually uneventful, but not entirely that one.

You had said it lightly, almost joking.

“The idiot with the snake face tried again today. He never gives up.”

Remmick had lifted his gaze slowly.

“Did he lay a hand on ya?”

“Nah. Just talked. Doesn’t seem like the type. And I’ve got you to protect me, if anything ever did happen.”

And he had smiled. A smile that, now, days later, comes back to you with a different shade.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

It felt like a promise.

But it was just a joke, right?

Remmick had caught your sarcasm. He must have. He knew you by now.

You cross a small square where pigeons have taken over the benches.

The river’s no longer visible, but you still feel it at your back, as if the water is following you.

Each step toward home brings you closer to a possibility you’ve been trying not to name:

That Remmick knew.

That he didn’t let it go.

That he acted.

And no, not because you asked him to.

But because you’re his.

In that ancient, animal, visceral way, in which certain creatures look at you and don’t see a person—they see a reason to live.

And if someone threatens that reason…

Well.

You’re not entirely sure how it ends.

You reach your front door with your heart beating a little too fast.

You drop the key the first time. You pick it up and slide it into the lock as if nothing happened.

Open.

Close the door behind you.

The cat watches you from the living room window, looking satisfied, lying on a blanket that Remmick has probably folded with geometric precision just for him.

You hear a sound coming from the kitchen: the clink of a ladle, a cabinet closing gently, the soft rush of water.

It’s not an unusual scene.

Remmick often does things for you.

Small things. Careful. Almost invisible—unless you know how he tries to earn his place under your roof.

When you step around the hallway corner and into the kitchen, you see him.

From behind.

A loose t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks so normal, so human.

He’s standing in front of the stove, which is turned off. In his hand, a wooden spoon. In the pot—sauce. Simple, fragrant. Like the kind made on good Sundays.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps.

And for a moment… he looks surprised. Then instantly happy.

A flash. Like a dog that wags its tail without thinking—pure instinct.

“Oh—!”

His voice is a breath, suddenly full of enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch, sweetheart.”

You usually never came back before evening. Your shift was continuous, but you couldn’t stay in the shop with that knot in your throat making it hard to swallow.

He sets the spoon in the sink, wipes his hands on his apron—yes, he’s wearing the light linen apron you folded for summer—and comes closer.

“Did you forget something? Or… are you feeling unwell?”

Then he stops.

His eyes fix on your face.

You’re looking down.

Not smiling.

Keys still clenched in your hand.

Your shoulders stiff.

You didn’t come home because you were hungry. You didn’t come home out of affection. You came home with a thought that’s been eating you from the inside out.

Remmick understands it before you even open your mouth.

His face changes.

He doesn’t fall apart. But he slows. Becomes more careful. He studies you as if searching for new cracks that weren’t there before.

“What is it?”

His voice is low now. Concerned, but still gentle.

It’s not an interrogation.

It’s an offering.

You stand a few feet away from him.

The kitchen sounds—the drip of the tap, the sauce gently simmering, the cat stretching on the couch—form a normal frame.

But you two are not normal right now.

“They found a body this morning,” you say, finally.

Remmick doesn’t answer right away.

“Who?”

He looks at you.

You look at him.

Then you add: “It was someone who used to come to the shop. An annoying customer, but nothing serious. They found him in the canal.”

A pause.

And then: “I… I told you about him.”

Remmick nods. Slowly.

“I do, yeah. I remember. You said he was botherin' you. And you said you felt safe when I was there, didn't ya?”

His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just… linear.

As if he’s stating a fact. With the same honesty he’d use to tell you how many dishes he washed.

You stare at him—and for the first time since you’ve lived with him, you don’t see him as a tender, gentle creature, hungry only for your love.

And he notices. Something flickers in his gaze. A trace of red drowns in the gray sea of his irises.

A pain that arrives before any word.

Remmick stiffens.

“No…” he says, speaking with that thin voice he uses when he’s afraid he might break. “No, hang on. You don’t think… you’re not seriously thinkin' that…”

He takes a step toward you.

Not threatening—definitely unsure. As if approaching a flame that might collapse or suddenly burn brighter.

His eyes widen, like he’s just seen the fear in you.

“I didn’t do it.”

His tone is broken now. Full of anguish.

“I swear on it, I didn’t. I promised you, the very day you let me stay here. I swore—”

His voice cracks.

His claws (still kept beneath the skin) seem to press against the flesh.

“I swore I’d never do it. Not even if someone was hurtin' you… not even if I was tempted. Not even if I was starvin'. I… I’ve learned to keep my hunger quiet. For ya.”

His chest rises and falls. He doesn’t need to breathe—but he does it anyway. To mimic life. Or maybe to soothe his soul.

You don’t answer right away. You’re not accusing him, but your gaze doesn’t soften.

And he can’t take it.

His eyes flicker. Not because he’s guilty—but because he no longer knows how to look innocent in your eyes.

He suddenly turns, and the transformation flashes through him like lightning:

His eyes turn red.

His hands stretch and twist.

Claws emerge.

His canines sharpen like knives.

A vase on the cabinet shatters with a single swipe—a violent blow.

The shards scatter across the floor, and you instinctively take a step back to avoid being hit, a startled gasp slipping from your lips a second too late.

Remmick freezes.

He turns to you.

And he sees it. Your frightened expression.

You bring a hand to your chest, your heart pounding—but you’re not sure if it’s truly fear of him or just the raw instinct from his sudden outburst.

But for him… for him, it’s worse than any sentence.

He stands there.

Mouth slightly open.

Looking like someone who’s lost everything in a single moment.

“Darlin'…”

His voice is barely a whisper. The tone unfamiliar—like it doesn’t even belong to him.

