euon111a

[euon111a]

SmokeStack Blues: Another Alphabet

summary: the other half of the Smokestack abc’s

warnings: again, obvious NSFW themes, relatively tame

notes: so I made this version significantly shorter compared to the stack alphabet, I was a little extra for the other one, so I tried to keep this version within like two paragraphs. all of my work so far is in second pov for afab, so this is too. this also isn’t proofread, and i actually hate this but i kinda had to have this part out, so let’s pretend it doesn’t exist.

A is for Aftercare:

Elijah is big with aftercare, he’s awfully quiet when he’s taking care of you, sometimes won’t even speak until he’s regained his breathing and you’ve stopped panting.

He likes the silence, not that uncomfortable kind but the peaceful kind. He’ll keep one arm wrapped around you, running his fingers up and down your arm, tracing small patterns before the silence gets too loud. He’ll fetch you anything you’ll need without you having to ask; get you a glass of water, draw you a warm bath, fetch you a blanket. Anything you can think of, he’ll make sure he’s gotten on top of. He’ll never leave your side, make sure you’re scrubbed clean and taken care of before finally saying something. “You feel alright, mama? D’you want more bubbles?”

B is for Body:

He secretly likes every part of you, and it shows. He can’t choose one part that he favors the most, but he loves you from top to bottom.

He loves your thighs. He loves the way they look, the way they feel, and the way they’ll rest against his shoulders when he’s eating you out. He likes grabbing them, squeezing them, kissing the inside of your thighs when he’s in between them. He likes the way they quiver and tremble against him when he’s stroking deep into you.

He likes his hands the most out of his body. It’s a basic answer, but he likes being able to touch you, being able to feel the softness of your skin against the callous of his hands. Likes the feeling of those fancy bedsheets you got, likes the feeling of silk against his hands, and especially likes the feeling of your hands in his. It’s a nice contrast.

C is for Cum:

He gets off on using your thighs in a way that's all about pushing boundaries. For him, they're a tool to use when it’s late at night. He loves the way the warm skin feels against him, likes watching the way they engulf his dick.

He’s softer when he’s sliding his cock up and down the slick skin, relishing the way your thighs would squeeze and massage his dick. Maybe it’s the filthiness of it, the sight of it, the feel of it, but it always gets him gripping onto your hips, grunting and letting out labored breaths.

D is for Dirty:

He hates pulling out. Doesn’t like it. Once he got that confirmation that he didn’t have to pull out anymore, he was quick to fuck into you and let himself cum deep.

He loves nothing more than to see his cum leaking outta you. The sight of it dripping down sets something off in him. Likes the look of when you clench around nothing after he’s pulled out just to have his cum seeping out.

He loves to scoop up the mess with his fingers, and offer it to you. Watches you with a little groan when you lick his fingers clean, immediately leaning in for a kiss.

E is for Experience:

He’s the image of experience. He knows your likes, your dislikes, your comforts, what makes you tick, that spot that makes your eyes roll back.

He’s good at reading your body language. Has this talent of knowing where to keep fucking into, of where to keep pressing and kissing against. Uses those telltale signs; the way you’d clench around him, that change in your expression, the shaky breathing. “Mmm, I know, I know, taking me so well.”

F is for Favorite position:

He needs some variation, doesn’t like the idea of always having you on your back or always having you on all fours. Wants to do what’ll make you feel good, no matter what.

Reverse cowgirl: Likes the feeling of resting his hands against your stomach to pull you closer, gives him a better feel of your breasts, and a better view of your ass moving. Plus it’s easier for him to pull you back and rock his hips up against yours.

Spooning: Loves cuddling you from behind, kissing your shoulder as he’s got one hand beneath your thigh, gently spreading your legs apart just enough to sloppily fuck into you.

Doggy style: Likes the opportunity of pinning you down against the mattress, guiding your hips back against him as he rocks himself into you. Gives him a better reach of your clit, to see the way you wrap and clench around him.

G is for Goofy:

When he’s in there, he’s focused. Views being with you during intimate situations serious and passionate, and strides away from humor, but he will be playful if he feels like it.

He’s got this natural, almost instinctive dominance to him, and it bleeds through to how he is in bed. He tells you how it is, openly and honestly. He’ll be honest about what he wants, what he needs, and what he craves. Sometimes, he’ll make a teasing comment on how worked up and wet you are or some mocking/playful joke on how loud you are; “Look at you, leaking like a faucet,” or “Shhh, gonna scream your throat raw.”

H is for Hair:

He’s got this (almost) obsessive attention to detail and that goes with his looks. Safe to assume that he would be well-groomed and put-together in all aspects. Including his intimate areas.

His hair is tidy, well-kept and always groomed. He doesn’t shave, doesn’t like the feeling, but he’s thoroughly trimmed. He doesn’t let himself get too wild down there, strives for cleanliness.

I is for Intimacy:

He needs eye contact when he’s alone with you, even if it’s just for two seconds, cause Lord knows you get all shy about it. He likes that connection there, being able to see and feel you, and eye contact is that first step.

He likes watching every flicker of emotion and feeling on your face, those subtle shifts in your eyes. He’s got his hands and his lips all over you, rubbing the sides of your ribs, kissing you soft and messy. “So fucking gorgeous, so so pretty.” He’s especially selfless, prioritizes you over him all the time, especially when it comes to your pleasure. He’s watching you, kissing you, holding you, adjusting his thrusts to be slower and faster just from the look on your face.

J is for Jack off:

He’s only ever jerked off by himself a few times; when he was away, and when it’s too late at night and you’re already sleeping. Hates doing it without you watching, doesn’t give him that same satisfaction, but he’s not a very patient person when it comes to masturbating.

He’s not sure what it is about having you watch that makes it so much easier, feels better than hiding off in some bathroom to fuck into his fist when all he’s thinking about is you. He likes the encouragement from you, the feeling of your hands on his knees, that look in your eyes. “Keep looking—keep them pretty eyes on me.”

K is for Kink:

He’s relatively tame, isn’t too vanilla but isn’t too much of a freak to put you off. He finds that perfect balance between being safe and being reckless.

Sensory deprivation: He fucking loves it, both giving and receiving. He likes the way you’ll lean forward when he’s got your eyes covered by some makeshift blindfold, the way you’ll call out for him when he takes too long to touch you. He gets impatient when you do it, says up and down that he hates it, but he’s literally leaking through his pants. “Baby, c’mon now, stop teasing and sit on my face.”

Breath play: Now he’s gentle with it, won’t be too hard, won’t hold his hand around your throat for too long or press too heavy. He won’t risk that. He loves sliding his hand around your throat and squeezing right in the middle of a moan, just to hear the way the moan would trail off into this whiny gasp. But then he’d kiss the shock away, tonguing your neck all slowly.

Messy sex & kissing: Messy kissing is something he can never get enough of. Makes things feel more raw and hungry when it’s all tongue and breathless sighs against each other. Face fucking, sloppy blow jobs, messy hair and creampies are something he’ll go all out for.

L is for Location:

He prefers somewhere secluded, and private. Wants to make sure you feel respected but somewhere different enough that it feels new. The three B’s are important to him.

Balcony: He’s extra fucking careful when he’s got you against the railings, doesn’t want you to get scratched up by the material. He’s thrusting all too slow, all too deep and all too rough, rubbing small circles against your clit. He’d pull out if you get too loud, gently resting his hand over your mouth just to slide into you again. “C’mon mama, gotta be quiet this time.”

Bathtub: The water always made it easier for you to rub up against his dick, coating it in the fragrant, bubbly suds and the slick of you. He’d guide you with a gentle lift of his hips, resting his hand on your back as you grind yourself back and forth on his lap. He was quicker to guide his dick into you, slipping in and out with each wave of the steamy water.

Bedroom: It’s the choice. Wants you to be comfortable, and relaxed. Fully exposed to him when you’re lying on your back. He’ll bear hug you, kissing and biting at your neck, gently wiping damp strands of hair from your face. If he’s not bucking up into you when you’re both in bed, then he’s doing it when you’re bent over the kitchen counter, guiding you down to ride him when he’s laying down on the couch or fisting your hair and fucking your face in the hallway.

M is for Motivation:

Literally everything about you. The way you look, the way you speak, the way you walk, the way you smell. He likes that emotion there, the way you match him so perfectly, the way you say what you want, how you feel.

He loves the passion, likes seeing your eyebrows come together when you’re annoyed, likes when you’d get angry and ignore him just to have him apologizing with his head between your legs. Liked feeling the way you arch up into his hand when he’s feeling all up on you, likes the way you’d scratch at his back when he’s rough, loved when you’d get all teary eyed from over stimulation just so he can kiss them away.

N is for No:

He loves you with all his soul, and he’d never put you in a position where you questioned that, where you were uncomfortable and felt uneasy in any way.

He’d never hurt you, physically, emotionally, mentally. He’d do his best to keep you happy, to make sure your needs and wants were always fulfilled. He’d never force any ideas or thoughts on you, would need for you to be comfortable, for some verbal communication before doing things. He’d want you to feel safe and for there to be mutual understanding.

Now since he’s direct, and open with whatever he wants, he’d want the same thing. He doesn’t like the whole second guessing bullshit, he needs you to know what you want and what you need.

O is for Oral:

He’s a sloppy eater. Doesn’t care about the mess, just likes the feel of your thighs tryna clench shut and the grip of your hands on his shoulders and tugging at his hair.

He might start off slow, soft licks, gentle kisses, slight sucks, but the more you squirm the further things progress. He’ll let you buck your hips down against his mouth if you’re sitting on his face, lets you wiggle all you want when he’s in between your legs. He’s got his entire attention on you solely, watching your face, resting one hand on the side of your thigh as the other gently runs up along the slick mess you’ve both made just to press another sloppy kiss on your clit.

He’s a groaner when you’ve got him in your mouth. He’s got his head hung back against the head of the couch, one hand firmly rested against the back of your head as the other is clutching onto the couch cushions to keep himself from fucking your throat. “Jus’ like that, baby,” he’ll get a bit sensitive, buck his hips up against your face, sucking in heavy breaths, tangling his hand into your hair to guide you further down his dick. “Don’t be shy, go’n—fuck—goood girl.”

P is for Pace:

He craves that slow sexual intimacy. Wants to spend as much time as possible strictly feeling you, soaking in the feeling of your lips on his, the warmth of your body under his hands. He likes to keep building that energy and that need until he’s decided of how hard he’s gonna be.

He’ll like it rough and long, he’ll slow down a bit, just to prolong the moment. When he wants to savor and draw out every moment of the intimacy, he’ll take a slower, more sensual approach, massaging your skin, kissing your face, working away any tension. When he’s fucking you, he’ll thrust deep and hard, grabbing your thighs to bring them around his hips to give him a better angle.

Q is for Quickie:

He sees quickies as a something for immediate relief, something needed when he’s real wound up and doesn’t want to take the time like he usually does. Helps him get rid of stress, that momentary annoyance and the pent up frustration of life.

He had you bent over the counter, resting his hand on the side of your face to keep you from leaning too closely to the cold counter. He wasn’t sure what he was angry at, not sure it even mattered now with the way you was clenching around him. He was quick with it, kissing the back of your head and reaching down to rub your clit as he bucked messy into you.

R is for Risk:

He’s open minded to exploring, but it’d have to be talked about or something that he knows would make you comfortable not uncomfortable.

He’s probably always down for new things just for some change and to avoid the same things. He won’t do anything crazy that would hurt you in any way. Maybe a few new sex toys or stuff to bind you up, but nothing outside of that.

S is for Stamina:

He’s good at pacing himself and paying attention to your needs, desires, and comfort. But he also recovers very quickly.

At his best, he can go 5 rounds of 25 before needing a more substantial break, which only depends on his mood, your preferences and your comfort. He’s never once gone over 5, but certain times he’ll make certain rounds longer than the others, whether for your or his pleasure.

T is for Toys:

He’s open minded to them, but he’s probably only exploring or owning them specifically for you.

He’ll look for things like restraints, blindfolds, or spanking toys. He’s got a clit vibrator to stimulate you better if he’s fingering you, maybe one of those dual sided ones just so he can see how it feels.

U is for Unfair:

He loves teasing, like when you do it and especially likes your reaction to when he teases you.

He loves to use suggestive language and dirty talk, and he loves that you don’t shy away from it. He likes to play, and likes to purposefully draw things out just to build it up. He’ll start with slow, sensual touches before speeding up and then completely stopping just to hear you get all riled up.

V is for Volume:

He’s never quiet, he’s extremely vocal. If he’s not grunting or cursing under his breath, he’s talking to you, praising you or telling you how good you’re being.

He’s a panter. They’re often interrupted by his own groans when he’s in you, letting out low gasps and drawn out groans when he’s leaning against you. He’s louder when he’s about to cum, grunting and groaning all breathlessly; “Mmmffuck”, “Ohh shit”.

W is for Wildcard:

If he gets too focused, he’ll get real quiet and completely tune out everything and everyone around him. He’s laser focused on whatever task it is and won’t snap out of the trance until he’s finished it.

Sometimes he’ll tap his fingers on the surface of a counter if he’s out, or he’ll tap the side of his hip when he’s focused. His eyebrows will be furrowed together in a way that makes him intimidating but not unapproachable. He’ll hum to himself like he’s agreeing or disagreeing with whatever thoughts he’s got going on in his head, and he hates to be interrupted when he’s in the middle of it.

X is for X-ray:

He’s more muscular than his brother. He’s got it where he needs it. He likes the look, he needed the build when he was a soldier, and after he left he kept his build by working out more often.

His skin is tan and coarse from all his time outside. His skin is smooth and relatively hairless, save for a trail of fine, dark hair that runs down his abdomen and disappears beneath his waistband. His dick is a little more thick than it is long, has a vein on the left side that shows even when he’s soft. His tip’s a deep caramel, but the slit reaches a red color when he’s overstimulated. He’s a grower, reaching about 8 when he’s hard, with a little upward left curve to it.

Y is for Yearning:

He needs you. Needs everything about you. He’s not shy about his reactions, how he responds, how he’s open with how he is towards you. He’ll always come to you and ask you first about your availability and willingness.

He has a deep appreciation for the full spectrum of intimate acts, kissing, caressing, teasing, and touch. He sees these acts as essential components of sex, and uses them to his advantage. He is always thinking of new ways to surprise, and satisfy you. Because he is willing to discuss his needs with you, he wants to ensure that you can do the same, that you’re on the same page and both enjoying things, not just the sex. “This pussy was made for me, ain’t that right, baby?”

Z is for Zzz:

He's a restless sleeper at the best of times, so he likes to stay up and just talk. He says he’s not much of a cuddler, but he’ll keep you close to him either way.

