daemoncer

[daemoncer]

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.

[daemoncer]

𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹, 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫’𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹.

ˡᶦᵒⁿ ᵏᵃᵐᶦⁿˢᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Lion Kaminski has exactly seven days to prepare for what his older brother calls "the most important fight of his life"—but focusing is hard when you're no longer by his side. In a manic cycle of memories bleeding into the present, Lion tries—really tries—his best. Yet all he wants is for you to reappear in his life one more time; 'cause burning with love for you, he knows it’s not too late to hold you in his arms again. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: after an incredible 15 days (and a lot of procrastination), i finally finished my humble fanfic about my favorite character from jack, lion kaminski—whose connection with him was very… special, i'd say. that bond with his only brother, that certain vulnerability hidden behind his tough boxer persona, how sweet and funny he is… well, i've already watched this movie three times (which i think is actually too few), and this idea came to me between the first and second viewing. maybe i'll write more one-shots about him—could be in the same vibe (angst with fluffy), or just angst, or just fluffy, or maybe something smuttier, idk… anyway, i also took inspiration from my drabble about him, SWEET EYES. that's it, let's flood this fandom with love and content for our baby—he deserves it!! 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: sad, hurt/comfort, a lil' bit of smut (it's more a "making love" thing with a slight breeding kink idk), more sadness and hurt&comfort, angst AND fluffy; toxic relationship dynamics and a LOT of dialogues. i really tried to keep the essence of the characters throughout the story. 𝐖𝐂: +7k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖫𝖨𝖮𝖭 𝖪𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖪𝖨 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

but tonight you're on my mind, so you never know, broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it; where are you tonight? child, you know how much I need it. too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run. lover. (you should've come over, jeff buckley)

"And when you wake up, please cry for me. When you wake up, wake up, wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Lion— Wake up, Lion!"

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘.

His eyes fluttered open as he felt light taps against his face, followed by an intrusive finger poking his ear. At his feet, Ash wagged his little tail against his shins. The smell of boiled eggs with oatmeal and his brother’s voice—low, almost maternal—woke him fully.

"Alright, I'm up," he grumbled, dodging another playful slap from his older brother, who made a face. He kicked off the blanket and sat up on the bed. Stan looked him up and down, dressed in gray sweatpants, shirtless and barefoot, holding a mug with that protein sludge he called "champion's breakfast." He grinned warmly:

"Ah, Lion, don’t be a pain now, bro! Get your ass outta bed, eat your champion’s breakfast, and get ready. We’re going for a run today. We’ve got less than a week until the big day." He shoved the ceramic mug into Lion’s hands. The smell of eggs mixed with oatmeal hit his nose, making him grimace. He lifted his tired eyes to Stan, who kept that shameless grin on his face: "No cheating! You can’t give it to Ash."

"Fine. Just give me some space—" He took the mug from his brother’s hands. Stan stared at him for a few seconds, studying him, probably reading him like a book. Then he walked out of the room, but not without tossing a sharp comment over his shoulder:

"Walter Kaminski, if you keep moping over your ex like some lovesick fool, we’re not going anywhere. Nowhere."

And with that, he was gone.

Lion glared angrily and exhaustedly at the empty hallway of the apartment they shared. He whistled for Ash, who jumped off the bed and trotted to his feet, tail wagging as he ate the food Lion offered—Stan always left protein bars lying around, knowing Lion would prefer them over his "champion’s breakfast." He grabbed one, tearing it open with his teeth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He glanced to the side, at the wall opposite his bed, covered in pinned-up photos and collages he’d made—a childhood picture of him and his brother, his Kaminski Kleanners collage, a poster of his brother’s favorite fighter, and a bunch of photos of him with his girlfriend.

You.

Your photos were his favorites—both the ones of you two together, side by side, practically glued at the hip, and the ones of just you, taken with his phone’s camera. His absolute favorite was from the day you met. It was during his shift at the towel factory. He was finishing up a piece he’d just sewn, trying to steady the slight tremble in his hands from the fight the night before, his older brother pushing a cart full of towels when you appeared beside someone else—attentive eyes, polite smile, gentle hands picking up the towels between your fingers. Then your gaze cut through the crowded room and locked with his, staring back with a mix of curiosity and passion.

Love at first sight.

You smiled at him like you were old friends reuniting after years, waved, and kept walking. Lion thought he’d never see you again, but he was wrong. When he least expected it, lost in his sewing, you appeared in front of him, smiling, hands behind your back. You stared at each other for a long moment. Lion was too shy to make the first move, so you spoke up:

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don’t think so…"

"That’s a shame! I thought we’d met before…" You gave him a long look, waiting for something. Anything. Lion smiled gently, glanced around, amused:

"But we can get to know each other. If you want, of course."

Flash.

You both blinked, momentarily blinded by the camera flash, then laughed at each other. Lion turned his phone around to show you the freshly taken photo—you two close together, him smiling shyly, lips pressed together, while you were all smiles. Your eyes were red from the harsh lighting, and Lion pretended he’d delete it when you stopped him:

"No! It’s perfect! We look like two vampires in love or something…"

Lion laughed and stared at you with shining eyes. He was already falling head over heels for you in that little corner bar.

Lion smiled at the memory, rubbing his eye. But then another memory overlapped the first—you, upset, arms flailing as you paced back and forth. Lion tried to grab your hands to calm you down, but you were skittish, crying, your tone sharp. Harsh. Lion fought back tears. Behind you both, Stan sat on the couch, expression serious as he watched you gather your things—backpack, rolling suitcase, another handbag—before stopping by the door, staring at Lion with a pain he’d never seen in your eyes before.

And he did nothing.

He stood there, frozen, passive, while you said something his memory refused to hold onto. And the worst part? He couldn’t even remember the most important things—just watching you walk away. Without looking back.

He closed his eyes, forcing the scene out of his mind. He took a deep breath, finished the protein bar, tossed the wrapper aside, and petted Ash with a sad little smile on his lips. He stood up and stretched. Your face flashed in his mind, followed by the realization that it had been twenty-three days since any contact. The last prolonged argument you’d had was months ago, and by his count, you’d never gone more than twenty-four hours without one of you running back into the other’s arms, full of apologies, desperate kisses, and the (apparently false) certainty that nothing could ever tear you apart.

But something had torn you apart. Something so deep and intense it ripped you from his arms, from the nights curled up in bed, whispering about your future dreams, laughing at stupid jokes, and trading kisses until you fell asleep.

It hurt more than any punch he’d taken in the underground fights. More than the harshest words from his older brother—he was used to those by now. But he wasn’t used to your absence. Maybe this was something he’d never learn to live with.

He took another deep breath as his brother’s voice called from somewhere in the apartment:

"Kid, hurry up, or you’re gonna be screwed for the fight."

"Fuck this damn fight," Lion thought, pressing his slightly trembling fingers—a chronic symptom from fighting bare-knuckled—against the bridge of his nose. He counted slowly to ten, trying to steady the anger and anguish churning in his stomach.

Damn the day he ever listened to his older brother.

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘.

Lion pulled his phone from his pocket—an older model you’d gifted him after his previous one had been battered beyond recognition. Compared to his old one, this one was light-years better. The moment the screen lit up, a photo of you appeared: you smiling at the camera, face slightly turned, hands stuffed into his dark blue windbreaker, trying (and failing) to look blasé—"laconic," as you’d put it—but ending up unbearably cute instead. It had been the cause of many laughs and your failed attempts to snatch the phone from his hands.

"Delete it! Delete it right now, Lion!"

"But you look beautiful, babe! I’m not deleting it!" His voice was playful as he held the phone high above his head while you tried to reach it.

"I know! But it’s not how I wanted it to look…"

"Oh, c’mon… Here’s the deal—" He finally lowered his hands but kept a tight grip on the phone, the screen already dark. You looked at him curiously, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Hmm?"

"I’ll keep this photo on my phone for a week—" He held up a finger. "—in exchange, you get to pick my outfits for the next few days."

The effect was instant. You stepped back, eyes lighting up, a goofy grin spreading across your face.

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?" he teased, smiling sweetly. Disarmed, you jumped on him—not to grab the phone this time, but to hug him with all your strength, cover his face in kisses, and squeal in victory. In the ‘battle’ you’d fought against his older brother for Lion’s independence, getting to dress him the way you wanted—without Stan’s opinions on ‘Italian high fashion’—meant everything to you. And to Lion, too.

Now, all of that was just a memory he struggled to hold onto, grasping at the fleeting sensations of pure joy he’d felt with you. He checked his messaging apps—your contact was still there, but the last message was his, sent twenty-four days ago, unanswered. At least you’d been merciful enough not to block him.

He sighed, shoved the phone back into his sweatpants pocket, and looked up just as Stan jogged toward him. His brother had been waiting outside the training center, leaning against the wall while he handled "whatever the hell he needed to handle."

Lion hated the side jobs Stan took, the borrowed money from Pepper, and how he kept them both in the gutter by dealing with that kind of crowd. As Stan reached him, slightly out of breath but grinning ear to ear, he took note of Lion’s scowl.

"What’s with the shitty face, kid? Don’t tell me—" He gave Lion a condemning look. Lion rolled his eyes.

"Cut the crap, Stan. Did you handle whatever you needed to?"

"Yeah. We’re clear now. We can go into Saturday’s fight without any issues." He smirked proudly, winking at Lion before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a drag, and nudged Lion’s chest to get him walking. Side by side, he exhaled smoke before asking:

"How’s that heart of yours holding up? You know fighting with a grudge in your chest only makes everything worse, right?"

"Stan, mind your own business," Lion snapped, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze fixed ahead. "I know how to take care of myself."

"I know that, kid! I just want what’s best for you. That’s all." Stan exhaled smoke to the side before pulling Lion into a sideways brotherly hug—the kind he always gave at the worst times. He ruffled Lion’s hair, stopping them both in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Say you love me!"

"Stan—"

"C’mon, Walter Kaminski! Say you love me and that you’re gonna wreck this fight on Saturday, and I’ll let you go!" He laughed at Lion’s pained expression. Lion tried to lean away from Stan’s cigarette breath as passersby shot them odd looks. Finally, he gave in, muttering:

"Fine, fine. I love you… And I’ll wreck the fight… Happy?" He glanced at Stan, whose grin widened as he hugged him tighter.

"That’s my Lion!"

"My Lion," you mimicked Stan’s exaggerated tone, rolling your eyes, arms crossed as you walked ahead of Lion. You’d just gotten home—you from your job as an interior design consultant, him from a fight he’d only been told about after he’d won. Stan had stayed behind, celebrating his cut of the prize money at some bar. Lion dropped his bag, sidestepped Ash (who trotted up to him, tail wagging), and followed you down the hall.

"Hey! Hey! Babe, wait!" He caught up, gently grabbing your shoulder to turn you toward him. "I was gonna tell you, but you know how Stan—"

"Stan’s always in the middle of everything! Unbelievable! When I agreed to date you, I didn’t know I’d get a fucking leech as a bonus!"

"Don’t talk like that, babe. He’s my brother…" Lion replied, slightly offended. You stared at him, the weight of his hand on your shoulder suddenly feeling suffocating in your anger.

"Lion, he treats you like his property. His possession—my Lion, my Lion won for us, my Lion did this for the both of us. For fuck’s sake! He doesn’t include me, doesn’t even have the guts to tell me about these damn fights, which is supposed to be something we talk about! It’s exhausting, Lion. So fucking exhausting!" You jerked away from his touch. Lion’s face twisted in pain—the absence of your touch left him anxious and needy. You took a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Sometimes I think I lose you a little more to your older brother every day, Lion. And if that’s your choice, fine. At least you’re making some kind of decision for your life. But if it’s not—if you really want us to work…" You stepped closer, your heart softening at the abandoned-puppy look on his face—lost, sweet, like someone who’d suffered too much but kept going anyway. 

Love exploded inside you, side by side with that anger (and maybe jealousy, possessiveness, a petty competition with his older brother) you felt for and toward Walter Kaminski. Your hands cradled his face gently.

"I need you to fight back. For me—" You pressed your forehead to his, eyes closed, feeling his warm breath against your skin. "—for us. Fight for yourself, Walter. My Walter…"

𝐓𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"My name is Walter Kaminski—spelled with an ‘i’ at the end, but my brother prefers writing it with a ‘y,’ not that I care much…" Lion spoke calmly to the woman in front of him, sweaty hands resting on his knees. "I’m 29, turning 30 this August…"

"I see. And what brings you to our company, Mr. Kaminski?" the woman asked softly, waiting for his response. Lion paused, thinking. He thought about his dreams, his life, but mostly about you—how you always knew exactly where you wanted to be, something he admired deeply. And that was exactly why he was here, sneaking away from his older brother, doing something he’d never had the courage to do in all these years: applying for a real job, one he’d chosen himself, without Stan’s interference.

It made him proud—and he knew it would make you proud too.

Lion scratched his left cheek, met the woman’s eyes, and answered with complete honesty:

"I’m really good with my hands. Look, ma’am, I use them for heavy work—fighting—but I also use them for delicate things, like sewing. Even though I’ve lived like this, my real dream is to start my own business, like a dry cleaner, just like this place. I think working here would help me learn how to handle things the right way."

He smiled hesitantly, unsure if that was the best answer. The woman gave him a polite smile, hands folded on the desk, listening intently. When she realized he was done, she chirped, "Alright, understood!" jotted something down, then typed a few more things on her computer. Lion watched with cautious hope. Finally, she turned back to him.

"Lion, we really appreciate your interest in joining our team! Right now, we’re still in the interview process, so we can’t promise anything solid yet. But we’ll keep in touch over the next few weeks. Who knows? Maybe an internship opportunity will open up at one of our locations?"

Lion relaxed his tense shoulders, leaning back in the chair, head slightly raised. He smiled at her, relieved.

"Of course. I’m at your disposal."

Funny how, as he said that, all he could picture was you looking at him with pride and expectation.

What a fool he was.

He left the store holding a few company pamphlets.

What he didn’t expect was to find Stan across the street, leaning against a wall, smoking, Ash on a leash beside him. Stan waved at Lion, calling out, "Hey, get over here, kid!" Lion crossed the empty street under the gray Wednesday afternoon sky, suspicious.

"What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be at the factory or something?"

"I should be asking you what the hell you’re doing here, little brother," Stan shot back, voice sharp and bitter. He glanced at the dry cleaner above Lion’s head, pointing at it with his cigarette. "In some fucking dry cleaner? You here to clean the shit stains outta your clothes or what?" He laughed mockingly, but Lion knew that look—far from amused, closer to anger barely contained.

"Look, Stan, I don’t owe you an explanation for what I do or don’t do with my life—"

"This is about that ex of yours, isn’t it? Tell me, kid, is this her idea?" Stan took an exasperated drag. The dismissive way he talked about you sent a surge of rage through Lion, who clenched his fists.

"Whoa! Easy there, Lion! Just asking a question!" Stan raised his hands, grinning like always. Lion snarled:

"No, Stan, you’re not just asking shit! You’re just butting into my goddamn life like always, and I’m sick of it!"

Stan exhaled deeply, his grin shifting into disbelief. He shook his head, tossed the half-smoked cigarette on the ground, and crushed it under his sneaker.

"This is so unreal it killed my buzz… Fuck! What did I do to deserve this…?"

"Stan, don’t start—just give me Ash, and let’s go home—" Lion reached for the leash, but Stan dodged.

"We’re not going anywhere!" His voice rose. "You’re gonna tell me what the fuck you’re up to, Walter Kaminski. Now."

Lion could’ve refused. He could’ve shrugged and walked away, head down. But the contempt and fury boiling inside him made the words burst out:

"You wanna know? Fine! I’m trying to get my shit together! Unlike you, who’s only worried about your next fancy outfit or whether you’ll have enough money to pay off Pepper or some other lowlife, I’m trying to get my independence and get out of this mess. Happy now?"

"And you’re gonna do that by working at some shitty dry cleaner?" Stan scoffed, pointing behind Lion, who took a deep breath, the scent of blood and fury filling his lungs. Stan laughed mockingly.

"Man, this is a joke, right? With your boxing future right in front of you, one step away from something real, and you’re out here looking for this kinda work? You’ve lost it…"

"The only one who’s lost it is you, sticking your nose into everything I do!"

"Fuck’s sake, Lion! Don’t mess with me!" Stan threw his hands up, eyes wide. "I’ve spent years training you, always putting you first, in everything, and after all that, just because of some girl who didn’t even love you—’cause if she did, she wouldn’t have left over some stupid shit—you’re out here trying to take on the whole world? It’s fucking pathetic, bro. Fucking pathetic!"

"Don’t talk about her like that," Lion warned. Ash barked at their raised voices, and passersby shot them curious, disapproving looks. Stan sneered.

"What’re you gonna do? Hit me? If you do, at least make it count, ‘cause I didn’t spend all these years teaching you everything—putting you on the path to success—just to lose you over some skirt."

Lion didn’t hold back.

He threw a right hook straight into Stan’s face, making him stagger back. Ash barked louder, and a few people nearby gasped at the sudden violence. Stan laughed, wiping the blood from his nose, a spark of pride in his blue eyes.

"Damn, Lion, if you keep that right hook sharp, we’re definitely closer to our dreams this Saturday…"

"You’re ridiculous," Lion spat, fists still clenched, disgust twisting his mouth. The anger burned through him. "I’m gonna make this crystal clear, Stan—" He grabbed his brother’s shirt, shoving the dry cleaner pamphlets against his chest. "—this is my last fight. After this, we’re each on our own."

Stan stared at him, searching for any hesitation. When he found none—just resolve in Lion’s eyes—his smug grin faded. He opened his mouth to argue, but Lion shoved him away, snatched Ash’s leash, and stormed off down the street.

𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"Lion, oh—" you moaned playfully, shuddering on top of him in the messy bed, listening to his rough, equally teasing groans. His eyes were closed, lips parted as he came inside you, his hips and thighs trembling, his hands gripping your sweaty waist tightly. When he finally opened his eyes—slowly, lazily—and looked at you with all the serenity and sweetness in the world, you melted. But there was still so much love in your heart it threatened to burn you alive, just like the taste of his kisses—sweet, caramelized, scorching.

He smiled, tilting his chin up—a silent request for a kiss. Against your lips, still buried inside you, he teased:

"If I could, I’d keep you connected to me forever…"

"Lion!" you laughed softly, wrapped in his strong arms as he rolled you both over, pinning you beneath him, still inside you, his smile lazy, his gaze dripping with honey.

"I’m not joking, babe. I’m keeping you here. With me. Always."

"Always is a long time," you whispered, exhausted. Lion laughed against your lips in a messy kiss, his hands roaming your arms while yours played with his sweat-damp hair.

"Then let’s make it until we die, I don’t know…"

"Like marriage?"

"It’s our marriage," he affirmed, grinning. You just stared at him, wondering what you’d done to deserve so much sweetness in one person.

And Lion kissed you—tender, devoted, slow—savoring your taste, your saliva, your sweat, you.

But when he turned in bed to reach for you among the blankets, all he found was emptiness.

He opened his eyes slowly, groggily, realizing he was alone. You were gone, leaving behind an empty side of the bed—and an even emptier hole in his heart.

He swallowed the bitterness, wanting to bury his head deeper into the covers. Those dream-memories had been haunting him for days. And it was only getting worse.

But lying there, staring at the indifferent ceiling, wouldn’t help. He had to do something.

He didn’t have to go to the factory today, so he had time to run, clear his head. In the kitchen, as he fixed himself a decent breakfast (unlike Stan’s "champion’s breakfast"), he found a post-it on the fridge in his brother’s messy handwriting:

"Bro,

Gonna be out all day. Took Ash for a walk. Eat well, don’t skip training.

See ya."

Lion nodded, glancing at Ash, who sat at his feet, waiting for scraps.

"Just you and me today, Ash."

Lion picked up his pace as he jogged up a hill, Ash panting beside him.

He tried with all his might to push you out of his thoughts, but the harder he fought, the more they tormented him. The longing mixed with resentment—for not being stronger, for not taking control of his life, for losing you.

God, all he wanted was for you to turn a corner, recognize him, pull him into your arms, and tell him everything was okay. In return, he’d give you his heart. He’d be your home. Together, you’d have the life you’d dreamed of.

Oh, how he ached for it.

The lump of unspoken words choked him. It was hard to run when he felt stuck in place. Worse—he couldn’t outrun himself. Sweat dripped down his face—soon mixing with the sudden tears in his eyes. The dam of unspoken words burst into rough, painful sobs, tearing from his throat. His body gave out, his shadow disappearing into the alley he ducked into, pressing against the brick wall of a building as he sank to the ground, hands covering his face, eyes wet, mouth dry as he gasped for air.

Ash whined softly, licking his owner’s face.

Lion tried to swallow the tears, but all he could do was cry—for losing you, for losing himself, for losing his brother. He’d already lost so many people in his life. Now he’d lost the two most important.

You appeared in his memories, hugging him, warm and soft, dancing to a slow song while Stan laughed and teased in the background—a memory of something that hadn’t even happened yet.

That was his biggest flaw, people said. A guy like him—a fighter, someone who had to be tough—was a hopeful dreamer. Lion sobbed hard, pressing his hands against his eyes, trying to force the tears back in. He took a deep breath, counting with you in his head—just like you’d taught him.

One, two, breathe, Lion—that’s it—three, four… You got this! Five…

And slowly, the crying stopped. His shoulders stilled. The tears dried.

Finally, he was free of the weight he’d been carrying all this time.

𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"Lion and I are moving out," you announced casually at the dinner table in the apartment you shared with Stan. He looked up from his cereal, incredulous. Lion sat quietly, listening. You held his hand, smiling at Stan, trying to sound friendly. "We’re leaving as soon as I finish my last project."

"Wait—" Stan’s voice was rough. "—what do you mean you and Lion are moving out? As far as I know, we’ve got a damn important fight in a few weeks, and he needs to train—"

"Stan, man…" Lion cut in, voice steady. You watched Stan with disbelief.

"Of course you’re being an asshole about this, Stan. Selfish—"

"Hey, babe, don’t—" Lion squeezed your hand, hating arguments—especially between you and Stan. It made him feel like a kid watching his parents fight over him. You glared at him, hurt.

"Lion? How can you say that? Stan’s trying to control you like you’re his little toy—"

"If you’re gonna start acting like a bitch too, I have every right to argue against this stupid idea," Stan snapped, slamming his spoon down, splashing milk everywhere. Lion wiped droplets off his face, blinking slowly at Stan. You huffed.

"Why is it stupid, Stan? Scared of your brother living his own life?" You crossed your arms, challenging him. Stan’s smug expression hardened.

"No…" He glanced at Lion. "I just don’t think this is the right way to do things. I’ve been with him longer. I know what he needs—and he needs me to win this fight—"

"Fight this, Lion that—Stan, when are you gonna stop pretending to be something you’re not? Stop dumping all your failed dreams on your brother and start living your own life!?"

Your words cut through the tension like a knife.

Lion looked at you, fear in his eyes. Stan, meanwhile, stared at you like he was seeing into your soul. He took a deep, noisy breath. Then he turned to Lion.

"Is that what you want? Is that what you think of me, Lion?"

"I don’t speak for your brother—unlike you."

"Shut the fuck up!" Stan slammed his hands on the table. Lion flinched.

"Stan, c’mon, don’t—"

"DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Stan stood, laughing bitterly before pointing at you. "How am I supposed to stay calm when she’s manipulating you!? She doesn’t love you—not like I do! And I can’t let you throw away your future—"

"Here we go again…" You rolled your eyes, pushing your half-eaten plate away. "... lost my appetite. Look, I’m gonna go before things get worse. Lion—" You turned to him, your boyfriend looking at you with those innocent, lost, sweet eyes. "—we’ll talk when I get back. See you."

"Bye," Stan muttered dryly as you kissed Lion’s cheek, your fingers brushing the scratch on his left cheekbone.

Lion glared at Stan. 

Stan shrugged.

"What can I say? You went and dated a controlling psycho."

Lion gasped for air, eyes fluttering open as he stared at the photo-covered wall, your face everywhere. He’d been trying to meditate—or whatever the hell relaxation technique he’d learned over the years—to clear his mind of everything, of you, but the smallest trigger brought you rushing back.

And this Thursday morning, two days before the fight, his olfactory memory decided to play tricks on him, conjuring your scent—sweet, fruity, like the purple grapes you loved.

And just like that, he was back in that fateful day when everything fell apart.

He wanted to stay focused, but waking up every day to the ghosts of your presence—photos, scraps of paper with your image—things he couldn’t really touch—was torture.

It tore his heart apart.

Just like the growing distance between him and Stan, even before their fight two days ago.

A rift had formed, separating him from the two most important people in his life—his brother, who’d raised him, and you, the soul that completed his.

Lion sniffed, wiping his face. He didn’t want to cry again.

Instead, the hand that wiped his tears became the one that punished him—fists slamming into his own head, over and over, his voice rough:

"Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic…"

He only stopped when he felt dizzy, palm pressed over his eyes, muffling a scream.

That’s when Stan appeared with Ash.

"Lion! Lion, hey, bro! Stop!" He crouched, gripping Lion’s shoulders, staring at him with all the love and worry of an older brother. "Lion, listen—it’s okay! Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m here, alright!?" He cupped Lion’s face, Ash nuzzling into his lap. Lion cried silently, chin trembling. Stan smiled warmly, eyes wet too.

"Everything I’ve done—everything I do—is for you, bro. You’re the most important thing in my life, and I just want what’s best for you… I was an asshole to her. I know how much she means to you. If there’s anything I can do to fix this, I will." He pressed his forehead to Lion’s, stroking his hair as Lion—still that scared, pure boy Stan had helped raise—calmed down. "I’d do anything to see you happy, bro. Anything—even if it means swallowing my pride." He laughed at himself. Lion chuckled between sobs.

They looked at each other. Stan kissed Lion’s forehead, pulled back but kept a hand on his face, wiping his own tears.

"Lion, you’re not just gonna win this damn fight—you’re gonna be one of the happiest, most fulfilled men in this godforsaken world." His voice was hopeful—the tone that, though it annoyed Lion on the surface, secretly kept him going. "If I’m wrong, my name isn’t Stanley Kaminski."

Lion laughed.

He petted Ash between his crossed legs, looking past Stan—where, by irony or not, centered above his brother’s blond hair, was one of the only photos the three of you had taken together.

Smiling.

Together and happy.

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" you asked between giggles, Lion’s hand stroking your back. Your legs were tangled under the comforter, the dim light from the closed curtains casting a soft glow over you both in the dark room. The sounds of the city were a distant hum, background noise to your quiet, intimate moment.

Your hands were tucked into the embrace, fingers tracing his face while his slid under your shirt, exploring your back, his other arm propping up his head. He smiled at the question, loving when you two drifted into these seemingly silly, profound conversations late at night.

"Besides opening my own business?"

"Yeah, besides your amazing dry-cleaning empire. What else do you want?" You propped yourself up slightly, chin resting on his bare chest, his skin warm, smelling like the blackberry soap you both used—fresh, soft. He looked at you, grinning.

"Well, I’m a simple man, y’know? Have my business, my brother nearby, my woman by my side, my own place, my kids running after Ash and a few more dogs, cats, parrots—whatever. That’d make me happy."

"Kids, huh?" you teased, raising an eyebrow. Lion smiled gently.

"Yeah. I want a whole soccer team."

"You have no mercy on me?" you joked, pouting. He laughed, amused by your fake outrage.

"Fine, fine. How about just seven little Kaminskis running around? Sound good?" He looked at you with playful sincerity. You melted, sitting up to face him properly.

"Instead of counting how many kids we should have…" You gave him a look, full of intention. "...maybe we should start with the best part." Lion grinned, relaxing as he pulled you closer, his arm sliding around your waist.

"Which is?"

"Making one."

"You wanna make a baby with me?" he asked, half-teasing, half-serious. You were already melting, lying back as he settled over you, arms wrapping around you in that perfect fit. Face to face, breathing the same warm air, eyes locked, he saw you—all of you. And you whispered everything you wanted in that moment:

"I wanna make love to you, Lion."

His breath hitched. "Say it again."

You pulled him closer, lips almost touching, so your words would sink deeper into him.

"I want you to love me, Lion. Just love me."

Lion nodded, surrendering just as completely as you, kissing you with all the passion he’d held back, his strong, calloused hands—marked by fights and sewing scars—roaming your body possessively, feeling your warmth under your shirt, squeezing your breasts, groaning at your reaction. Your hips rolled against each other, the urgency of desire burning through you both, heating your bodies, your blood, your souls—the room, the world shrinking to just you and him.

Soft and delicate, Lion pulled your shirt off, gazing at you almost reverently before trailing kisses down your chin to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, making you shiver, your core aching. Your hands tangled in his hair, guiding him lower, his beard scratching your skin, his breath hot against you.

He kissed his way down, pausing to look up at you—waiting for permission.

"You can keep going, baby. I’m yours…"

He smiled, sliding your panties off before spreading your legs, kissing your inner thighs, his breath warm. Then he looked up again, waiting.

"You can taste me, Lion. I’m all yours…"

Lion didn’t hesitate.

His tongue was soft, slow against your clit, lips sucking gently, vibrating just right. Drunk on your taste, he looked up, watching your pleasure, his voice rough.

"Can I fuck you with my fingers, baby?" The question was innocent despite its filthiness. You laughed, nodding. He wet two fingers with his saliva before sliding them inside you, curling just right as his tongue worked you over, your hips bucking, hands gripping the sheets, begging for more.

Then he stopped.

You whined, frustrated, so close.

Lion chuckled, pulling back to admire you, fingers still moving lazily inside you.

"Easy, baby. I haven’t even started fucking you properly yet."

You wanted to smack him for the audacity, but all you could do was moan, squirming.

Then he stopped again.

You panted, trying to steady your breathing, the sudden denial making you ache. Lion smirked, kneeling between your legs. You glanced down at his toned body, the bulge in his black boxers, grinning as you pressed your foot against him, rubbing through the fabric. Lion’s eyes fluttered shut for a second before opening, full of lust. He grabbed your foot gently, lifting it to kiss your ankle—a gesture so tender it made you shiver. His movements were as precise and controlled as when he fought. He draped your leg over his shoulder, positioning himself, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance.

Then he leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue tasting you on your own lips before sinking into you with one firm thrust, groaning against your mouth. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer with each thrust, his cock filling you perfectly, melting you from the inside. His moans were just as delicious as having him inside you. When you came, your legs locked around him. He followed soon after, spilling inside you with a long, sweet moan, hips stuttering, pushing deeper.

He collapsed on top of you, sweaty and breathless, nuzzling into your neck.

"I think we just made the most beautiful love in the world."

And you laughed.

Now, Lion paced post-cold shower, phone pressed to his ear, restless, eyes darting everywhere, waiting for the call to connect.

Ring… Ring… Ring…

"Hi, this is my voicemail! If you wanna leave a message, keep it short… And if it’s you, Lion, make it extra short!"

Lion laughed at your voice, the unchanged message. He took a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. After the beep, he gathered his courage.

"Hey, babe… It’s Lion. I just—I just want you to know that…" His voice cracked. He sat on the edge of the bed, forcing the words out. "...I’m sorry. I miss you. And most of all, I’m sorry for not standing up to my brother, for not having a voice. I know I’m not in any position to ask you for anything, but… you’re the love of my fucking life, and I want you with me. By my side. And if I have to humiliate myself to get you back, I will. So please—please—just give me a chance to explain, to apologize. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Just pick the place and time… I’ll be there."

He looked up at the wall of photos—your face, his memories, the puzzle of a life he wanted back.

"Please."

A few seconds of silence. Then he hung up.

He stared at your photo on his phone, head in his hands, mind empty from the emotional storm.

From behind him, knocks on the door and Stan’s voice:

"Kid, hurry up. We’re leaving in thirty."

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘. 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬.

Stan appeared in the doorway of that little room with its bright red walls, a few upholstered chairs of the same color, some dragon and flower decorations, the orange light casting a warm and calm aura over Lion, who sat on a massage table, trying to steady himself. The older brother held the hand wraps for Lion, chewing gum as he strode expansively into the room, disrupting the younger one’s focus.

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit. But I think I can take the hits," Lion opened his eyes slowly, watching his brother approach with a dubious little smile—like he was hiding something.

"If you use the same anger you did when you hit me that one time… Kid, you’ll knock this guy out. I only stayed standing ‘cause I’m tough as hell," he boasted, drawing a tired laugh from Lion. But he managed it. Stan glanced to the side, getting a clearer view of the door, while Walter kept his gaze fixed ahead. Stan’s voice was soft, a whisper, a secret:

"I think there’s someone here who wants to see you, Lion."

"Hm?" The sound slipped from Lion’s lips as he turned his head. His heart could endure any number of blows or falls, but seeing her after a hellish month felt like too much. His pupils dilated, and a nervous smile tugged at his lips, impossible to suppress.

Meanwhile, you stood in the doorway, nervous and shy, one hand in your pocket, the other gripping your bag. Stan patted Lion’s shoulder:

"Good luck, bro," then turned to you, winked, and added, "Try not to distract him too much, alright?"

"No promises…" you shot back, not harshly—it was light, like a joke between friends. Stan laughed, his eyes gleaming as he watched his brother light up at your presence. From the doorway, he called out:

"You’ve got twenty minutes. See you downstairs." With a final wink at both of you, he disappeared down the hall.

You looked at Lion, full of uncertainty about what to say—how to say it. The air was thick, the initial silence awkward. Lion smiled shyly, his eyes tender and glistening as they held yours. Slowly, you stepped closer until you stood right in front of him, your voice soothing:

"I heard the message you left me yesterday, Lion…"

"You heard it?!" He seemed genuinely surprised. You laughed at the way he said it, nodding as your hands trembled with a strange nervousness—there was a desperate urge to touch him, but also a fear of overstepping, of invading a space you sometimes felt you’d lost to distance. Little did you know, that was exactly what Lion wanted most right then: to be held, to feel your arms around him, your heartbeat against his, your voice whispering that everything would be okay because you were here.

But you kept up that austere politeness:

"Yeah, I heard it."

"And… what did you think? I mean… Did you come because of it?" There was hope and pain in his voice, in the anxious way he searched your face for answers. He studied your reaction with precision. You sighed, releasing the tension in your shoulders, set your bag down beside him, and finally reached for him—or rather, for the tape on his hands, finding the end and peeling it back, offering your palm for him to rest his against. He did so immediately, craving your touch, holding his breath as he watched you from up close, close enough to see every answer in your eyes. You spoke as you wrapped the tape around his wrist:

"Yes and no. Let’s just say… before I heard it, I got an unexpected visitor at work. Kind of inconvenient, kind of overbearing, but at the time, it felt like some damn angel had dropped into my life…" You glanced at him with a smile. Lion laughed—Stan, he thought—"And this little hell-angel kinda stole my break time to beg—no, plead—with me to call you back, because, and I quote: ‘My brother is fucked up. Like, really fucking broken.’ And I was already leaning toward fixing some of my own mistakes, some flaws here, some excesses there… And well, you sent me that audio, and let’s just say it was the cherry on top. So here I am!" You finished wrapping the first hand, leaned in to tear the tape with your teeth—the intimate contact sent a jolt through Lion.