You don’t move. You don’t know if your heart is racing or has stopped altogether.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

As if every inch between you could somehow redeem him.

“I didn’t mean to. Please. Don’t—”

His hands tremble as he tries to retract the claws, his fingers flexing convulsively as if trying to push them back under his skin.

The nails retreat slowly. One by one. His hands return to their normal size.

Then his jaw tightens.

His teeth… retract. But there’s blood on his lip. He bit himself in the process.

The red in his eyes lingers a few seconds longer.

They stare at you, lost. As if they can’t look away from the face they love—a face that now fears him.

Then that too fades.

Back to gray. Liquid. Desperate.

You haven’t said a word.

Remmick drops to his knees. There, beside the shards. Not to pick them up. But to lower himself. To take away the weight of you looking down at him.

“Don’t be lookin' at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Not like… like I’m somethin' that'd touch you when you don't want it. Not like I could ever hurt you, really.”

You swallow.

But still, you say nothing.

Remmick leans forward, hands on the floor. You see him trying to slow his breathing, shoulders trembling.

“I lost control, love. Just for a second. Didn’t mean to frighten you, but…”

He stops. The words stick in his throat.

“It felt like… you weren't believin' in me anymore.”

His tone is low, full of something breaking without making a sound.

“And I… I don’t know how… I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

There’s a nakedness in that sentence that leaves you breathless.

Not physical. Not theatrical. Real.

As if every gesture he made — every touch, every laugh, every kiss — hovered around the way you look at him. And if that vanishes, he disappears.

You can’t breathe properly. Not yet. But you look at him. This time, truly.

And you see everything.

The pale skin still glistening slightly with sweat, as if it retained the traces of transformation. Hands resting on the floor, fingers curled but human again, lined with thin red trails — maybe from the shards, maybe from himself. Lips drawn tight, bruised. Eyes locked on you, glassy, swollen. As if holding back tears.

“I'd never hurt you,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even lay a finger on you. Not at you. Never at you.”

He takes a breath, broken and ruined, and lowers his head.

The silence weighs like concrete between you.

You standing, him on his knees.

And between you… the fracture.

Remmick doesn’t move for long seconds. He stays there, frozen, as if afraid that even the act of standing might make you disappear. But then he looks at you again. More slowly. And slides a little closer. Cautious, silent. He moves like water searching for a crack, like a wounded animal with nowhere to go.

He drags himself forward on his knees. One hand brushes the floor. The other stays raised halfway, as if offering itself. He doesn’t dare touch you. But he gets closer. A little more.

And you— You lift your hand. Stopping him.

“No.”

The word is small. Not harsh. But final.

Remmick freezes instantly. As if your voice were a thin blade that just carved into his breath.

You look at him. Finally, with firmness.

“I need to… think.”

Your hand stays raised, between you. A gesture more powerful than any word.

“Alone.” you add.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t justify.

His face lowers, his eyes drift back to the floor. It’s as if every unsaid word slipped into the cracks of silence and dimmed him a little more.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn your face. And you leave.

You walk slowly toward the hallway. Every step is dense. Every breath heavy. You don’t turn back. You don’t want to see if he’s watching you leave. You don’t want to know if he’s crying, or praying, or simply waiting.

You cross the bedroom threshold and close the door.

Then lean against it, back to the wood, as if holding out a storm.

The cat must have jumped down from its spot at the window after Remmick broke down, and is now curled up on the bed. It lifts one ear. Then recognizes you, stretches, and meows in a tired voice.

You don’t go to it immediately.

Your heart is still pounding too hard.

You move slowly through the room. Run a hand through your hair. Slip off the hoodie that clung to your skin from anxious sweat. You sit on the bed and the cat slides closer, sensing your agitation, rubbing against your thigh.

You take a deep breath. Trying to push everything away. But the image is still there.

Him.

Standing beside the broken vase. The red eyes. The sharp fingers. The mouth full of teeth not meant for speaking.

You try to recall everything he said. His voice, the plea, the ruined tone with which he tried to ask for forgiveness.

“I swore to you.”

“I'd never hurt you. Never you.”

“I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

You know. You know he loves you. Or whatever distorted, deep, trembling form of love a creature like him can feel. You know he’s devoted to you. That he would never harm you.

But— But.

You saw something. Something that can’t be unseen. That can’t be ignored.

And you wonder if love, by itself, is enough to hold certain things back.

You lie down. The cat jumps up beside you, curls against your shoulder. Its body warm, heavy, familiar. You bury your face in the pillow.

You try to tell yourself: “It was just a moment. He’s sorry. You know him. You’ve seen him vulnerable, humble, small.”

But the mind…the mind doesn’t agree.

Your home. Your safe space. Shaken. Altered.

You close your eyes. The cat shifts, purring softly into your ear. It knows nothing, but senses something.

Your heartbeat slows only after long, weary, suspended minutes. And as your body finally gives in to exhaustion, as your hands relax, as the cat stretches out along your stomach…the image returns.

Not the outburst.

But his other version. The gentle one, the tame one, the domestic one. The one of a creature who loves you enough to die.

With that thought, with great difficulty, you fall asleep.

You wake up at dusk.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light. The glow filtering through the window is dark blue, thick, sunless. It’s not the middle of the night. But it’s late. Maybe seven, maybe eight. You don’t know. Your body feels heavy, like a stone sunk underwater.

You turn slowly in bed, searching for something to hold onto. The cat is gone — probably found a new cozy spot or a place on the cold radiator.

You move to sit up, and something slips from your shoulders and gathers in your lap.

A blanket.

You don’t remember wrapping yourself in a blanket. Sleep must have taken you before you could do anything.

It was placed over you, gently.

Your fingers touch it, lightly grip it, and a soft smile comes to your lips.

