flixpii

[flixpii]

Chapter 7

link to ao3 !

word count : 4.7k

A/n : I've been so busy 😭 I'm sorry that the chapter is late 💔

tags : @bitter-post-millennial

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The morning light poured through the narrow gap in the curtains like honey—thick, slow, and golden. It painted soft strokes across the floorboards, warmed the edges of the faded rug near the bed, and kissed the wooden furniture in glowing halos. It was the kind of light that once might’ve stirred Ella-Mae from sleep with a gentle nudge, urging her toward the day with promise and warmth.

But not this morning.

Mae lay still beneath the covers, eyes wide open, unmoving. The ceiling above her was the only thing she stared at, its pale, familiar texture offering no comfort. Her breath was shallow, nearly silent. She hadn’t slept—not really. Only drifted in and out of something that didn’t feel quite like sleep or dreaming, but more like falling. Again and again.

Fragments of dreams clung to her like wet leaves. The sharp slam against the bathroom window. The cold grip around her throat. The birds. Always the birds. Their small, broken bodies. Their eyes dull and empty. The soft cloths she wrapped them in. The drawer that now held them like an altar.

She blinked slowly.

The room smelled of old lavender and timeworn wood—once familiar comforts, now pressed too heavy against her chest, like something was trying to smother her.

A breath in.

And there it was again.

That soft, persistent tug in her belly.

Not pain. Not exactly.

It was a pull. Like a magnet hidden deep inside her, drawing her toward something she didn’t want to name. Something that whispered just beneath her skin.

Her hand moved under the quilt before she could stop it—clutching the edge, fingers tightening.

She knew what it wanted.

It wanted her to rise. Move. Cross the room. Peer through the curtains. Look down at the yard just below her window. To see if another offering had been left.

And what disturbed her more than the birds themselves was what stirred inside her each time she found one.

That flash of revulsion—yes.

But also...

That flicker of something else.

Something eager.

She hated it. She cried over it. Swore she’d never do it again.

And yet, each time, her hands reached before her mind could catch them.

She shut her eyes tighter, curling her knees up.

Not today, she told herself.

But already, the familiar tingling had spread across her arms and spine. Her skin, hypersensitive. Her nerves humming like wires strung too tight.

She kicked the covers off in one motion.

The floor bit at her feet—cold, even in the thick air.

She walked toward the window, slowly, as if pulled by invisible threads. Her reflection blinked back at her in the long mirror on the wall. She barely recognized herself. Hair wild and knotted around her face, cheeks hollowed slightly, the delicate skin under her eyes shadowed and bruised with sleeplessness. Her nightgown clung to her like damp gauze, pale and wrinkled, hanging too loose over her frame.

She looked like a girl haunted.

And in truth, she was.

Mae hesitated at the window, fingers brushing the curtain.

She didn’t want to look.

She had to.

She peeked between the folds of fabric.

And stopped.

There was nothing.

No red feathered shape in the grass. No twisted wing or scattered down. No flash of that particular red—Isaiah’s red—waiting like it had every morning before.

The yard was empty.

Still.

The wind played softly with the fallen leaves, tossing them like coins. Sunlight glanced off the top of the fence. A few sparrows twittered in the trees.

Mae released a breath.

But it wasn’t relief she felt.

It was something far colder.

A strange emptiness bloomed in her chest, growing like frost across glass.

Why did it stop?

Her fingers found the small, healing scar at the inside of her finger. A ghost of a cut. The bird from before had done that. The one she had cradled like it mattered. The one she snapped its neck to spare. The one she still kept, wrapped and hidden.

Her hand dropped from the curtain as Remmick’s voice echoed in her memory, low and unnerving:

I felt your pain.

She shivered, stepping back from the window like it had turned hot.

And still, the question nagged at her: If something—someone—had been leaving those birds… why had they stopped?

She dressed with mechanical care, braiding her hair loosely and tying it back. Each movement felt like a ritual, a way to anchor herself to reality. But the deeper she pushed her unease, the more it pulsed.

She pulled on her shoes and slung her satchel over her shoulder with trembling fingers.

Maybe she needed air.

Maybe she needed to move.

Mae slipped out the front door with barely a word to anyone in the house. The sun had climbed higher now, its light slicing clean between the trees. Shadows scattered at her feet as she walked, her stride purposeful even as her thoughts tumbled.

Past the quiet porches of neighbors who rarely spoke. Past homes with bright shutters and still lawns. Past the imaginary boundary that separated one part of town from the other.

She didn’t glance at the storefronts today. Didn’t wave. Didn’t nod.

She just walked.

And before she realized it, her feet had taken her back to the place her mind avoided:

The church.

The one she and her family once belonged to. The one she had entered just yesterday.

The tall, whitewashed building stood in the sunlight like a relic, its stained glass gleaming faintly. The steeple reached skyward like it always had, but something about it now felt… off. Like the edges had grown sharper.

Mae crossed the road.

Climbed the steps.

And entered.

The congregation sat scattered in the pews like stitches in a worn quilt—some upright, backs rigid with attention, others bent forward in prayer or rest. Their Sunday bests gleamed under the warm hue of stained glass: pressed suits, wide-brimmed hats pinned with velvet bows, little girls with white gloves and too-tight shoes swinging their feet just above the floorboards. Dust floated gently in the shafts of colored light that pierced the windows like watchful eyes, catching in the halos of powdered necks and polished brogues.