You’d never done something like this for him before. You’d always stood aside, watching Stan prepare him for fights. The most you’d ever done was hug him and cover his face in kisses before a match.

When you straightened up, you were met with that melancholic gaze—captivatingly sweet, inherently serene—that made your heart race with love.

"Lion, I’m gonna be honest with you: these have been the worst days of my life. Fuck. I just want to apologize for lashing out, for being cruel, for cutting you off instead of, I dunno… just kicking your brother’s ass to put him in his place." You both laughed. You gestured for his other hand and started wrapping it: "Speaking of, Stan was actually really understanding with me, you know? I was impressed—he even cried and everything. That helped me decide to come here too… You two have such a beautiful bond, something I envy sometimes—" You smiled genuinely, your eyes welling up alongside his as he fought back tears: "I mean it!"

"Stop! Stop, I need to focus…" he whispered, but his eyes never left yours. You rolled your eyes playfully:

"You two have this whole protective thing, this way of wanting the best for each other even when you’re complete opposites. And it’s beautiful… And it made me realize that being between you two, being with you, is a privilege. A privilege because I’m part of this story, your story, and goddamn it, Lion, you’re so fucking special. To me and to Stan." Lion sobbed, tears streaming down his face as you bit the tape to tear it, dampening it with your own tears.

When you straightened again, your hands stayed locked with his, his grip tight—as if afraid you’d vanish. You gazed at each other through tender smiles and tears of redemption. Lion mustered the courage he’d been gathering all these days:

"I don’t ever want to lose you again, and I mean that from the bottom of my soul. I care about you so damn much, and I want you to be the woman of my life."

"But I already am…"

"No, that’s not what I mean, love—" Lion cupped your face, holding you possessively as you leaned in until your noses brushed, sharing the same breath:

"I mean you being mine, and me being yours, for the rest of our lives. Be my wife, and I’ll be your man forever."

He stared deep into your eyes.

You were speechless, pulling him into the embrace you’d been holding back all these days, feeling your hearts speak through flesh, bone, and blood. Lion buried his face in your neck, and you in his, lost in a moment where silence became its own language. Lion whispered warmly:

"Be my wife, and everything will be okay."

He kissed your shoulder, slow and lingering.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping his tears with your thumbs, pressing your foreheads together:

"Yes."

You kissed him, pouring all your longing into his lips—his forgiveness meeting your love, his peaceful passion clashing with your fiery devotion. Softness against brutality. Gentle blood in heavy air.

When you finally parted, a cough from the doorway snapped you back to reality. You both turned—Stan stood there, grinning ear to ear:

"Sorry, but time’s up, and we’ve got a fight for you to win, kid."

"It’s okay," Lion nodded, giving you a knowing look before hugging you tightly one last time, murmuring in your ear: "Thank you for coming."

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: i just love this character so much, i'd give him my heart, my soul would be his home, and he could do whatever he wanted because he deserves the world. anyway, it was really interesting to write; i hope the timeline wasn't too confusing since i tried to maintain a certain "aesthetic" in the text that matches that feeling of you just living your life normally when—BOOM!!!—a memory you didn't want to remember hits you. i hope it was worth it for anyone who made it this far lololol and i also hope to keep writing about him, my (our) beloved lion!!!

[daemoncer]

something about smoke being rejected since childhood because everyone was certain his father's evil lived on in him. something about annie being the only one to call smoke 'elijah' and how that makes him soften. something about how just before they're truly reunited, annie says 'i dont want any of that smoke on the baby'. something about annie being the one who sets smoke free from his past and his sins and lets him be human instead.

[daemoncer]

that shot scratches the itch in my brain so good

[daemoncer]

I always need to do this kind of messy sketches to familiarize myself with new characters (the word dump is especially important!)

you can see how much fun i had doodling these lmao

[daemoncer]

Sinners is what happens when directors are allowed to experiment with the genres like a horror musical that puts you in a trance and makes you question your existence while also being campy and funny but also breathtakingly beautiful but also haunting and terrifying? Yes please I literally did not want to leave the theater I wanted to just stay there and keep watching it over and over

[daemoncer]

it really frustrates me to think about how people are inevitably going to take Remmick’s one (1) singular statement about how much he resents the way the Irish were colonized and forcibly converted to Christianity and use it as fuel for “actually he had a point” and “he was right actually” and “he’s not really the villain here” posts, when the whole point is that Remmick is, through the vampiric hive mind he’s creating, forcibly assimilating people into yet another manipulative and parasitical system. he doesn't value the cultures of the people he assimilates—notice how all the vampires he turns dance to his culture's music using his culture's dances, and how he only uses the languages or knowledge other vampires have to offer when he needs to manipulate someone. Remmick is extremely transparent about the way he sees the people he turns as resources to exploit.

he’s perpetuating a cycle that he claims to hate and resent, and I think the movie is pretty damn clear about the fact that he doesn’t see anybody as valuable or useful to him except as prey and as pawns—otherwise he would just, you know, focus solely on people who actually consent to being turned. but he looked sad in that one scene and he’s an apparently attractive white cis man so people are gonna bend over backwards justifying all the harm he did.

[daemoncer]

I'll craw home to her: 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x femreader

Summary: You only wanted music lessons. What you got was ending up in the lap of a vampire, asking for your voice like it’s the last sound he’ll ever hear. Turns out, your blood brings more than high notes—it brings him back from the dead. Now he’s alive. But for how long?

You felt the tremor in your fingertips long before the weight settled into your hands. Every movement had become heavy, as though the bones beneath your skin ached to be still. The strings protested each time they stirred, a muted cry beneath your touch. With a soft groan, you pulled your hands away from the instrument and rolled your wrists, hoping to shake out the pain that clung to your joints like iron.

Hours had passed. So many that you hadn't noticed when the moonlight began to bathe the room in its pale glow. Shadows lengthened, stretching into strange forms, as if they meant to hide what daylight had no fear of revealing. But instead of unease, a quiet warmth spread through your chest, gentle as balm on a raw wound. You had grown used to the night—more than used to it. It felt like your soul had found rest in its quiet embrace, the kind of rest you hadn’t known you needed. And with that came the certainty: you no longer feared the monsters that came with dusk… because you had become one of them.

A breath shivered in your chest but never reached your lips, smothered by the weight of something watching you. You let your hands fall to your sides.

He was watching. Studying you. That pulsing curiosity in his eyes, like a flame just barely contained. His eyelids drooped lazily, as though it cost him something to hold them open. The trace of a smile rested on his lips—not quite there, but near enough to cast a shadow. His body looked utterly at peace, fully sated.

Something inside you stirred, restless. As if it wanted out. You took a deep breath to ease the pressure rising in your throat, trying to push down the storm that always swelled in his presence. When you opened your mouth to exhale, the sound came out as a soft gasp—and you saw how it landed on his face. His eyebrows lifted, surprised. He should’ve expected that reaction by now. Your body always responded to him the same way.

He moved slowly. Dragging each step, delaying what your body seemed to crave. You could tell he savored your impatience, every twitch of your nerves lighting him up like the final note of a song. He looked down at you with quiet amusement, then gently took the instrument from your hands, now turning his attention to it.

“What were y’tryin’ to do?” he asked, adjusting the strap over his shoulders with casual ease. His voice wrapped around the words like smoke—thick, warm.

He passed his fingers across the strings. The sound that came was soft, rich, aching. You forgot to breathe as you watched his fingertips—how effortless it looked. You weren’t sure if the tension rising came from the melody or from your own body, tightening under the weight of that simple motion. You wanted to squirm when you saw the care with which he touched those threads—threads that somehow still felt connected to you.

“I was trying…” The words caught on your tongue. His expression—brows furrowed in concentration, eyes fixed on his hands—scattered your thoughts. You cleared your throat, hoping to collect them. “…Trying to do what you showed me.”

He nodded, slow, still chasing something in his mind, still coaxing the strings.

Then he sat down in front of you. You heard your heart pounding—and so did he. He tilted his head, as if listening to the rhythm. A half-smile pulled at his lips, and he set the instrument aside. The gesture that followed needed no explanation. Your legs moved before you gave them permission.

You stepped toward him, your movements hesitant, until your toes nearly brushed his knees. He opened the space between his legs for you. You lowered yourself into it, leaning back against his chest. A shiver ran down your spine as his cold body met yours. Then came the sudden weight of the instrument on your lap again, placed there without warning.

His arms wrapped around you, like an embrace made of frost. Instinctively, you held the object you’d been struggling with all afternoon, still hunting for whatever secret kept it from obeying you. Then his hands—rough, frozen—settled over yours. The tension in the air tightened, like a string pulled to its breaking point.

You longed to touch him. Not to learn. To feel.

And he knew it.

Instead of guiding you, he simply held your hands for a moment. Stroking gently. Calming the tremor born of want. The storm inside you rose higher. You leaned back into his chest—cold, lifeless. Let your head rest on his shoulder, your brow nearly brushing his chin. Closed your eyes. Drew in his scent, that wild thing that woke your soul and made it hum for the right note.

Then, he began to move your hands.

A melody rose between you—sad, raw, fragile. His breath, icy, grazed your temple. It shook. Faltered.

“You’re forcin’ it too much,” he whispered, low and broken. “Thinkin’ too hard.”

You kept playing, guided by his touch. But your mind drifted when you felt his chin lower to rest against your skin. The cold didn’t matter anymore. You were used to it now. You bit your lip, fighting the urge to beg him to drink from you.

You’d learned something strange in these nights with him: when he fed, his body warmed. And sometimes—just sometimes—there was something like a heartbeat, faint but present, pulsing inside his chest. You were addicted to it. To that spark of life, that shared moment when the music wasn't the only thing passing between you.

You opened your eyes when he spoke again.

“Didn’t use instruments back then…” He stopped breathing, like he always did when the past crept too close—like admitting he was here with you meant he couldn’t share the shadows he came from. “We just… listened to the music inside our own bones. Wild. Raw. Like the earth under bare feet.”

You’d learned something else, too.

In another life, Remmick had been like you. Music had been his gift, his bridge to his people. But that had died with his body, and his soul had stayed behind, stuck in this world of silence and shadows. You couldn’t imagine that kind of loneliness—cut off from the voice that once called his kin back home.

You thought he sighed through his nose. A learned gesture, maybe. He didn’t need to breathe, after all.

Then, he pulled you tighter.

"You don’t need any of this."

He pulled away from your touch, slipping the instrument gently from your lap. But his fingers found you again. One ghosted over your hip, the other pressed lightly near your sternum, feeling the beat of your heart. You tensed, but you didn’t pull back.

"No," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost reverent. "You've a gift inside you, lass... like others have blood in their veins."

His hand traveled slowly up your chest, coming to rest at your throat. You knew what he was going to ask—he always made that gesture when he needed it. Listening wasn’t enough for him. He needed to feel the music inside you, vibrating through your bones.

"Try," he breathed, and the word wrapped around you like fog on a winter morning. "No instruments. Just you."

But there was an instrument. You. That’s what you became when he touched you right, when he held you a certain way.

You opened your mouth to begin, but he was everywhere—his scent, his body, even the echo of his voice. It felt like opening your lips would let your soul escape, would send it searching for a place to live inside him, so starved it was for his presence. His eyes fluttered closed when a timid note hummed in your chest, as though your voice had woken something ancient in him, something half-forgotten.

Now he was the one trembling. You felt his forehead press gently between your shoulder blades, like he needed grounding.

"Again," he whispered.

And you did. Because every note drew him closer, because you reveled in the strange, exquisite power you held over this creature who fell to his knees for a handful of songs. You didn’t know if the moan that broke the silence came from you or from him—but it didn’t matter. Bliss hit you the moment your souls touched. That was your gift: to summon his spirit back from wherever the dead wait, to let him live again for a moment.

"That’s it," you heard him hiss. "That’s all that matters. No more strings, no more wood. None of them can match what you carry inside, lass."

The storm inside you was rising, spiraling, craving release—craving him. For a heartbeat, you felt your bodies align in a single note, bathed in moonlight.

You felt him move behind you, his hand still cradling your throat. Then his mouth brushed your jaw, soft and deliberate, like he was thinking about kissing you.

"Your voice…" he said slowly, as if dredging the words from somewhere painful. "...it reminds me of summer breeze. That warm air fillin’ your lungs, carryin’ salt from the sea. I can almost taste it."

His voice turned low, rough, almost raw. You felt his fingers flex at your hip.

"Can nearly smell the first spring rain. Hear waves hittin’ the rocks. Feelin’ the grass reachin’ up for the sun. That kinda warmth… that’s what you sound like."

You swallowed hard. The melody on your lips stuttered to silence.

"Don’t stop," he murmured.

His lips slid toward the tender skin of your neck. He lingered there, barely touching, as if torn between hunger and reverence.

You tilted your head, granting him access, and the scrape of his fangs against your exposed pulse made you sigh.

"This is the curse, girl," he whispered. "You sing, and my soul claws its way back from the grave. Just hearin’ you breathe… makes me remember I was once a man."

Without moving his lips from your neck, he pulled you tighter to him—as if close wasn’t close enough. The hand that had rested, restrained, at your hip now wandered forward, slow and deliberate. Fingertips mapped your abdomen, tracing sacred paths, needing proof that you were alive—so that he could be, too.

And then… he drank.

Not like before. Not the desperate, savage feeding of a monster starved.

This time it was slow. Reverent. Devotional.

His lips, once cold, warmed against your skin with each drop he took, like your blood lit a fire in him. You felt the heat spreading through him—his hands no longer trembling, but burning. His fingers curled with urgency, pulling you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

His breath—once the chill of the grave—turned warm at your collarbone.

And then you felt it.

Not your heartbeat.

His.

Slow. Deep. A drumbeat echoing from somewhere far and forbidden. Like something long-dead was stirring inside his chest. Like your blood was not just nourishing his body, but dragging his soul back to life.

His body wasn’t stone anymore. It was flesh. Tense. Wanting.

Your back arched instinctively as he shifted beneath your hands. He groaned softly against your throat—a low, almost grateful sound. His tongue licked the edge of the wound with an unexpected tenderness, and then he spoke—his voice a breath against your skin.

“Damn you,” he murmured, every word soaked in something older than time. “You taste like warmth. Like breath. Like fuckin’ sunlight.”

His fingers clutched your waist, trembling now with something other than hunger.

Where once there had been stillness, now there was life. Heat. Motion. His thighs tensed beneath yours. His arms molded around you, every muscle pulling you in. His hips rose gently, insistently, as if desire itself were part of his rebirth. He didn’t just crave your blood now.

He craved you.

The warmth you offered. The life you returned.

And the worst part—or maybe the best—was that you loved it. It made you feel powerful. Divine. Needed. Like with every drop he took, you were shaping him back into something real. Giving him form. Giving him soul.

“Every drop of you pulls me back, girl,” he growled. “You’re in me now. Not just your blood—you. You’re makin’ me feel… alive. And it shouldn’t feel this good.”

But it did.

For both of you.

Because bringing him back—feeling him wake in your arms, feeling his skin grow hot beneath your fingers, watching breath rise again in lungs that had no right to breathe—was addictive. It was beautiful. It was yours.

And you wanted it all.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, lost in a sea of thoughts, his mouth still wet against the skin he’d just broken.

You trembled. One hand reached up, tangled in his hair, guiding him back to your throat, pleading silently for him to continue. To give you both life again with a bite. He groaned, sinking back into the hollow between your neck and shoulder.

"I could live in your throat forever," he breathed, and the softness of it struck you like a wave. "Feedin’ on the sound alone."

“Remmick.”

You breathe his name again, softer this time—like a secret slipping from between your lips. A whisper not meant for this world, but for something older. He hears it anyway.

His hands roam, reverent and unhurried, gliding from your waist to the curve of your thighs. Calloused fingers drift over the fabric like he’s tasting you with his palms, committing you to memory—inch by inch. There’s no urgency in him, only awe. As if each part of you is a sacred hymn, and he’s learning the verses by touch.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, voice low and trembling. “Let me hear how your voice sounds when it’s only mine.”

You shift, slow and intentional—pressing yourself down into his lap, not to tease, but to offer. To feel. A rhythm builds, quiet and hungry, drawn from some deep, aching place neither of you have named. Your hands stay at his neck, not for balance, but to feel the breath that shouldn’t be there—his chest rising, falling, living beneath your palms.

And his hands... lord, his hands. They slide beneath your dress, dragging the fabric up your thighs like he’s unveiling an altar, not a body. His breath brushes your skin—warm. Alive. The sound he makes when your skin trembles under his touch is not a groan of desire, but of wonder.

“Is it me makin’ you tremble?” he asks, voice rough-edged, like he’s afraid of the answer.

You try to speak. “I want—” But the words fall apart the moment his fingers skim the edge of you, barely touching, a ghost of a caress.

He looks up at you then, and you see it all—want, worship, devotion.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Let me give it to you. Let me be what you need. Please”

“You,” you breathe. “I want all of you.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale through his nose, like he’s been holding it for centuries. And then he moves—lifting you in his lap, straddling his thighs, your bodies pressed so close you forget where one ends and the other begins. You feel him, hard and pulsing beneath his clothes, and when you grind down with a gasp, he breaks.

His mouth returns to your neck—not to bite this time. No, this time he kisses you, open-mouthed and desperate, tasting the place where your blood still sings beneath the skin. Where his mark still lingers.

One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring himself in your warmth like a drowning man clutching the shore. His other hand—still shaking—finds the space between your thighs, seeking, never demanding. He asks for you without a word.

And when you press down again, needing him, his moan is wounded. Grateful.