There’s no need to wonder who put it there.

Remmick.

A thought crosses your mind. He must have come in quietly, while you were sleeping. He must have looked at you. Maybe knelt beside the bed. Maybe he just wanted… to do something for you, even without forgiveness.

You get up, finally. Your muscles are stiff. You wrap the blanket around yourself like a cloak and open the bedroom door.

The house is dark, silent. The kitchen light is still on, faint and yellow. Just one bulb — the one above the stove. There’s no sign of him.

No bowl out of place, no cup, no note.

You search for him out of habit: the chair where he always sits, the window where he reads, the hallway where he follows you in the morning to ask if you need anything.

But he’s not there.

He must have gone out to feed, you think. He never goes out this early, but after a day like that…

Then another question comes to mind.

One you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

What was he feeding on tonight?

You don’t want to think about it.

And yet, you can’t stop yourself.

He often stayed in for days to spend time with you after work, but the next morning he always had that distant look. You always knew he was holding himself back. Even now… your mind keeps circling back to that sentence Iwan said, back at the shop.

“The neck… not broken. Torn.”

You move into the kitchen, slowly. On the stove, the sauce he had probably finished that afternoon still sits. Next to it, a plate and a portion of uncooked pasta had already been laid out. Your stomach tightens with sorrow.

You’re not hungry, but you cook anyway. To distract yourself. To pretend it’s an ordinary evening. You reheat everything in a pan. The steam fogs your eyes. You wait until the pasta is ready, drain the water into the pot, and pour a ladle of sauce over the serving.

You eat standing up, like you only do when you’re nervous. The spoon taps softly against the rim of the bowl.

The silence in the house is a crouching beast.

He should be here. Not to talk. Not even to ask for forgiveness. Just…be here.

Because Remmick, despite everything, has always been there. Even when it wasn’t needed. Even when you didn’t want him.

You finish eating. Put the dishes in the sink. Then you return to the bedroom.

You don’t think of him with anger. Not anymore. But you wonder what he’s doing, where he is.

You get back into bed. The blanket he left draped over you is still warm. You pull it over yourself again. You turn toward the pillow.

This time, sleep comes without asking permission. But it’s not peaceful sleep. It’s a sleep of waiting.

When morning comes and you wake up, you head to the bathroom to wash. You get ready for the workday, and as you leave the bedroom, you expect to see him behind the kitchen counter. However, as you pass through the hallway, sunlight floods the house through the open shutters.

And then you know. Remmick didn’t come home.

The morning light is clear, merciless. There’s no fog today, only cold, transparent air that makes everything sharper than necessary.

You hear your footsteps on the cobblestones. The echo bounces inside your chest.

You arrive at the shop a few minutes early. Iwan isn’t there yet. You open up. You pull up the shutters. Turn on the lights. Open the cash register, put on background music. A gentle playlist, full of guitars and female voices singing about love as if it weren’t something that tears people apart.

Everything seems normal. But it’s not.

The morning drags on slowly. Customers come in, ask stupid questions, impatiently flip through decorative catalogs. You answer everything. Smile. Sell. Assist. But the thought… remains.

Where is he hiding? Where did he sleep? How did he not burn?

Remmick, without your roof over his head, is just a shadow in the world. An ancient, fragile fragment that could be lost — or worse, found.

Because there are the Custodians. After the recent event, they must have split across the outskirts. You know they patrol the cities after sundown, hunting those who don’t conform. Those who show too much hunger, too much threat. And Remmick, even if he’s always obeyed you, is still a walking threat.

You lean on the counter, checking your phone for the umpteenth time. No messages. Not even a shadow of his name.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he just found a good hiding place. Maybe he’s under an abandoned church. Maybe he found shelter in the library’s underground levels, where no light reaches.

You hope.

And meanwhile, your heart pulses in your ears every time the shop bell rings.

Until…

At a quarter to noon, Iwan walks in.

He throws open the door with the excitement of someone who’s just seen an explosion.

“Did you see the news?” he asks, without even greeting you.

You shoot upright. Your heart stops. It truly stops.

He drops the newspaper on the table and the words pour out: “They caught the monster! They got him last night!”

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. The universe pulls back.

Iwan smiles, thrilled. He talks, but you don’t hear at first. There’s a ringing in your ears.

“They caught the monster.”

The phrase cuts you in two.

For a moment, you see only him. Remmick. Cold hands. Shaking voice. Eyes full of guilt. His pleading whispers.

And now... Caught.

Maybe tied up. Maybe burned. Maybe — God, no — maybe dismembered in a basement by hands that don’t know the difference between what’s dangerous and what’s merely… different.

You can’t breathe.

“Iwan…” you manage to say. “Who? Who did they catch?”

“Oh, right!” he laughs, not noticing anything. “No, wait — it wasn’t a real monster. I mean, not one of those night creatures. It was some guy. A drunkard. You know, the one we’d sometimes see passed out outside the pub down the street?”

You don’t understand. You’re still holding your breath.

“Turns out it wasn’t a mauling, no. They discovered the victim started a fight with him on the bridge. Apparently, he was out of his mind. The drunk guy smashed a bottle over his head and stabbed it into his neck.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“He fell off the bridge, they say. Hit the bottom. Broken neck. Then the current…you know. They found him later. But the bottle shattered his throat. They only figured that out afterward.”

Iwan sighs like he’s relieved, like he couldn’t wait to talk to someone about it.

“A cyclist saw the scuffle and called it in late. It’s all written down. The papers are saying it. They blew the story up at the bar last night, as usual.”

Iwan shrugs, flipping through the newspaper in front of you.

You stay completely still. Not a single muscle moves.