The choir sat behind the pulpit, still as statues for now, their robes dark as ink. A few fanned themselves slowly, mouthing silent prayers, but their eyes stayed trained forward—unmoving, obedient. Everything in the room bent toward the man in the center, as if the building itself leaned into his words.

Pastor Ward.

He stood tall and assured behind the podium, wrapped in black like a shadow in motion. His suit was sharp, ironed to perfection, and the gold trim on his Bible caught the light each time he raised his hand, casting a glint that flickered like a flame across the walls. His jaw was squared, lips pulled thin in concentration, and his eyes gleamed beneath the brim of the pulpit’s low lamp—fixed and sweeping, like searchlights in the night.

His voice rolled through the sanctuary like a storm gaining speed. Deep. Thick. Final.

“—and when the Lord places you in a trial, do you fold, or do you fight? Do you flee like the world, or do you stand like a child of the kingdom?”

The crowd answered in soft waves. Amens. Yes, Lord. Mmm-hmm.

Mae slipped in unnoticed, her entrance quieter than the shuffle of hymnals or the creak of a kneeler. She hesitated just beyond the arch, swallowed by the scent of wax and sweat and the weight of memory. Then she moved, slow and careful, like she was walking into a dream she didn’t trust.

She chose the last pew.

The wood groaned gently beneath her as she sat, but it wasn’t loud enough to draw eyes. She placed her satchel beside her with trembling fingers, then folded her hands in her lap, pressing her knuckles together to still their shaking.

From this far back, the pastor looked small—just another figure on a raised platform. But his voice… his voice made the distance collapse. Each word ricocheted off the rafters and stained glass, chasing itself through the air until it landed, sharp and deliberate, on her chest.

“And the Lord said unto them, I see your sacrifice. I see your blood. I see your pain. And it is not in vain.”

Mae’s breath caught.

Her shoulders curled inward slightly, her body folding like she could make herself smaller.

Her pain.

That same phrase.

I see your pain.

She’d heard it before. But not from a pulpit.

Remmick.

Last night on the porch. The way he’d said it, unprompted. The way it had made her feel exposed—bare-skinned and turned inside out.

Her fingers dug into her skirt.

A chill swept down her spine, despite the humid air. Her eyes remained fixed on the pulpit, but she was no longer watching the sermon—she was watching him.

And she noticed it now.

Pastor Ward, pacing slightly as he preached, let his eyes roll over the room in waves of theatrics and discipline. But when they passed over Mae’s section—he paused.

For just a second too long.

His gaze didn’t flick. It rested.

Right on her.

As if he’d known she was there the moment she stepped through the door.

As if he’d been waiting.

Her lungs drew in tight. Her mouth went dry.

She sat still, stone-still, even as her instincts screamed at her to move.

Pastor Ward’s voice softened, dipping into something quieter—but far more unsettling.

“And some of us walk among wolves, not knowing which beast comes in sheep’s skin... But the Lord knows.”

Mae flinched.

Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

She didn’t dare look away.

She couldn’t.

A wave of nausea crawled up her throat as the memory—no, the impression—of something half-buried swam up from the depths of her mind. A feeling she couldn’t name. Something sharp pressing at the edges of her recall.

She was younger.

Standing in this very church.

Not sitting. Standing.

Alone. Afraid.

Someone—someone near—watching her too closely. A voice at her back. A hand near her shoulder.

The sensation vanished just as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

Her heart raced.

The sanctuary had turned cold.

The pew suddenly felt too narrow for her shoulders. The ceiling too low. The air too stale.

She stood, careful not to draw attention, but still unable to shake the feeling of a hundred unseen eyes fixed on her back.

Pastor Ward lifted his hand then—his voice rising with ritual, the cadence of a sermon nearing its end, the power behind his tone swelling like floodwaters behind a dam.

Mae didn’t wait for the final verse.

She slipped out.

Her steps were quick, but not loud.

The doors behind her moaned closed, and she blinked against the sun. The light outside was warm, but it felt artificial—like something borrowed, something false.

She stepped off the church steps, her boots crunching on gravel. The sermon still buzzed in her ears, each word echoing longer than it should.

She didn’t look back.

But her skin crawled.

The windows were open just enough to let the breeze drift in, heavy with the sweet, earthy scent of wet leaves and wood smoke. The light from outside flickered like candlelight across the dining room, shifting and dappled with every movement of the trees. The table was laid with parchment scraps, small clippings from dress patterns, and a shallow bowl of pecans that Grace had been cracking between her palms.

Mae sat across from her sister, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight the way Mama always taught. A soft smile tugged at her lips, patient and pleasant—the kind of smile that said, I’m listening. I care. But her eyes… they never quite matched.

“Now, if we go with an outdoor ceremony,” Florence was saying, tapping a folded piece of paper with one dark finger, “we need to consider the weather. You remember how it was last September. It rained for two weeks straight before cooling off.”

Grace leaned her cheek into her hand, her eyes dancing as she laughed. “It’ll be clear. I’m manifestin’ that. I told Levi, and he said the Lord already cleared it for us.”