He’ll wait for you to yawn or for you to lay on your side before mentioning sleep. He takes great pleasure in savoring the afterglow. He’ll stroke your hair, gently tracing the curves of your face and body with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Once you’re asleep, he’ll shift into a more comfortable position, either spooning you or pulling you in close so that your back is pressed against his chest. Ensuring that you’ll remain close and safe in his embrace as you sleep, he’ll finally close his eyes (and attempt to fall asleep).

[euon111a]

SmokeStack Blues: An Alphabet

summary: just a nsfw alphabet

warnings: obvious NSFW themes, nothing too crazy

notes: again this is in second pov, and afab. the title is both elias and elijah’s nicknames, so maybe smoke’s version will come out soon. ik the writing isn’t the best, this isn’t proofread, I just wanted something new to be out before the end of the week. I kinda went overboard, but I was in too deep doing this. i got inspiration from someone’s smoke nsfw alphabet, but I can’t find it anywhere anymore sooo… i’m just gonna pretend i got this credit from the most recent one i saw. hopefully smoke’s nsfw alphabet is shorter.

A is for Aftercare:

He’s all for aftercare. There hasn’t be a moment where he hasn’t taken extra good care of you after sex. Pretty much anything you can think of he’s already got done. Of course, he actually was the worse at aftercare when you initially got together, but thankfully he’s picked up a thing or two from you. (‘Specially cause you’ve been insistent on the whole thing.)

He’s always been real handsy. Before, during, and after sex. He’s made a big habit of keeping his hands on you, but he’s extra gentle. His hands wouldn’t leave your body, it’s like it’s physically impossible for him to keep his hands off you. He’s always extra gentle when he’s touching you, rubbing the sides of your hips, gently sliding his hands up and down your waist. He’s gotten into the habit of just letting his hands touch you, your stomach, your back, your neck, his hands would be subconsciously searching for any tension in your body just so he could massage it away.

Just as quick as he is to keep his hands on you, he’s equally as quick to get his lips on you. Soft kisses along your neck, your shoulder, the base of your head, your forehead, anywhere he could reach. Now, he wouldn’t call himself a cuddler, but he’s damn near close to one even if he’s in some sort of denial ‘bout it. He makes sure he’s real close to you, running a finger through your hair and ignoring your protests to clean up with a “just wanna feel on you a lil’ longer.” It’d take you about ten minutes to finally get him off of you and finally wash up, but even then he’s the one scrubbing you clean.

B is for Body part:

Man’s a huge ass guy, always has been and probably always will be. He’s a looker, and he’s not really ashamed about it. He likes it when you walk, especially loves it when you’re walking in front of him or walking away from him. Always gives him a good view to let his gaze linger just for a second longer before looking up to you if he’d look for a second too long. You can’t really blame him though. Ass— your ass specifically, holds a special place in his heart.

And he especially likes randomly giving your ass a little pat when he walks by. Said it’s something ‘bout the way it feels in his hand, though he might be a bit biased, he claims it’s the second nicest thing he’s ever felt in his life. Saving the feel of inside you as number one.

He loves the way your ass jiggles when he smacks it, loves the look of his hand print on your right ass cheek when he’s rough enough to hear the smack. Sometimes he’ll insist on fucking you from the back just so he can grab on your ass and watch the way it bounces with each thrust.

Now maybe it’s a little cocky for him to say, but he’s very cocksure. Can’t really blame him for being confident. He would never go as far as saying he takes pride in it, but he’s definitely thought it a few times. He loves watching his cock slide so easily in out of you, loves seeing that little look on your face and that hitch in your voice when you’re ‘bout to cum, and absolutely loves when you become a babbling mess if he’s thrusted too deeply and too quickly.

C is for Cum:

Stack has a thing for cumming on your face. Actually, a huge thing for cumming on your face. Thought you’d always looked so pretty when you were all teary eyed with that little pink blush to your cheeks. You were damn near ethereal.

He didn’t even realize how much he liked cumming down your throat until the first time you’ve given him head. At first, he was a little concerned he was being too rough with the sounds you’d make whenever he fucked into your throat a bit too deep or that dazed look you’d get when you were too busy choking on his dick. But fuck you were so good, took him so well, looked so damn pretty doing it.

The first time was an accident, or he claimed it was an accident. He was fucking your face, one hand behind your hand, and his dick just happened to slip out, but he was already so fucking close. As soon as you grabbed the base of his dick to guide it back between your lips, he couldn’t help himself. At first, he was worried he’d offended you or gotten some too close to your eye, but the sight of his cum on your lips had him hard again. Watching you lick your lips and sucking his tip clean had him groaning a little “oh fuck” under his breath. He felt bad after, apologized three times for being too rough, and promised to make it up to you if you’d sit on his face after.

He also discovered that night that he really liked eating you out.

D is for Dirty secret:

Now it ain’t a heavily guarded secret, it’s also not something he’s openly admitted, but he absolutely loves seeing you on top of him. Doesn’t have to be during sex, could be just when the two of you are alone at night and talking, or when you’ve fallen asleep with your head on his chest. But he always favors seeing you on top. He loves that shit.

Sometimes he’ll be so caught up in the sight of you guiding himself into you that he’ll forget to breathe. Have his bottom lip between his teeth and his hand firmly on your hips to keep himself from bucking up into you, guiding you with a soft “just like that baby”. You being on top is probably the only time he’d willingly let you set the pace and go as slow as you want.

Plus it gives him the chance to watch the way your hips roll down against him, the way your tits bounced with every move and that gorgeous look on your face as you chased your climax.

He’s a lot more vocal when you’re riding him. Praising you for how well you’re doing, telling you how gorgeous you look, whispering little encouragements: “That’s it, just like that ma,” “God you’re so pretty,” “Don’t go getting all tired on me now, you’re doing so good.”

E is for Experience:

He’s confident where and when he needs to be. Knows just what to do to make you feel real good, where to kiss, and touch and hold. Makes sure to be extra slow with his touches and press extra hard to get you going.

He knows his way around a female body, but he’s gotten real good at knowing his way around yours. Knows just where to flatten his tongue and just where to suck when he’s busy eating you off. Knows just how deep to fuck you and is quick to listen to you whenever you’re mumbling for him to go harder and faster. Knows when to scissor his fingers apart and curl them up against you when he’s gently easing himself knuckle deep into you.

He’s a quick learner. Learned just what to do to help you come, knows what you like the most, what gives you that tight knot in your tummy, and what’s got your toes curling.

F is for Favorite Position:

He’s got a few favored positions; likes missionary with your legs resting against his shoulders, just cause it gives him a better angle to thrust deeper into you, loves doggy style, for its own reasons. But he’ll never get tired of cowgirl.

He’s a sucker for watching you ride him, though he doesn’t really let you do all the work. Thinks it’s probably morally wrong. His hands are glued to your body, grabbing at your boobs, smacking your ass, gently guiding your hips as you move. And if you get tired, all he gotta do is adjust himself ever so slightly so he can fuck up into you and guide your pretty self down on his dick.

G is for Goofy:

Elias excels at balancing the seriousness and humor where it’s needed. You two are good at keeping each other on your toes, and he’s made sure to not let things get too serious in certain moments.

He gets all serious and focused when you two are together late at night. Channels all his attention onto you and you only. He’s laser focused, making sure to be extra aware of every shift in your breathing and any tension in your body.

But after, it’s a different story. Still talks you up, teasing you for certain noises you’ve made, kissing up on you when you get annoyed at him for mocking you. “C’mon now, you looked real pretty moaning like that.”

Plus, not like he couldn’t handle every witty comment you’ve thrown at him. He likes that about you, he’s glad you can keep up with him, though sometimes you do got a quicker mouth than him. You know how to put it to use.

H is for Hair:

Both twins strive on cleanliness, like to be nest, and presentable. Elias is a well groomed man, doesn’t like getting too hairy and untamed. He makes sure he’s all good down there, both for his sake and yours.

Now, he doesn’t necessarily like going smooth and bald, but he’s always making sure he’s trimmed and groomed. Sometimes he lets his happy trail grow just a little, but not too long.

I is for Intimacy:

Now, his intimacy is solely based on his mood. When he’s feeling real good, and real loving, he’ll be so sweet and passionate. Attending to your needs, paying attention to all your responses and reactions just to see if you feel good.

He takes his time exploring your body, savoring every curve and contour even though he knows it better than the back of his hand. He kisses you long and slow, taking the time to feel the way your body moves against his and adjusting himself ensure you’re always satisfied. Likes to savor the feel of your heavy breathing against his skin, likes to feel the way your pussy clenches around him, sometimes he’ll deliberately go slower just to prolong the moment. He’ll whisper against your ear, planting light kisses against your earlobe, being extra careful when he’s biting at your neck. “Doing so well, baby”. “Mmm, keep making that face”. “Y’like that? ‘Boutta moan my ear off”.

J is for Jack off:

He’s never been one for jacking off, especially ducking somewhere just to get himself off, but he’s impatient. Doesn’t really like to wait. Finds it torture to be looking the way you look, smelling the way you smell, watching you walk away from him and not even giving him a glance.

He likes it better when you touch him. It just feels better, you’re gentler and slower. He’d been missing the hell outta you that weekend, trying to occupy himself and keep his mind off of the fact that you wasn’t there with him. But he’d already had his hand around his dick, jerking fast and rough, fucking up into his fist with muffled groans and with an extra long string of “fuck fuck fuck”.

K is for Kink:

When he’s actually worked up, he loves that freaky shit. He’d never put a hand on you to harm you, can’t even fathom that thought, doesn’t like the thought of hurting you. But he loves spanking you.

Of course, he’s apologizing over and over, kissing on your ass after he’s finished, massaging the tender flesh if he’s smacked it too hard.

Face fucking: Elias loves seeing you on your knees, loves seeing you on your back scooted towards the edge just enough to let your head dangle back so he can slip his dick into your mouth. Likes the feel of your lips around him, likes the way those tears will prickle down your face and that tight feeling whenever he’d thrust down into your throat.

Loud sex: He loves when you’re loud. He’s always loved listening to you, liked how whiny you’d get when you were cumming, liked how you’d gasp and squirm when he kept thrusting into you even after you’ve cum.

Spitting: He’s huge with spitting. Likes spitting into your mouth before making out with you, likes when you spit into his mouth when you’re riding him, and especially likes spitting against your pussy just to see how wet you’d get.

Exhibitionism: He’s all for groping your ass under the table when you’re out, running his hands awfully too close to your hips in public. Likes pinning you against a wall in a dimly lit alleyway, likes kissing all up on you when the two of you are in the bathroom.

L is for Location:

Wherever you want, you’ll get it.

You guys have done it almost everywhere. Almost. Done it in the back room of a juke joint with his hand resting on the back of your head to keep your hair from getting all messy as he fucked you up against the wall. Done it against your gramma’s kitchen counter, being extra careful with each thrust because Lord knows how damn creaky those floorboards are.

But he loved doing it in the car, parked it somewhere off the road but just close enough to see the stars, even when all his attention was put on kissing you slow and gentle. Liked how it felt like the car was guiding his strokes deeper and deeper into you. Liked how angelic you looked with the glow of the moonlight casting some soft light on you, just enough so he could see the way your lips parted and the furrow of your eyebrows.

M is for Motivation:

Confidence is key baby.

He’s big on smells and the way you hold yourself. Likes that floral perfume you use that lingers just enough when you walk by him. Likes when you’re all sweet on him, rubbing up on him, kissing his neck and whispering against his ear ‘bout how much you want him. He likes the little back and forth you two do, that little sharp tongue teasing. Likes that little challenge and the way you claim up and down that he can’t handle you. “Come on now, ma, I know what this pussy likes better than you do.”

N is for No:

If there’s no verbal agreement, he’s not doing it.

It’s as easy as that. He’s big on respecting your boundaries, big on making sure he’s got your yes on things. Doesn’t like ignoring your boundaries, or making you feel uncomfortable in any way. He hates disrespecting you in any way, even if it wasn’t intentional, doesn’t like objectifying you or making you feel like he’s putting you down. And he especially doesn’t like prioritizing himself over you in bed, always makes sure you’re the one cumming first and that he’s doing whatever he can to make you feel good.

O is for Oral:

He always always prefers giving than receiving.

He’s gentle with it. Kissing your inner thighs, kissing you through your panties, rubbing at the sides of your thighs to coax you to spread your legs apart just a little more. Kissing everywhere, against the slit, top to bottom, bottom to top. He’s got all his attention on your clit, sucking, kissing, and running the tip of his tongue against it in slow circles. Keeping his eyes glued to your face, drinking in those gasps and whimpers as he’s running his hands along your thighs and belly. He’d be talking you through it, taking his time, adjusting his tongue solely based on your reactions. “Taste so good”, “Look at how pretty she is”.

P is for Pace:

He prefers slow, and sensual over fast and rough sex. Thinks it’s more intimate and romantic that way.

Prefers the time between you two to be drawn out, taking his sweet time to really savor it and to savor the feel of your body. Takes his time during foreplay, not only cause it gives him more time to hold and kiss you, but also because he likes getting you all worked up.

Prefers a soft, steady touch over quick and aggressive. Likes guiding your hands down to the print in his pants, likes keeping an eye on you when he’s busy rubbing the tension of your muscles.

Q is for Quickie:

He’s not big on quickies, but he’s not against it. He likes some variety or something to break the routine, plus they give him the opportunity to be a little rough and a little impatient.

He’s particularly into quickies when he’s feeling extra frisky and you’re looking extra good.

He’d be the first to say something after an argument, because Lord knows if he’s not, you’d stay quiet for weeks. He wasn’t even sure what he even did that time, but he was already all on you, grabbing at your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he rested his head against your shoulder. He’s quick to talk all kinds of nasty, especially right before a quickie. Talking up and down about how he’ll be nice, make sure to hold you right and promise to make up for it if he was too rough for you. “C’mon now baby, I’m sorry,” “Lemme make it up to you.” Before you know it, he'd have you pressed up against a wall, his pants undone, one hand gripping your hip as the other held the side of your neck. “I’ll be real nice to her this time, fuck this pretty pussy ‘til she’s leaking.”

He'd fuck you hard and fast, making sure your face wouldn’t get too close to the wall. Said he didn’t want to dirty you up even as he was fucking you up against it.

R is for Risk:

Elias isn’t too much of a risk taker, sure he’d do a little public stuff with you at night and if he was absolutely certain you two were alone, but he also doesn’t want to feel like a sore thumb and have eyes on him.

He’d talk to you first, ask you how you’d feel about exploring. Granted he probably should’ve used a different word cause not even two minutes later you was freaking out thinking he was talking about exploring relationships with other people. But he meant something more restraining.

He was awkward as hell that night. Tried tying you up but set his tie too loose around your wrists, and then made them a little too tight. He got it right the third time, made sure to be careful when he was fucking you, but you seemed to enjoy yourself, so he started exploring a little more.

Got better at the whole restraint thing, knew where to start, where to stop, knew what was good for you specifically, cause he could get off on the sight of you alone.