Your heart starts again suddenly, like it had been held underwater for hours. You grip the counter. Inhale. Hold.

And then the truth slaps you in the face.

Remmick didn’t lie. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t snap a neck. He didn’t kill. He kept his word.

And now…now you have no idea how to find him.

It’s late afternoon when you return home, walking like someone who’s been moving all day without really knowing where they were going. You’re no longer hungry. Not sleepy. Just tired—A kind of tiredness no pillow can fix.

You open the door. The apartment is just as you left it. Silent. Tidy. Empty.

You take off your jacket and let it fall over a chair. Then you hold a mug in your hands out of habit, but don’t fill it. You step out onto the porch.

Outside, the sky is a dirty orange fading slowly into blue. The approaching evening air is cool. Damp. The fig tree’s branches barely move, but they seem to be watching you.

You sit on the wooden step, facing the small garden you’d tried to keep in order—and that Remmick had offered to tend to, even though he couldn’t tell a weed from an herb.

Still, it’s thanks to him the garden is still green. Last summer, he was always outside watering with the hose. You remember how you used to watch him silently from the porch chair, and how he once sprayed you completely with water just because you’d pointed out a spot he’d missed.

You rest your elbows on your knees and let yourself slump forward, like your head is too heavy and pulling you toward the ground.

Where could I look for him?

Under bridges, maybe. In abandoned depots. In the crypts of that ruined church—the one where he once told you the silence was so complete it hurt his ears. Maybe in a library. Or maybe…

The thought ends there. You have no idea where to begin. You bury your face in your arms and sigh—loudly.

Then something moves.

A soft thump.

You lift your head suddenly and turn toward the sound.

Your cat.

It’s jumped down from the window ledge and now walks casually down the stone path, heading toward the old garden shed. You haven’t opened it in months. It had basically become Remmick’s space. He made you buy all kinds of tools for the garden and had stored them in there.

The cat stops right in front of it. Rubs against the bottom of the door. Purring.

You freeze.

Then you notice something. The lock. It’s closed.

Not slightly ajar. Not gently pushed shut. Locked.

Just like that rainy night.

Your blood freezes. Your legs tremble beneath you, but you stand up anyway.

You cross the garden in a few steps, ignoring anything in your way, and approach the door. The cat watches you, meows, then steps aside—as if making space.

You raise your hand. Heart in your throat.

Turn the handle. Pull hard.

The door creaks open with difficulty. The warm light of sunset pours into the dark shed—and you see him.

Curled up near the door, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s pale. Paler than usual. He looks like a ghost. The light hits him full on and he hisses—a low, sharp sound, like a wounded cat.

He recoils instantly, dragging himself back into the darkness. The skin on his arms smokes where the light touched him. It doesn’t burn. But it marks. Small cracks, like dried leaves.

You freeze. Just for a moment.

Then, without hesitation, you step inside and shut the door behind you. The light disappears.

You watch Remmick’s red eyes flicker in the dark as he blinks. But you’re no longer afraid. You hear him breathing heavily, and then he speaks.

“Please. Please, just let me stay, will ya? I only want to be close. Even if it's just....even just to watch you from afar.”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s exhausted. Worn down. Like someone who’s cried all night and all day and has nothing left.

You stay standing by the door.

He keeps talking, as if your silence might become another sentence.

“I didn’t want to go, but you were all shook up. I didn’t know what you’d do. I just—”

A broken breath.

“Just wanted to see if you were alright. If you could get a bit of sleep.”

You bring a hand to your mouth. You can’t speak. The relief hits so hard it bursts inside you like pain.

He was here. In your garden. Two meters away. Slowly dying in silence, like an abandoned dog waiting for autumn.

And you didn’t see him.

You sit down on the ground, back against the shed wall, knees pulled to your chest. The first tears fall without a sound. Just warmth. Silent streaks sliding down your cheeks. Then—a sob escapes your lips, dragging everything with it. Every ounce of pain. Every thread of guilt.

Remmick, probably misreading your tears, speaks again. Whispers.

“Let me stay. I won’t come out. I won’t say a word. I won’t go near the house again. Just let me be close to ya. That's all.”

You close your eyes and finally, strength returns to your voice, powered by pure relief.

“I’m sorry…”

Remmick’s red eyes go wide. He listens, not even breathing.

“I’m really sorry, Remmick. I’m an idiot. No, worse… I’m a selfish bitch.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. Breathe deep, trying to make room in your chest.

“I should have believed you. I should have. I was standing there with all the proof in front of me, and I looked at you like—” You stops, your throat tight. “Like you were something to fear. When you’ve only ever been… good. Kind.”

You hear him shift—barely. A soft, scraping movement.

“I treated you like you were guilty. You were right here and I didn’t know. So close. So alone.”

A sob cuts your breath. You can’t speak anymore. Your throat tightens more.

The voice that answers isn’t the same cracked one from before. It’s fuller. More alive.

“You’re not an idiot.”

Still faint, yes, but there’s something pulsing in it now. As if your tears had started to heal him.

“Don’t be sayin' that,” he repeats. “You’re not. You’re not.”

You see him now. His body barely emerges from the darkest corner. His eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with something not quite tears, but close. Hair a mess. Hands shaking. He looks at you, but doesn’t take that final step. He waits.

Like he always does.

So it’s you who makes the move. Small, but clear.

You reach out a hand toward him and Remmick moves instantly.

In a moment—just one—he’s there.

His arms wrap around you, anchoring to your back and pulling you against him. Your body slides into his, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces. He leans into your neck and stays there, breathing in your scent. Yesterday, you would’ve been afraid. You would’ve pushed him away. Today, you just feel stupid.

You let him hold you. Give in to the contact. Close your eyes.

The sigh he lets out is the sound of someone who’s been held underwater for days and is finally breathing again.