Florence scoffed, but there was affection behind it. “The Lord gone do His part, sure. But you know better than to leave a wedding to wishin’. You’ll need a backup tent.”

Mae let out a soft laugh. Natural enough to pass.

Grace glanced over at her with a grin. “Mae, what you think? That clearing behind the church with the willow trees? Or the hill near Cousin Alma’s?”

Mae blinked and realized too late she’d been drifting—her thoughts pulled somewhere far, where names and wedding decorations didn’t matter. But she nodded quickly, recovering. “The hill’s prettier this time of year. The trees get that rust-gold color by September.”

Grace beamed, satisfied. “See? I told Levi you had taste.”

“Mm-hm,” Florence hummed, pushing a strand of silver hair back into her scarf. “That boy’ll be lucky to have you, long as he keep his hands out the potato salad.”

Laughter spilled from the women around the table, easy and warm.

And Mae laughed too.

But it felt like she was doing it through glass.

Like her voice didn’t reach all the way out of her.

She twisted the silver ring around her pinky as she watched her mother and sister talk over color schemes and how early to send out letters to kin. She leaned in. She nodded. She cracked a pecan shell and set the meat gently on a napkin.

But something inside her throbbed with a quiet ache. A deep, gnawing kind of ache that pulsed every time she caught the edge of Grace’s glowing eyes or the way Florence’s lips pressed together in a proud smile.

Because they didn’t see it.

Not a bit of it.

They didn’t see the way Mae’s breath had been short for weeks now. The way her body flinched when she heard something creak at night, or how her eyes stayed open in the dark, searching for figures at her window.

They didn’t feel the cold sweat on the back of her neck. The lingering weight on her chest. The pounding memory of the birds—the red, torn birds—and the quiet pull that twisted inside her like a vine growing through her ribs.

And they hadn’t seen Remmick.

Not really.

They hadn’t heard the way he said her name. Like it meant something. Like she meant something.

He saw it. Saw her.

The part of her that didn’t make sense to herself anymore. The part she didn’t want to look at but couldn’t stop feeling. He looked at her like he’d been looking for her. And when he spoke… it was like he knew.

And what did that say about her? That a stranger—an odd, eerie stranger—had noticed her unraveling better than the women who helped raise her?

Mae swallowed the thought and focused on her hands.

“Mae?” Grace was looking at her, her brows lifting.

“Hm?” Mae blinked.

“I was askin’ if you’d help me write out the invites this week.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Florence gave her a soft, approving smile. “You been quiet today.”

Mae shrugged. “Just tired, Mama. Is all.”

She offered it with that same smile, and Florence nodded, seemingly content.

And just like that, the moment passed.

The laughter returned, and Grace lit up again, babbling about fabrics and Levi’s idea for matching handkerchiefs for the groomsmen. Florence told her not to let that man design nothing.

But Mae faded again.

Even as she sat there, she faded.

All her focus narrowed to the weight inside her chest, the little scrape of something ancient and quiet pulling at her bones. She felt like she was splitting down the middle—one part Ella-Mae De Pointe du Lac, the smiling, helpful little sister. And the other part… the one Remmick saw. The one who stood outside at night and watched the woods. The one who kept birds like tokens in a drawer and didn't know why.

She reached for another pecan, her fingers trembling just slightly.

If anyone noticed, they didn’t say.

And for that, Mae wasn’t sure if she felt relief…

…or grief.

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Mae stood at the sink after dinner, the kitchen quiet save for the soft clink of dishes and the murmured thanks of the hired hands moving beside her. The polished bowls and knives made soft rhythms under her fingers, and the steam rose slow enough to blur the edges of the lamp light. She moved with purpose—warm water on her skin—grateful for something tangible, something that didn’t knot her chest with silence.

“Thank you, Miss Mae,” the young woman with neat braids said with a small bow. Another whispered, “We get too spoiled with helpin’ hands,” and gave Mae an apologetic smile.

Mae nodded, her own smile light but genuine. “You’re welcome. I’m glad to help.”

She rinsed the last plate and set it gently in the rack before letting the heat swirl around her once more—and then she slipped away. No one else asked for help; the kitchen had shifted back into routine.

By the time Mae reached her doorway upstairs, her palms felt soft and her mind felt a little less sharp—but only for a moment. Night was settling around the house. The corridors were hushed, but her heart still hammered loud enough that she could hear it behind her ribs.

Inside her room, she let her shawl fall to the floor, unpinned her hair, and twisted out the knots until curls pooled over her shoulders. They felt tangled and heavy—like they’d carried her mysteries while she slept.

She changed into a thin cotton nightgown, the fabric whisper-soft against her skin. It was pale rose, nearly white, and light enough to catch any sudden breeze. She reached for the lamp and gently eased its light lower before slipping out of the glow.

Her bed waited, covered with the old quilt and more pillows than she needed—but she didn’t go to it. Instead, she turned her steps toward the drawer.

Her heart caught.

She crouched beside it and pulled the drawer open just enough to peek inside.

Wrapped in cloth, the small bird lay there. The body looked smaller now. The feathers were brittle. The wound had darkened in the warmth of the room. A faint smell—musty, damp—rose to her nose as she reached to cradle it in her palms.

This one’s rotten, she thought. Time enough to bury it.