“You gave me breath,” he chokes out. “Now give me sound. Let me hear every piece of life still burnin’ inside you.”

You gasp when his fingers slide the fabric aside, exposing you to the cool air—and to him. And when he finally pushes into you, slow and deep, the only sound that escapes is his name, broken on your lips.

He curses under his breath—not in pride, but in disbelief. In reverence.

“You feel...” He doesn’t finish. He can’t.

He holds you like you’re the last tether to the world, his forehead pressed to your collarbone. His thumb finds your clit, circling in time with the rhythm of your breath, your heartbeat, your pulse.

You tilt his head up, fingers curling beneath his jaw. His eyes meet yours—and they are wide, overwhelmed, human. His cheeks flush with blood. His lips are pink again. Your blood. He looks alive, but not because he fed.

Because you let him.

“Say it again,” you whisper. “Tell me what I am to you.”

He swallows, and it’s like a prayer. “You’re breath. You’re earth. You’re the sound that makes my bones remember they once belonged to flesh.”

His voice is wrecked. “And I’ll give you anything, if you’ll keep me.”

Something fractures in you.

You move without thinking, chasing the rhythm he offers. His hands tighten, his body trembling. And with every ragged gasp, every moan against your skin, you feel it—him—being stitched into place inside you. You arch, not for control, but because you need more.  Every thrust, every kiss, every murmur—draws you closer to the edge.

And then he says, softly, like a vow:

“You sound like home.”

Your body tightens, the pleasure surging through you like fire in your veins. You break with it—voice cracking open as you come, your body convulsing, your cry shattering the silence like a psalm.

He gasps. Stillness. Then—he shudders, once, so deep it rocks you both.

Like your climax dragged him back from death. Like your voice tore through the veil and brought him home.

He clings to you, arms trembling, chest rising and falling—not a mimicry. Not an echo.

But breath. Real breath.

He stays there, his face buried in your neck, as if afraid to let go of the moment.

Then, hoarse and smiling faintly. “I was right.”

You blink down at him, breathless.

“Didn’t need an instrument after all,” he says, meeting your gaze, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Though if you still want lessons… I’ll teach you. If they all end like this.”

You laugh—quiet and stunned—as you brush damp hair from his forehead.

But then you feel it.

The warmth you gave him… pulling back. Retreating, slow as a tide returning to the sea. His skin cools beneath your touch, no longer flushed with blood. But still soft. Still real.

He feels it too. You see it in the way his lashes flutter. In the way his chest stills.

No fear.

No regret.

“Didn’t think it’d last,” he murmurs, hand resting gently at your side. “Never does.” He looks up at you, reverent. “But gods, lass… for a moment, you made me feel like I had a heart again.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight with something you can’t name.

You don’t speak. You just hold him.

And this time, he leans in not for warmth, but for closeness. For the memory of what you gave him. The echo of your voice still resonating somewhere in the hollow of his chest.

The heat may fade, but the bond does not.

It lingers. It hums.

Not with blood. Not with breath.

But with something older.

[daemoncer]

what’s it called when you’re so disconnected from reality that cold water doesn’t feel like anything and you can barely taste food anymore

[daemoncer]

THE MAN IN THE WOODS

summary: a quiet walk home turns dark when the man who’s been watching finally steps out — blood on his hands, your name on his lips, and no plan to ever let you go.

warnings: non-con (subtle/psychological themes), dub-con, obsessive behaviour, stalking, violence/gore, murder/s, possessive character, blood, threats/intimadation, breeding kink

pairing: dark!remmick x reader 

w/c: 11k+

DNI IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO TAGS, AND ARE UNDER 18

The Mississippi heat was sticking to you in a way that felt like it was just part of you now, like you couldn’t really shake it off. Thick, heavy, like the whole air was holding its breath. You were used to it by now, but that didn’t mean it didn’t get to you some days — like today, when the sweat was rolling down your back, and your dress felt like it was clinging to you like a second skin. It had a way of making everything slow down. You could feel it in the way the hours dragged by. Nothing moved fast when it was this hot, not even the wind.

You had stayed later in town than you meant to, but it wasn’t unusual. You never minded, really. Mrs. Avery had needed your help with the post office, and then you ended up talking with Miss Harriet for a while, listening to her ramble about things that didn’t matter, but you liked listening anyway. It wasn’t until the sun was a sliver on the horizon that you realized how much time had passed. And, sure, you could’ve taken the main road back, but you preferred this one. The back road that led through the edge of the woods, where the trees felt like an old friend, and the sound of the insects buzzing was the only thing that kept you company. It was quieter that way.

The stories had been getting worse lately — things going missing, bodies turning up in strange places. You’d heard the talk. The whispers at the market, the older folks talking in hushed voices, the sudden stares you got when people thought you weren’t paying attention. But you didn’t feel scared, not exactly. You had walked this path for years, had heard the same stories told over and over again. People got lost, sometimes, and some of them never came back, but that was just life around here. Life, death, and everything in between.

You tried not to think about it too much, but as the last bit of daylight started to fade, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Not that it was anything new, really — not in the Delta. The woods were always full of strange sounds at night. Always full of shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should. And the feeling? It had come before. Maybe just nerves. Maybe nothing at all. It didn’t matter. You kept walking. Your boots pressed into the soft earth, the sound muffled by the dampness in the air.

But tonight, the quiet was heavier. The trees seemed to close in a little more, their thick branches blocking out the last of the light, casting shadows that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. It was the kind of quiet that made you wonder if you were the only one walking this path. You couldn’t hear the birds, the usual buzz of crickets. Just silence. The deep kind that settled over everything and made you feel like you weren’t meant to be here.

You shook it off. Told yourself it was just the night playing tricks. You kept moving, turning the corner past the old fence where the wood had started to rot years ago. The same stretch of road you’d passed a hundred times. But as you stepped deeper into the woods, there was a shift in the air. The kind that made your stomach tighten just a little. The kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, like you were being watched, even though you couldn’t see anyone. You didn’t stop walking, but you did slow down, your senses sharp in a way they hadn’t been before.

And then, you saw him.

At first, it was just a figure. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He was standing in the shadows, like he belonged there, his back to you. And for a second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it, maybe you’d caught the wrong glimpse of something in the dimming light. But the longer you stared, the more you felt like there was no way he could’ve been anything but real. His presence didn’t make a sound. Didn’t stir the air around him like it should’ve. It was like he was... waiting. Standing perfectly still.

You almost turned around, almost told yourself you should’ve taken the main road after all. But you didn’t. You stood there for a beat too long, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t moving. Didn’t look like he was about to. But there was something in the way he stood, something about the way the trees almost seemed to part around him, that made you feel like he wasn’t just passing by. Like he was waiting for you to notice.

When he finally turned, you felt the air change, like a sudden shift in pressure. His eyes met yours.

It was like nothing else mattered. Like time stopped for just a second, just long enough for you to notice the way the fading sunlight seemed to catch in his hair, the way the shadows made his face almost too perfect, too sharp to be real. And that smile — not one you’d ever seen before. It wasn’t kind, exactly, but it wasn’t threatening either. Just... knowing. Like he had something figured out, something you weren’t meant to understand yet.

But you felt it, anyway. The tension, the slow, almost magnetic pull.

And then, just like that, the world shifted again.

You didn’t know it, but that moment would be the last time things would ever feel the same.

You should’ve walked away. Every instinct in you screamed to turn around, to leave, to put some distance between you and the man standing just a few steps away, the man whose presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. But still, you stood there, rooted in place, like something—some force—had decided it wasn’t going to let you go.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and the quiet stretched between you like a taut wire. You didn’t know what you were waiting for, but it felt like the world had paused, holding its breath. His gaze never wavered, steady, almost calculating, like he was trying to read you in a way that made your heart pick up the pace.

Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth with a slow southern drawl. "Tell you what, darlin’... it’s mighty late for someone like you to be wanderin’ out here all alone." He stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the dirt, but the small movement felt like it took up more space than it should’ve. Like he was somehow pulling the air closer to him, drawing you into his orbit.

You hesitated, trying not to let the flutter in your chest show. "I’m fine," you said, the words coming out a little too fast. "I’ve done this walk a thousand times before."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His eyes flickered down to your hands, clenched at your sides, then back up to your face. "A thousand times, huh?" His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Well, darlin’, you sure do make it sound easy."

You shifted on your feet, trying to shake the strange feeling creeping up your spine. "I don’t need anyone walking me home."

He didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening just a touch. "Oh, I reckon that’s your call." He took a slow step closer, his voice lowering just a little. "But I’ve been out here a long time, seen a lot of things. Some of ‘em don’t belong in these woods." His gaze sharpened, just for a second, and there was something else in his tone now. "Not to mention all the strange happenings lately. Folks keep goin’ missin’ around here. Real shame, that."

You froze, your breath catching. "What do you mean, strange happenings?" you asked, though you already knew. The disappearances. The bodies found scattered across these very woods. The whispers. Everyone had heard the rumors, but no one dared to speak too openly about it.

He leaned in just a fraction, like he was about to tell you a secret. "Oh, just... you know. Folks not comin’ home at night. Bodies turnin’ up in places they shouldn’t be. Nothin’ good about that." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Not safe out here these days, darlin’. You sure you’re alright walkin’ alone?"

You swallowed, the chill creeping up your spine. You knew what he was hinting at, what everyone was whispering behind closed doors. "I’m fine," you said, but it came out much less convincing than you intended.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "Sure you are, darlin’. But even the toughest of folks could use a little company when things go sideways. You sure you don’t want someone with you? Wouldn’t want you to join the list of folks who got... lost." He flashed a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and there was something dangerous lurking behind the casualness.

You bristled. "I’m good," you shot back, though it sounded more like a plea than a declaration. "I don’t need anyone."

He chuckled, low and dark, but with an ease that didn’t match the words. "Well, darlin’, that’s up to you." He stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "But I’ve got a feelin’ you might change your mind soon enough. After all, we both know how the story goes around here. Stranger things than gettin' lost happen in these woods." His smile was lazy, but there was an edge to it, something that made your pulse quicken.

A subtle threat hung in the air between you, yet there was still something oddly... comforting about him. Something about the way he was standing, the way he moved with such certainty, made you hesitate, even as every instinct screamed at you to get away.

He took another step closer, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper now. "I’ll walk you home," he said, as if it were already settled. "Wouldn’t want a lady like you to be out here alone with everything that’s been happenin’ around here lately."

You bit your lip, torn. A part of you wanted to refuse, to walk away from the situation entirely. But another part—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on—made you stay still. He was right, after all. The woods weren’t safe anymore.

Finally, you nodded, barely enough for him to notice. "Alright... fine," you muttered, hating how weak your voice sounded.

His smile widened, but it wasn’t kind. "Good choice, darlin’," he said, his voice soft yet steady, the kind of tone that carried an unspoken assurance. "Let’s get you home safe, then."

And with that, he fell into step beside you, his presence almost... comforting. The woods didn’t feel as suffocating anymore, the shadows not as dark. With him by your side, you felt less like you were walking into the unknown, and more like someone was guiding you through it. The path ahead didn’t seem so threatening, and for the first time tonight, you found yourself easing up just a little.

His steady stride kept time with yours, and even though you weren’t ready to fully trust him, there was something about the way he moved—something sure and quiet—that made it harder to keep your guard up. You had no idea where this would go, but for now, you weren’t alone, and that meant something.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, you finally saw the familiar outline of your home ahead. The warmth of the night still clung to you, but the oppressive quiet of the woods started to fade as you neared your doorstep. The walk had felt longer than usual, and the air seemed to grow heavier with each step, but you didn’t mind.

Remmick kept pace beside you, his presence a strange mix of comforting and unsettling, until finally, the gate to your yard came into view. He didn’t say anything as you reached it, but just before you stepped through, he spoke, his voice low and steady.

“You be careful out here, darlin’,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long, like he wanted to make sure you understood.

You nodded, feeling a shiver run down your spine, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or something else. “I will,” you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a half-smile, the same knowing grin from before. “Good,” he said simply, then took a step back into the shadows. “See you ‘round… names Remmick by the way.”

You didn’t say your name— too worried, and it seemed like he noticed that to. You watched him disappear into the night before turning toward your door. With a hand that felt almost numb, you turned the handle and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door shutting behind you making it feel like the night was over. But the weight of everything that had happened lingered, like it wasn’t really finished at all.

And just like that, you were home.

It started the night he left you at your gate.

You didn’t notice it right away. At first, it was subtle — an odd sensation, like the remnants of a conversation you couldn’t shake off, the kind that clung to you even after the words had ended. It wasn’t something that jumped out at you, not at first. Just the faintest trace of unease. You told yourself it was nothing — just the lingering tension of meeting someone like him in the woods, a man who had the unsettling ability to smile too easily, stand too still, and know just a little too much about you. You thought it was your mind playing tricks, a fleeting discomfort that would disappear with time.

You tried to sleep that night, but the feeling didn’t go away. It settled on your chest, heavy and suffocating, like something was watching you from the shadows. Like something was waiting. Every time you closed your eyes, it was there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. The memory of his smile. His eyes, so steady, so calculating. It lingered in your mind like a flicker of a memory that hadn’t quite been made yet.

But it wasn’t just the first night that left its mark.

By the second night, it was worse.

The tightness in your chest had grown, a feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of your mind. You couldn’t sleep, not even in fits. The air in your bedroom had turned thick and suffocating, as though the very walls were closing in around you. It was too hot, too heavy, like trying to breathe through cloth. You tossed and turned, futilely opening windows to let in a breeze that never came, then closing them again when the humidity grew worse. You left the light on, hoping the soft glow would bring comfort, but it only reminded you of how much you wanted to turn it off, to surrender to the dark. You shut your eyes, only to open them again, staring at the shadows in the corners of your room, hoping they would stay still. Hoping the night would pass.

But the quiet was too loud. The stillness felt too alive.

You began checking the locks more frequently. Not just the back door, but the windows too, making sure they were secure. You even double-checked the small, unimportant things, like the kitchen cabinet, the pantry door. Anything that could have been moved. Anything that didn’t feel right. Still, no matter how many times you checked, the discomfort wouldn’t leave. You never saw anything. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

The heat, the oppressive Mississippi heat, didn’t help either. It pressed down on everything; the old wood of your porch, the dampness of your sheets, the sticky sweat that clung to your skin. The air felt like it had taken on a life of its own, moving sluggishly around you, crawling along your neck, down your spine. The weight of it made you feel like your skin was too tight, like there was something inside you, waiting to break free. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something that had crawled under your skin and wouldn’t leave.

You needed to get out.

So you went to town, hoping for the relief of movement, the comfort of people. Just the sound of everyday life. The hustle of the bakery, the familiar gossip at the market. Anything that felt real. Anything that wasn’t this unshakable feeling of being watched.

It was late afternoon when you wandered past the bakery, the warm, golden sun sitting low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the street. The heat was just as bad as it had been the past few days, but you didn’t mind. Not much you could do about it anyway. The town had its usual lazy rhythm, with people moving in slow, deliberate motions, their faces slack with the weight of the air. But there was something in the air today. Something different. The usual hum of life felt muffled, drowned out by a strange stillness.

You didn’t mention your sleepless nights. You didn’t mention how you hadn’t been able to shake that feeling for the past three nights, that prickling sensation that had settled just beneath your skin, like someone was standing just behind you, breathing down your neck. You didn’t tell anyone about the dreams — not quite dreams, more like flickering images of a man standing at the end of your bed, silent, still, always watching, always smiling. But you weren’t ready to say anything. You didn’t want to sound crazy.

Maybe it was the heat. That’s what you told yourself as you stepped into the general store, grateful for the stale, cool air that rushed to meet you. But it didn’t quite reach your skin. Your thoughts kept wandering back to that night. To his smile. To the way his eyes had looked at you. Something about it had stuck. And it gnawed at you, quietly, as you ran your fingers over the shelves, distracted and restless.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice Jesse until you heard his voice.

“Hey. You alright?”

You looked up, startled, and saw him standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, his brow furrowed with concern.

You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he spoke. His presence, so casual and familiar, made you realize just how much you’d been on edge all day.

“I’m fine,” you said, exhaling a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. “Just needed a few things.”

He didn’t seem convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you, as though he could see right through your words. “You sure? You look a little… worn out.”

The comment made you laugh, but it was more out of discomfort than anything else. “Thanks,” you replied, trying to make light of it. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. It had been days, maybe longer, since you’d gotten a full night of sleep. Since the night you met him.

“I’ve just been a little… off lately,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You could hear the hesitation in your voice, the way you were avoiding the truth.

Jesse took a step closer, his expression softening. “You know, you can talk to me if something’s bothering you. I don’t mind.”

You forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It’s nothing, really. Just one of those weeks.”

Jesse glanced out the window, squinting at the low-setting sun, its warm rays creeping between the buildings, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. He turned back to you, his gaze lingering on your face, searching for something you weren’t sure you wanted him to find.

“You heading home soon?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more deliberate.

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “Yeah. Just need to grab a few things.”

He glanced down at his watch, then looked up again. “You taking the long way home?”

The question hit you harder than you expected. The long way. The path you’d been avoiding in the past few days. The one you used to walk without a second thought, but now it felt different. Heavy. Haunted. You hesitated, trying to buy time.

“Yeah, I think so,” you said, your voice unsure.

Jesse didn’t push it, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment too long. “Let me walk you,” he said after a beat, his tone firm but not forceful. “It’s getting late. And I don’t think you should be out there alone.”

His offer, simple as it was, sent a strange feeling through you. A part of you wanted to decline, to keep your distance, but another part — the part that had been feeling so exposed lately — welcomed the offer.