S is for Stamina:

He prioritizes quality over quantity. Doesn’t really focus too much on a high number of orgasms, but he’s more than happy with it. He’s more focused on making sure you’ve got that blurry vision-toe curling kinda orgasm.

You’re looking at 2-3 rounds with enough time to get your breathing calmed down and for him to check in on you. He’ll always make sure you’re cumming once or twice before he’s actually fucking you, whether it’s from his fingers, his tongue, or from you riding his thigh.

He won’t go over 5, never has. He’s never needed to.

On average, you’re looking at a good 25 minute session, sometimes the first rounds will be a little shorter, just so he can focus on the aspect of rebuilding your arousal.

He would not and does not prioritize endurance over your pleasure. He wants to make sure you’re satisfied every round, because the goal is to have you squirting enough to soak his dick and slide right in again.

T is for Toys:

Now he says he ain’t too big on toys, but he’s definitely all for them. He likes toys that specifically give him all the control, and he swears it’s cause he likes the way you look when you get annoyed at him for teasing you, but you’re pretty sure he only likes it cause he likes to see you beg.

He’s only particularly fond of items or toys that subtly force some kind of power dynamic there. Toys with dual sided tips or vibrations aren’t really something he’d be into, but he wouldn’t mind trying it out if you’d ask. Wand vibrators and restraints are his favorites to use. Likes using them to make sure he’s the one with the power, to watch the way you’d squirm under the vibrator and try to reach out to him when you were tied up.

U is for Unfair:

He fucking loves to tease you, teases you constantly, even public, just as a way to keep you engaged. For him, teasing is his way of flirting, of getting under your skin before you get under him. He always uses humor, and witty flirting on you, sure he’ll get handsy here and there, but the flirting is more for him. Helps him gauge your limits and see how far he can go.

He'd start slow, barely touching you, telling you all the things he’d planned to do to you once you're both good and worked up. He'd take his sweet time undressing you, savoring every inch of skin he reveals, placing soft, teasing kisses along your collarbone and down your neck. Tracing little circles against your collarbones, but never enough pressure to actually feel the heat of his tongue. He'd play with your tits, grabbing and kissing and biting just hard enough to feel the hardness of your nipples against his palm.

He’d be in between your legs, gently nudging himself closer to you, letting you feel the tent in his pants, but not giving either of you the satisfaction of actually fucking you. He'd slip a hand between your legs, his fingers dancing along your slick folds, teasing your clit with light, maddening circles, only to pull away when you're about to climax just so he can get his way. He'd apologize for not letting you cum, though you doubted that he’d actually cared, nudging the tip of his finger against your entrance to catch the slick there. “I know, I know, I’m sorry mama, but feel how wet you are,” he’d finally slip his finger into you, kissing the base of your temple but not moving his finger any more. He just let himself soak in the warmth of you. “Shh, it’s alright, go ahead and beg, I won’t tease you anymore.”

‘Course he was lying, probably tease you for another ten minutes before actually finger fucking you, but he praised you real good for being so patient.

V is for Volume:

He’s a groaner. He’s got no problem expressing how good you feel and how tight you are. He’s not overly vocal, but he makes sure all his noises of pleasure are directly against your ear. Likes it that way.

When he’s deep in you, he’s grunting and groaning against your ear. He isn’t focused too much on how loud or quiet he’s being, he’s already focused on the sounds you’re making. Depending on how close he is to cumming would be how vocal he actually is. When he’s slipping his dick in you, he’d be sucking in sharp breaths, mumbling a little “mmm fuck”.

When he’s getting closer to his climax, he’s sloppy. Breathing heavily, biting down on his bottom lip to try to hear your moans clearly. His breath growing shorter and more frequent, letting out quick pants. He’d tease you a little, make fun of your moaning like he ain’t spend the past twenty minutes groaning at how tight you are. “If only you could—mm fuck—listen to you, sounding like a kitten in heat.” “Taking this dick so good, jus’ listen to yourself baby.”

W is for Wild card:

He runs really hot, he’d wake up sweating cause he’s too damn hot. Would need the window cracked open a peek, or stripped of his clothes just so he wouldn’t overheat late at night. You run cold. Gotta sleep deep under the covers, even if you keep the room cold, and then complain ‘bout it being too cold in the morning.

It was a ritual since the two of you got together. He’d keep you warm enough to not be hidden under the blankets, and you’d keep him cool enough to not go bare every time he was getting ready for bed. Though you didn’t mind him going shirtless to bed, gave you a better chance for some skin on skin, and to soak in his warmth quicker. For Elias, it helped him sleep easier, kept him asleep on nights where it was difficult to fall asleep.

X is for X-ray:

Elias isn’t as built as his brother is. He’s got some muscles to him, though he’s a little more on the lean side. Whenever it’s brought up, he’s not really offended by it. Truths the truth, right?

He’s broad where he needs to be. Has muscles where it matters. Tan and thick skin from his time away. Smooth, and taut in the way that screamed soldier. He had a pretty dick, tip’s a pretty warm brown, got a vein on the underside that gets more prominent when he’s hard. He’s packing a thick uncut six, eight when he’s hard, curving a little to the right. He’s a shower.

Y is for Yearning:

Elias. Is. A. Yearner. He may not want to admit it, but his actions are very clear to how he is. He yearns for any contact, doesn’t have to be intimate, could just be something as simple as you looking over at him or rubbing his shoulder. He lives for that.

He seems to constantly crave your touch, your taste, the feeling of your body. Its the same type of craving that a drunk man gets for something real sweet. His desire for you isn’t just something that’s physical, it’s beyond that. He needs that connection, the vulnerability, and the intimacy that happens from making love with the person. It’s this intense, feeling that underscores some powerful drive in him. His yearning is the kind of feeling that is always there but gets more intense when you’re with someone. Like butterflies in your stomach, but he’d never admit to that. But it shows.

Z is for Zzz:

He’ll do this thing where he rolls over onto his side to regain his breath, and closes his eyes like he’s actually fallen asleep, but never does. He can’t, he physically has to check in on you, he won’t allow himself to fall asleep before you.

He likes kissing, and caressing you after, likes that emotional connection of coming down from the high. He doesn’t like talking much, but he’ll do it if you want to, he’ll just let you talk for however long you want, looking at you the entire time.

He’ll keep an arm around your waist, gently pushing your hair out of your face and participating in a conversation with you once you’ve had your share in talking. He’ll clean you up if things were overly messy, and most times they are. He’d never fall asleep first, and even once you’ve fallen asleep, he’ll wait an extra thirty minutes to make sure you’re deep asleep before falling asleep too.

[euon111a]

B L O O D L U S T: THE OTHER SIDE

summary: this is the second and last part to Bloodlust, the first part is here.

warnings: themes of violence, death, vampirism, supernatural elements, voodoo/occult themes, mentions of forest sex, light biting, more choking, spitting, fingering (f!receive), power dynamics, dark romanticism, toxic relationship-ish (like barely), piv, barebacking, oral (f!receive), dry humping, slapping, slight masochism, body worship (f!receive/giving), munch remmick

w/c: 8.8k

notes: first, thank you so much for the support on the first part, i deadass thought this would flop. the first part of bloodlust was actually so rough imo, it felt very PG, but I had to post it to get this in, bc i couldn’t force fit this part into one post. so sorry this took so long. i saw this tiktok of munch!remmick and wanted to incorporate him into this, hence the warnings. i know it’s in past tense, and i know some parts are super rushed. i kinda got writer’s block so trust the process. i’ll try to post more consistently, im feigning for smoke so maybe ill do something there, in the mean time, if y’all have any ideas plspls let me know. this part is actually kinda proofread (i read it once), and it’s meant to be read as a memory, not in the present tense. again, no use of y/n, in second pov and afab reader. (this was also supposed to be out last week..but i had finals, and i was kinda procrastinating... enjoy.)

All you could feel was weight.

Heavy.

Unbearable.

Like you weren’t actually you. Your body wasn’t yours. Everything was sitting wrong. Your bones, your breath, that stretch of muscle that was a little too sharp, too tight, as if your own body was rejecting itself.

It was slow at first. Then, too fast. Every sense in you was clawing at each other, fighting each other for dominance. Everything was sharp, violent, torturous, maddening, excruciating. Every breath you took was ragged. Every noise from miles around you was picked up like it was instantly magnetized to your ears. The air itself was heavy. Not cold, or crisp, or dense with that moisture that was always stuck to it, but pressed into your lungs with each labored breath until you just couldn’t breathe anymore.

Everything was peaceful for a moment.

Almost serene.

And just when you swore you saw that bright light, that faint hum and the warmth of someone reaching out to you. Something snapped into place.

Something new.

Your eyes snapped open like you were woken up from a nightmare, as if your mind was dragging behind you. Every thought in your mind was waking up slow, even when your body was already pushing up away from the arm rest you were propped up against.

You had gotten used to the feeling of your body not moving like you wanted it to, your Gramma told you it was normal, that it was the spirits speaking for you. But now, it felt different. Everything was sitting wrong, moving wrong, acting wrong. Like movement itself didn’t belong to you anymore.

Your senses were on overdrive. The world wasn’t coming to you slowly, it was forcing itself onto you. Stretching out thin, pressing down too heavy until you were forced to go with it.

Sound was too clear. Light was too bright, harsh in the way the sun peeks through the window in the morning before you’ve got the time to adjust to it. Every shift of the wind, every scrape of movement against the floor amplified, like the earth was demanding your attention.

Everything was distorted.

Transformed.

Almost disconnected. Like you were awake, but in this prolonged state of blur. Your body was all too aware of every sound, of every movement. Especially that empty pit in your stomach that settled like dust on shelves. It was like every aspect of who you were was alive, buzzing into each other until they were one blob of energy.

Every emotion was happening at the same time. Sadness. Happiness. Despair. Unease. Unsteadiness. Anger. And not that simple kind of anger when you don’t get your way, but something deeper. Louder. Instincts fighting against logic. Everything heightened before they can adjust. Like you were stripped of your skin and your clothes and placed into something new, something that wasn’t you.

Then there was that first moment of realization, of finally knowing nothing is the same, of knowing there’s no undoing it, there’s no changing it. This had to be, even if you were in denial of it.

You hadn’t caught it at first, not until you felt it. That hunger. It was insufferable.

The weight of emptiness pressing into your stomach, heavy into your chest. Not craving, or yearning, but need. Something that was written into your body before your mind could catch up to it.

That struggle between control and impulse, like the body wants things the mind ain’t willing to accept yet.

The subconscious fight against denial, because you can’t really deny it, not with how everything feels.

You hated him.

Couldn’t believe him.

Couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he actually did it.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t give you time to process, to fight, to breathe. He just took. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was meant to fucking happen.

You didn’t think it’d happen.

Didn’t think it’d happen like this. Right now. Right here.

Honestly, you weren’t sure what you were thinking.

Maybe you wasn’t thinking.

Maybe this wasn’t what you thought would happen.

Maybe you’d expected the same damn thing Gramma did to get that scar on her arm—expected pain, expected survival, expected a wound that would heal slow but steady. She never told you what happened, but you could assume how she got it. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Not this.

Not by him.

Not this fear pressing against your ribs like it’s fighting for space between what used to be there and what is now.

Not this hunger. The deep, clawing of something born from the absence of what used to sustain you.

Were you meant to just… die?

Did Gramma know?

Would she know?

Would she cry?

Would she be angry?

Would this hunger go away?

Is this normal?

The world wasn’t the same.

You weren’t the same.

And nothing about this felt normal, but normal didn’t belong to you anymore. It was forever different.

You could feel the steady beat of your pulse slowing, and then stopping, like the body couldn’t handle trying to keep itself alive before altering into something new.

You could physically feel the heat fading from you, the absence, the shiver, the cold. The same kind of lack of warmth you’d get from waking up in the middle of the night from one of your dreams.

With each sharp breath, the slight wetness in the back of your throat, dragging in too much air, like your lungs ain’t sure if they had gotten enough, you could feel it. That tension in your muscles, bracing for something that was coming too fast and too slow.

It wasn’t all at once not like how you thought it’d be. It was gradual, overwhelming, like your senses were set on overdrive. The light burning too bright even after you blinked to try to get used to it, the sound stretching too far, the pain in your neck getting so damn awful you thought you was gonna pass out.

Everything that once felt normal felt strange, you didn’t like the warmth of the candles by the windowsill, or the heat of the fireplace even though it did nothing to warm you up. It was like your body remembered the old rhythm of life how it was before, but refused to follow it anymore. Decided on its own that it was time for a change.

And then you breathed again, not with your eyes closed or the labored breathing right before what was meant to be your eternal rest. But the first inhale, sharp, deep, pulling in air too fast, too much, like your lungs were resetting to accustom to the unknown change, but they didn’t need to.

He had reassured you nonstop when you opened your eyes, when you looked around the quiet living room, when you subconsciously looked around for Gramma but couldn’t find her. Irritatingly enough, he hadn’t left you alone, kept by your side, even though you knew you needed that. Needed that companionship. Even if he was the motherfucker who was putting you through this. Said you didn’t have to like it, but that he’d teach you. Promised you he wouldn’t let you fall apart so long as you trust him.

And you did. Almost.

Your body did. Too quick, too obedient, like your body and your mind weren’t one. Your mind wasn’t in control anymore. Not like it was meant to be.

The first actually movement was slow at first, then too quick, like the idea of control was stuck between struggling, hesitating and this weird newfound strength. You was already moving away from the couch, trying to look out the window for any sign of Gramma.

But the awareness was creeping in. She was gone, he was here, you were new. Renewed. Reborn. Reconstructed to where every step you took set every muscles and nerve in your body on fire. Where you could feel the energy of the air around you, could feel the bend of light even before you turn to look at it.

“I’m hungry.” That was the first thing you’d said. Not that you were in pain, or that you could feel and taste every color around you. But that you were hungry. It came out like it wasn’t a thought, it’s just the truth, just weight in your stomach, just something that won’t fade even after you’ve tried to ignore the rumble the first time.

Tears should have come, but it didn’t feel right. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t be grief, wouldn’t be relief, or sorrow or sadness, wouldn’t be human anymore.

Hell you tried. Tried to feel the tightness in your chest and the water in your eyes, but it just don’t sit the same. Don’t feel like it used to, don’t carry warmth, or that feeling of loss the way it did before.

It was emotion wasn’t fading, just sitting in the back of your mind. Like something was missing, and it wasn’t the heartbeat, but the warmth, the feeling behind the tears and emotions.

He didn’t reach out, or react like that attempt to grief was something that needed soothing. He just watched, kept silent and close, just waiting for you to process it on your own. He didn’t even apologize for what he done, no regret, or guilt or shame. Nothing. This wasn’t about regret, this was about survival, about transformation.

“Tears don’t change what’s already done.” Not dismissively, just truth.

He stays. No leaving, no retreating, just staying close, making sure you knew you ain’t alone.