The thought shocked her—like kindness tangled with necessity. She brushed her thumb across the cloth, whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Holding the bird close, she made her way across the room and down the stairs—bare feet pressing into the cool wood.

The back door waited, just slightly ajar. She slipped through it.

The cold night air hit her chest first—damp and sharp, like inhaling glass shards. She paused on the porch, feeling the breath leave her lungs.

Everything was silver-blue in the night light.

She stepped slowly down the porch steps, each one creaking softly beneath her weight. Damp grass swallowed the warmth of her feet. The wind picked her curls and brushed their waves into her face, cool and trembling.

Mae started walking toward the edge of the yard. Her steps were quiet—slow—each one carrying her toward that uneasy patch of dirt behind the tool shed.

The place where she’d buried the other birds.

Leaf litter crackled beneath her feet. The trees gathered close in dark silhouettes. The woods beyond looked still and patient—waiting.

She knelt beside the ground that had settled over old burials, dug gently with her hands that still smelled faintly of dish soap and caution. Her fingers broke the soil, cool and yielding, as she pressed it aside.

Each scoop felt alive, pulsing in her palms like it remembered its place.

When the hole was ready, she laid the bird down gently, smoothing the cloth across its form. She said nothing—no words. Just a soft release. A small offering. A goodbye.

Slow tears slid down her cheeks—not grief, but something heavier. Something… relentless.

Mae pressed her palms into the earth, sealing the makeshift burial. The cold soil stuck beneath her nails, damp and raw, and the cloth-wrapped bird rested beneath, unseen but heavy on her conscience. She lingered there, kneeling, eyes stinging in the sharp wind. She whispered something—maybe a prayer, maybe nothing at all—before brushing her hands together and placing them over the mound once more, as if it might offer comfort.

She touched the spot gently. “Rest.”

The wind sighed in response.

Then—

A crack. Sharp and sudden.

It came from the trees ahead, like a branch being stepped on by something heavy.

Mae froze, shoulders rising in a slow curve. Her breath hitched as her head turned, eyes narrowing at the thick shadows beyond the tree line. She strained to see through the veil of dark, but the wind had stilled and the air pressed down, heavy like held breath.

Then—again.

Another sound, this time softer but closer. A shuffle. A drag. Something moving just out of reach.

Mae stood in a slow, deliberate motion. Her nightgown rustled around her legs. She took one trembling step back and turned to glance over her shoulder toward the soft amber glow of home, where the back porch light barely kissed the tips of the grass. Her heart longed to be there—to step onto the wooden boards and be wrapped in warmth and light. But she was still too far. And the woods behind her felt like they had teeth.

And then—a snap.

Louder than before.

A shriek caught in her throat as her body jolted and instinct took over. She turned and ran.

The ground thudded beneath her feet. Her shoes caught in the soft grass and snapped twigs. The cold wind lashed at her skin and her breath came in frantic bursts—short, desperate gasps like she was running underwater.

She didn’t dare look back.

But she felt it.

Something behind her—close. Closer.

Each time her foot struck the earth, she swore she heard something else striking just behind her. The rhythm wasn’t her own. The breath chasing her wasn’t hers. Her legs screamed to go faster.

The wind roared past her ears, muffling everything but the pounding of her blood.

And then—

A sharp, stinging burn tore across her back.

Mae screamed.

The pain licked up her spine like fire. Her hands flailed behind her instinctively, clawing at nothing. She turned her head, but there was no one.

Nothing.

Only trees.

And then—

She collided into something solid.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs with a violent huff. Her vision blurred. The world tilted sideways, but firm hands caught her before she could hit the ground.

Her head snapped upward, breath ragged, and her eyes locked onto a face.

Remmick.

He stood before her like stone—eyes wide but calm, lips parted slightly in surprise, or maybe concern. His chest rose and fell rapidly, pressed firmly against hers.

He stood before her like a wall—broad, unmoving, as if he’d been waiting for her.

His chest heaved softly, but his expression was calm. His hand held her waist, grounding her in place, steadying her like a man who had done nothing but appear at the right moment.

Mae’s vision blurred from panic, from pain, from confusion. Her ears still rang from the chaos of the woods, so she didn’t register his voice until he leaned closer and said her name—firmly, deliberately.

“Ella-Mae.”

She blinked, stunned. Only then did she notice how close they were. Chest to chest. His fingers were warm even through the fabric of her dress, curled just slightly into her waist. It was a gesture meant to hold her steady, though it did so much more than that. Her trembling fingers resting against the edge of his coat. Their breath mingled in the space between.

Her thoughts spun, but her body stayed still.

She was trembling. Her back ached. She wanted to collapse, but didn’t dare. His eyes bore into her—not with concern, not with confusion, but with knowing.

Something tightened in her stomach—not from fear, but something stranger. Something she couldn’t name.

She tried to step back, but his grip at her waist momentarily tightened—not possessive, not forceful, but lingering. As if reluctant. As if he’d caught something in her panic that made him want to keep her there, just a moment longer.

Then he let go.

Mae staggered back a step. She looked behind her again. Still nothing. The woods lay quiet and undisturbed, like they hadn’t just chased her out of their belly with fangs and claws.

She turned back to Remmick, her breath still jagged, her thoughts scrambled.