He touches you with almost childlike devotion. Fingers gently combing through your hair, across your nape, down your spine.

“I thought I’d never get to hold ya like this again.”

His warm breath brushes your neck, and you feel him nuzzle there. You hold him tighter. Afraid he might change his mind and pull away for having been hurt. Your chin rests on his shoulder and you smile. The scent of his skin—that faint, cool note of night and wax—fills your lungs.

He rocks you slightly. As if to soothe you. But also, himself. As if just touching you brings him back to the world. His world.

“I won’t scare ya again, sweetheart. I promise.”

Your eyes soften. You sit up a little straighter, pressing your hands to his shoulders. At first, he resists. He doesn’t want to let you go. But then, sensing you’re not pulling away, just grounding him—he relaxes. You take his face in your hands, fingertips tracing small, delicate caresses and you guide his gaze to meet yours.

“I know, Remmick.” And you say nothing more.

You stay in the shed for hours still, giving the sun time to vanish from the horizon, letting night fall around you once again.

This time peaceful. Together.

When the sky turns a deep blue and the sun is finally low enough not to hurt his skin anymore, you decide it’s time to bring him back inside.

Gently, you disentangle yourself from his embrace and stand up. He looks at you, still a little lost in the tangle of emotions.

You hold out your hand without speaking. He looks at it as if it were a sacred offer, then slowly takes it with both his hands and lets himself be helped up. He walks beside you in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look for words. He simply trusts.

The house is warm. When you enter, the cat watches you from the armchair with the air of someone who has been on guard, and accepts Remmick’s return without any hostile gesture, as if it understood. You close the door behind you and guide him down the hallway to the bathroom.

You turn on the light and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Remmick stays still at the threshold, as if unsure whether he can really cross it.

“Come here,” you say, motioning with your hand, and he obeys.

He moves slowly, like something fragile, as if afraid to break something just by walking. He passes by you and stops in front of the tub, silently. You bend down, turn on the warm water, and let it run until you find the right temperature. He raises his hands over his shirt but then stops. His eyes search for yours. There is no shame, not really. There is only… hesitation. As if he’s afraid of making a mistake again.

You say nothing. You move closer, take the edges of his shirt, and lift it over his head, pulling it off. Then the pants, slowly, without hurry. As if you were undoing, piece by piece, the tension that had stuck to him.

He stays naked there, full and clear like wax. His skin is dusty, knees scratched, hair stuck to the nape of his forehead. Yet he seems beautiful to you. Because he has come back. Because he is here.

You help him into the tub. The water wraps around his legs, wets his pubic area, belly, chest. He takes a deep breath—not necessary, but freeing. He sits and stretches out his legs. His back relaxes for the first time. His chin lowers to his chest and he stays like that, silently.

You kneel beside him. Take a bowl from the cabinet and pour warm water over his hair. He closes his eyes without protest, and you repeat the gesture two, three, four times until his hair clings to his forehead like black silk threads.

Then you open the shampoo, pour some liquid into your hands, and begin massaging it gently onto his head. Your fingers move carefully: roots, nape, temples. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his breath deepen. He lets go. You understand this from how he slightly tilts his head, from how he trusts your hands like an animal cared for after days of rain.

“Have you ever let someone wash you?” you ask softly, wanting to fill the silence.

He makes a guttural sound, a mix between a moan and a stifled smile.

“Never. Never like this…”

“You could get used to it, huh?” you say with a little smile, to break the emotion.

“If you’re offerin', I’m not sayin' no, that's for sure.”

You laugh softly, and he smiles without opening his eyes.

You pour more water until all the foam disappears. Then you take a soft towel and wipe his face, ears, and the back of his neck. His eyes now look for yours, no longer uncertain. Only full. Of unspoken things. Of silent gratitude. Of a calm you’d seen slip away.

You take the liquid soap and pour it onto the soft glove. Then you start washing his shoulders. The touch is slow, respectful. There is no desire, but something more silent and deep. You wash him like you would wash a beloved body that has suffered too much. Without hurry. Without speaking.

The shoulder blades, the arms, the hands.

Then you slide down the ribs, following the shape of his lean back, the hollow side, the flat belly.

His breath changes, becomes longer, more held. At first, you don’t pay much attention.

“You’re treatin' me like a precious ornament, love,” he says at some point, his voice suddenly tense.

“You are. A bit dusty, though.”

“Still sittin' on a shelf in your mental livin'' room, I am.”

“Sometimes above the fridge, along with glasses I don’t use.”

He laughs. It’s a low, soft sound, echoing lightly against the tiles. It seems like the first real laugh in days.

The sponge reaches his lower belly but you turn and move to his thighs, pressing there. His pelvis shifts a few centimeters but you feel it. You feel the erection pressing firmly against the inside of your wrist.

It makes you smile. Always so sensitive to your touch, even after you almost kicked him out of the house.

Your fingers nestle among the wet hairs at the base of his penis like a tease, and this pulls a new sigh of pleasure from him.

It’s what you want to hear for the rest of your life. Him enjoying your attention.

His hand closes on your wrist and you stop, uncertain.

When you lift your gaze, his gray eyes are fixed on your face. For a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. That you misunderstood and he didn’t want all this.

“I can stop if you—”

He shakes his head and takes your hand out of the water to give a tender kiss on the inside of your wrist.

“Ah, fuck, darlin', no. It’s…,” his voice vibrates in a sound like your cat’s purring, “It’s grand but… let me get out of here first…”

You sigh in relief and continue washing him.

Piece by piece, while the water turns lukewarm, then cool. Only then do you help him stand up.