And then a glance, lingering and unreadable. Not pity, or discomfort, just observation. A mutual understanding.

Another shift closer, small, steady, calculated. Not pushing, just anchoring, just making sure you had felt something solid nearby. Making sure you felt the weight of his presence. Not overbearing, not suffocating, just there. Undeniable.

A hand near, but not touching. Like the choice was yours if you needed some kind of comfort, but far enough to let you know that he ain’t reaching unless you actually need it.

Let you have the space you needed to come to terms with the reality without total isolation. Looks that were silent and unspoken but had some understanding to them. Something that didn’t need to be spoken and didn’t need details.

But that hunger hit deep, pushing past every other thought.

You fought against it, refused to give into what you so desperately craved, because giving into that burning would only mean acceptance to what you’ve been forced to become.

He stayed close that weekend, said the same shit Gramma told you about staying indoors for the weekend. Told you the first few nights aren’t about freedom, they’re about regaining control, and he made it clear he was gonna to stay real close regardless of what you said.

You started noticing the shifts later that night. Some sense of strength settling into your limbs, senses stretching too far just for instincts to be pressing in.

Gramma never came back. Never showed up to guide you through this. Was never close enough to get a good whiff of the cinnamon that always followed her. Remmick refused to let you leave when it was safe, said the first real test would come. Not a test of smarts or endurance, but a test of strength and restraint, navigating who you were now.

“As long as it takes.” That’s what he said. Though you kinda expected it to be faster, to feel shorter. Wasn’t minutes that passed by. Wasn’t hours or days. It was until he decided you were completely stabilized. Until you learned the world know, until you were ready to walk on your own without breaking at every distraction.

You didn’t get a choice, no matter how much you insisted. No matter how much you sore yo and down that you were ready, because he claimed that throwing you back into your normal routine without understanding meant disaster.

Days, maybe weeks, shy of just two months. Or that’s what it felt like. You pushed past the time, fought fast, accepted fast, stopped denying the inevitable just to feel freedom again.

You couldn’t even leave even if you wanted to. You tried. He didn’t go looking for you in the night, you had already found your way back like your body was tugging you back to him before you got too far. You tried again, and once more just for confirmation, just to get right back in the damn house.

It was the same five steps every night as soon as the sun hide behind the horizon. Listen. Watch. Wait. Control. Eat. Only ‘cause he said surviving ain’t just about feeding, it’s about knowing when to hold back. That you was still unstable, too predictable, had to learn first hand from him.

He said he knew all about that first acceptance, and the hunger that forced its way through. And you learned real quick, even if you didn’t want to.

It was anger at first, then resistance again, fighting against the change that already happened, and just before you could do anything about the own emotional rollercoaster you were going through, there was hunger again. Aching, and sore and undeniable in a way you can’t ignore it, no matter how hard you tried.

Over and over again. The constant fighting, the constant tearing, the denial, the feeding. All one endless cycle for days.

Then finally. Forced acceptance, not acceptance in a way to make peace with what’s happened. Not relief of what was the past and what’s to come in the future, but just submission. Knowing there’s no turning back.

Then the lessons of control. The relearning of who you were, who you are, who you will be. The tests to make sure you didn’t snap tin early or too late. Tests to make sure you knew what you were now. Not human. Not alive. Not dead. Just there.

That night, things got heated. You were angry, upset, emotional and alone. He kept pushing and pushing, but you just snapped. Told him you hated him, said you wanted nothing to do with him.

He didn’t argue, maybe because the two of you both knew hate don’t change reality in situations like this.

He didn’t apologize, still hadn’t regretted what he did.

He just watched, not unsettled, or annoyed or shocked by your actions. He was just waiting for you, you wasn’t sure if he was waiting for you to realize that anger wouldn’t undo anything or if he was just waiting for you to act on your emotions.

“Hate me all you want. It won’t change what you are. You’ll come to terms with it eventually.” He said it so casually, so calmly, like he was completely brushing off the emotions you were feeling. It was as if the past don’t matter anymore. Who you were back then don’t matter to who you are now. Like what he said was just facts, and that you had no room to feel anything. He all but threw it in your face, mocked you for your stupidity and looked at you in a way that said that you can fight all you want, but reality won’t change.

You wasn’t sure what happened. You hadn’t hesitated, or even considered to think about what you were going to do. Something just sparked through you. Anger, rage, hurt, frustration. You should’ve hesitated, but for once, your mind moved for you, your hand moving in sync with every thought in your head. Fueled only by the sheer force of your emotions, your hand met the side of his face, and Lord did it feel so good. It was something indescribable, like a weight had been lifted from you and this feeling of euphoric relief was replaced. The slap rang out, sharp and echoing like a gunshot in the pure silence of the air between you.

That momentary bliss was short lived.

The sound of your palm striking his cheek bounced across the room in a way that was physically hurting you. He didn't even move, didn't lean back to avoid your hand, didn't attempt to stop you with a single word of warning. He just watched you. Observing the wave of emotions that flickered across your face at the sheer stupidity of your own actions.

You felt the urge to step forward, to reach out and plead for forgiveness, to beg for his understanding and mercy in the face of your lack of control. The impulse was a reflex, an instinct grown by the difficulties of the turn that had long since been established between you. You were worried you’d upset him, crossed some kind of boundary, angered him enough to the point that silence was the only answer. His gaze never wavered, as if daring you to make the connection, to give voice to the apology hovering on the tip of your tongue.

Yet, even as the words formed in your mind, you hesitated. Something in his eyes made you pause, a flicker of uncertainty that made you question the wisdom of ceding to your first impulsive urge. His silence, his stillness, his unwavering focus on your face. It was a challenge, a test, a silent demand for you to confront the truth of your own thoughts and the pull of your body.

“Do it again.” That was all he said. Three words. He wasn’t upset, or annoyed or irritated. Said it like nothing. Like you was having a normal conversation and like you hadn’t just smacked him. You wasn’t sure if he was provoking you to fuck up again, or if he was mocking you, hell it might’ve been both, but before you could even move he was grabbing your wrist.

His hand moved with a speed that went against his composed stature. His fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that would have been painful if you were able to feel past the constant dullness of your own body. He forced you forward, the brisk, sudden force of his action sending a hot bolt of electricity jolting up through your arm. It went up the expanse of your shoulder, down the length of your spine, until it stopped right at the base of your back just to erupt in a burst of uncomfortable energy. Your feet naturally stumbled, your body hitching forward as he dragged you closer to him, though you wasn’t sure if he was guiding you to him or forcing you to his side.

Up close, you could see the faint pinkness of your palm imprinted to the side of his face. The skin of his cheekbone was still flushed and tingling from the force of your petty slap. His eyes, when you finally looked up to met his, glowed with this unreadable emotion that had your breath stuck in your throat. And while you normally had a hard time figuring him out and figuring out what he was feeling or thinking, that look in his eyes had you hesitating. Not from fear or worry or anxiety, even if you tried to convince yourself that had to be what you were feeling, you were just quiet. You tried to speak, tried to move, but you couldn’t, it was like your body wouldn’t listen to your mind. Didn’t want to listen to your mind repeating over and over for you to say something, to just apologize so he wouldn’t look at you like he wanted to eat you. Again.

And then his hand was connecting with the side of your face, mirroring the same way you’d hit him. It stung, you didn’t think you’d feel pain, but you did. Knocked all sense outta you, damn near winded you just from shock alone. But before you could say anything on it, he was gripping you by the side of your jaw, tilting your head up to bring your face towards the dark hallway beside you. The slap hadn't hurt much after you regained your thoughts. Wasn’t even as hard as you knew it should have been, not really. It was more of a surprise than anything else, a jolt that set your nerves alight with a fleeting sting. The same shock you had endured when he bit you the first time.

It was a lesson, some means to keep you in your place, and for a moment you’d thought about mocking his strength, just to try to get the last word. But then his hand moved down your throat, the base of his palm directly pressing against your windpipe, tightening around your throat. Slowly squeezing with a gradual force that made your lungs burn for air. The lack of oxygen began to take its toll, your lungs burning for air as black spots danced at the edges of your vision. A strange sense of detachment crept over you, your mind hazing and blurring as the world seemed to slip away, fading into a distant, muffled obscurity.

For a moment, you’d thought he’d do it. Kill you again. If you can even kill someone who’s already dead, but then he dragged his hand away from your throat and along the curve of your shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss on the base of your head in some way to bring you back to consciousness. You should’ve pushed him away, maybe you should’ve tried running, tried looking for Gramma, but you didn’t. Maybe that’s what changed everything.

"I see why Juju likes you so much,” he slowly leaned his head down towards the bite he gave you, though it felt so long ago. It had healed nicely, or that’s what he had said last night, reassured you that you wouldn’t feel it in a weeks time and that he’d make up for biting you the way he did. “You just let people do whatever they want,” He ran his finger along the mark, sending some odd jolt of tingling through your neck before he was placing a light kiss on it. You could already feel that damn smirk on his lips as you tried to lean back against the sturdiness of the wall behind you. "I haven’t even touched you and you’re already burning up."

“I ain’t mean to hit you.” He leaned back at that, giving you a look before letting his eyes slide down along your body. His hand slid along to the back of your neck to gently guide yourself back towards the wall. He ran his other hand down along the curve of your ribs, gently spreading his fingers out to feel the expansion of your muscles as you took in deep breaths.

“Then why’d you do it?” You weren’t sure why. You wished you could explain that. Explain that you just wanted to, felt like it, you probably needed to. Probably needed some sort of physical touch or some proof to help you understand and cope with this whole fucked up situation. He shifted back against you, one hand resting on the small of your back as he pressed himself up onto you until you was sure he had put all his weight behind his touch. His hand dragged down against your stomach, sliding along the curve of your waist to guide itself to the base of your spine. His thumb lightly ran along the fabric of your shirt, inching down just ever so slightly until the tips of his fingers reached the hemming of your clothes. “I’m not mad Junebug, but can’t start nothing you ain’t intend to finish, hmm?”

You wish it was difficult to remember how it happened the first time. You wished you hadn’t remembered that night. The cool of the bed sheets against your skin as he prompted himself over you, guiding your legs to spread apart as his mouth was latched onto your throat. Biting, sucking, licking, kissing. You wished you didn’t remember the feel of him between your legs, his hips rolling and pushing against yours, his tongue tracing the wound he gave you. His hands roaming further and further down until his fingers were gently pulling at your panties to the side just enough to expose you.

You’d be lying if you said you regretted it, lying if you said you didn’t enjoy every second of it. Lying if you said you didn’t like the feeling of his hands against you, caressing and molding against the curves of your body. His fingers pressing, nudging and spreading your lips apart just to force their way into your mouth. You relived that moment over and over again, the sound of his whispers against your ear, praising you for how well you were taking his fingers into your mouth.

The persistent feeling of him pressed up against your leg. That painful stretch of him sliding two fingers into you as he kissed anywhere his lips could reach. Thrusting those two fingers inside you in a way that burned and had you shifting under him, as he fucked them in and out of you so slow and deep. The way you were damn bear seeing starts as he was curling his fingers inside you once he was knuckle deep, rubbing that sensitive nub with languid circles until you could see the white in your vision. And right when you were so close, could feel that knot in your stomach and the blurry of your eyes got too much. He just stopped. Pulling his fingers out of you just to clean and lick his pruned fingers.

The same hand that was preoccupied with shoving its fingers in your mouth had come down quick across your face again, not like the first time he’d slapped you. Softer, gentler, easing you back to look at him as he rubbed the imprint of his dick down against your bare pussy, readjusting himself through his pants just to get better friction.

He’d kissed you that night more than you’d ever been kissed before. Kissed you after he licked his fingers clean from your essence. Kissed you after he finally pulled his fingers outta your mouth after fucking your throat sore. Kissed you soft and messy as his hands roamed along your body, gripping at your hips to lift you up just enough to smack the fat of your ass and let his hands roam against the skin.

Kissed you after he’d spit in your mouth. Guiding your tongue to move against his until all you could hear was the wetness of your tongues against each other, and it wasn’t until he finally pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you two that he finally stopped kissing you.

After that it was a blur. A long, painful blur.

He’d fucked you that night, and at first he promised he’d been nice and gentle, but as soon as he slid into you, all his promises fell on empty words. He rocked himself into you, slapping you when you were too loud, apologizing for the way he was fucking into you just to praise you for how well you was taking his dick. You would’ve been embarrassed at the sounds of skin on skin and the squelching between your legs, but your body was betraying you again. Squeezing and molding and fluttering around him in a way that had him groaning against your ear, praising you— your pussy for being so eager.

He was only nice after the two of you came. Telling you how good you were and making sure to be extra gentle when he was pulling out. He reminded you up and down that this wouldn’t be the first time. You denied it, over and over again. Told him it was mistake, but he just laughed. Told you you’d feel his absence by tomorrow and be begging for more.

And he was right.

Things changed after that. You weren’t sure when, but you hadn’t understood it. It was slow at first, a change in energy and the air around you. Not from a claim, or a demand. Just from fact. Like it’s something that always was meant to be, something undeniable, something written into the turning of life itself.

Casual, almost dismissive. There ain’t a need to explain it anymore, too difficult to put into words what changed, you just had to accept it.

This time you understood. You felt it before the words even hit, faster than you understood the shift inside you after the turning. You started putting together what’s shifted inside you, inside your mind, because of him.

At first you decided to test the change. Acting out like a toddler who didn’t get enough rest during nap time. Purposefully being resistant, picking fights at the worst times just to push his buttons. You’d push and push and push, acting like you ain’t bound to something deeper now, bound to him through thoughts and emotions. He claimed to know even before you acted out, said “you just don’t want to admit it.” Like that unknown, unspoken connection was instinctive and undeniable.

Said “you can fight all you want. Won’t change the fact that you’ll feel me long after I leave the room.” Like his presence ain’t physical anymore. Not possessive in the human sense, but just absolute. Like it was something deeper than thought, and he was right. Space didn’t exist between you two anymore, you were one, you were tethered to him through some invisible force.

That pull. That weight. That sense of presence before you even see him.

You knew exactly where he was without looking, without thinking, without needing to ask. Felt something settle when he was near, like tension and resistance faded. Could feel him and that heavy air around him before he spoke, like hunger, and awareness pressed into your own chest before the words even hit.

Understanding, even if you didn’t want to, because it’s already written into you, already etched into you bones.

Fury that turns into familiarity, like knowing exactly how to push each other’s buttons before realizing you weren’t pushing as hard anymore.

Glances that hold a second too long, not because of anger, but because something else has settled under it.

Fighting that felt different, less about winning, more about the way proximity shifts, the way neither one backed down.

Moments of silence that aren’t awkward. They’re charged, weighted, they’re pressing with something unsaid.

A stray touch, accidental, fleeting, and electric, but something to feel long after it’s gone.