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t need anyone walking you home. That you could handle it. But when you opened your mouth, the words didn’t come out. Instead, you nodded slowly, your lips parting in a soft sigh. “Alright,” you said, the heaviness of the words settling on you. “I’d appreciate it.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you felt a strange sense of relief mixed with something else, something that lingered at the back of your throat. You hadn’t meant to invite him along, but now that he was here, it felt… necessary. His presence, quiet but steady, seemed to ease the tightness in your chest, even if only just a little.

The sun was already slipping behind the trees by the time you finished your shopping. The storefronts bled amber light onto the sidewalks, but the sky above was fading fast — from hazy gold to bruised purple. Jesse stayed close, trailing quietly beside you as you stepped outside, the air thick with heat and something else — something colder that you couldn’t name.

The walk began in silence.

People had retreated indoors. Porch lights flicked on. Insects buzzed around street lamps. The town folded itself inward for the night, leaving you and Jesse alone with the steady sound of your footsteps.

It didn’t take long for the streets to give way to the quieter, tree-lined path you always took home. Familiar, but not in a comforting way — not anymore. You kept your eyes ahead, not daring to glance too long at the shifting shapes in the woods just off the road.

Jesse walked beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze occasionally drifting toward you.

“How have you really been?” he asked after a stretch of silence. His tone was softer now, less casual than before — like he wasn’t just making conversation, like he actually wanted to know.

You hesitated. “I’ve had better weeks,” you admitted. It wasn’t a confession, not really, but it was more honest than what you’d been saying to everyone else.

He nodded slightly, like he understood something in your voice. “Thought so.”

You didn’t say anything else. Part of you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to explain it — the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the feeling of something in the room with you even when it was empty, the way you caught yourself checking over your shoulder like a nervous habit.

“I keep waking up,” you finally said. “Middle of the night. No reason. Just… wide awake and certain someone’s there.”

Jesse’s eyes shifted to you again, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I thought maybe it was just in my head at first. You know, stress or heat or something stupid. But it hasn’t stopped.”

“It started a few nights ago. After I walked home alone.” There it was — out loud. And now that it was, it felt heavier.

Jesse was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t want to sound crazy.”

His voice came low. “You don’t.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Feels like I do.”

The trees thickened ahead, the stretch of road narrowing as the shadows crept in faster than the fading light. You could feel it again — that pressure at the base of your neck, the one that told you to run even when nothing was behind you. 

It was only another couple of minutes in silence, you walked a little faster without meaning to.

Jesse noticed. “Hey,” he said gently, “we’re almost there.”

You nodded, eyes still forward, heart picking up a beat. The path wasn’t long, but in the dark, it stretched out like something else entirely — like a hallway with no end. The wind stirred the branches above you, and for a second, it sounded too much like whispering.

“I don’t like this road,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Jesse didn’t answer right away. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “Never have.”

That caught you off guard. You glanced at him. “You used to live near here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, then hesitated. “Used to hear things out here at night. Long time ago.”

A shiver crept up your spine. “Like what?”

He paused. “Voices. Footsteps. Once I swore I saw someone just standing in the woods. But when I looked again, there was nothing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

The last bend came into view — the one that would lead to your driveway. You felt the pull of home, of safety, just out of reach.

You were almost home when Jesse’s voice finally faltered. The familiar turn onto the last stretch of road had come into view, and the trees around it began to lean in closer, their branches curling overhead like fingers. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass by the ditches, but even their glow felt dim against the dark swallowing the horizon.

“I can walk you the rest of the way,” Jesse had offered earlier, his voice low but steady. “It’s not a trouble.”

You’d turned to him, the hem of your sundress brushing your knees as a breeze picked up. You’d really looked at him — his brows furrowed, jaw tense in the fading light. It wasn’t just a polite offer. He meant it.

Still, you had hesitated. He had already stayed longer than he needed to, and he had farther to go. You didn’t want to keep him longer than necessary. Plus, you didn’t want to worry him — not when you weren’t even sure what you were afraid of.

“No,” you’d said softly, offering a faint smile. “That’s alright. You should head back before it gets too dark then it already is. I’m almost there.”

He’d held your gaze a beat longer, like he might argue, but eventually gave a slow nod. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He’d stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure swallowed slowly by the darkening trees. The silence crept in behind him, not sudden, but steady — like water filling a room.

You’d taken a breath, glanced down the road toward home, and started walking again. The gravel shifted under your shoes, the sound oddly loud in the stillness. Your dress clung a little to your skin in the humid air. Cicadas buzzed in the distance. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once, then fell quiet.

Then, a scream.

It came from behind you, from the woods Jesse had just disappeared into. It wasn’t just a shout, not something startled or careless. It was deep, guttural — raw and sharp with an edge that made your blood run cold.

You froze. Turned. The trees stood still, unmoving, their shadows stretching like long fingers reaching into the dark.

Another scream ripped through the air, even more tortured than the last. It didn’t sound like Jesse, not in any way you’d ever heard him before. It was something else — something full of agony.

“Jesse?” you called, but your voice trembled and was lost in the thick night air. Too soft. Too quiet.

You waited, every second stretching out like hours. But there was nothing. No response.

And then it came again. A scream, this one louder than the others, piercing the silence in a way that felt like it was coming from everywhere. All around you. And then — silence.

The kind of silence that felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.

You stood there, frozen. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your breath came shallow. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to run, but your feet wouldn’t move. The trees loomed like dark sentinels, the forest closing in on you with the weight of something terrible.

But it was just the night, right?

The sound of the woods shifted, a crack in the dark.

It wasn’t Jesse.

It couldn’t be.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, but eventually, you forced yourself to turn back toward your house. It was only a few more steps, and maybe if you just kept walking, you could ignore whatever was happening behind you.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

You couldn’t stay out here in the dark. You needed to be inside. You needed safety. The front porch of your house was just a few steps away. Just a few more steps, and you’d be able to shut the door behind you, lock it, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But as your foot hit the first step of the porch, the sound you had been trying to ignore hit you again. This time it was your name being yelled.

It was Jesse’s voice, unmistakable.

The scream rang out with a desperation that cut through the night air like a blade. And it wasn’t just the tone of it, but the way it broke, jagged and guttural, that sent a wave of panic crashing through your body. The kind of panic that made your blood run cold. The way he said your name made your chest tighten with fear, like he was calling you for help — like he was begging.

You froze on the porch, your heart leaping into your throat. Your hands trembled, the grocery bags now slipping from your fingers and crashing to the floor in a mess of sound. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. All that mattered was that sound. Jesse’s scream. His call.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, your legs shaking as you turned and sprinted back toward the woods. The weight of your steps seemed heavier now, the path to the trees long and endless, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was still out there — in the dark, in the woods, screaming for you.

The road seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, the trees swallowed you again. The sharp smell of the earth hit you, the wet grass, the cool air between the trunks a relief from the suffocating heat, but none of it felt real. Not anymore. All you could hear was the sound of your own ragged breath and the call of Jesse’s voice echoing through the woods, tearing at your chest.

“Jesse!” you screamed, your voice raw, but it was lost in the thick air, swallowed whole by the trees.

Your heart pounded in your ears, the panic rising like a wave, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Something deep inside you — something that you couldn’t explain, not even to yourself — refused to let you go back to the safety of your house. It was as if the woods were pulling you in, and Jesse’s voice was the only thing that mattered.

You pushed forward, running faster now, the distance between you and the last place you’d heard him scream growing shorter with every step. Every branch that scraped your skin, every twist of the undergrowth beneath your feet, felt like nothing. Nothing compared to the sound of his voice calling for you.

The woods stretched endlessly before you, dark and suffocating, but you didn’t stop running. Branches scratched at your arms, the hem of your sundress catching on underbrush, but the sting didn’t register. Your lungs burned with every breath. All you could hear was the fading echo of your name on Jesse’s voice, still ringing in your ears, raw and pleading.

“Jesse!” you screamed again, but it sounded smaller now, swallowed by the trees, useless.

You pushed deeper.

The dirt beneath your feet was damp, soft with recent rain, and your shoes slipped as you clambered down a slope you hadn’t noticed before. You caught yourself on a tree trunk, breath catching in your throat. The air had shifted — no longer just humid, but colder now. Wrong. You could feel it pressing in around you, thick and still.

And then — something.

A shape, low to the ground. Just ahead in the clearing.

You stumbled forward, one slow step at a time, heart beating like a war drum in your chest. And then the shape resolved. You saw the boots first. Familiar. Mud-caked. Still.

Your stomach dropped.

“Jesse?”

You crept closer, voice trembling.

He was there, lying on his side in the wet grass, the folds of his shirt soaked dark and heavy. His body was twisted, one arm outstretched, fingers curled into the earth as if he’d tried to hold on. But it was the angle of his neck — the way his head had fallen too far back — that told you something was horribly wrong.

You fell to your knees beside him.

“Jesse—” your voice cracked, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took in the full horror of it.

His throat — or what was left of it — had been torn open. Not cleanly. Not like a knife would do. This was rough, brutal. Something had ripped into him with teeth, shredded muscle and sinew, left bone exposed. Blood soaked the grass around him, still wet, still warm.

Your hands hovered uselessly above him, too afraid to touch, as if reaching out would make it real. His face was pale, lips parted slightly, eyes glassy — but open. Staring. Not at you. Not at anything.

A soft sob escaped your lips. The sound didn’t belong to you. None of this did. None of it could be real.

You backed away, slowly standing up. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Jesse, who had smiled at you only minutes ago. Jesse, who had offered to walk you home. Jesse, who had screamed your name like it was the last thing he’d ever say.

And it was.

You wiped at your face, not realizing you were crying until your hand came away wet. The stillness around you felt heavy now. A silence not of peace, but of something waiting.

Then — the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

Something was here.

You didn’t hear it move. You didn’t see it. But you felt it. A presence. Something wrong. Something watching.

You turned slowly.

The woods behind you were too dark, the tree trunks pressed too closely together. You couldn’t see anything — but that didn’t matter. You knew. The way your gut twisted, the way your skin prickled. You were not alone.

You didn’t move.

The woods held still around you, suffocating in their silence, and the cold that had crept in earlier now settled deep beneath your skin. Your breath hitched in your throat as your gaze swept the trees, searching for whatever had stirred the air behind you. For a long second, there was nothing.

Then, from between the trunks — slow, deliberate — a figure stepped into view.

It was a man.

At first, the shape of him was just shadow and movement. But then the light shifted, and you saw his face.

Remmick.

Your breath left you in a soundless gasp.

It was him — the man who had walked you home just days ago, calm and courteous, his voice low and drawn with that rasp that curled at the edges of his words like smoke. The man who had said your name like it tasted sweet on his tongue. The man who, even then, had looked like he knew more than he let on.

He wasn’t breathing hard. Wasn’t flustered. His movements were slow, easy, almost casual.

Like he’d been here a while.

Watching.

His eyes found yours, and that same, familiar half-smile touched his mouth — the one that had seemed harmless once. Kind, even. Now it felt like a hook just beneath your skin.

“Well now,” he said, voice soft, coated in something you couldn’t name. “Ain’t you a sight.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even will your mouth to move. You felt frozen where you stood, just yards from Jesse’s lifeless body, the scent of blood still thick in your nose.

Remmick’s gaze drifted past you, to the place in the grass where Jesse lay twisted and ruined, and for a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change at all. No surprise. No horror. Nothing.

He already knew.

He took another step, the leaves rustling beneath his boots, you still couldn’t see him clearly.

“Didn’t mean to give you a fright, darlin’,” he said, slow and easy, like you were still back on that quiet walk home, like there wasn’t blood drying under his nails.

You swallowed hard, but the dryness in your mouth made it useless. “Remmick…”

It came out thinner than you wanted. A whisper. A question.

He looked at you again — really looked — and the softness behind his eyes shifted. Not cruel. Not angry. But something darker. Like he was peeling something back. Like whatever mask he wore had been slipping this whole time and he’d finally let it fall.

“I was hopin’ we’d see each other again,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Just didn’t think it’d be quite like this.”

Your knees locked. You couldn’t step back. Couldn’t flee. The woods behind you weren’t safety — they were a cage. You were stuck between Jesse’s body and Remmick’s bloody figure, the air too thick to breathe, your heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it.

He smiled again — slower this time. Warmer. Like he thought you might smile back.

“C’mon now,” he said, his voice dipping low, nearly fond. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.” But your body knew better. It was screaming. And somewhere deep inside, so did you.

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching in your throat as he fully emerged from the shadows, parting the trees like they were nothing. The moonlight barely touched him, but that little bit was enough. You saw the blood first—thick, dark, and smeared across his shirt, soaking into the collar, dripping down his neck. It clung to him like a second skin, and his chin was streaked with it, as though he hadn’t cared enough to wipe it off.

The blood glistened, fresh and wet, a stark contrast against the black of the night, but it was the way it soaked into him that made you freeze. He looked like something else entirely. Something not quite human.

His eyes met yours, cold and unwavering, as if you were nothing more than a passing thought in his mind, and for the first time, you realized how wrong you were about him.

“What…” Your voice trembled, the word barely leaving your lips as you took a step back. Your hands were shaking, but you couldn’t look away from the blood that stained his clothes and most definitely staining him. “What are you?”

He stepped forward slowly, one foot in front of the other, parting the branches around him like he was walking through a world that had bent to his will.

And when he spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm. Thick, like honey pouring over you, suffocating you.

“You ain’t askin’ the right question, dove,” he drawled, his Southern accent curling around every word, wrapping them up in something dangerous. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know how to yet.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as you struggled to form a coherent thought.

“What did you do to Jesse?” You finally forced the words out, though they came out choked, angry. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Remmick’s gaze drifted behind you, toward the clearing, where Jesse’s body lay lifeless in the grass. His blood had soaked the ground, leaving a dark stain that was already beginning to sink into the earth. But Remmick didn’t seem to care. His eyes didn’t flicker toward the body with any kind of guilt.

He only looked back at you, and his voice was disturbingly quiet, though it was no less menacing.

“Somethin’ tried to take what’s mine,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “And I don’t take kindly to that.”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing in on you like a heavy stone. “He didn’t try anything,” you spat, trying to back away, but your legs felt like they were made of jelly.

Remmick took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t matter. He touched you. Walked you home. Spoke your name like it belonged to him.”

Your heart stopped. You had a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something cold and dark was wrapping around you, slowly choking the breath from your lungs.

“That ain’t how this works.”

You swallowed hard. “You killed him,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, but it was a truth you couldn’t ignore. The horror of it swirled inside you, threatening to consume everything you knew.

Remmick didn’t deny it. His lips curled upward in a slow, almost affectionate smile.

“You’re a monster,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but it was enough to make his smile falter, if only for a fraction of a second.

He took a step closer, the blood on his shirt now darkened to a sickening rust color. His hands were covered too, but they were still steady, his posture calm as if he hadn’t just committed an atrocity.

“I ain’t like the things out here,” he said, his voice low and rough, his drawl thicker now, like he was speaking through smoke. “But I ain’t human, neither. Not in the way you think.”

You stepped back again, your chest heaving, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave. You had to get away. You had to run, but your feet wouldn’t obey you. Your legs felt like they were cemented to the ground.

“But I meant it when I called you mine,” he added, his voice almost reverent.

A chill ran through your spine as you tried to process his words. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but the words felt heavy. “You don’t even know me.”

He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Maybe regret. Maybe something else. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I know you better than anyone ever could,” he said softly, stepping closer still. “Better than the man who thought he could take you home. Better than anyone who thought they could walk beside you. I was watchin’ over you long before he ever came around, long before you even known it.”

You recoiled from his words, his presence, everything about him. This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t love. This was obsession. The kind that made your blood run cold and your skin crawl.

“I saw you,” he continued, his voice lower now, like he was telling a secret only you were meant to hear. “When you were walkin’ home from town, your eyes down, not a soul beside you. I saw you. I was there. I always was.”

He took another step closer, his gaze moving lower, his eyes lingering on the hem of your sundress, the curve of your trembling hands.

“You don’t know how hard it was,” he murmured. “Seein’ you, walkin’ in those woods, all alone. You smelled like summer, like innocence. And I had to fight every instinct not to touch you. Not to ruin you right then and there. But I thought to myself, ‘It’s okay Remmick, you can wait abit longer, you’ve always been waiting for her’.”

You felt a sickening twist in your stomach. The weight of his words hit you like a punch, but the most horrifying part wasn’t what he said. It was the way he said it — as if this had been a slow, inevitable fate, and you were always meant to be his.

“You’re not—” You choked on the words, trying to push back against the terror crawling up your throat. “You’re not in love with me. You’re obsessed. There’s a difference.”

He smirked, the corners of his mouth curving upward in something twisted. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t love. It was something far darker, more primal.

“That’s right,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m obsessed with you. And I always will be. You don’t get to walk away from this. Not now. Not ever.”

You backed away, the sickening feeling of his presence pressing in on you, suffocating you. But the moment you did, he stepped closer again, the distance between you closing like the jaws of a trap.

“Once something belongs to me,” he murmured, his voice dark with an unholy promise, “it stays mine.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment, causing you to run. The woods swallowed your footsteps the way a mouth swallows breath — quiet and final. Your legs screamed to keep running, but the moment your foot snagged on a root slick with mud, the world tilted sideways. You hit the ground hard, palms slapping the earth, the breath knocked clean from your lungs.

You turned over, gasping, scrambling backward on your hands. Bark bit into your spine as you hit a tree.

And he was already there.

Remmick stepped into view with the slow ease of something that had never needed to run. The moon cast a dull sheen on the blood across his throat, his chest, soaking deep into the collar of his shirt. It clung to him like it belonged there. His eyes caught the light in a way that didn’t look real.

You tried to speak, “Remmick—” but he didn’t let you.