You take the towel from the small hook and wrap it around his torso. He stays still, arms open to be wrapped. He lets you dry his hands, fingers, even the backs of his knees. When you finish, kneeling, you lift your chin and look him in the face, smiling slightly.

His cock is still erect, pressing against the base of his abs with a slight spasm as if to catch your attention.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He just nods, not trusting his own voice.

You stand up and take his hand. You walk down the corridor and when you catch sight of your cat from the corner of your eye, you decide to close the door behind you once you reach the bedroom. You didn’t want any conflicts tonight, of any kind.

Tonight was for him.

“Sit down.”

He does it, without thinking twice. He sits on the mattress but as he does, his hands rise and rest on your hips, making you collapse into his lap.

You blink confusedly but he looks at you intensely.

His fingers move away from your hips and go up to your face, tenderly brushing your cheeks.

The way he looks at you, the way he touches you…

You had been so blind.

His lips press on yours. The kiss is neither demanding nor hurried. There is gratitude in it, a feeling of infinite ease and safety. His thumb traces circles on your cheek, making you part your lips for him and pulling you closer.

His beard scratches your face but it’s fine; it was a pleasant pain to bear. Surely less debilitating than what he had been through.

He moves his hips just enough to press his erect cock against your inner thigh, covered by leggings, and moans into your mouth.

You push him back by the shoulders, making his back hit the mattress and the soft fabric of the sheets. You leave his lips and slide down his body, showering him with kisses and touches, enjoying the small needy sounds he didn’t intend to hold back.

When you reach his cock and your fingers carefully circle it, feeling the warmth and weight against your palm, Remmick groans hoarsely.

“Fuck, darlin'. You don’t have to do this…” he says cautiously.

“I know.” Your eyes gleam mischievously and you squeeze just a little tighter. “But I want to.”

Remmick swallows and looks down at you, one arm placed behind his head so as not to miss a second.

“My boy is always so good. So attentive. He would never disobey me.”

You whisper, deliberately sliding your hand along his shaft, pressing your fingertip against the prominent vein running along the underside.

The vampire’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing your hand and pressing into your clenched fist, clearly affected by your words.

“I think you deserve a reward for being so good. Don’t you think?”

Remmick nods and a thin trail of saliva drips from his mouth, sliding down his chin.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

A shiver runs down your spine realizing the power you have over this creature, and slowly you lower your mouth where he needs it most.

You start by kissing the tip of his cock, spreading the viscosity of his pre-cum over your red lips.

That alone is enough to break him. His hands clutch the sheets because he doesn’t trust putting them on you, and he whispers your name like a prayer but doesn’t move his hips. He controls himself, like the good boy he is.

You open your mouth and take him slowly, getting used to his size without hurry. The warmth floods you and he moans a sound not very manly but that makes you rub your legs to ease that throbbing pain of restrained desire.

“Yer mouth...is so hot…”

His voice fades into a new moan that can only be filled with despair as you hollow your cheeks and start sucking him, tongue pressed at the base as you go down and circling the tip as you go up.

“Ma’am… hold on… hold on a sec…”

You hum satisfied and feel him writhe beneath you, as if wanting to move away but not wanting to at the same time.

You take more and more, trying to adapt and take him fully, and when you hit the back of your throat you feel his legs tremble strongly under your hands.

“Sugar, please…” he whines pathetically, eyes glowing red again against his will. “I’m close… I'm fuckin' close—”

Remmick brings a hand to his mouth to stifle the deep sound and bites, breaking skin and flesh.

The taste of him starts to fill your mouth in torrents and you have to close your throat to keep the liquid from flowing down. You climb back onto him and, unbothered by the blood and drool that was running down his cheeks, you took his chin in your fingers and opened his mouth. The seed slips from your mouth to his in a wet, messy sound. The white liquid slid over his sharp teeth and tongue and he swallowed it all before he rose and took your lips with his again.

He sucks your tongue and plunders your mouth, searching for more of his sperm and holds your head still so he has plenty of time to do so. You taste his blood but for some reason it doesn’t disgust you. Nothing about him does.

“You’ll be the death of me, so ya will.” He whispers against your cheeks when he pulls away a little.

“You’re already dead.” You laugh as he slides your shirt and bra off with masterly skill.

“Then you’d finish me a second time.”

His hands rest on your waist, helping you stand between his spread legs and you slide the rest of your clothes down yours. You toss everything in the corner of the room. You’d have to think about it the next morning.

His cock is still hard, as if it hadn’t just exploded in your mouth and you shake your head. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. You think he’s going to grab you, throw you under him, line up and enter you in one move given how agitated he is. But no.

He looks up at you, hands pressed to the mattress for support and gasps a couple of times. It looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

You frown.

“Remmick-”

“Iloveya.”

He says it quickly, like it’s a curse. As if he wasn’t allowed to say it but he wanted to anyway.

Your lips part slightly. The heart in your chest jumps and you think that if your mouth had been slightly wider, it would have fallen into his lap.

Sarcasm, as always, is your best defense.

“Are you saying that because I just made you come or…?”

“I fucking love ya.” He almost growls at him and rests his forehead against your knees. “It’s alright if ya…if ya don’t feel the same. I've love enough in me for the both of us. I can-”

Your hand presses to his head and before he can say anything else, you muffle his words with your mouth, leaning into him and wrapping your legs around his hips. You taste the saltiness of tears in your kiss and you’re not sure if they’re yours or his. But you don’t care.

“My poor pretty boy. Of course I love you.”

Remmick shivers as the tip of his cock breaks the confines of your entrance, collecting all your wetness and sliding into your cavern.

“You’re soaking wet, love…” he moans as your arms wrap around his neck to keep both of you in a comfortable position. “I’ve missed ya so much…”

His hands settle on your butt and he lifts you up, letting his length leave you before bringing you back down and impaling you again. His drool runs down your collarbone, pooling where you’re joined and you shiver at the sensation.