The way arguments sound different, less biting, more careful, more edged with frustration rather than hatred.

The moment when you’d start to hesitate before arguing, before snapping back at him, or pushing him away, like the instinct to stay has started settling in.

The tension stretching too far, too tight, until it snaps, until it steps closer instead of apart.

A look that said more than words, more than insults, more than what you were supposed to feel.

That one moment, when neither one of you moves, when neither one of you speaks, and everything feels heavier.

It continued in defiance, you fighting him, him not flinching.

The way he hadn’t entertained your anger, but didn’t ignore it either.

You thought the first time would be the last. Told him it wasn’t gonna happen again, but he didn’t say anything, just hummed like he was hearing you but not really listening. It wasn’t spoken about again.

Then the silence between you stretched even longer, not uncomfortable, or heavy. Just waiting on edge.

Moments where you expected cruelty, and indifference weren’t there. It was something steadier instead.

The way he no longer reacted the way you wanted him to, like your rage didn’t affect him. Those insults don’t reach him the way they used to, and there was just something else pressing between you two instead.

The first time he touched you since the turning, not just a hand on the shoulder or a brush of his hand against your hip. But a deliberate gesture, a long touch, not harsh, or violent, but steady, lingering for a moment too long.

The realization that you wasn’t just reacting to him out of hate anymore, but out of something deeper, something more instinctive crept up to you by surprise. You hadn’t acknowledged it at first but it was known.

The way you started understanding him, not his actions, but the weight behind them. The choices behind them. The quiet between them.

Space between the two of you closing. Not force or chased or awkward but inevitable.

When close proximity didn’t result in moving away anymore, there wasn’t a real reason to. It was just comfort. Touch finally carried no tension, just understanding, finality, some kind of knowing that this was what is.

The moments where he doesn’t have to say anything, because the connection between you already speaks, and you’re able to communicate just from looks. Just like how he did before.

And then the second time.

He had you face down against the cool forest ground in the middle of the night. You couldn’t see him but you could feel the way his eyes raked over you, a steady hand resting on the side of your shoulder to keep you forced down against the grass. You rarely had moments like these, after a petty argument that resulted in more yelling on your side and less speaking on his. You were always too proud to apologize, and well, he hadn’t done nothing wrong this time.

So, as most times used to happen, he took his anger out on you… in other ways. It started with gentle touches this time, a slow run of his hand along your back, pushing just enough to have you arched up against his hips.

“You gon’ keep acting up or you gonna give me what’s mine?” Normally you’d fight back, say something sassy just to get under his skin a little more, but it had been particularly uncomfortable ass up in the air. Your neck was tight, all too tense, and you especially hated that look on his face. The one that practically screamed against every instinct of composure.

“Fine.” You knew he heard it the first time, how couldn’t he? But still, he paused for a moment, dipping his free hand under your shirt to roll it further up along your back. You could feel the coarseness of the pad of his fingers lightly tracing the delicate skin along your spine until his hand reached the bottom of your tailbone.

“Speak up now, Junebug.” You tried your best not to roll your eyes at him, digging your nails into the damp dirt to position your cheek against the cool of the earth. You cast a quick side glance towards him, watching him as he stared down at every movement his hand made, like it was his first time seeing.

“Fine.” You spat out quickly, eyes shifting towards the darkness surrounding you as if you couldn’t see right. You hadn’t even noticed the grip he had on your right ass cheek, massaging and rubbing and squeezing before planting a firm slap against the skin.

“Watch that tone now, I’m tryna play nice.” His voice low, a gentle reminder that made it very obvious that his niceness was a relative term. As he spoke, his hand slid down your waist, grabbing onto your hip like you was gonna crawl your way away from him. With a gentleness that contradicted the slap his hand landed on your ass, he guided you slowly, easing you back until your hips were practically glued to his.

You could barely see the way his eyes shifted up to your face, and it wasn’t until he tapped the side of your hip that you tilted your head to look back at him. He was already looking at you, taking in every micro-expression and every flicker of emotion that played out across your face as he grind his hips against yours. You wasn’t sure what he was trying to see, if he was trying to study the way your face contorted in pleasure at the feeling of his dick rubbing against you through your pants or just enjoying the way you looked.

He was gentler this time. Wiped the dirt from your face, leaned down extra careful to press a kiss on your shoulder. Fucked you through your panties, guided you back against his bare dick once he made sure you had already came in your underwear, stuffed you up real good and stretched you out in a way that had you walking funny for a week straight.

It continued to be like that.

Soon as the sun went down, the two of you just naturally found each other. It wasn’t about the sex, not really. It was about the connection, the company, the feeling. Though you hadn’t experienced it before, it felt as though you were a school girl, running off past curfew to hang out with a troubled boy who you had no business to be around.

Except you were forever tethered to that boy.

He had been weird lately. You weren’t sure why, but you should have picked up on the signs as soon as they were obvious. There was this change to him, the same kind of change you encountered months ago.

The life altering change.

He spoke less, told you to always be careful and aware of your surroundings just in case. Every conversation shifted now. A change to where he spoke less, and you spoke more. Not because you wanted it to be this way, but because he asked for it. Asked for you to tell him about what happened when you went your separate ways for the night, asked for all the stuff you swore up and down were boring, but he sat there on the couch, leaning his elbows against his knees, listening intently.

Always kept his eyes on you, more than before. Like he was memorizing your presence and studying every shift of your expression as he urged you to go on and on. Not once did he interrupt you. He just let you speak about what usually happened when you two disappeared for the night, something you never really had the stomach to admit but spoke anyways just cause he seemed so interested in it. Like your words were more important than his.

He never really left your side either. He was just different. Never once told you why he was acting so strange or what happened that night that made him act so differently and seem so tense. It was just change.

Whenever he could, he was always touching you. Placing a hand on your back whenever you two had gone out together at night, looking around the darkness for stuff you couldn’t see, doing things you’d seen older couples do before the turn. Adjusting your sleeve here and there, running his hand along the side of your hip, squeezing your waist like he was tryna make sure you were still there. Held you by your wrist all securely, guiding you and holding you in a way that made it seem like you’d break if he wasn’t too careful. Resting his hand on your jaw, watching you the same way he always did, pressing his forehead against yours whenever you two had sex. Though after a while it wasn’t sex it was something more intimate, something more vulnerable.

He never once said that word you were certain of. The ‘L’ word. One time he had gotten pretty close to it. Told you, “If you go. I go.” At the time you weren’t sure what he meant, it was almost random in the conversation, you mentioned Gramma, trying to go and see her, and that was all he said. Maybe it had a double meaning, maybe it meant more because he said it. But he never brought that up again, and neither did you.

It had been like that for eight nights.

The first and last time you ever made love was with him. It started off as an awkward hug, that half hug you give to someone you don’t really like, but it was the first and only hug he’s ever given you. And then he was sliding down, draping one arm against your hips as he pressed a kiss just under your belly button. You hadn’t heard him at first, his mouth was too busy kissing over your shirt, holding tight onto your hips like you would’ve pushed him away. You opened your mouth to ask him what was wrong, to try to understand why he was so different, but then he was looking up at you, sliding his hands along the sides of your thigh.

“I don’t pray, but if I did it’d be for you,” he hadn’t even given you the opportunity to let his words sit in. To actually soak in what he had just said, and before you could ask, or say anything, he was cutting you off with a slow shake of his head. Like he didn’t want you to talk, he just wanted you to listen. “You don’t ask, but I’d give you anything. I’d bring you anything you needed. I’d give you everything you need before you finish thinking it. You breathe, and I’ll follow.”

You weren’t sure what to say. Couldn’t think of anything to try to reciprocate that response because the most anyone has ever said to you was an “I love you”, and that was only by your Gramma. You were worried, your eyebrows furrowed in a way to have you think faster but he was already carefully rolling down the bottom of your pajamas for some skin on skin contact.

“Remmick, I’m confused.” He looked up at you, and hesitated. For the first time ever, he hesitated. He didn’t say anything, just took a slow inhale of your scent, pressing his face against your thighs before sliding down in between your legs. He planted soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh, stretching them up along your upper thigh and back down to the hemming of your panties. His hands gripped onto your thighs, gently urging them further apart so he could comfortably rest in between them before placing a light bite along the expanse of skin on your thigh. Reaching down to kiss and bite on one thigh before turning his head to do the same on the other.

“Shh, don’t worry ‘bout it, just let me make you feel real good,” his eyes tore away from the sight of what was right in front of him, peeking up at you again just to watch that confusion disappear from your face. You could see in his shoulders that he was still tense, but he was too busy on kissing and marking up your inner thighs to even address the elephant in the room. He moved slow, took his time even though the actual movements themselves screamed of urgency. “Gon’ worship the fuck outta this pussy.”

He was quick to press his tongue up against your clothed pussy, pressing a wet kiss against the fabric. Dragging the base of his tongue up and down against the damp patch of fabric with enough force to have your legs trying to force themselves together again. His hands found their way towards your thighs again, gently guiding your legs back until your feet were propped up on either side of his face. You gasped in surprise as he found that sensitive bud through the thin fabric, forcing himself closer just to try to rub the tip of his tongue against the nub so he could hear that shaky sigh you always made. The rough fabric of your panties chafed against your sensitive flesh, the damp patch growing with each pass of his tongue.

He looked up at you with hooded eyes, humming low and long against your mound, taking quick blinks to make sure he didn’t miss a single thing. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him in place as you rocked against him, chasing the friction you so desperately needed.

He tugged your panties aside, exposing your glistening sex to the cool air before his mouth was on you again. His tongue sliding deep into your folds, fucking along the slick walls of your core.

He groaned against your flesh, the vibrations sending little waves of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open, keeping you vulnerable to his ministration. He licked and sucked, his tongue swirling around your clit before drawing it into his mouth to suck again.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you ground yourself against his face, riding his tongue with stuttering motions. The wet sounds of his mouth on your sex filled the room, accented by your desperate moans and whiny gasps.

He ate you out like he was starving. Like he was new again and having his first meal. You could feel every ridge, every contour of his tongue and the warmth of his mouth against you, as he continued every as you were rocking your hips against his face, rubbing swollen clit against his lips and chin. The whole thing was so obscene, almost crude, wet sounds filled the air. The lewd schlick and suck of his mouth on your soaked sex echoed through the room like the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard. The vulgar noise mingled with your breathless moans and the slight squirming of your body under his was something that had been etched into your mind. Even now.

Your heavy breathing broke off into a sharp whine as his lips closed around your throbbing clit, sucking on the sensitive nub with a long pop. You couldn’t even speak, back almost arching up off the bed, nails raking down his scalp, your fingers tangling in his hair as you held him in place, your body writhing and bucking against his mouth.

He lapped at you like a man who’d just finished his fast. His tongue flicking and stroking and teasing every aching, swollen fold of your flesh. The sight of him nestled between your pale thighs, his lips glistening with your juices and something between drool and spit had been the prettiest sight you’d ever seen. It was a debauched, erotic vision that forced another knot in your stomach and a familiar ache deep in your body.

You could feel the heat building in your core, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter as his tongue fucked you towards the brink of toe curling ecstasy. It was probably the hardest you’ve ever came, you weren’t sure why, but it had been. And soon as you were done, he grinned at you with slick lips before having his own way with you.

The night was dense, thick with tension, with the scent of damp earth and blood lingering in the air. He hadn’t come back yet. You weren’t sure why, and you weren’t too worried at first, you could still smell the faint leather and wood scent of him lingering off in the distance. But you heard them. Heard them before you could see them. The hushed voices, the slow footsteps, the precise movements that were a little too precise and a little too quiet to be randoms.

You wished you could turn back time. Wished you could have some fear or some rationality to remind yourself that unease was the only thing that had kept you alive. You should have listened to your gut.

Should have ignored the voice inside your head telling you that this wasn’t fear. Fear was useless. It was a calculation, an understanding. A recognition of the moment where the hunt shifted, but you had no real place to run too. The moon was almost gone, the sun was too close to rising, and you could hear that faint ruffle of the animals coming to life.

Then the silence broke, the house creaked, the ground wept. A flicker of movement, a shadow stepping forward, barely visible against the low porch light. Not rushed, not desperate. They didn’t need to be. You were surrounded, and you ain’t even know who they were. Still don’t. But you’ve got a bit of a clue now.

Your gaze shifted out the window, fingers curling at your sides, muscles coiling in tension, the deep pulse of hunger buried beneath something colder. You couldn’t see him, the scent of him was wafting away into the distance somewhere. Maybe you should’ve tried running away, seeking shelter in some idiot’s house for the day, keep moving at night. But you hadn’t.

You stay stuck in the house, cornered like a mouse with no obvious escape and no easy way out. Everything happened in slow motion. Weapons of wooden stakes and guns were drawn, a wall of human blocking the only entrance out of the damn place. You could’ve fed, could’ve tried to, but there was ten of them and one of you. But they didn’t rush, just watched by the driveway, waiting on you to cave before the tension settled too thick.

Not panicking, not surrendering, but everyone recognized the weight of the moment. The weight of this.

“Your kind has roamed freely for too long. That ends now.” It was spoken out into the night air. Like justice, like something deeper than the hunt itself. Like revenge.

You couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t feed without getting a stake in the heart. It was over before it even started. Finally closing you in, making sure you understands the finality of it.

If you think too long about it, in some ways, he’s killed you twice.

The hunt happened quick. They burned the house down, stabbed you in the back once you got close enough to chew off just one person. But by then it was too late. The sun was peeking from the horizon, and for a moment time slowed down. You were distracted by the sight itself, the harsh rays of the morning sun as they hit you directly in the face. It was warm at first, a sight you hadn’t seen in months, and for a second you missed that feeling. The heat, the cool warmth that stretched through your body, but it didn’t stop.

Turned from warmth into something sharper, it wasn’t comfort anymore. It blistered, and bit into your skin, burning something quick into you. The body betrayed itself stuck rooted to the ground, through weakness, surrender, just the knowing of what was happening. And you had to let it happen. There was no sanctuary left.

It burned something awful, you could feel the fire eating through your flesh, spreading through every inch of your body with no hesitation.

Everything collapsed inward— nerve endings alight, consciousness flickering, that final inhale before nothing remains.

Not fear or worry, or sorrow, but recognition. You knew the end was always going to come. Just expected it to be peaceful, later in life when you were fully ready. This is just the way it chose.

Maybe you’d felt regret, maybe relief. But there silence, it happened too quick to scream, but the sight was too gorgeous to miss out on. The memories. The people you knew, the ones you lost, the ones who made you keep going. You were ready, you forced yourself to be ready. This is how it had to be. But for that split moment, the moment before you disappeared forever. For good this time. Questions kept repeating in your head, some of anger, some of worry, some of fear.

Had he abandoned you?

Did he run because he had to, or because he chose to?

Did they get to him first?

Was he already waiting for you where the sun won’t hurt?