“How…?” she started, but didn’t finish the question.

Remmick tilted his head, a small furrow between his brows. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

The concern in his voice was smooth. Almost too smooth.

Mae nodded, though her throat was dry. She tried to shake the trembling from her limbs. “I… I thought I saw something.”

Remmick’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t look back toward the woods. He didn’t ask what. He only said, “You’re safe now.”

And maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the adrenaline still crashing through her system. But something about the way he said it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like possession.

Like he knew exactly what had chased her.

Mae stood there, still heaving, the sting on her back pulsing in waves. Her wide eyes stayed fixed on Remmick as she struggled to piece together what had just happened. His face held concern—deep, unreadable, and carefully composed. The hand that had been on her waist now hung loosely at his side, but the memory of its weight still lingered.

She blinked once, then again, trying to anchor herself, but her mind raced. Her throat burned from the scream she’d let out in the woods, and the air between them now felt impossibly thick.

“Why’re you out here?” Her voice came low, suspicious—not yet accusatory, but not far from it either.

Remmick’s eyes held hers, calm in a way that made her more uneasy than comforted. “I was walkin’ home,” he said. His voice was even, like it wasn’t strange at all for a white man to be near the woods that surrounded her family’s home. “I heard you scream.”

His words hovered in the night air, as if waiting for her to pluck truth or lie from them. Mae’s brows pinched, her lips parted, ready to say more—but nothing came. Her chest still rose and fell rapidly. She didn’t know what answer she’d been expecting, only that something in her gut stirred. A tension she couldn’t name. Something that told her she shouldn’t believe him, but with no proof… what did she really have?

And so she didn’t say anything more. Just stared.

Remmick’s head tilted slightly, studying her the same way someone might study a puzzle with a missing piece. His lips parted like he meant to say something else, but Mae was already moving. Her body finally seemed to remember the house behind her—her safety. Her family. Her world.

She took a step to the side, feet brushing against the grass as she rounded him. Her eyes stayed trained on the porch stairs ahead, but she didn’t miss the slow turn of his head, the way his gaze followed her, silent and steady like the moon overhead.

She could feel it—the way he watched her walk. Not like a man ogling a woman. But like a hunter watching prey return to its den.

The wood creaked beneath her feet as she took the porch steps, and she didn’t look back, not even once. Only when the door clicked shut behind her did Mae allow herself to exhale.

But even then, that feeling stayed—just beneath the surface of her skin. That something wasn’t right. That he wasn’t right.

She placed her hand on the door, fingers splayed out, pressing against the grain. She didn’t know what frightened her more—what chased her through those woods, or how gentle the thing sounded when it finally caught her.

[flixpii]

him knowing how many times you came from smell alone ??

STANDING ERECTION OVATION

GOSH i love this

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕.

A second installment to this oneshot. Y'all asked for more! || WC: 4974 ~ modern au, established femdom relationship, pathetic!sub!remmick x dom!femme!reader.

A/N: Thank you for the love on the last oneshot! Keeping you fed while I work on Jack's fic. Being a trained proDomme, all I wanna do is get my hands on sub!Remmick. As mentioned, all the things here are based off real life experience with vampiric fantasy blended in. I hope sub!remmick fans like this next chapter. A request from: @flixpii that evolved into this. Beta read: @amaranthine-enihtnarama / @vcmpbyt / @iceemochaa. Stay with me, I have lots more in store for poor Remmick.

Warnings: porn with no plot-ish?, kink, chastity cage, cuckholding, bondage, sensory deprivation, name calling, drool, cum eating, high protocol BDSM, pet play, D/s dynamics in text, Remmick’s monstrous form. Lemme know if I need to add anything else.

Remmick had proven himself to be an obedient pet since that last incident. Not once has he misbehaved or fed on anyone of consequence. He was reminded of his promise every waking hour, you made sure of this. Poor Remmick had stayed locked in chastity all this time. Marking tonight his 7th day in chastity.

He’d earned a reward and you knew exactly how you wanted to celebrate. Walking into the room he was lounging in, you coo, “Ohhh, Remmick. You’ve been such a good boy for Me this past week.”

Hearing the tone of your voice, his eyes immediately flitted to you. Getting off the couch, he knelt onto the ground slowly, waiting for you. “Thank You, Baby. I’m glad.”

“I was thinking, we should celebrate…”

Now standing in front of him, looking down, “Would you like that?”

You drag your heeled foot upwards across his thigh, stopping over his steel laden crotch, earning a soft, eager gasp from his lips.

“Oh, yes please. I want nothing more.”

“Good,” you say, raising your heel to push his back onto the couch. Remmick grunts softly from the light but assertive impact.

“Take your clothes off, sweetheart”, Remmick’s hands get to work and in less than a second, his underwear and pants are off. His shirt removed, in even less. He resumed his position beneath you, against the couch.

“Such a good dog.” Sitting above him on the couch, you run your fingers through his shaggy brown locks. He leans into your touch and looks up at you with eyes that gleam an iridescent crimson for a brief second.

Smiling, you reach around the back of your neck and unclasp the silver chain that rests over your chest. His eyes never leave yours. You thread the small steel key through the silver and set the chain aside, away from him. You feel his presence soften near you.