When your walls have softened enough for him, you feel him push a faster pace and his hips stutter into yours in pursuit of pleasure. He’s panting against you and you want to watch him. You want to watch what you do to him.

Your fingers close in his hair and you pull him back enough to look into his eyes. The image of the bloodthirsty creature is before your eyes, its fangs wet with his blood and his eyes fiery red, but as much as you want to, he doesn’t scare you. Not anymore.

“There he is, my good boy. You fuck me so good.” you tried to keep your voice steady but it still shook.

Your thumb nestles in his mouth, presses against his tongue, grazing his fangs but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t dare.

“Who’s my good boy, Remmick?”

“I…fuck, it’s me, baby. I’m yer good boy.”

His eyes roll back in his head as you clench your walls around him and his lips close around your thumb, muffled by his whimpers. You see the muscles in his arms tense as he continues to lift you up and down on his cock, and it makes your mouth water.

You feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster, and you reach down to stroke your clit in tandem with his thrusts. It overwhelms you almost immediately, and your hand tightens convulsively on his shoulder as you come around his thick cock, screaming his name.

This seems to push him over the edge, and he pulls you down hard as he buries himself in you all the way to your balls. His seed fills you up and you’re pressed against his chest as he makes shallow, thrust thrusts to pump him deep into you, every last drop.

When his breathing calms but he doesn’t let go of you, you caress the back of his head with little scratches.

“Is everything okay?”

“Forgive me…”

You smile again and kiss the top of his head.

“No more apologizing. But I’m warning you…”

He pulls back at the stiff tone of your voice. His puppy eyes all wide and waiting at you, dreading your next words.

You grin. “Next time you break something I’ll spray you with garlic water.”

[charliepoopyfart]

[charliepoopyfart]

Please, please help me spread the word and help. The situation is getting more difficult for us and we are suffering from very miserable conditions. Despite all this, donations have stopped because my accounts were closed and a group of Zionists reported and closed my accounts. I am in dire need of you and I thank everyone who stood by me and I am indebted to you for that. Please stand with me in these very difficult times.

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[charliepoopyfart]

White people who watched sinners and the ONLY take they had from that movie was “wow Remmick is hot!” DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE

[charliepoopyfart]

Too Much, Not Enough

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 12.6k

A/N: first, i'd like to thank my wonderful boo thang @iceemochaa for this idea. everyone go give her a kiss. i'd also want to thank some fellow people from the server for very horny-fest ideas: @crxw1ey @itsaaudraw @remmicks-salvation @madkingcrowley

ALSO this is in lowercase because i typed it on my phone (default lowercase squad) and i was already so far in that i didn't feel like going back to capitalize everything

synopsis : he catches you one night—drinking from you as you try to get away. but suddenly, something shifts in him; he starts to feel strange, aroused to the point that you can feel him pressing against your backside. a couple of nights pass before he shows up again—only this time, he’s not after blood. he’s hoping you’ll help him release all the pent-up sexual frustration he’s been carrying.

warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), drool/spit, overstimulation, handjob, oral (f receiving), very soft dom remmick, virginity taking (both?), dream sex

----

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.

and in that quiet moment, with him still inside you, your bodies still joined in the mess of it all, he kisses you like it means something. like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be human again.

[charliepoopyfart]

Across the Threshold

one-shot

remmick x fem!reader

summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.

But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.

Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.

wc: 5.4k

a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333

warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.

[charliepoopyfart]

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[charliepoopyfart]

May I request the reader being just as pathetic as Remmick? Like, both of them crying during sex because they love each other a lot and they're so overwhelmed by their feelings, and being equally obsessed with him as he's with her? I apologize if you do not write for readers who are also pathetic little meow meows but since you didn't mention anything about that in your rules I thought it was worth a try.

Ye! It takes me a lot cause I'm not good with sub!reader but I found it very fun to write. Since you didn't specify any other kinks, I took the liberty of handling the matter myself. I hope you like it.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴄᴏᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ, ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 1,4ᴋ

You lost track of how long you’d been like this — impaled on him, your thighs shaking faintly, the burn of held-in need spreading like a fever through your bloodstream.

Remmick hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

No thrust. No grinding. No friction.

Just the unbearable fullness of him inside you, hot and still, while his lips lazily traced the curve of your shoulder, the edge of your throat, the delicate shell of your ear.

His hands weren’t idle.

One rested low on your back, fingers splayed, pressing you down against him like he owned every inch of you — which, right now, he did.

The other was crueler in its patience. Gliding up your side, teasing your ribs, stroking the underside of your breast with just the edge of a long sharp nail. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to torment.

You couldn’t help it.

You whimpered, softly — a sound he had undoubtedly been waiting for.

His laugh was low and dark against your neck. “There y'are now,” he murmured, teeth grazing skin. “Was startin' to think you’d gone and passed out, sittin' so bloody still like that.”

You shift your hips — just slightly. Barely enough to qualify as a movement. But even that is a mistake.

His fingers tighten on your hip instantly, bruising in their precision. His voice drops, honeyed and mocking.

“Ah ah ah,” he purrs. “Not so fast now, darlin'.” He tilts his head back to look at you, fangs catching the light. “You told me you could take it. Said you were well able to sit pretty for me. Hours, you said. Remember that, do ya?”

You glare at him, but it’s weak, trembly — a lost cause.

“Remmick,” you breathe, “please. It’s— I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts smoothly, voice like silk dragged over stone. “You just don’t want to anymore. There’s a difference.”