At first, your brain refused to register the absence entirely, and then confusion took place, warping into something of unease. Not because of the feeling of skin on fire, or the final glimpse of the sun, but because something vital had been ripped away.

Then fear, for him— for whatever fate caught up to him before it happened to you.

But then anger— cause all that teaching had been for nothing. And if he left willingly, if he didn’t tell her, if he thought disappearing was better than staying, you would’ve spent your entirety of eternal life wishing him to damnation.

Finally. Finally, something quieter, acceptance, maybe, or something close to it. The silence was finally normal, freeing, unweighted. Light. Things left behind didn’t matter, they couldn’t matter. Things were different now. They were meant to be. A final change in the air—a subtle shift of understanding. No need for an answer to waiting just beyond. You could be.

A final, broken inhale— brief, clipped, too hot. A sigh that shifted the slowness of the moment and finally brought you back to reality, back to the burning and the pain and the fire. There was no need for a reaction, no need for a scream or a cry. You were home.

And then that warmth. The heat inside you growing and growing until it burst into a thousand suns. Until you faded away into the morning sky.

[euon111a]

B L O O D L U S T

summary: sleep with one eye open, don’t walk alone late at night, don’t trust strange men who show up at your gramma’s door. and definitely don’t move to Mississippi.

warnings: sacrificial pact/curse bond oath, themes of violence, self bloodletting, death, vampirism, supernatural elements, voodoo/occult themes, biting, minor choking/breath play, spitting, blood play.

w/c: < 11k

notes: okay, so ik everybody says this, but yes this is my first time writing, so it’s probably not gonna be perfect. yes, I’m hopping on the sinners train, I’m just original like that. there’s absolutely no use of y/n, this is entirely second pov and specifically afab reader. this also isn’t proofread, and like kinda fast and long so my bad. also, this was supposed to be out like last week, but i got kinda scared of publishing, and kinda hate how this came out, sooo yeah. i don’t have high expectations for this, chances are there might be a part two, but hopefully those who read enjoyed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew real quick what your family was.

There wasn’t a talk, or a conversation ‘bout it, but the older you got, the more clear it became. You knew when you overheard your neighbor talking to his wife ‘bout how your family ‘walks with shadows’, and how the other females of your blood ain’t ever been right in the head. It was there in the way folks steered clear of your doorstep, looked at each other like there was a secret there that only they knew of. You weren’t embarrassed of your family, never had been even when you put two and two together, you knew what you was, and you took pride in it. Safety was a rare thing to come by, and in desperate times, some people just had to do desperate things to keep the ones they loved safe.

That’s just how life was.

Blood was thicker than water, put above all else, and that’s how it’s been for generations. Blood kept you safe, kept you alive, and you didn’t know it at first, but you understand it now. It makes sense. Plus, everybody knew what New Orleans was like, the connection certain people had, the stories, the rituals, the pure energy. Who’s to blame a young couple hundred of years ago to do what they could to keep their children, their grandchildren, and their great grandchildren safe from everything wrong in the world? They did what was needed, and there’s no shame in using your resources wisely.

But everybody’s human, and people make mistakes, so when your older brother came to terms with things and realized his part of the pact was coming up, he got scared, tried to back out. He ran off, tried to get some sort of help and then he just— disappeared. Ain’t nobody know if he died, if he just ran away and got somewhere where the shadows wouldn’t interfere, or if his part of the oath was completed, but nobody’s seen him again. Talk went around about his disappearance, people claiming to hear his voice at night, hearing his screams, the earth listening to them, and then just emptiness as the sun came up. But that was all just rumors. Things grew as quickly as it started, people bringing up the jars your daddy had lined up by the porch, the roots under the porch chairs, the herbs on the windowsill. Then it was bringing up how your family never went to church, always had everything set up for y’all’s benefit, how your momma had slipped up one night and mumbled the same prayer she’d set over you to your father in public. The rumors stopped after a week, just magically went swept under the rug like a dust bunny, but everybody remembered, kept their distance and called out Bible verses to you whenever you stepped into a shop.

Your parents had their stuff packed by the next week, they’d always been waiting for a fuckup, told you to keep on your toes, but after a heavy lightning storm had lit a neighbor’s house on fire, people started suspecting your family. Before you knew it, you was dragged up to Mississippi to your gramma’s for safety and a fresh start. Your parents hadn’t bothered telling you what state they was holed up in, told your gramma to keep it strictly secret and to get you prepared for your “time”. They told you as soon as you was old enough to fully understand, not that ripe age before you finally develop a conscience but the moment before. Told you what was comin’, what had already happened for your momma, for her momma, and for every person born from the same blood before them.

It had to happen, can’t go around tryna change fate no matter how scary it seemed for your feeble mind when they first told you. It’d hurt, it’d be a hard transition, but it ain’t about the pain. It’s about the renewal, the safety. It’s about making sure you stayed whole, had a place among the shadows. So you embraced for the inevitable, learned to live with it.

Now that was five years ago, you’re a grown woman now. Your gramma was smarter at keeping things secret, had a little bouquet of herbs nailed to the front door and a sloppy baron veve etched into the porch wood where the door mat lay. Plus, life was a lil more secretive in the countryside, nobody really went around lurking for things they shouldn’t. Things was simple for a while, you helped her where she needed it, tended to her little shop in town, and she’d mutter that same prayer your momma did before you went to bed every night.

But when you got your menarche, or what your gramma called, “the final binding”, that faux simple life had changed. She shared her deepest secrets and knowledge with you, bathed you in the river, blessed you with her own gris-gris bag, and cut off a small portion of your hair just to set on fire. That night as soon as the stars started littering the sky, she slit open your palm with the same shard of glass she used on your momma, and letting the blood pour down onto the ogou feray she dug in the dirt behind the house. It was as if things shifted right as the blood hit the dirt. The air settled, the flickering of the flames in the fireplace stilled, as if the entire earth around you took a moment to rest, to soak in the warmth of the blood. Your gramma warned you of dreams that night, to not be scared and to be open, to let it happen, to listen to what they were telling you. She told you over and over to not speak, to let the spirits and the shadows do all the talking, that’s all you needed.

There was this change, this tension deep in your gut as if a heavy weight settled in you, like a hug from someone who wasn’t there, but who squeezed on tight to make sure their presence was known. The first man in your dreams hadn’t said anything, not at first. He just watched you, studied you, gazing at you as you struggled to wrap your mind on just how real the dream felt. His eyes bored into your soul as if he was peeling back every aspect of who you were and soaking up the information he learned. He told you to keep an eye out for the night man, but hadn’t told you anything else even when you tried to ask, just cut you off to say that you’d know when you’d see him, that you’d tell yourself before your mind knew, and then you woke up.

Every night’s been the same since your cross into womanhood, your sleep was the only interesting part of your day. When your eyes were closed, you’d be reunited with family members you didn’t know of, talk to people from the past and those who just encountered the cold touch of death. You’d see life as it was beyond dreams, the physical pull of something holding you back from going too far. You dreamt of visions of warnings with symbols of men on fire and rivers of blood, the weight of more than one person lingering in your dreams but only one ever being seen. It hadn’t stopped, kept growing, kept getting more real, more fulfilling, drawing you closer and closer to that magnetized energy that chased after you, but kept hidden behind shadows until it was time.

The heat was particularly heavy today, thick as ever, clinging to you like a second layer. Stuck to you the same way a quilt wraps ‘round you in the middle of the night. Ain’t no wind in the air this time, just the same scorching heat, pressing down like the same warmth of a brand against cattle. The nights had gotten restless, air so damp it’d slip through the cracks of the windows and have you waking up drenched in sweat. Just an endless stream of heat that don’t quit, even when the moon’s settled high up in the dark sky.

Not a lick of shade out in the countryside, nowhere to rest against to hide from the sun, just the same old open land and the same old humidity pressing on your chest. No trees in wrap around and cling to, no wild grass to linger on, just pure sun to skin. 24/7. The fields stretched out in endless rows, plants swaying like dying ashes in the breeze, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. That tiring damp in the summer air that stuck to your every pore thickened the further you went into town. The air was heavier there, clinging to you like a different weight, sticky everywhere you went, like the streets themselves was grabbing hold to you. But ain’t no peace anywhere in the summer, just the constant blend of day to night, the burn of the sun and the heat against your back.

Dust had clung to your shoes, your clothes, your hair, your lungs with every turn of the car had another puff of gravel thickening up the air. Moments like these you were particularly missing home, the weather down in New Orleans never reached as dry as it was in Mississippi. Normally, Mother Nature was less cruel back there, there’d be a week of hotness, but then the weekend would be blessed enough to have a long cloud of rain at night. Today though, it was extra sticky, and Gramma had been mighty adamant on going to town, so you brought it upon yourself to keep her company, despite her complaints against it. The shop smelled of old wood and herbs, the kind of scent that clung to the shelves no matter how often they were dusted. You traced your fingers along the countertop, the grain rough against your skin, listening to the way that momentary silence settled around you. It wasn’t an eerie quiet—just the kind that came when the world outside had dimmed, when the street beyond the window had almost emptied, when the only things left awake was the crickets and the slow hum of the overhead lamp.

“You stay home tonight.” Gramma’s voice was steady and sharp, carrying that same tone that told you that there really wasn’t no room to try to argue against her. She had you perched by the counter like some restless child who didn’t know when to quit, like you wasn’t grown enough to be on your own without her breathing down your back. Your eyes flicked away from the window, quick and ready to ask question after question as to why, but she was already turning away. Already shifting toward the older woman at the shelves, the one running her fingers along misplaced coffee tins like she had nothing else on her mind but finding the right one.

You scoffed—not loud, not reckless enough to be heard neither, just enough to let it sit on your tongue for a second before you straightened up. You settled back in as soon as she returned to the counter. “Gramma, it’s the weekend.”

The words carried, just enough weight to sound like they actually mattered, but she barely blinked, didn’t even react. Didn’t flinch, or pause, or give even the smallest sign that she was reconsidering.

Instead, she dragged that coffee tin against the countertop, tapping her fingers against the lid like the conversation wasn’t worth stopping her movements. “And?” That’s it. It was flat, unbothered, almost bored, and if you wasn’t related to her, you’d genuinely take offense to her tone. Like the weekends had never meant anything to her. Like you wasn’t looking for any excuse to get out the house tonight.

“Weekend don’t mean not waiting.” Your brows furrowed slightly, trying to untangle her words so they made sense. You didn’t even really understand what she meant, and right now wasn’t really time to go ‘round tryna decipher her words. So, you just let her talk, let the weight of the words you didn’t really understand sink in. Eventually you’d actually make sense of her ramblings, but right now wasn’t one of those times.

“Alright, prophet, you got any clearer messages, or am I supposed to just go ‘long with you?” It meant to be a joke, just enough of a tone in your voice so she would’ve known you wasn’t taking her too seriously, but from the look on her face it rubbed her the wrong way. It flattened that sad attempt to humor her and shut you up real quick.

She shifted the tin aside, settled it among the others, before pointing a finger at you like you cursed her head off. “Ain’t my job to spell it out for you.” She didn’t raise her voice or scowl, just went back to cleaning up the counter with a dusty piece of cloth. And that was it. That was all she said. No explanation or soft edges to her words to make you think she was messing with you.

No room for another shit joke.

And no space for argument.

Just her certainty and knowledge that she wouldn’t share with you pressing down like the kind of knowledge that don’t come from guessing, just from years of watching the same thing unfold again and again.

The weekend clearly didn’t matter.

Not to her, so it wouldn’t to you.

And then it was quiet again. Not just cause she was mad or the fact that you was a little scared, but because there was that unease in your gut. The kind you get after waking up from a nightmare. The little jingles of the bells by the door, the slight sniffs customers made when scanning different candles and herbs was the only thing that distracted you. That and the muffled sounds of lively conversation outside. Your gramma must’ve snuck up behind you while you did your best to try to eavesdrop on the conversations that went by ‘cause next thing you know, she’s giving you a quick swat to the back of your head. You jolted in surprise, quickly turning around to face her instead of being nosy as you rubbed the back of your head, fixing her with an annoyed look.

“Junebug, go’n get some more tins— and none of those dented ones again.” You sucked in a slow sigh at your gramma’s order, sharply turning your head to watch her as she busied herself with helping a customer. You hopped off the stool, letting the wood creak under the shift of weight. Your eyes followed her as she slipped behind the counter, fingers tapping against the wall like she wasn’t waiting on you.

“Yes, ma’am.” Words carried out of habit more than anything else, rolling off your tongue without thought. And then you moved, purposefully slow. Like the steps to the back of the shop were new, unfamiliar, weren’t anything other than the same thing you’d done a hundred times before.

Like it wasn’t routine or repetition, just so you could experience something new.

Because Gramma asked.

Because the night hadn’t changed anything yet.

Because you did the same things you’d always done— even when she allegedly knew something was coming to break the cycle soon enough.

Stuck doing the same bullshit routine, everyday, every week.

You had all night to think now. Time to sit and stew in her words. Which wasn’t always a good thing, because the possibilities was practically eating you up. Thinking meant letting every idea come to fruition— the weight of expectation, the uncertainty, the fact there was no turning back. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Couldn’t afford screwing everything up. Your gramma had left after supper to close up the shop, said she’d come back before to play audience in case tonight was the night. But the echoes of her words still sat heavy in the your heart, pressing against your mind like a reminder.

You’d already cleaned the house two times over, not from the what-if’s or the possibilities, but just out of habit. It was always like this whenever she rambled unexpectedly. Bringing yourself to clean every nook and cranny of the house. To keep yourself from going crazy in anticipation. You hadn’t really meant to, but your body would move before your mind caught up—back and forth, tracing the same stretch of floor like movement might keep you steady. But your hands always needed something to do. Not because it’ll matter, but because control is control, and if you can make sure everything is in place, at least something will feel certain. Something other than wringing themselves over what might happen. Preparing for the unknown ain’t just about routine— it’s about settling the nerves, about making peace with the unknown, about bracing for something that doesn’t come with clear instructions because your gramma wanted to use it as a teaching moment.

Your breath came slow, fingers curling against the countertop, repeating Gramma’s words under your breath to remind yourself that this is just another step, just something possibly meaning to happen. And then you sat, forced yourself to just wait, like stillness and movement kept fighting for the reins of control. Forced yourself to take a breath and relieve the weight in your chest.

You weren’t sure why you were panicking, ain’t like she admitted that tonight was the night, but something in your gut shifted. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the clock— but you noticed the stretches. You could practically feel everything, the way time dragged on, the wind outside, the cool of the night seeping through the window you was standing too close to, just so you could see before you were seen.

Gramma never said it’d come gently, never said it’d be announced— just that it was coming. That’s the way it was with her when she was your age, so you just needed to be ready. You couldn’t let yourself freeze, no matter how heavy the air gets, no matter how much your pulse shifted, you had to force yourself to move, to breathe, to listen. Had to check yourself, to make sure you were there, awake, whole.