“I was always there,” he said, voice low and almost reverent. “You just didn’t look.”

He stepped closer. The crunch of his boots against leaves felt louder than your breath.

“Every night you took that path, I was in the trees. When the sun dipped low and you walked with your head down, hummin’ those little nothin’ songs to yourself, I was already watchin’. Behind the brush. Under the dark.”

You shook your head. “I never—”

“You didn’t see me,” he cut you off sharply. “Couldn’t. Not in the day. I ain’t allowed in the morning. That’s not when I exist.”

He said it like a fact. Like a rule carved into his bones.

“But night?” His voice deepened, and his gaze swept over you. “Night belongs to me.”

You pushed back farther against the bark, digging your nails into the dirt, into anything. “You’re sick.”

He smiled. It wasn’t human.

“I watched you sleep,” he whispered. “Window cracked just enough. Dreamless, like you were waitin’ for somethin’. For me.”

“No—”

“You left the light on some nights. Like you wanted someone to see. All that bare skin under those thin blankets—”

“Stop.”

He crouched then, too close. His knees sank into the wet ground inches from your feet. His voice dropped into something hushed and awful.

“You finally saw me, that day in the woods. First time our eyes met, I could’ve torn the world open right then. You in that little dress, do you know how hard it was not to touch you? Not to drag you off the trail and make you understand what you were?”

You stared at him, horror swelling thick in your throat.

“You don’t know me,” you said, voice shaking.

His smile widened, teeth a little too sharp. “But I do. You don’t get it yet — what we are. But you will.”

“I’ll never be yours,” you hissed.

He leaned in until his bloodstained collar nearly brushed your knees. His breath was warm — wrong — as he spoke.

“You already were,” he murmured. “From the first time I I saw you while ago, under moonlight. I ain’t let anything touch you since.”

You tried to push yourself up — tried to find space, air, anything — but he rose when you did. Not fast. Just… deliberate.

“You think Jesse died ‘cause he was bad?” he asked, tilting his head. “He died ‘cause he thought he had a right to you. Thought speakin’ your name made it his to say.”

He stepped toward you again.

“But that name?” His voice was a blade now. “That name only ever sounded right in my mouth.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Somehow, your feet found the ground beneath you. Somehow, you scrambled up from the roots and mud, your palms bleeding, your knees buckling. But you ran — faster than before, your breath ragged, every heartbeat screaming get away, get away, get away.

The trees blurred around you, branches whipping at your face and arms, but nothing could slow you down now. Not the cold sweat that soaked your dress. Not the taste of blood in your mouth from where you’d bitten your tongue.

Not even his voice behind you.

“Run, dove,” he called, smooth and syrup-thick. “Go on. I like when you run.”

You didn’t dare look back. Every fiber of your being pulsed with one command: move.

But he was faster.

You didn’t hear him coming. You didn’t even feel the ground change — one second you were upright, the next you were jerked backward so hard your scream died in your throat.

Pain bloomed hot across your scalp.

His hand was tangled in your hair, yanking you off balance. You hit the earth again, your knees skidding against gravel and moss as he pulled you back into him, the back of your head nearly colliding with his chest.

He crouched behind you now, crouched low like a wolf over a carcass, his breath brushing your cheek.

“I said run, didn’t I?” he murmured, voice mock-gentle as his grip tightened. “But we both know you were never gonna make it back to that little porch light. That door was never gonna open for you again.”

You struggled, clawed at his arm, but he only laughed — low and breathy and too calm.

“Don’t,” he warned, his lips grazing your ear now. “You’re gonna make me hurt you, and I don’t want to do that.”

His other hand slid to your throat — not squeezing, not yet — just resting there. Like he was measuring something. Like he owned it.

“I’ve been good,” he went on, voice fraying at the edges now. “So good. Watching. Waiting. Keeping things away from you. But you keep runnin’ from me like I’m the danger.”

He yanked your head back again, forcing you to look up at the trees, at the stars barely visible between them.

“I’m the reason you’re still breathin’. Ain’t no one else ever gonna love you like I do, dove. They don’t even see you. Not really.”

“I’m not yours,” you choked out, voice raw.

He growled — a low, inhuman sound that vibrated against your back.

“You are,” he snapped, fingers tightening in your hair. “You been mine. From the minute you stepped into my woods. From the second you smiled at the trees like they were friends.”

You twisted beneath him, trying to throw him off, but his body was all heat and weight and blood.

“You��re sick,” you spat, and this time, it shook him. He went quiet. Still.

Then, quietly, coldly; “So be it.”

The air crackled with a sudden shift. The playful menace in his voice vanished, replaced by something sharp and dangerous. His hand tightened in your hair, not just holding you, but possessively, painfully. The fingers at your throat flexed, a subtle warning that sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

He shifted, his weight pressing more fully against your back, pinning you to the rough ground. The scent of damp earth and pine needles mingled with his own darker, muskier smell, overwhelming you. You could feel the tremor that ran through his body, a tightly leashed fury that threatened to break free.

"Sick?" he repeated, the word a low growl against your ear. "Is that what you think?"

He released your hair, and for a desperate moment, you thought you might be free. But then his hands were on your shoulders, his grip like iron as he rolled you over onto your back. The sudden movement stole your breath, and you stared up at him, his face a shadow against the faint starlight. His eyes, though, burned with an intensity that pierced the darkness.

He loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, effectively trapping you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw power that emanated from his still form. Your chest heaved, and the taste of blood in your mouth seemed to intensify with your fear.

One of his hands left your shoulder, tracing a slow, deliberate path down your arm. His touch, despite the underlying threat, sent a shiver down your spine. It was possessive, claiming, like he was mapping the contours of his territory.

"You think this is sickness?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, like stone scraping against stone. His fingers reached your wrist, his thumb pressing against your racing pulse. "This…need? This hunger I feel when I look at you?"

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a long, breathless moment. You tried to pull away, to twist beneath him, but his weight held you firmly in place. The gravel dug into your back, a stark reminder of your vulnerability.

"Tell me," he breathed, his face dipping closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Tell me you don't feel it too. Even a little flicker?"

His eyes searched yours, demanding a truth you were terrified to acknowledge. The fear was still there, a cold knot in your stomach, but beneath it, something else stirred – a primal awareness of his nearness, the undeniable intensity in his gaze. The woods, the cold, the fear, all seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in the suffocating darkness.

His words hung in the air, a challenge and a confession. You didn't answer, couldn't answer, trapped between fear and a strange, unwelcome curiosity. His eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. He lowered his head, his breath warm against your lips. You could feel the subtle shift in his body, a tightening of muscles, a coiled energy that promised a release you both dreaded and, perhaps, secretly craved.

His hand, still on your wrist, tightened again, his thumb tracing the delicate bones. It was a possessive gesture, a claim. The air thrummed with unspoken desires, a silent battle waged between predator and prey, between fear and a burgeoning, forbidden attraction.

He paused, a hair's breadth from your mouth, giving you one last chance to speak, to deny the connection that seemed to crackle between you. But the words wouldn't come. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence.

"No?" he whispered, his voice rough with a barely contained passion. "Then I'll show you."

His lips brushed against yours, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a tentative beginning, a question asked with skin instead of words. He waited, as if gauging your reaction, giving you a chance to pull away, to end it. But you didn't.

His hand, having found the hem of your dress, continued its slow ascent. The fabric whispered against your skin, each inch a deliberate exploration. His breath grew warm against your neck as his touch finally reached the top of your thigh.

He paused there, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine. You clenched your legs slightly, a reflexive attempt to guard yourself, but his touch remained, a possessive claim.

His mouth left your neck, and you felt his breath moving lower, tracing a hot path down your throat. He lingered at the hollow of your collarbone, pressing a soft kiss there before continuing his descent.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body as he shifted, his weight pressing more firmly against yours. The hard ridge of his arousal against your thigh was an undeniable reminder of his intent.

His lips continued their downward journey, past your stomach, lower still, until you felt his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just inches from where your underwear began. A gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of fear and a strange, unsettling anticipation.

His hands, which had been on your thighs, now moved to the hem of your dress once again, bunching the fabric higher to allow him more access. You felt the cool night air on your exposed skin as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips lingering there, sending a wave of heat through you.

He moved again, his kisses tracing a path closer to the edge of your underwear, each touch a deliberate tease. You could feel the tension building within you, a confusing mix of apprehension and a burgeoning, forbidden awareness. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin as he nuzzled closer, the anticipation becoming almost unbearable.

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear. The thin fabric offered little resistance as he slowly, deliberately, eased them down.

The sensation was jarring, exposing a part of you that felt intensely vulnerable under his predatory gaze. You squeezed your eyes shut, your hands clenching into fists against the damp earth. The sounds of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by the frantic pounding of your own heart.

He paused in his task, as if sensing your heightened distress. You could feel his gaze on you, a heavy, possessive weight. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension and the raw anticipation of what was to come.

Then, with a final, gentle tug, the last barrier was gone. You felt the cool air envelop you completely, a stark and undeniable exposure. His breath hitched again, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your thigh.

He lowered his head further, and you braced yourself, every nerve ending screaming in a mixture of fear and a terrifying, undeniable curiosity. You felt the brush of his lips against your bare skin, a soft, tentative exploration that sent a shiver through your entire body.

His kisses became more insistent, tracing a slow deliberate path, once again to your inner thigh, closer and closer to the most vulnerable part of you. Each touch was a brand, a claim, stripping away not just the physical barrier but also your sense of control. 

The anticipation alone was a brutal kind of pleasure, a tightening coil in your belly that had nothing to do with wanting. Then, the invasion. Slow, deliberate, and impossibly intimate as he slid his tongue inside.

A sound escaped you, a delicate moan ripped from your throat against your will. It wasn't a sound of pleasure, not the soft sigh you might offer in a moment of genuine intimacy. This was something else entirely – a strangled gasp of shock, a raw expression of vulnerability laid bare. It echoed in the stillness of the woods, a testament to his violation. Your body betrayed you with its involuntary response, a stark reminder of your helplessness under his relentless advance. 

His tongue continued its relentless exploration, and he finally lifted his head, his eyes dark and possessive as he stared down at you. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips, a cruel anticipation that made your stomach clench.

"Your sweet little cunt tastes like pure heaven, darlin'." He lowered his head again, his breath hot and wet against your most sensitive flesh. "Sweeter than any blood I ever craved, honey."

He pressed closer, his tongue delving deeper, and a strangled sound was torn from your throat, a mortifying mix of revulsion and a shameful flicker of sensation you couldn't control. "You got no idea what you do to me, dove," he murmured against you, his voice thick with desire. "Makes a man… wanna forget his own damn name."

His fingers digged into your hips, holding you captive as his mouth continued its brutal assault. "Every little taste of you is drivin' me wild," he groaned, the words punctuated by wet, insistent sounds that echoed in the stillness of the woods. "You're gonna be screamin' my name before this night's through, you hear me?"

He shifted his angle, his tongue finding a particularly sensitive spot, and a sharp gasp escaped you, a sound that disgusted you even as it seemed to please him. "That's it, sugar," he breathed, his voice low and guttural. "Beg for it. Say my name when you’re comin’. " 

"Remmick—" The sound that tore from your throat was a raw, involuntary plea, a shameful testament to the sensations he was dragging from you. Your hands, clenched moments ago in protest, now fisted in dark hair, your grip tightening as a wave of heat washed through you. 

Your hips lifted slightly off the cold earth, a movement you couldn't control, a sickening surrender to the intimacy he was forcing upon you. The wood sounds faded, replaced by the wet, insistent rhythm of his mouth and your own ragged breaths. A strange, dizzying lightness bloomed in your head, a horrifying disconnect between the violation and the undeniable physical response blooming within you.

"That's it, dove," he rasped against you, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Feel it, don't you? Feel what you do to me." His fingers dug deeper into your hips, anchoring you as his ministrations grew more demanding, more relentless. The delicate dance of his tongue was now a possessive claiming, stripping away the last vestiges of your resistance. 

A moan, deeper and more resonant this time, escaped your lips, a sound that horrified you even as it seemed to fuel him. It wasn't a moan of desire, but one of pure, unadulterated sensation, a body reacting against your will. The high, as you called it, was a dizzying loss of control, a shameful betrayal of your own boundaries.

He finally lifted his head, the wet sounds ceasing, and a thick, carnal quiet filled the woods. His dark eyes, pupils blown with desire, he looked at your flushed face, a look of pure lust. A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips as he watched the lingering shudders that still wracked your body.

“Sweet little cunt got you all worked up, ain’t it dove?” he rasped, his voice a low, heavy with lust. 

He suddenly shifted, his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you higher, “Gonna feel me stretch you open and fill you up proper. You gonna be milkin’ my shaft so nice, darlin’.”

The head of his erection pressed insistently against your slick folds, a thick, undeniable presence. His eyes were burning into you as he fully shifted you, slowly and deliberately stretching you open, so you were sitting atop him— his back against a tree, supporting him.

“That’s it.” His eyes were feral, demanding, and the raw, possessive hunger in his gaze was a palpable thing.

The stretching sensation was intense, an unfamiliar pressure that made you gasp. "Remmick—it's… it's too much," you choked out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your knuckles white. The unfamiliar fullness was overwhelming, bordering on painful.

He stilled for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Tight little thing, ain't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, almost impressed rumble. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your flesh. "You're okay, darlin'. Just gotta relax for me."

Despite your choked plea, he didn't withdraw. Instead, he began to guide you, his hands firm on your hips, initiating a slow, rocking motion. "Easy now," he instructed, his voice softening slightly, though the possessive edge remained. "Just follow my lead."

The movement was awkward at first, the unfamiliar friction and fullness making you tense. You could feel him deep inside you with each downward slide, a stark and undeniable invasion. "It hurts," you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.

"Shhh," he soothed, his gaze unwavering. "Just gotta get you used to me, sweet thing. You'll open up. Trust me, dove. This is gonna feel real good soon." He continued to guide your hips, the rhythm becoming slightly faster, more insistent. You could feel the heat building between your bodies, a strange and unwelcome warmth spreading through you despite your discomfort. His low groans filled the night air, a stark contrast to your own shallow, unsteady breaths.

The awkward, uncomfortable rhythm continued, each downward slide a raw reminder of the unwelcome intrusion. You clenched your jaw, trying to breathe through the ache, your hands still tight on his shoulders. "Remmick," you gasped, the word catching in your throat, "it still—"

He cut you off with a low growl, his hands tight on your hips, pushing you down a little further. "Gotta ride it out," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Just gotta loosen up for me. Feel how good this could be if you just let go."

The rubbing began to burn, a rough feeling mixed with the deep ache inside. You tried to slow him down, to find a way that hurt less, but his hands on your hips called the shots, a steady push and pull that left you gasping for air.

But then, little by little, something started to change. As that initial tightness started to give way, a different feeling poked through. The deep ache started to shift, the rubbing making a strange, almost hypnotic beat. A small sound slipped from your lips, not quite a cry anymore.

He seemed to feel it, his movements getting a little smoother, like he knew what he was doing. His low groans got louder, and you could feel his body shaking a little underneath you. A weird heat started low in your belly, still mixed with that ache, but with a tiny spark of something else.

Towards the end of his guiding, when the rhythm felt more steady, a different kind of breath caught in your throat. The hurt hadn't gone away completely, but it was tangled up with a strange, almost overwhelming feeling in your body. A soft moan slipped out, surprising even you. The tightness in your shoulders started to ease, your hands in his hair weren't so tight anymore. The night air still felt cold on your skin, but the heat between you was real now, a slow, unwelcome fire starting to burn.

His breath hitched in his throat, a rough sound against your ear. "That's it, dove," he growled, his hands still firm on your hips, guiding your movements. "Feel that heat building? Feel me gettin' nice and deep inside you."

He shifted beneath you, his hips bucking harder now, meeting your rhythm. "That's right," he rasped, his voice thick with a raw hunger. "That sweet little pussy is grippin' me good."

His hands slid up your sides, "You feel me pumpin' inside you, baby?" he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. "Gonna fill you up real good. Gonna breed you nice and deep, make you all round with my baby."

He leaned up slightly, his lips grazing your ear. "You gonna be screamin' my name, breathin' heavy, wantin' nothin' but this," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Gonna plant my seed deep inside you, make you carry my mark."

His hands squeezed your sides, urging you to move faster. "Beg for it," he urged, his voice rough with lust. 

A moan escaped your lips, a sound you barely recognized as your own. The heat between your bodies intensified, a suffocating pressure that demanded release. Your head fell forward, your hair falling over your face as a wave of intense sensation washed over you.

"Please…" The word was barely a whisper, a broken plea torn from your throat.

"Please what, darlin'?" he urged, his voice low and demanding. 

Tears welled in your eyes, a confusing mix of shame and a desperate need for the relentless pressure to cease, yet also… to continue. "Please… more," you choked out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

A triumphant smirk stretched across his lips. "More of this, sweet thing?" he growled, his hips bucking harder, deeper. "You want me to fill you up good? You want my seed inside you?"

Another groan escaped you, followed by a soft, broken sob. The line between fear and a terrifying, undeniable desire blurred, leaving you adrift in a sea of overwhelming sensation. "Yes," you finally whispered, the word a shameful admission of the power he held over your body. 

As the intense waves of sensation began to crest within you, your grip on his shoulders tightened, your body instinctively clenching around him. A series of involuntary gasps escaped your lips, each one a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that was now intertwined with the lingering fear.

"Yeah, that's it, darlin'," he grunted, his voice thick with exertion. His hands gripped your hips even tighter, his own movements becoming more frantic, more urgent. "Milk me good, sweet thing. Squeeze me tight."