His thumb slides up to brush the corner of your mouth, tracing your lips. “You were bold as brass earlier,” he muses. “So sure of yourself. Where’s all that arrogance now, hm?” He tilts your chin up. “Melted away just because I made you wait? How fragile your pride is.”

You whimper again — not from pain, not even from the pressure building low in your belly like a storm about to break — but from the unbearable need. The intimacy. The weight of his gaze, the deliberate control in every motion.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “I’m begging you.”

His expression softens — just slightly. A cruel softness.

“Y'think I don’t want to fuck you 'til you forget your own name?” he growls low, voice suddenly darker. “You think I’m not burnin' to ruin you right now, love?”

You gasp softly at the change in tone. There’s hunger in his eyes — real, dangerous. The kind only a vampire can carry: ageless, starved, barely restrained.

“But this?” He shifts — just a little, enough to make you keen. “This is more intimate than fucking. This is ownin' you, body and soul.”

He licks a slow stripe up your neck.

You want to cry from how turned on you are.

He leans back just enough to look at you fully now. His white shirt is undone halfway, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

His pale hands are elegant and cruel. His nails, long and sharp, trace slow paths down your back. Every motion is precise, patient, like a man who has lived too long to rush anything.

“Drippin' for me, look at you” he murmurs, glancing down between your bodies. “Feel that?” He flexes his hips just slightly — again, barely — and the sensation makes you choke on a moan. “And I've not even fucked ya yet.”

You’re shaking now, trembling from restraint. Your walls flutter around him, desperate for movement, for release, for anything.

He notices. Of course, he does.

He leans close again, whispering against your lips, “Say it.”

You breathe, “Please.”

“Nah, c'mon. Say it proper.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

A long silence. His red eyes gleam. Then—

“No.”

It lands like a slap.

Your breath catches on a sob you can’t stop in time. It trembles up from your chest, raw and helpless, and before you can turn your face away — ashamed of it — he’s already there, watching.

Remmick freezes.

Then his expression shifts. The slow unraveling of something old and cold inside him, cracking apart under the weight of your tears.

“Ah, fuck,” he breathes, and it’s not sarcastic this time. Not mocking. Just wrecked.

He cups your face so gently it shatters you all over again. His thumbs brush your cheeks, catching the tears. He kisses you — soft, desperate, trembling with restraint — like he wants to take the hurt into his own mouth and swallow it whole.

“Oh, my poor sweet thing,” he whispers into your lips. “You’ve been so good for me. So fucking good. I didn’t mean to break you.”

You gasp when he finally moves — hips rolling up into you in one slow, thick stroke, and you sob again, this time from the flood of overwhelming relief.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s it. Take it. I’ve got you.”

The pace is steady at first — deep, controlled thrusts, his hands anchoring you in place. One at your hip. One tangled in your hair.

He kisses your neck again, open-mouthed, letting a fang scrape gently along your pulse. His breath is ragged now, hot and reverent.

“You’re perfect like this,” he groans. “All warm 'n' wet, takin' me so deep like your cunt was built for it.”

You moan brokenly into his shoulder, clutching at his shirt, nails digging into the fabric as he finally, finally gives you what you need.

“I couldn’t—” he chokes. “I couldn’t move, dear. You were so bloody gorgeous sittin' there, patient as a saint. I just wanted to see how long you'd last for me. I didn’t think it’d hurt you.”

You shake your head — no, no, it’s not pain, not like that. It’s the want, the hunger, the way he fills every part of you, body and mind, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

And now that he’s moving, now that he’s inside you, with you — it’s everything.

His mouth finds your ear again.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Y'hear? Mine to touch. Mine to fill. Mine to keep.”

“Yes,” you sob, clenching around him. “Yours, Remmick. Yours.”

He moans — a sound low and guttural, his control fraying.

“I’d set the fucking world on fire for you,” he whine. “Drain kingdoms if you asked. I’d kill for your pleasure. And you’re crying just because I made you wait. Fuckin' hell, I love you.”

Your whole body jolts at the words.

He doesn’t stop.

“I love you when you’re proud. I love you when you’re begging. I love you like it’s eating me alive.”

You cry harder, and he kisses the tears away as he drives into you now — harder, deeper, not holding back.

His hips snap up into you with filthy sounds, slick and desperate. His hands are everywhere — gripping your waist, fisting your hair, cradling your jaw.

“I’ve got you, darlin',” he murmurs over and over. “I’ve got you. Let go, baby. Come for me now.”

You do — with a scream muffled against his throat, every nerve ending detonating into light. You convulse around him, clutching him like salvation as he fucks you through it, murmuring praise into your skin:

“That’s it, gorgeous. So good.”

His pace falters — a sudden sharp thrust, then a shudder — and he follows you over the edge with a snarl of your name, sinking his fangs into your shoulder as he comes, spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves.

The bite is sharp — pleasure laced with pain — and your body clenches again, aftershocks wracking through you.

You collapse against him, breath hitching, heart pounding wildly against his cold chest.

He licks the wound gently. Kisses it. Wraps his arms around you like a coffin.

“You’re everythin' to me,” he whispers into your hair. “Don’t you ever doubt that, not for a second.”

You’re too spent to answer, but your arms tighten around his shoulders, and he feels it — your answer in the way you hold him, not like a lover but like a lifeline.

And for once, Remmick doesn’t tease. Doesn’t gloat.

He just holds you, and trembles.

[charliepoopyfart]

do not forget the patron saint of these weeks that we celebrate ourselves proudly and openly in the streets

her name was Marsha P Johnson, and we have her to thank for so much.

remember, the first Pride was a riot, and she was one of the brave souls who endured it to help carve the path which so many of us walk today. she helped found several activist groups regarding LGBT safety and wellbeing. and she was absolutely radiant, too.

thank you, Marsha. we remember you.