“You’ve earned this. Spread your legs for Me.”

Quick to follow every command, Remmick spreads his legs presenting himself to you. His eyes look at you with a reverence as you move off the couch to lower yourself to his eye level.

Leaning closer to him, you reach out and hold his now hardening caged cock in your hands. Shivering under your touch, Remmick inhales your scent with a shaky breath.

“Mm, fiending for Me already?” whispering into his face, now leaning towards yours, eyes sharper than the edge of a blade. “Always.”

Squeezing his balls gently, you smirk sadistically with a glint in your eye. Remmick buckles over, falling onto your shoulder. “P-please, I need You”, he whimpers into your ear.

Now he’s crossed the threshold, touching you. You hear Remmick inhale in gentle shudders, as if trying to live within your scent should you deny him once more.

You run your free hand through his soft hair once again, and he hums tenderly into your neck, sending shivers through your body.

“Remmick, do you want this off or not?”

Lost in the scent of you, he simply whispers, yes please. Reluctantly, Remmick moves back with his eyes partially closed. In response, you lower your hand to cup his face, caressing his plush lower lip before dropping it to his crotch.

Unlocking his physical confinement slowly, you release his cock—red, angry and slowly engorging itself with a steady pace of blood. Resting your hand underneath, your lips curve into a smile as you feel it steadily grow in size and weight.

Remmick groans at the release, feeling very sensitive and conscious of your touch. “Thank You, Baby.”

Wrapping your fingers firmly around his now erect length, you tease, “Mmm, it’s almost like you weren’t in a cage at all!”

“Trust me Darlin’, I still feel Your confines cramping down on me.” Remmick whines at the pressure.

“I carry You within me.”

Feeling your heart flutter at his unwavering devotion, you reach forward to place a kiss on his forehead. “My Remmick, I’m so proud of you.”

He sighs into your kiss, a throb pulsing through his cock still resting in your hand. Your words hum through him, enveloping him in warmth.

Retrieving your hand and moving back slightly, he winces at the sudden loss of closeness.

“I have another reward if you think you’re up for it”, pausing watching his eyes light up. “But you’ll have to trust—”

“Always.”

Remmick follows you into the spare room of your house, lovingly referred to as your dungeon. Filled with fond memories, Remmick feels at ease till he spots an arrangement on the leather clad bed.

A leather blindfold, a spider gag, nipple clamps with a tertiary clamp, a steel cage dog muzzle, and a collar with the word ‘BITCH’ emblazoned at the middle.

All brand new, and all for him.

Remmick felt his face bloom with heat and excitement, knowing it showed. If not that, then his now pulsating cock giving him away.

“Aw, I knew you’d like them!” You exclaim gleefully, “I got this made just for you”. Remmick walked over and touched each delicately, but his hands lingered on the dog muzzle at the back.

“A gag and a muzzle?”He asked, looking over to you with a questioning tone and a raised eyebrow.

Excited that he’d asked, you nodded slowly. “Mhm, you get to pick which you want to use first.”

“… Oh”, Remmick looks down to hide the bashful smile that fastened itself to his face. Feeling his chin wet with drool, he quickly wipes some of it off with the palm of his hand.

Seeing Remmick be so submissive in front of you, for you once again makes you proud of how far he’s come.

“Look at Me. You don’t have to hide yourself from Me”, you say as you reach out to lift his head, not shocked to see the string of thick, viscous drool dripping down the corner of his mouth.

Swiping it away with a finger, you bring it to your lips and lick it clean while he watches. His eyes become a steady crimson. 

“Darlin’, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say a thing, just pick. I’ve got another surprise planned.”

Remmick immediately reaches out to the dog muzzle, making you smirk with a devilish grin. 

“This one for tonight, please.”

“C’mere.”

You close the distance between you and lift the muzzle off the bed, undoing each strap before setting it on Remmick’s face. His eyes don’t leave you.

Fastening each buckle around him, you feel his breaths slowly get irregular with restraint, like he’s trying to hold in something. Looking back at him, now with the muzzle on, you see it.

He’s feral.

Drool hangs from either side of his mouth, coating his lips, his fangs out while his eyes stay fixed on you.

You look down to his hand now palming his aching cock and swat his hand away. 

“Uh-uh, no touching till I say so.”

Remmick emits a displeased whine. “Baby, I can’t hold on any long’r.”

You push him down to his knees. 

“You’ll have to.” 

Turning to the bed, you pick up the blindfold. Realising that the other toys were nonnegotiable, a whimper escapes Remmick. As you fix the blindfold around his eyes over the muzzle’s binds, you caress his face through its bonds. 

Next you take the nipple clamps, trailing the cool metal chain down his neck. He winces. The chain made primarily steel had silver inlaid into it, not enough to do damage but enough to sting.

You carefully place the rubber tips to his left nipple and tighten it in place. Remmick hisses in a mix of pain and pleasure. 

“Like that sting, baby?”

He gives a fervent nod and a groan slips past his lips as the silver chain brushes past his torso. You affix the clamp to his other nipple.

“Stick your tongue out for Me.”

Remmick offers you his dripping tongue past his slick fangs. You place the final clamp on his wet muscle through the metal cage adorning his beautiful, monstrous face.