He bucked his hips upwards with a deep groan, his head falling back, his jaw clenched. "Feel that, dove?" he rasped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Feel how close I am? You're gonna pull it all outta me."

The pressure inside you intensified, building to an almost unbearable peak. Soon after he followed you, after a few more harsh and deep thrusts, you felt the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside you, a claim.

As you both finally came down after a few minutes, you still stayed sat atop him, chest rising, the warmth of your skin clashing with the cold bite of the earth beneath you.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you.

Then, slowly, he leaned in close — so close his breath brushed your cheek — and whispered, low and calm:

“I should’ve taken you the first time I saw you.”

He brushed your hair back away from your face, lips barely grazing your temple.

“But I waited. Now you’ll never leave me again.”

His words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You felt them settle in your bones — heavy, inescapable.

Because truly, he was inescapable. 

[daemoncer]

On The Rocks

A/N: Just watched Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Had some brainrot I needed to purge from my system. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been on Tumblr so please let me know if I’m not tagging something right. Likes/Reblogs are very much appreciated! But if reblogging, I ask that you keep it in the Remmick x reader tag. I want to leave the Sinners tag for the thoughtful analyses and not clog it with depraved filth. The readers appearance is left open to interpretation but please inform me if something in my writing indicates otherwise.

Summary: You attempt to switch roles with Remmick in the bedroom. It does not go as planned.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Dom!Remmick, Naive/Inexperienced!Reader (kinda), Biting/Blood, Dub Con/Non Con Elements regarding Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Gentle Sex, Oral Sex (m!receiving), Restraints, Feral Behavior, Corruption Kink, Attempted Switch!Reader that Remmick can only entertain for so long, A touch of Sub!Remmick, Female descriptors for reader, No Plot (haven’t seen the movie yet), Author doesn’t know vampire rules, Remmick is a manipulative asshole but reader is blinded by love, Attempted!funnyRemmick, unbeta’d, probably riddled with errors

The cold metal stings your skin as you turn the makeshift restraints over in your hands. It’s a stark contrast to the muggy, subdued atmosphere, the biting chill offering relief to restless fingers.

The textile sheaths the harshness of the biting edges; the silk fabric belonging to the previous owners of the homestead you and Remmick are currently occupying. The material wrapped around iron handcuffs you plucked from a particularly nasty lawman Remmick killed and didn’t bother to change.

“I do not need that type’a negativity in my head, darlin’.” was his only explanation, paired with an exaggerated grimace when he came back from yet another unsuccessful hunt. A hunt whose prey he never made you privy to.

All he shared with you was his desire for connection, something with which you concluded yourself early on into your...cohabitation. From your first meeting and onward, he struck you as lonely.

Despite his desperation for family, he’s been particularly choosy as of late. There are two conclusions you have drawn: that your presence and companionship serve as a balm to the ancient wound that refuses to heal, and a comment you made about not being enthused to eventually share memories and a mind with heinous individuals.

You know it’s entirely possible you’re little more than a blood bag he’s carted around, regardless of his charm and dulcet words. Ever since he seduced his way into your home- your life- you’ve served a purpose whether you were aware of it or not. That he hasn’t turned you leaves you under no illusions that he wouldn’t do so when the fancy strikes him.

Those are other assumptions you rarely entertain. That your usefulness in welcoming him into domiciles and remaining a steady source of sustenance is all he truly cares for. There’s also the chance that he’s not being truthful and has amassed a following he won’t inform you of until you’re turned and incapable of protesting.

You don’t like to dwell on those assumptions. You’ll keep your rose-colored glasses on for the time being, thank you very much.

You see it in his gaze sometimes. Feel his trembling frame against you at night, as he often does when being any kind of physical with you. As if it takes everything in him to be this gentle, and it is gentle for what Remmick is. It should scare you more than it does, his restraint a thin wire that barely holds from snapping and ripping you apart. But knowing he’s just as wrecked as you-just in another sense-always has you falling apart around him, pliant and needy.

Perhaps it’s a smitten fallacy, but you get the feeling he feels fondness for you, in his own way.

It shouldn’t fill your head with dizzying affection. Your chest shouldn’t be laden with warmth and hope that you could live out an idyllic life with him.

And yet.

You had never lain with anyone before Remmick. The reveal of his age and erotic pursuits that came with had you feeling naive and virginal. Centuries of walking the earth would indeed give someone experience, especially one as handsome and suave as he is. In the early days of your relationship, he often told you about his youthful trysts just to see you bashfully duck your head, hiding your scandalized amusement in the crook of his neck. “Did a lot of catting around when I was a young lad.” The seduction of married women, preacher’s daughters, and frolicking naked through fields was too much for your sheltered mind.

If past you saw how you lived now, you’d have dropped dead of mortification.

A few months into your relationship, you now consider yourself thoroughly exposed to carnal pleasures. Though when you voice this to Remmick, he laughs, and if he has recently fed, it’s until he’s red in the face.

That conversation usually follows with him demonstrating just how mistaken you are. Every night, you learn more about the pursuit of pleasure, and that Remmick might have a predilection for corruption.

The sky outside begins to lighten, tendrils of light threatening to pour through the askew curtains and snapping you out of your reverie. Bitter uneasiness nags at you when Remmick’s this late, though he often is. If you were to ask him about his nighttime activities, you’d get an absent non-answer. If you were to ask for a romantic night out in the town, it’d lead to a thorough distraction cutting well into the precious hours of moonlight.

The fretting and cast-aside feeling emboldens you to try a more domineering approach to get your point across. The point of how you’ve been there for him, blood, body, and soul, yet you’re not feeling like a priority anymore. If you ever were.

You make your way into the bedroom and look down at the silk-covered handcuffs, weighing your options. A brief image of a bound Remmick, fucked-out and spent sits heavily on the side of the mental scale labeled ‘pros’. On the other side sits another image, frightening but no less pretty, of the consequences that come with a wrathful vampire.

There’s also the chance that the silk will come undone, the possibility of the iron causing him harm. It would be minimal, and he’d no doubt heal after a few mouthfuls of your blood, but you’ll never want to see him hurt.

The creak of the front door interrupts your musings. Your heart rate hastens and you lunge for the headboard, slipping the restraints through the pine slats and concealing them with a rumpled pillow.

He’s home.

Through some prey instinct evolved long ago, you usually sense when Remmick is near before your eyes or ears locate him. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, every one of your senses heightened for that initial touch.

It’s no different now. Though you usually don’t jump as high when his thick forearms sling around your middle.

“Jumpy today. Up early, too.” His lips burn through the straps of your slip, trailing up until he can rest them against the spot where the rush of blood in your neck is strongest.

“And you’re back later than usual. Find another dame in need of defiling?”

It’s hard to put heat behind your words while in his unyielding hold, nose trailing down the side of your neck, suckling at your pulse. He doesn’t seem to hear your words, or more likely, is choosing to ignore them. It’s not exactly uncommon for you to taunt him about his promiscuous past.

But then he freezes, pausing his tender onslaught on your neck. His head tilts, turning ever-so-slightly toward the bed. He inhales two short, quick sniffs.

You’re not sure what he’s more likely to catch scent of: the musty, metallic odor of the cuffs or the saccharine musk of your earlier activities on the bed, when you were missing him and fantasizing about a confined Remmick.

In a quick effort of distraction, you deftly spin out of his grasp. He allows it with an appraising gaze. It locks onto the nervous bob of your throat like the predator he is.

You grab a hold of yourself for a moment to take him in. His undone suspenders hang by his hips, likely shucked off the second he got in the door. There’s no blood flaked around his mouth and while it’s possible he could’ve cleaned up before meeting you, you get the feeling he had another unsuccessful night. His face never betrays any disappointment, but he has all the patience an ancient being could have.

“Everythin’ alright?” The sing-songy slurring of this accent draws your eyes back up to his face where a preening, smug grin rests.

“Uh-huh.” You reply in an idiotic manner. You’re high-strung at the thought of getting him to where you need him before he discovers your plan. It only takes a brief moment of deliberation to capitalize on the scent he no-doubt smells on the disheveled sheets. “Would you like to have sex?”

His eyebrows damn near shoot up to his hairline. A short, startled laugh bursts from him.

“Al-right-”

He’s halfway through his answer when you hurry to light the candle by the bed as another aroma to throw him off, hand trembling in what you hope passes off as nervous anticipation. Remmick goes to assist you but you wave him off, absently instructing him to settle.

On your way back from ensuring the closed curtains were extra secure, you shuck your nightdress off. It hits the floor in a whisper of fabric and you’re left in nothing but his gold chain around your neck. His skeptical stare at your frenzied return makes you realize it’d be more alluring-and less suspicious-to put on a show for him.

Sure enough, he’s still fully clothed. And staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Why are you still- get naked, please.”

“Are the Sídhe pulling my leg? Or is my girl standing bare in front of me, lookin’ me in the eye?”

Your palms twitch, fighting the urge to cover yourself. There’s disbelief, sure, but you think he’s incapable of not looking at you with debauchery. Dark eyes rove over faded marks that still linger from previous love-making, past the necklace he had draped over you after. It assists your ploy of keeping him distracted and crushes that nagging bit of insecurity.

Just have to keep him occupied.

Despite his questioning, his fingers (are they trembling?) proceed to the fasteners of his button-up. You remain locked in his stare as you reach the bed, slowing your crawl over the mattress for a more sensual appearance.

You feel like a bumbling fool with your heart threatening to burst from your chest, the beat pounding in your ears. You would think your little performance would be nothing but a silly sight if the man you were settling over didn’t gaze at you with riveted awe.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Gorgeous.” He flirts back in that exaggerated southern twang, lips pulled over naturally pronounced canines.

A giddy smile brightens your face, made worse by the way his drops further in blind adoration. It’s the perfect moment to grab his hands, working your way down to his wrists as you raise them slowly above his head. Right to where you want them.

“Oh-ho. What d’we have here?”

A deep, engulfing kiss shuts that mouth of his. He gives twice as much as he gets, starved and full of longing. It’s enough of a diversion to slip those cuffs around his wrists, the ratcheting clicks securing him in place.

He goes still beneath you.

“And we will continue that,” You push yourself up from his chest, grinning like a maniac at the success, “but I wanna talk first.”

“Wha-” You see the deliberation, the flexing of his forearms as he weighed the option of letting you play. More often than not, he’s considerate about his reactions. There are a few moments in your time together when you manage to catch him off guard and elicit a truly authentic response with a drawled quip. Now is not an exception, as his head cocks slightly to glance up at the cuffs, his eyes trailing back to yours in what seems like some genuine bewilderment and a touch of amusement. “What’s this, then?”

You’re caught up at the sight that jumped right out of your depraved daydreams. It takes a moment for you to start the speech you rehearsed about ten times this morning. “When you convinced me to leave everything behind, you promised me the moon and stars. That we’d do all the things lovers do. That we’d go out together. Dinner. Dancing.”

“Which I said verily, but you ain’t leaving this house until you don’t have two fuckin’ left feet-”

“Remmick.” You braced yourself for his jest, his usual method of distraction that’s entirely your fault because of the prospect of it working.

“Darlin’-“ His brow furrows, scrunching his eyes in a tired expression as if this wasn’t the first time you’ve hashed this out, but the tenth. He lazily turns his hands in the restraints, no doubt checking their durability and effectiveness. You watch as he manipulates his countenance into faux patience when he discovers he’s well and truly stuck, like you’re a particularly stubborn lamb he has to explain the concept of slaughter to. “Once I build our family, I’ll bring the dancin’ to ya.”

His eyes flash as a smirk pulls his face back into that familiar lascivious demeanor you’re used to dealing with. “An’ I can get my dinner right here.”

It’s tough to refute his taunts when he says it like that. Tone all sticky with honey and undercurrent scheming. Your irritation at his wants taking precedence over yours again allows you to ignore the latter statement and power through the brief ache between your thighs. “You said that before you ate that lawman-“

“He was an uncouth, prejudiced individual, that one.” Remmick butts in with an affronted look. You snort, choosing to keep your mouth shut about the other bigoted individuals he rectified, historically. “An’ I ain’t like the way the way he was lookin’ at you. Killed three a’ his wives, y’know.”

You didn’t know that, but you don’t sway at the look on his face, soft eyes expectant of your usual approval. “The couple from the farm-“

“They was a bit too sacrilegious for my taste. Pretty sure they was siblings, honey.”

“And that one old woman?“ Remmick pauses, lips pursed and eyes wandering as if he’s struggling with the recollection. You see the exact moment it hits him as he nods to himself and shrugs. “I was hungry.”

His nonchalance stokes the insecurity and spurned virulence you had pushed down from earlier. Instead of facilitating his flippant attitude as usual, you jump to vehement accusations. “Admit that you want me all to yourself. Locked up, bored and alone day in an’ day out.”

In a breath, Remmick’s face darkens, the minute change so delicate you almost missed it. Those prey instincts of yours work overdrive to compensate for your infatuated, simple-minded decision-making. You feel a stab of worry at the idea that something you said offended him that deeply, but it’s gone at the revival of his usual easygoing demeanor.

“So this is how ya show me? By actin’ out?”

Perhaps not entirely gone.

“I’m tryin’ something new.” You tilt your head, angling your chin in what you hope conveys defiance and not clumsy inexperience.

Despite the inconvenienced air he tries to maintain, you see the mirth in his eyes. Like he’s watching you show your teeth for the first time.

“Al-right.” The leisurely drawl is at odds with the way Remmick’s eyebrows raise and lips part in exaggerated disbelief. “Don’t let me stop you, darlin’.”

Metal clacks as the cuffs grind against the bed frame halfway through a gesture of go ahead, then. The slow tilt of his head up to glare at the manacles puts the pale column of his throat on display. A brief, primitive urge of yours is to curve your hand around it, to feel him swallow under your palm in a reversal of your usual bedroom roles. You decide not to push your luck so soon into your game, instead waiting as he settles his irritated gaze back on you, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

You can’t help but smile at how put out he looks. An expressive, pouty face that exudes attitude.

You lean forward with the intention of capturing a kiss from him out of habit, but pause halfway up his chest. His eyebrows raise expectantly, head cocked and the well? is unspoken but very much heard.

“Thought better of it, actually. Best keep outta reach of those teeth.”

“Now darlin’, I am offended-” You dip your head to take a nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue in what’s probably a cheap imitation of the expertise he uses on you. Your hand goes to fondle the other one and you delight in the surprised, desperate little noises you’re able to pull from him.

“And where did you learn that-”

You reach beneath you to grab his cock, smiling at the hiss he lets out and the discovery that he’s already hard and heavy in your palm. He must have enjoyed your little display of dominance, too. Once you line him up, you rut your hips against him, dragging his length back and forth through your folds.

You continue working him with your hand and hips until an earlier nagging thought draws you back, bracing yourself on your forearms, hips lifting and hovering above his groin.

“Ah, wha- hey. That was just gettin’ good.”

“Sorry.” You smile, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “Where’d you go tonight?”

“Where did I- fuck’s sake.” His head bounces against the pillows when he sees that you’re serious. “A speakeasy, in town but off the beaten path. Tried to get in by playin’ a tune. Sounded damn near perfect too-”

“And did you?”

Your eyebrows raise at the silence, taking it for the answer it is.

“So no one in that place was turned tonight.”

“…No.”

Your lips occupy themselves with a kiss to his abdomen to keep from chuckling. Poor thing. Not everyone found your vampire as charming as you did.

You take pity on him and continue your journey downwards, past the sparse hair of his belly to his neglected cock, red and leaking.

Your lips press against the tip of him in a chaste kiss. He shudders, hips jerking slightly. You chance an admonishing glimpse up to catch that darkened look has made a reappearance, though this one is for another reason entirely. It emboldens you to slide your hand from his hip to cup his balls, touch just a tad too light by the way he writhes in your grasp.

Remmick’s pants and hums taper off into a growl that makes you throb.

You have no choice but to ignore your aching clit. Now that you actually have him tied up, chest heaving, at your mercy, you know you’d finish embarrassingly quick.

Your tongue busies itself with the vein underneath the length of him, flattening and dragging yourself back up to the top, paying attention to what draws the sweetest sounds out of him. You’re prepared to make your descent when you notice his hands flexing in the cuffs, wood squeaking worryingly. At first, you’re concerned your handmade cushioning didn’t hold up.

“Your wrists okay?” You take a breath in, scenting the air for the smell of burnt flesh. Remmick lets out a depraved noise at the sight.

“Doin’ just well.” His voice thickening with a cadence that betrays the southern drawl he uses to integrate himself among the locals. “Wanna hold yer hair for ya, love.”

“Nice try. Let me know if you start goin’ up in smoke.”

“How fuckin’ sweet of ya.”

You cut off any further gibes by placing your mouth on him. All those nights with him down your throat have prepared you to take the majority of his length without gagging. You breathe through your nose like you practiced, cheeks hollowing, lips gliding terribly slow. Pure delight makes your heart sing at how far you’ve come, how those ruinous twitches and groans are because of you.

“Tha’s it, a little deeper, love. Go on.”

Forgetting yourself, you go to do just that. It takes an embarrassing few moments to remember your goal. You come off of him with a pop, eye twitching at the gall he has to give you orders.

And that you followed them like a dog, you little slut.

“You’re not in charge right now, mister.”

Molten anger and humiliation swirl in your chest as you listen to him chuckle. His head rests comfortably on the pillows like he’s on goddamn holiday.

“Sure, that’s you.” He pauses as you pull yourself up, hands braced on his abdomen but your stare remains burrowing into him. He hums, mouth ajar and eyes appraising. Then acquiesces. “I’m at your mercy, darlin’.”

You leverage yourself with your knees on either side of his thighs and your hands roaming his stomach, not-so-discreetly pawing at his sturdy core muscles.