After an hour, you made peace with not knowing who will come, how it will start, or what will happen next. You told yourself you were prepared, even if that doesn’t quite feel true. You weren’t scared, or unsteady, or doubtful, just ready for the test. The moment everything would change. You took another breath, long and deep, because what else was there to do?

Just sit.

Just wait.

Just make peace with the inevitable.

Nothing felt different.

Nothing looked different.

But that didn’t mean the weight of it wasn’t pressing down on you. So you waited more, and more. Sat with it for a while. Let it settle. But then two hours came, gramma wasn’t back, and the night man wasn’t here, so you took the liberty to finally make do to your room.

The sun’s set, darkness has come up, the sky black, empty and cloudless. No stars, no moon, just a long stretch of black on an endless canvas. The air’s thick, heavy, weighing down every movement of nature and every breath of the land. The trees connect through their limbs, tangling up into one big blob of wood and leaf. They speak to you, sway with every inhale the ground takes, deep and low. They sob, they weep, they ache, they groan. The wind stops, and for a moment, there’s stillness, no crying, no breathing, just emptiness.

The ground shifts, it moans, hollow and ragged as if life itself is pained just from its own existence. And then the earth inhales, and you’re back home. Everything’s the same, the dining table, the old painting on the wall, the faint crackling from the fireplace, but something’s not right. You can’t move, you can’t breathe, you’re not there. Not really. You’re rooted to the floor beneath you, stuck in time, prisoner to the land as it shackles you through your bones.

And then, a light. Freedom.

You can’t see it, but you can feel it, in your core, running through your veins. It’s hot, warm, a brand burning you beneath your skin, keeping you there. The red glows, vibrant and thick, and then just there, in you. He whispers your name, right there, in your ear, in your head, in you. The heat grows, it’s intense and pulls you down, magnetizing you to his voice. You try to move, try to blink, try to breathe, but you can’t. You try to listen to him, but he’s not talking anymore, you know he’s there, can feel the weight of his gaze even as you can’t see him.

Then— just, nothing.

No darkness, no silence, no weeping.

Just, emptiness.

You wake up to the same emptiness, that gnawing hollowness, that gut feeling of something being terribly wrong when nothing’s gone wrong yet. The house itself was still, like even it knew something was just off. The air was too thick, too quiet, too unmoving. The shutters of the window slapped softly against the glass, a soft ray of moonlight pushing through the wood and onto the raggedy rug by the foot of the bed before bleeding slow into the dark corners. Everything’s the same, everything’s okay, but something wasn’t quite there.

Maybe it was the dream, the heaviness of its weight still settled deep against your ribs. Maybe it was the whispers still lingering in your mind, unintelligible, unknown, but latched onto your chest like a sickness with no name. That silence that stretched too long and too thin finally interrupted. The familiar sound of the front door opening in the distance, shutting with a screechy creak and it was only then when you heard the faint sound of gravel crunching beneath wheels, that you sat up.

The air in the room sat too still, thick with the kinda silence that came when something was taken away from a child and they’re getting ready to unleash all hell. You slowly rose up from the bed, the floorboards silent under your feet. The hallway was too dark and way too empty.

The chair by the hearth was empty, rocking ever so slightly, like it had only just been left by someone. The shadows along the corner of the room shifted, melting into each other before disappearing out the window and into the night again.

Then— three knocks.

Soft, slow, deliberate, like the owner of the hand knew patience, knew you’d answer. For a moment, you wasn’t sure if you imagined it— too caught up in your own mind and the tricks that was surely being played on you. But the air shifted. Like the entire world had stilled and listened, waiting for you to respond.

Then it came again. Three knocks, heavier this time, sharp enough to carve through the prolonged silence.

Through the thin curtain, you could just make out three figures, standing still on the doorstep, waiting— like they’d been expected all along. The moment stretched even further, threatening to snap out like a band. But then you heard it. Finally noticed it.

The silence.

Not just the absence of sound, but something heavier, stretching into your ribs until all you could hear was your own breath, your own pulse beating against your ears. But you were stuck, rooted by the fireplace, caught between the weight in your chest and the whisper in your mind telling you to stay put— to just forget, to sleep, to leave the door alone. But that lump in your throat disappeared, and without thinking, without meaning to, your body moved on its own. Standing by the door, slowly turning your head to the side, you pressed your ear against the cold wood. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, maybe the sound of the wind, the creak of the porch floor, the rustle of fabric against fabric, but there was nothing.

Just a stretch of air.

“Junebug,” the nickname snapped you out of whatever trance you were in, the sound cutting clean through the walls. Your fingers curled around the door knob, not turning, just there, like the weight of your own grip was the only thing keeping you from moving and taking a step back. The voice that called out wasn’t your gramma’s. It had a feeling to it— low, smooth, drawn out just enough to make room for silence, to let it settle in the empty spaces between the syllables. There was another pause. Not long, but long enough— the kind of pause meant to remind you that this wasn’t a dream or a trick of your own mind. “I know you’re awake.”

There wasn’t any rise in his tone, no accusation or teasing in his words. Just fact. Like he knew you were alone, like he knew it had already been decided that you’d be alone, right now, tonight.

You stepped away from the door, staring at it like it would’ve forced the damn thing to tell you what exactly was behind the door. Like if you looked long enough you’d see straight through the wood, past the silence and whatever waited on the other side. There was something different, the living room felt wrong, the walls were off, it was too— raw. Like they was listening to you, like the air itself was watching you, getting ready to judge you for every wrong move you made. You took a slow look around, scanning the room like it was your first time actually seeing it.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for this time. A sign that you weren’t going crazy, or that this was the thing your gramma tried to warn you about. Maybe you were looking for a clue, a strange flicker from one of the wax candles, the same whisper in your head, or some kind of confirmation that this was happening now. They should’ve spoken by now, the shadows should’ve told you what to do, what not to do, but they didn’t. Just kept still and quiet.

It was the test, had to be. You knew it, had to know it. Gramma wasn’t there, wasn’t able to help you no matter how much you needed it right now. She wouldn’t come back to help you, wouldn’t come back to guide you, to remind you what needed doing. And the longer you brewed in your own thoughts, the more you came to realization of what had to happen. You couldn’t be scared, couldn’t run off like your brother did, this was the inevitable.

And then, something inside you just clicked.

You hummed low and certain, not a strangled gasp or a means to fight the truth, but of understanding. Before you even meant to, before your mind even had the ability to second guess, your fingers tightened around the doorknob and twisted. The door creaked open, just enough for the night air to seep into the warmth of the house.

You didn’t know the people in front of you. If you were foolish, and didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought they was some lost folks, some wandering souls who knocked on the wrong door. But you were smart, and you did know better. Hell, you knew what they were before they even introduced themselves. Your gaze peeled off the three shadows in front of you to scan the porch, to the familiar stretch of land in front of you.

She really was gone, her car wasn’t in the driveway, that faint cinnamon smell that lingered on her wasn’t close enough to be smelled. This really was happening. The very thing she’d been getting you ready for this whole time. And that weight, the one that was sat in your bones for as long as you could remember, the one that pressed down to keep you tethered to reality, kept you waiting for what was to come— wasn’t there anymore.

The wind spoke it. The glow in their eyes confirmed it. The energy sealed it. Those whispers and dreams finally came to be.

He was actually here.

“Well now,” a pause, and then a long, slow exhale, like he was deciding whether to speak at all. He tilts his head, just a fraction, not from curiosity or amusement, but just to watch. His gaze slowly drags along you and the space you’ve wedged yourself into, forcing yourself to block that small gap between the door and the doorframe. “Ain’t exactly the way to treat company, now is it?” The tone in his voice was what set you unnerved, like he had all the patience in the world, like he knew you’d eventually open the door, but the look on his face told something different. You saw it, it was quick but deliberate enough for you to see the glow in his eyes, the weight to them. He didn’t say anything after, let the silence drag on as he watched you, not rushing or giving you a look that demanded you to answer.

“You gon’ kill me?” Quick to the point. The one to the left of him let out a little sigh, maybe it was amusement, maybe it carried something deeper that you just couldn’t catch. The kind of sigh someone releases from the same question being asked over and over again. The night man barely looked over to her, had barely attempted to reassure you, to actually acknowledge it. Just glanced back at you, a quick flicker before turning back to the open door. Then with a measured breath, a subtle shift forward before finally speaking, his voice low and deliberate.

“That what you think this is?” No frustration. No sharpness. Just a question without a question mark, something that didn’t need an answer but demanded one anyway. The silence pressed on again, like everything around you wanted you to answer first. You weren’t sure now, not with the way his lips twitched up, not a full smile, just the suggestion of one. You waited again. Waited for something else, a whisper to guide you, for the wind to say what needed saying.

But nothing came. Just more silence and waiting. And the man was watching, watching like he already knew what would happen, already saw how this would play out and how it’d end.

“Aren’t you?” He let your question settle— didn’t push you to say anything else, just let the air stretch as his eyes shifted towards the people on either side of him. Then, a slow shift. Not much, just the slightest lean back, just enough to make it feel like he was really listening to you, like he was actually considering the words before deciding whether they’d mean anything at all. And then, the same flicker of a smile, like he was testing how long you’d hold out before deeming the silence to be too heavy to carry.

His eyes followed your every move. Even when you glanced back into the safety of the house, even when your gaze flickered down to your feet as you thought to yourself. You didn’t need to look up to know, you could feel it. Like he hadn’t moved at all, but somehow, with that silence, he was closer to you.

“That really what you wanna ask me?” You finally looked up, eyebrows furrowing at his question. You gave him the slightest shake of your head, not of certainty that you could’ve asked something else, but because you forced yourself to accept that you asked the wrong question. That much was clear. He made it clear. You nibbled on your bottom lip, pressing your teeth against it, trying to hold onto something physical to keep your mind from running in circles. And suddenly, the only thing you could think about was what gramma would do. Digging through your every thought, every rule and every warning you’ve been taught for this very minute.

What should you be asking?

What were you supposed to know?

What could you do so he wouldn’t stare at you like that— like he was waiting to see how you’d hold up before you overthought his very presence?

Nothing came. No pull in your chest, no reminder or flicker of knowing. Just that same hollow stretch.

“Don’t reckon I ever learned the right thing to ask.” You admitted hesitantly, rubbing the side of your neck as you pressed your lips together. A rough, vibrating sound left the man, something that came deep from his throat and rumbled into the air. Half a laugh, but heavier than one, more felt than heard. Or maybe the kind of laugh that never really forms, just the edge of it, that slight drag at the end, turning into something that was just shy of a growl but had some sort of bite to it.

And then finally, the sound— the ragged drag of breath, the edge of something close. It lingered in the air, and then a whisper. Right against your ear.

“Antre.”

Just there, curling against your skin like breath in the cold winter air. Like the moment has already moved forward before your mind could realize that it was. It was the push you needed. It’s fate. The thing you needed to get the safety you needed.

The whispers were done now. There wasn’t nothing left to try to negotiate, nothing left to question. They spoke for you, and it was needed. Already set in stone. So, you stepped back, slow and steady, opening the door despite the fact that you ain’t even know his name, or who they was. The earth made it happen. The door swung open, not with force or pressure, but the way it had to, like it knew what to do. Then he moved, a small step forward until he was close enough for you to fully see him without the casts of the shadows around him. For a second, he was just watching, like he was judging you on how you were measuring the weight of what was about to happen, the sight of you stepping back, the weight of the land moving for you. His tongue peeked out from in between his lips, dragging slow across his bottom lip, like he was ‘bout ready to pounce on you the same way a lion does to a deer.

“Come on in, then.” Your words landed soft and steady, wasn’t just permission but a statement of what was already happening. His eyes flicked up to meet yours again, a lazy grin on his face that ain’t shown an ounce of comfort or kindness. With slow steps, crossing the threshold like he’d already been inside a thousand times before, he made his way into the house. His shoulder brushed yours, not forcefully or by accident, but a deliberate gesture just enough to be felt and to stick to you. And when he turned towards the living room, the space stretched out before him, his gaze dragged. Not admiring the warmth of the decor, not on the shadows lurking around or the flicker of the fireplace, but at you. Then he took a deep breath in, savoring the air like he was settling back in after a long trip, like he was coming home from work.

“Juju always did say you’d be a smart girl.” His words landed easy, absentminded, but they wasn’t. Not really. He didn’t bother looking at you when he said it. Didn’t even really bother waiting for a reaction, didn’t seem to need one. He just stepped aside, giving space for the others to follow. Like they all understood they belonged here, and you was just some slow girl who was catching up too late.

You opened your mouth, to ask how he knew your gramma by name, to try to catch that missing piece before it disappeared forever. But the moment already passed, had kept you just a step behind them. By the time you realized it, he was already at the couch. The fabric groaned under him as he settled in, not stiff or weak, but at ease, like the house had already decided to hold him. His legs stretched out against the floor, spread out in a way that’d only be comfortable for a man. His fingers dragged lightly along the grain of the wood, taking in every texture of the couch, purposefully letting the place sink into him the way he was sinking into it. He leaned his head back against the head of the couch, his gaze glued to you as if he was waiting for you to say something before propping his arm up against the back of the couch.

“How you know gramma?” You asked quickly, a little too quickly, and he noticed. His brow lifted, not like he was startled or offended by your question, just letting the question sit before deciding what to do with it. He moved slightly. Just enough for the couch to groan beneath him, for his shoulders to sink a little lower, for his hips to shift up deliberately, like he was settling into the comfort of the house before answering your damn question. The woman snickered, but his hand was already lifting up to wave the sound off before it could finish off into a laugh.

That couple was too settled, too at ease. When your eyes finally dragged back to him— you caught the way he was looking, not like he was just watching or peeking at a stranger. It was something deeper, something far too intimate for a random. It was like water moving into cloth, taking its time to sink in, to claim space, to belong where it wasn’t invited. It wasn’t hunger, though it was almost there. But then his gaze slid down just slightly so his eyes could linger on the exposure of your neck, before he gave out a small breath of air.

“Funny that you don’t already know,” he spoke gently, curling around the space between you two. The weight of it settled into the quiet between you. He let it sit there. Let the silence soak into him, like it belonged to him as much as anything else in the room. He ran his hand along his inner thigh before casting a quick glance towards the empty space beside him. Just long enough for the meaning to settle before his eyes found you again. “Ain’t your fault, I s’pose. Got all night to remind you, ain’t in no rush.”

You blinked in momentary surprise, your eyes following his as he looked down to the cushion beside him. You could hear his order even if he didn’t speak it. The whisper in your ear, telling you to sit down, was enough confirmation. The whisper wasn’t there, not in the way the voices usually were, or the way instructions were given, but in the back of your head like you would’ve been stupid to not want to listen. But it was there, spiraling in your head until it was all you could think about. The words were soft, pressing against your ribs like a breath that hadn’t even left your mouth but still forcing through every fiber of your being. You were moving again before you had the opportunity to object, the cushion sinking beneath you as you forced a gap between the two of you. Not enough to be safe, or to go unnoticed, or out of arm’s reach, just enough to remind yourself that you had the opportunity to move if you needed to.