“Mmm, now finally.” Collar in hand, you lower yourself to his ears and whisper, “For my sweet, little bitch.”

Remmick shivers in anticipation as you wrap your hands around his neck, putting his collar on.

Stepping back to admire the vampire tamed at your feet, you coo, “Oh baby, you have no idea how perfect you look right now.”

Remmick kneeling on the floor, blindfolded with a muzzle on, moving his face in your direction as he sniffs the air like a hound with bloodlust. His fangs bared while his slimy tongue lolls out with drool escaping his lips and pooling into the steel cage, painting an obscene visual of viscous liquid dripping down his chest. His chest heaving deep ragged breaths, with stiff pink nipples trapped in between silicone. Sitting between his legs, his raging erection standing painfully against his torso. A thick opaque bead of pre-cum sitting around atop his deliciously swollen crown.

Seeing him reduced to this excuse of a man, excuse of a monster sends tingles through your core. Feeling a steady warmth building between your thighs in satisfaction, you smile.

 “Just perfect.”

You tug him by the ring on his collar, making him crawl to where you want him. Remmick, only able to hear and smell, catches a whiff that makes him start to beg pathetically through his bounds. His hands reach outwards, seeking the source of his frenzy.

“I-neeth-You, pleath.”

You lean over the monster unravelling at your feet and yank his head up to face yours. A severed moan escapes from within his chest.

“You’ll have to wait your fucking turn.”

Loudly gasping, he snaps into a rigidity under you. “Waht-d’You-mmean?”

“I have a date darling. I’m going out to celebrate” you say while holding his disheveled face, “I’ve seen your porn, Remmick”. He emits a groan under you, keening into your palm. You continue, “All those talks about love and community? You’ve been cravin’ that, haven’t you?”

“I know you want to feel Me through someone else”, you continue with a smirk you knew he could hear, “you want to feel someone else’s thoughts as they fuck Me like you could never.”

He inhales sharply when you utter those words out loud. He’d always hoped but never had the courage to broach this so explicitly. Instead Remmick constantly floated the idea of converting more people, always under the guise of wanting more family and friends like him. Hearing you say those words made him dizzy with a flurry of thoughts.

You lower yourself next to him, still cradling his blindfolded messy face.  

“Now, I don’t want you converting anyone, so I’ll give you what you’ve been fantasising about.” You tug on the chain that connects his nipples. “Do you want to be my lil’ cuck, Remmick? My little bitch?”

Remmick mewls through his open mouth, feeling it course through his throat in a partial growl. 

“Pleath-Lov-I'm-Youth-bith…”

His fingers begin to transform into claws; a mark of his monstrous descent.

“Mmm, then promise me you’ll wait for Me here?” 

Trailing your hands, one through his hair before resting it at the back of his neck, while the other traced down the length of his chest. Pushing his cock, now slick with his precum, lower with a few fingers, feeling the pressure building within him. Feeling him lean into your touch, you retract your hand with a flick of your wrist, causing his dick to slap back up against him audibly. A deep, desperate groan fills the room.

“A few rules before I leave…”, you say, resting your palms on his restless knees, “You can touch yourself. You can fuck yourself. But no taking anything off.”

His breaths mixed with soft groans, Remmick professes with much difficulty,  “I-lov-You-tho-goddamn-muth-Darlin’.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” you say as you stand, earning a quiet whimper from him, “Be a good cuck for Me while Mamma gets fucked like She deserves.”

You hear him come undone at your words. His hands shuffle to his cock hastily, breaths now fervently praying your name as you walk away.

You don’t reveal much more to him, leaving Remmick alone with his frenzied thoughts.

He hears you walk out the room, with both his hands planted firmly on his cock. Feeling how hard he was, how wet he was. How badly he needed to cum.

His mind stuck in a daze over what just happened. He was blinded, having to resort to hearing and smelling… A low guttural snarl escapes him as he remembers your scent as you left. He could follow you just by that alone—sweet, warm and fruity. Catching an undertone he recognised, causing yet another groan and more dollops of drool to spill from his open lips, pineapple. 

Leaving one clawed hand firmly around his throbbing girth, he reaches up to touch his face. Feeling the soft leather above his eyes under his calloused talons, to the cool wet steel of the cage. Lowering to touch his collar, tracing along each letter of the word you’d called him.

Bitch.

Remmick shivers into his palm. Feeling his stolen pulse race under the collar, he lowers his hand to gingerly touch his left nipple in between two claws, overstimulated and pert. Running his palm across the silver chain, he hisses before rubbing a claw over the aroused nipple.

Remmick’s face, a deviant mess in itself contorts into one of pleasure. Pulsating cock in hand, replaying the heady claiming ritual from earlier. His carnal desire to be yours—to be owned by you—reverberated through his entire being all the way to his swollen member.

He couldn't wait any longer, giving his clamped nipple a steady pinch. He starts pumping at his ever sensitive cock, moaning out your name in between whimpers of pleasure.

Feeling his heat rise and seeing red from behind his shielded eyes, he grunted into his palm. Rubbing the swollen, red tip with a single claws with reckless abandon. No longer concerned about nicking himself.

Doubling over at the sheer overwhelming sensation his newly freed cock felt. Furiously fucking his palm with the copious amounts of pre cum that had drooled from his slightly gaping orifice. He drops one arm against the floor to brace himself, clawed talons scratching into the floor.