You lower and resume your grinding against him. Slow, so slow until you see his jaw tick, lips curling back in a snarl.

His sweaty hair mused, mouth half open as he groans, loud and rasping. His unwavering, starving gaze boring into you. A whimper nearly escapes you at this sight of his swollen biceps, fists clenching and relaxing in delicious torment.

He looks like sin.

The swivel of your hips falter at the show he’s putting on for you.

You return it as best as you can, panting out little mewls as his cock head catches at your entrance. You’re unable to resist sliding down the length of him when he finally sinks in, closing your eyes and letting yourself have this moment. You made sure to make all the pretty sounds you know he’s fond of, sighing and gasping as you took your pleasure.

His own breath stutters, eyes glazing into that enraptured stare that borders on too much.

It’s beginning to get too daunting to look at him. The needy look in his wide eyes. Choked sounds he tries to bite back but can’t. You swore you’ve caught flashes of scarlet, and when those teeth come out, you’ll lose your nerve.

But that hasn’t happened yet.

“That’s it. Tha’s it- what in the fuck.”

He slips out of you and that brittle patience of his wears thin.

Definitely a flicker of crimson hue in those eyes. Before he can throw too much of a fit about it, you power through to your request; the goal you’ve had in mind since the start and had definitely not lost sight of.

“I was thinking we make it a weekly thing. Our date, I mean. I’d like to go back to bein’ well and properly courted-”

“Lemme go.” The chains rattle against the frame in a sharp, worrying tug.

“No.” You hum distractedly, eyes drifting closed lest you lose your nerve. “You’re not havin’ fun?”

“I’d much rather be eatin’ that cunt of yours until I can’t get the taste off my tongue. Until the thought of accusin’ me of not takin’ care of ya’ is fucked out of your head.”

It’s impossible to hide your vicious shudder, toes curling against the strewn sheets. You could’ve came right there if the savageness of his tone didn’t make the gears turn in your head. Your eyes fly open.

He- what.

What?

Is that what he’s so pissy about? An imagined blow to his male ego?

Stay focused. Stay. Focused.

“Hmm. Never got my answer.”

His hips spring up in an attempt to continue rubbing against your folds, intent on reminding you what exactly he can give.

“Ah, ah.” You scold, lifting further out of reach and giving his nipple a pull. “Be a good boy, Remmick.”

“Enough beatin’ around the bush. If you’re gonna fuck me, darlin’, fuck me.”

You’re trembling with excitement, but also uneasiness. It makes you feel like when you were a girl, doing something that you knew you’d be in trouble for if you were caught. You’re undoubtedly in hot water now, but the thought of backing down with a lenient punishment is out of the question. Not when he sounds so done in.

It also pays to run on spite and desire.

“Maybe try beggin’.”

Fangs elongate, spittle catching on his lips. Eyes a persistent glow with simmering temper.

…There's something wrong with you, isn’t there? Feeling the way you do about that look?

“You're the one that’s gonna be beggin’ me to stop when I get free a’ these.”

Well, you’re definitely not letting him loose anytime soon. Maybe after he’s nice and spent.

“S’a bit funny. Given the events of tonight.” You explain at eyes narrowed in confusion. “Can’t get in, can’t get out.” Your head tilts to motion towards the outside of the house, then to glance pointedly at the cuffs. A slow smile draws across your face, voice sultry and low. “Can’t get off.”

“Real brave a’ you. With me tied up like this.” Though a twitch of his lips betrays the severity of his tone.

You lift a shoulder, coquettishly fluttering your eyes. You’re not sure what seductive temptress climbed into you, is speaking through you, but you feel on top of the world. You don’t recognize her, but you think you like her.

It seems Remmick does, too. Past the shimmering agitation, you catch a hint of quiet approval. Pride.

That, and he’s been hard as stone since you first got him in those chains.

You go to torment him some more, the tip just barely breaching when Remmick plants his heels on the bed and thrusts up with savage strength. It strikes deep, the ache and shock of it drawing a yelp out of you as your eyes fly open. You flail briefly, having to brace yourself with palms gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, shaking thighs no longer capable of stabilizing yourself. Your breath hitches at the sight you were trying to avoid. Your wide-eyed stare lands on his vicious grin of too many teeth, drool spilling from the side of his mouth.

“Hey!” You stutter, paired with a hard slap on his chest that doesn’t even make him blink.

Fuck, you’re in over your head.

In an effort to maintain control, you scold him. The false, shaky authority nearly makes you wince. “Behave.” His eyes glow red in the dim room, candlelight casting shadows over his face. “Oh darlin’, I am. Believe you me.”

You’re locked onto each other for a moment. A slow trail of your eyes over the spit pooling around his collar.

“Poor thing.” You coo, carefully staying out of biting distance.

Your send your hips back, dragging over his cock to settle on his thighs. His gaze tracks your breasts as your back arches, pulling your hardened nipples over his torso during your descent.

Truthfully, you’re thighs are burning. But you’re not going to allow his disobedience to go unchecked. You allow yourself a small smile at the lowered pull of his brow when you begin to turn around, your face now concealed from his predatory scrutiny.

There’s a change in the air. The life sucked out of it. Everything seems to still.

Your vampire is no longer amused.

Remmick has an almost reverential fixation with watching your face as you lay together. He’s fucked you from behind before, sure, and you felt primitive and dirty and thoroughly taken as he laid claim to you. Even then, he kept your head turned and in his view. Mouthing in some form between kisses and bites hot against your cheek, your neck. Growls and whines in your ear. The look on his face alone was enough to get you to fall apart.

Denying him this was perhaps the worst sin you could commit tonight.

Your hands find his thighs, muscles tensing and shifting underneath your palms. You continue your newfound game, hips sinking back enough to capture the head of him into your opening. You stay shallow, the thrill and tease building the warmth in your belly.

“Hey.”

You persist, swirling your hips, sighing sweetly at the sound of gnashing teeth and frustrated groans behind you.

“C’mere to me.” It’s hard to ignore the acceleration of your heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears. It’s harder to ignore the fact that he can hear it. He’s more monster than man right now but you tune him out as you focus on sliding him through your slick folds.

A sharp, guttural call of your name. The growl behind you catches your breath. Voice distorted by fangs. You disregard it and the warning it imparts as you move with newfound urgency. Maybe he won’t be too upset. Maybe you can get to the door-

You start to cum, cresting over the precipice just as the sharp crack of splintering wood fills the air and shoots through your body like a lightening bolt.

Within the same heartbeat, still-bound hands find your upper back-chilled metal grazing your skin tauntingly-and shove hard, knocking you face-first onto the bed.

The jarring occurrence leaves you winded, enough so that you’re momentarily distracted from the sensory overload of Remmick rutting into you. Linen sheets press and stick to the sweaty skin of your forearms, your cheek. Your hips are in the air, framed by two strong hands.

”Remmi-” you begin to beg, like it will do anything but encourage him, excite his predator instincts.

You have known what kind of monster he is. That he’s capable of such brutality it would be vain to even attempt to understand it. He had been careful not to expose you to any violent depravity, and while you know what you’ve unleashed would be considered merciful in that regard, it’s unlike anything of what you’ve seen in your time together.

Through the immobilizing shock and fear, you absently feel your body coming back down from it’s high, thighs shaking and toes curling. The nerves and awareness of overstimulated skin making itself known and surpassing the score.

“Rem-remmi-fuck!” Mewls and half-formed cries fall past your lips. It takes several heaving breaths to form some semblance of coherence, to enunciate in more than fragmented pleas and whines. “Please, listen, Remmick-”

“Poor thing.” A guttural, deranged voice reverberates in your ear. “I told ya, you’ll beg me to stop. And I won’t, I won’t, not until I fuck you within an inch of yer life.”

A flash of silver crosses over your field of vision, confined hands coming to rest on your front, gripping you close as he fucks you brutally. A hand finds itself around your throat, resting, keeping you against him with a controlled amount of force. The other hand finds your breast in an aching grasp, a sound emitting from you that would have had you hiding your face in your palms a month ago, if he hadn’t fucked any and all decency out of you since then.

Just as your face begins to flush red in an old habits die hard fashion- his teeth sink into the junction between your shoulder and neck.

The initial bite is the equivalent of being doused in ice water. Your heart contracts, fighting each pull into his mouth and losing. Unlike his previous feedings, there’s a feral urgency brought on by the involuntary restraints and cruel teasing. The deprivation of blood and oxygen paired with the sedative-like component in his saliva contributes to a feeling of weightlessness.

Your body responds to his feeding in its usual betrayal. Conditioned to fall apart around the cock pulsing inside you, frenzied movements encouraged by the sustenance.

You sink into the bed. Limbs heavy, formed of the iron you trapped him with except you never were a match for it.

“I know what you like, what you need. Don’t even need to be inside your fuckin’ head for it.” He slows the pace of his hips, thrusts more punctuated but no less ruining than they were.

Remmick’s face is buried in your hair, panting, growling, whining in your ear. He noses along your cheek, breathing in the scent of you-your arousal makes your blood sing-and his own interwoven with yours. It’s enough to cause that feeling in your belly to crescendo into a steady ache.

He releases your throat in favor of barring a forearm around your neck. You gasp, a little mewl escaping you at the rigidity of him. You’re kept flush against the hard contours of his body. The reprieve of arching your back away from him made null by the force of his thrusts, rendering you unable to do anything but sit there and take it. It’s stifling. Terrifying. Your attention split between every sensation until you’re dizzy with it.

Fluid drips down between your breasts, saliva and blood blending into a pink mess. Droplets fall from his maw and stipple your shoulder blades. The scent of his sweat and yours, of sex and musk and warmth. The bedding is already ruined beneath you.

Teeth gnash against your throat, tongue laving up the trickles leaking from fresh wounds, frenetic fangs occasionally scraping them open. That tremble of restraint that’s usually there but amplified tenfold.

Your head lolls onto folded arms to try to muffle your wailing, the sensitivity becoming intermingled with pleasure until you can’t discern between the two.

There’s something about the way he channels the urge of ripping you apart into fucking you; a clemency only you could appreciate.

“Don’t, Rem’ck, don’t don’t-” Meek whimpers sound more like prayers.

“Don’ fuss. Just givin’ me lass what she asked for.” Your battered cunt sucks him in, contracting and squeezing him in a vice grip. “Greedy girl, ain’t she?”

It sneaks up on you, a pooling warmth shot down to your abdomen, through your glistening, puffy clit. Your mouth falls open in a broken gasp, body trembling as you clench around him. Tremors inch up from your core, up the column of your spine until you’re sure you’re going to shatter apart.

When you do, it’s less intense than before but no less devastating.

“That’s it, girl. Fuck, darlin’-“ Remmick draws, his cock bullying its way into your tightening cunt. His voice joins yours in a chorus of breathless moans, each as ravaged as the other.

He throws the both of you onto your sides, the arm around your throat and the sturdy body behind you protecting you from the rough jostling, like he’s the only thing allowed to cause you any discomfort.

His grip on you softens. Palms sticky with sweat and blood slide over your breasts, your hips, to find their home on your quivering thighs.

Coming down from the orgasm is catastrophic. You shift in his hold, unable to do anything but retreat into his body or his hands. The tightening of your cunt alerts you of his cock that’s still heavy inside you, rocking you gently and rejuvenated from the feeding.

He tongues the sweat off of your neck, swirling down your neck and back up until you can no longer tell where he is or isn’t. Your skin is too tight, quivering, aching to be rid of the monster that melds you against him. Your tender mind hopes he’ll keep you in his hold or else you’ll fly apart. He’s the most dangerous predator and the only one to make you feel safe.

Remmick’s making contented little noises as he mouths at you. Warm drool steadily drips on your shoulder, falls down your back. It spreads and sticks obscenely as he tugs you back to meet his chest. A warm tongue laps against your shoulder blades like he’s trying to clean you but only results in a bigger mess.

Suddenly you’re empty, bereft cunt feeling strangely vacant but it doesn’t last for long as you’re maneuvered with little resistance onto your back, face to face with something out of a nightmare.

Gleaming eyes peer down at you, bloody mouth agape and breathing hard like you’re something holy. His stare never falters, like watching you come apart is the equivalent of basking in the sunrise that’s evaded him for years.

He’s somehow still achingly hard as he slides against your clit, shushing as you sputter your mangled protests. The heft of him slipping through your throbbing folds.

The sticky mess between your thighs hinders his frenzied attempt to rock back into you, his cock catching against your opening several times before he sinks home. His hips pick up in a slow, relentless pace. A sob tears from your throat as he moves in and out, raw from the previous times he’s taken you.

“Please. Nuh-“ Your voice catches on a hiccuping sob and a plethora of broken little noises. “No more, please, Remmi-”

“Shh. S’alright. There she is.” The red glow of his eyes somehow adorns a cherishing appearance. No trace of his earlier hostility to be found. Only contentment. Fondness. Comforting the lamb so the meat tastes sweet. Sharp, jagged teeth find your ear, alternating between kissing and mouthing around it. “Me lass.”

His thrusts do not still between the shushing and cooing. Kisses pepper your face in what feels like a desperate attempt of his to cover as much skin as possible, to smother you in him so there’s no beginning or end between the two of you.

You try your best to match them, catching the corners of his lips in an attempt to placate him, show you’re willing to play along.

Mercy, please.

There was no denying him, this time. As if your brief refusal to face him kept him in ravenous desperation for years. He was going to take what he was due.

His hands find whatever softness they can reach, digging into your back, your belly, your breasts, finally landing on your ass. His forehead presses to yours, swaying gently from side to side as he continues to rock into you. Glowing eyes remain unblinking, taking his fill of you as a man starved. This is what you’re used to; the unnerving adoration he has with watching you come to ruin.

Dripping wet lips find yours and your mouth falls open on trained impulse. All you can do is take what he gives, saliva spilling past your lips, coating you inside.

An interwoven jumble of Gaelic and English is snarled into the skin of your shoulder as he empties himself inside you, hot breath imperceptible against your heated skin.

He all but collapses on top of you, reminding you that he was using some restraint when he lay melded against you.

Curly brown wisps cover your bleary eyes that refuse to focus. The events of the night hit you, and a crazed little giggle bursts from your lips. It transforms into a full-blown laugh at the raising of his still-constrained hands, jiggling pointedly in an impertinent request of removal. You absently inform him of the keys in the bedside dresser.

“You could- You could’a got free s’whole time.” You slurred, warm and sated in the grasp of his strong arms. Anxiety quieted now that you have your Remmick back.

”Aye. But you wanted to play, and I wanted to see how far you’d go before ya lost your nerve. “ A kiss landed on the side of your sweaty cheek, his body shifting in a way that caused his softening cock to pull out of you. “You surprised me.”

Reduced to nothing more than the dim-witted fool you are, you smile uncontrollably at the treasured possession of his words.

[daemoncer]

Fanfiction is great because you can see so clearly how people learn to write.

Some people, it's clear, learned almost entirely through absorbing the world around them. Grammar and punctuation will be all over the place, spellings are approximate, but the voice of the narration will come through so clearly. You can hear the dialect of the people around them as of they're telling the story. It's not a written story, it's a transcription of how they talk in their day to day life.

Some people learned through reading a gazillion books as a kid. Grammer and spelling will be rock solid, formatting occasionally based on the single tab of physical books rather than the double tab of online scrolling, but dialogue is often stilted and overly formal. You might notice a lack of contractions and very rigid rules they made for consistency that actually have a lot more flexibility than they think. They tend to have a fantastic grasp of sentence flow, though.

And other people formally learned how to write. This could be anywhere from taking school classes seriously because they enjoyed writing stories as a kid to literal certifications and jobs in the field. Grammer is flawless. Punctuation is triple checked. Foreign words are in italics. Characters have distinct voices. But their self indulgence is tempered by perfectionism. They know precisely what they want from a fic. Authors notes often feature mutterings about their happiness with the chapter. Kaomojis often appear! They seek a style to their writing, and it makes for some wonderfully clever plots! These are the ones most likely to get fun with formatting!

And some people.... Some people examined it all. They dissect dialogue, people watch, cross reference behaviours and compare characters to people irl. You can tell almost immediately who had formative experiences with Terry pratchett and/or ghibli, because it's these people. While others see writing as fun, expression, craft, they see it as art. Plain and simple. Sure, the grammar is occasionally sacrificed on the altar of creative freedom, and the occasional sentence might miss a full stop, but these people seem to self reflect on themselves as part of the art making process. On occasion, these people have the most masterful grasp of dialogue and invocation and hand sewn characterisations. Formatting is pretty standard because all the focus is on the actual words. These fics can be edited to the moon and back!

All of these can vary wildly in forethought and quality, and betas can often catch individual problems before they hit post, but just. Isn't it so cool? What's that one Oscar Wilde quote about every mask just being another fragment of yourself?

Did you recognise yourself?

[daemoncer]

if tumblr shuts down you can find me bleeding out in a ditch

[daemoncer]

NEVER STOP BEING OBSESSED WITH YOUR OCS 🫵

[daemoncer]

there are characters for whom “poor little meow meow” doesn’t quite cut it. To me he’s like a traumatized pit bull mix with a bite history and I’m the white girl with a savior complex trying to stop them from putting him down

[daemoncer]

dreamt about a knight coming to you after a battle and getting on his knees in front of you and roaming his hands up your legs and smearing blood across your skin as he rests his cheek against your upper thigh. btw. additionally i would like to add taking his helmet off and hearing it rattle against the stone floor and running your hands through sweaty hair and praising him for protecting your kingdom. anyways.

[daemoncer]

women keep coming up to me giggling and blushing and running their finger along the edge of my mighty greatsword like STOP theres literally evil afoot