“You scared, or is that pretty head of yours just figuring out how deep the remembering’s gotta go?”

“I ain’t afraid.” You snapped back, a little too sharp, a second too quick, and an awful lot defensively. He caught it. Didn’t bother calling you out, or pushing back, just casted a look towards the two people he came with. For a second you’d expected one of them to call you on your bluff, but the three of them shared a glance, like they was having a conversation with just their eyes. His tongue pressed slow against his teeth, just a moment of hesitation like he was holding himself back from words that weren’t necessary just yet. All he did was take a look down to the space between you two before trailing his eyes up along your body.

“Ain’t me keeping all that space there.” He noted with a low voice, letting his eyes dip along the curve of your waist before finally meeting your face. You held his gaze for a split second before looking away towards the comfort of the fireplace like it’d give you all the answers you sought.

“That’s ‘cause you’re a stranger.” He didn’t respond at that, tilting his head to the side like he was weighing the word. Stranger. He tapped his fingers on the back of the couch just where your shoulder rested against, and though it wasn’t a means to get your attention back on him. It worked.

“Stranger ain’t the right word, girl. Reckon you know that too.” You captured your bottom lip between your teeth hard enough to keep the annoyance from surfacing at his lack of a real answer, but gave him an unsure shrug.

“I don’t know y’all, you won’t tell me what you are.” The words hung between you, capturing the heaviness of your words, the helplessness at the edge, the frustration there. He let the silence drag even longer at that. Not in avoidance or the lack of an answer, but just to study that look of annoyance on your face without the interruption of his own voice.

“Ain’t the name that matters,” he shifted forward, slow and certain, like he wasn’t considering the movement, just following a second instinct. His hand slowly moved along the curve of the couch, inching its way up to lightly brush along the fabric of your nightgown. You tensed under him, tight enough for the muscles in your shoulders to coil up just enough that you were certain he’d notice. “You can call me whatever you want— the night man, the stray, night walker. Most call me Remmick,” his hand didn’t stop, not right away, just kept following the curve of your neck before letting his hand settle there. The weight of his palm rested lazy against your skin, like it fit there, like it was a missing piece. “Ain’t too picky. S’pose I’d like to hear how it sounds from you first.”

Your gaze flickered down, catching the lack of warmth to his hand, that tight steady pressure against your neck. His thumb pressed against the side of your jaw, a slow, guiding gesture as he turned your head back to him. You peeked over, just a glance, to try to see through the shadows that hid the couple he came with. But it didn’t linger, not long enough before his thumb was tapping against your jaw to bring your eyes back to him instead. “Eyes on me.”

You were quick to look back at him, not just cause he gave your throat a gentle squeeze to snap your attention to him once more. That ain’t what pulled you back. Not really. Your body was already moving before you did. Like it was second nature. Like you was already following something that wasn’t spoken, something he didn’t have to voice twice for. That slight pressure, not like he was forcing you or demanding, just enough to remind you of where his hand was and where you were. He slowly leaned forward, just enough for the tip of his nose to nudge against the side of your cheek. “Remmick?” You mumbled slightly, tense, taken aback, confused. But the question just hung there in between the silence of the room and the creak of the couch as he moved closer. He didn’t answer right away, apparently didn’t need to, just kept his hand firm against your neck and his nose pressed against your cheek.

He inhaled slowly, deeply as if savoring every molecule of your scent and the way his name fell off your tongue. His lips brushed against the warmth of your skin in a languid path, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake as he inched his way towards your ear. He paused, taking another long, deliberate inhale, flooding his senses with every inch of you. “Ain’t even started yet, and you already tense,” his words murmured against the delicate skin of her throat, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. His head dipped lower, his lips dragging a path of heat downwards until he found the flutter of heartbeat at the base of your throat. He stilled, the heat of his breath heavy against the pulse he hovered over. “You feel that?”

You swallowed hard, trying to calm the nerves in your stomach and that red flashing light in your head that told you this was a bad idea. "Feel what?" It came out real pathetic, barely audible like he was choking the life out you. His tongue flicked out, a fleeting, teasing caress against that rapid pulse but he was quick to reach down and grab hold of your wrist to stop you from moving.

“I’ll show you.” His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to get your heart beating against your chest like an impatient bird locked up in its cage. You jerked under him, your feet kicking and sliding against the fabric of the couch as you sucked in a sharp breath through your nose. The first touch is barely there. Then— the weight of his hand. Not holding you still, just there, pressing up against the side of your face like he was tryna give you something to lean into.

This is wrong. You gotta move. Who cares ‘bout the test? Do something. Don’t just let him sniff up on you like a dog in rut. Do something idiot.

But you couldn’t, you weren’t sure why. Maybe you liked it, maybe you was afraid, but you let him. And then, that press.

The faintest drag of teeth against flesh, just enough to have you pulling back with a shiver, enough to feel the sharpness before they sink in. His lips grazed the spot, pressing a soft kiss there, tasting the skin, testing to see if you’d pull away or lean into it. But when you didn’t fight back, just gave out a strangled hum, his teeth pressed against the pulse. It ain’t a lunge or a tear. Not sloppy or all tongue. Just pressure. That brief shock of something sharp, turned into heat, thrumming against his teeth like your body already knows what’s happening. Just sharp, fleeting pressure, like the moment before a needle breaks the surface.

Then a slow bloom of heat, something real warm rushing through your nerves like a delayed reaction. And again, your body registers it faster than your mind, not in alarm or fear, just instinctive awareness that something’s pulling, something’s taking. The faint ache of punctured skin shifts curling deep into your gut, and there’s that tug, like a slow surrender. Your pulse stutters for half a second, like your body was fully adjusting to it, almost liking it. And then— a strange, lingering warmth. You could barely make out the little groan that slipped from his lips, like it took everything in him to not indulge in the moment.

A deep, humming sensation sits beneath the surface, not of pain, but a profound growth of pleasure that suffused through you. You hadn’t even noticed the way your head had gone slack, lolling back against his hand until the pad of his thumb running along the side of your jaw had brought you back to your senses. A weak, breathy grunt escaped your lips, pushing yourself up against his hand, and he let you, quietly easing your body back. Keeping the warmth of his mouth against you deliberate, and lazy. “Shh, I know,” He murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your skin. His thumb traced the hinge of your jaw, a slow touch as he cupped the side of your face to guide you to look away.

Not too deep. Not too much. Just enough for the taste of you to hit his tongue, enough for the air between you to shift, and stretch so damn thin you was sure you’d pass out. It was something far more complex, a maelstrom of sensation that curled like smoke through your veins before it transformed into a quieter, more deliberate pleasure. Something just enough to mean something without taking too much. And when he pulls back, the wound isn’t much. Your hand flies up to the side of your neck, instinctively searching for the two marks, just a lingering warmth, just enough that you’d feel it long after he’s moved back from your throat. Heat blooms first, a sudden rush, something bright against the dull ache where his teeth settled in.

“You bit me.” You slurred out, as if the realization had only just dawned on you now that’d he gone pulled away from you, your voice laced with something between shock and offense. You brought two trembling fingers to your face, staring down at the crimson slick of blood and saliva that clung to your skin like a dark, glistening dew. His eyes followed your movement, a constricted, hungry glint in the shine of his pupils as he took in the sight of it. Your eyes flicked around the room, only to be met with the absence of a crowd, the dark curl of shadows stretching out over the walls.

He grinned then, a slight, wicked curve of his lips that sent a bolt of energy straight to your soul. His tongue darted out, painted in the crimson smear of your blood painting his tongue a dark, enticing red as it swiped across his bottom lip in half means to clean up the mess he’d made. “Gon’ be good and let me do it again? Or stay all dramatic?” You blinked in confusion at his question, like it’d be a normal thing to go around getting your neck chomped by the night man, but you couldn’t find it in you to try to speak or object. He leaned in closer, breath hot and heavy against your skin as he dragged the slick flat of his tongue against the indented mark his teeth left on your throat. The sensation was a sharp bolt of pleasure, one that seemed to send a warmth in your belly. His hand slid higher, fingers curling around the slender column of your throat, squeezing with a deliberate force that made your vision blur.

“You gon’ kill me.” Your breath came out too ragged, messy and taut, dragging in shallow breaths, like your body was forcing you to stay still but your mind was fighting for you to run.

You could hear the tremble in your voice, tried to ignore the ragged breaths of your body to keep from panicking any more. You tried your best to keep a level head, to remind yourself that this was a test, and you had to do what you could to not get cold feet. You forced yourself still, to remind yourself that this was a test, panic wasn’t an option. Couldn’t afford cold feet.

“Ain’t taking more than you can give,” he corrected with a gravely voice, lips hovering a mere hairsbreadth from the dark, blooming mark he'd left upon your throat. You wanted to push him for an answer, to ask him to help you make sense of his words, but instead, you lavished in the feeling of his lips planting a soothing kiss to the tender flesh. “You gonna let me?”

And without knowing, you was already nodding at his question, sucking on your bottom lip to keep from getting a shaky mouth. “Is it gonna hurt?” You could feel the smirk growing on his lips at your question, humming low and firm against your skin as one hand slipped down along the curve of your hip.

“Wasn’t easy for your brother. Can be easier for you.” His hand slid from your jaw to your shoulder, fingers curling around the delicate bone, anchoring you to him. His eyes held yours, a molten gaze that seemed to see straight through to the terrified, like he was tryna make sure you fully understood his words, yet didn’t say anything else. You stared up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed as you tried to connect the puzzle pieces he laid out for you.

He brought two fingers to your chin, tilting your head to the side so you can meet his scorching gaze once again. You felt the slow, deliberate slide of his fingers against the flesh of your bottom lip, parting it with a gentle insistence that brooked no resistance. “Open your mouth,” your eyes snapped to his face, scanning every inch to see if he was making a joke of you. He looked down at you, the glow of the fireplace casting a dark light in his eyes that shadowed his face so perfectly he looked unreal. “Ain’t gonna say it again.”

You hesitantly parted your lips, your eyes following every subtle shift of movement in his face as he watched you. He slowly nudged your lips further apart, his fingers pressing deeper to prop your mouth open just a little wider. Just enough that he could see the pink base of your tongue. His mouth opened, and before you could react, he was spitting the thick mixture of the coppery tang of your blood with the warm, iron laced flavor of his saliva directly onto your tongue. For a split second, a wave of emotions slapped you in the face, more offense to the man who just spit on your tongue, but the longer the taste lingered there, the more you actually liked it. It tingled across your taste buds, a dark, taboo essence that sent a strange sensation alive in your stomach.

Before you could even begin to process it, his fingers were pushing in deeper into your mouth, easing you to swallow that offering. As his digits pushed past your teeth, your tongue instinctively curled around them, the muscle fluttering and moving against his fingers with a mind of its own. He sucked in a slow breath at the sight, giving you a little nod of silent encouragement to keep going. He took cruel advantage of your mouth, using the slick, silken heat of your tongue to coat his fingers. “Oh, look at that.” He strained out with a slight groan, the hand placed on your hip slowly guiding you up against him so he was rested pressed in between your legs.

He eased you to swallow the combination of your shared essences sliding down your throat in a thick, viscous rope. The sensation was odd. The sheer depravity of it sending a bolt of hot, forbidden pleasure moving through your veins. It was as if, in that moment, you could feel his presence inside you, the claim upon your body and soul growing stronger, more absolute with each passing second. Your throat worked convulsively around the invading fingers, muscles clenching and rippling as they struggled to accommodate the sudden, unwanted intrusion.

As you finally managed to force down the last of the combination, your lungs burned with the need for air. As you gasped and choked, fighting to fill your lungs with much-needed oxygen. As you fought to regain your breath, lungs sore with the desperate need for oxygen, his fingers remained an unyielding presence in your mouth, a lewd plug preventing the heavy gasps from escaping. Each ragged, strangled inhale sent a fresh surge of humiliation coursing through you, the hidden knowledge that your body kept responding to him without hesitation. It was a twisted parody of intimacy, a perverse mockery of the way lovers might share breath and saliva in the heat of passion. And yet, despite the degradation, and deep humiliation of it all, you couldn't deny the way your body reacted, the way your skin burned up like it was on fire.

His lips crashed against yours in a messy kiss, his tongue slipping against yours, as if he meant to devour you inside out. He licked into your mouth, his tongue swirling and twining with your own in a way that physically stole your breath. It was quick, and sloppy, and not nearly as long as you secretly wanted it to be. He broke the kiss, forcing your head to turn towards the warmth of the fireplace before trailing quick kisses along your jaw. Moving further and further down back towards the mark he left a few moments before. His breath ghosts over the skin first, dragging out the anticipation. The way he kisses against your skin is controlled—slow, wet, not rushed, not impatient like the kiss was. You were so locked onto the feel of his mouth against your neck that you hadn’t even noticed the feeling of teeth there again.

The bite wasn’t like the one from before. It was sharp, deep, cutting through skin enough to the point it bordered on painful. The bite was this hot fire that seared through your flesh and bone, piercing the very essence of your being. You couldn’t even force out a scream or a gasp at the heat of teeth tearing through skin, muscle, and sinew to pierce the pulsing artery beneath.

All you could feel and see was the blood that gushed into the air, a scarlet fountain that splashed across his face to paint his skin a glistening red. All you could smell was the scent of your own blood, thick and cloying, the metallic tang of it burning through your nostrils and your tongue. The room spun, tilted wildly as the strength drained from your body, with each spurt of crimson.

As your body struggled against the change, your mind soared. Memories blurred and bled together, the line between past and present, reality and nightmare, dissolving into a hallucinatory haze. All you could think about was gramma. All your memories revolved to this very moment. All the life flashing back before your eyes, just for this.

For the feeling of the life leaving you.

All you could feel was the pain. So immense. So unbearable. So real. The last thing you felt was your heart stutter and pause in your chest, your lungs burning for air that could not fill them.

And then— just sleep.

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My little milkweed

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Thinking about the Oscar Isaac as Prince/King John in RobinHood.

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Remembering Season 1’s Louis de Pointe de lac

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Behind the scenes of The Crow (2024) dir. Rupert Sanders

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Bill Skarsgård in “The Crow” (2024) dir. Rupert Sanders

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Addams Family Values — 1993, dir. Barry Sonnenfeld

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ADDAMS FAMILY VALUES (1993) dir. Barry Sonnenfeld

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Bill Skarsgård as Eric Draven in THE CROW (2024) dir. Rupert Sanders

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Ewan McGregor 

David LaChapelle | The Face, 1997

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BRIDE OF CHUCKY (1998) dir. Ronny Yu

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hey guys what if i said something