“Fuuhh-kkk!”, he groans, biting into his tongue. Blood forming at each point of incision.

Remmick was so close, overwhelmed with the sensations—lack thereof—of himself that he still hasn’t given much thought to the words you’d left him to ruminate on. Whining, “Need-to-cum”, he tastes his own blood on his tongue which pushes him off the edge.

Shuddering into his palm, he felt his cock squirt out a pathetic amount of cum. Most of it had leaked out as a result of being so hyperstimulated. Unsatisfied, but coming to a clearer sense of self, something clicks and he pauses. 

Be a good cuck for Me while Mamma gets fucked like she deserves.

A desperate, helpless realisation resonates through the room, Oh.

His cock still sitting heavy and erect in his palm throbs. Filling his mind with questions that raced at the increasing pace of his hand.

What did you mean by that? Stroke. A date? Stroke. Where are you going? Stroke. Who are you seeing? Stroke. Was he a stranger? Stroke. Was he bigger? Stroke.

Was he human? Groaning at the thought of you fucking a human over him twinged at his core.

Were you bringing him home? Stroke. Would you let Remmick overhear? Stroke. How was he going to fuck you? Placing both hands on his swollen-headed member, stroke.

Would he cum inside?

Doubling over at the thought of someone else–a human–cumming inside the warm, slick folds he worshiped with a reverence. Falling onto his face with a smack that boomed through the room. Grunting more in shock and desire, Remmick quickens the pace on his pleading cock.

The room rings out with the pornographic sounds of his masturbation and wretched moans. Wet, squelching sounds paired with heavy panting against the ground. Remmick’s face planted on the floor as he gave into his palms. A puddle of saliva, venom and his blood steadily pooling under his face.

“Ohhhh-fuuuh-k”, trembling into his own sounds, listening to the way his desire sounded. Smelling the salty smell of cum and sweat mixed in the metallic twang of iron suffocated him in a welcome surrender.

Gasping into the confines of his face, adding to the mess beneath him, he wondered how he’d look to you now. No sense of how long you’d been gone for, he wonders if you’d be proud of him? Proud of the slobbering, unravelled mess he’d become.

His hands moving at a pace that could only be described as inhuman, exponentially nearing his second unbecoming—the scent hit his nose first before he’d even heard the front door to your home unlock.

You were home.

Pausing if only for a second to sniff the air, there was something else. He could smell you. He knew your essence, it had imprinted itself through the vestiges of his entire being. But clashing with that deliciously intoxicating scent, he smelled something that smelled like the very room he was made to wait in. Overcome with this realisation, his hips resumed rutting into his palms like a beast in heat. Fucking into his palms as he grunted in a renewed frenzy, he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

Hearing you, smelling you, walking through the walls of his sanctuary with every step. Overtaken with a primal fervor, he plunged himself further towards a fugue state. No longer a man, but a monster filled with a feral desire, he let go of his humanity.

Each moan and whimper crashing out in ragged breaths, calling out your name.

You hear him before even entering the room you left him tethered in.

Loud, desperate, debauched with unbridled desire. Weighty breaths in between lamentations of your name, mixed with the hungry, feverish thumps of what you derive is his unquenchable desire for you. Like the most impure of symphonies, and Remmick was performing just for you.

You know he already senses the nectar between your thighs, which only makes your cunt grow slicker, needier. Your breaths and pace quickening, after all, this was the final gift.

But nothing could have prepared you for the vision of unadulterated depravity unravelling in front of you. Remmick, bent over himself, both palms around his cock, thrusting with a ferocity that was on par with a predator’s bloodlust. His blissed face planted in his own drool… and blood? Your eyes widen as you notice the red liquid swirling in between his characteristically thick viscous drool.

Remmick lets out one aching groan after another as he fucks himself, his cock pistoning heavily between his palms. He knew he had an audience now and he was going to give you one hell of a performance.

He was close, you knew by the way his hips were jerking with desperation, the way his body trembled. His breaths reaching a crescendo of gasps as you reach him.

Standing above him, you utter a single word.

“Stop.” 

Remmick mewls in frustration, knowing he had to follow your order. He knew what was coming, he craved it—but he was just so close.

“Do I need to repeat Myself?”

With a long whining groan, and what looks like sheer determination, Remmick slows his palms before removing them from his thoroughly overstimulated cock. Placing his monstrous clawed hands by your feet, still looking down. He trembles from the denial, loud erratic breathing echoing around you.

“That wasn’t hard, now was it bitch?” you say taunting him, daring him to misbehave.

Remmick whines in both complaint and in pleasure, Your words vibrating through him. He’s teetering on the edge and you knew it.

“On your knees.” You command, authority resonating through your voice. 

Pushing off the ground, you watch his back and arm muscles ripple. Watching him strain to get back up, you wonder how quickly he’d been reduced to this mess of a man after you’d left. He repositions himself in a rigid upright stance, like he’d been trained to do.

Once he’s up you see the mess he’s made in front of him. Under Remmick’s pulsating cock—now bobbing against his torso threatening to spill, you see a perverse puddle of cum and slick. 

You get closer, your finger reaching out to hook around his collar and tug him forward, “Oh you’ve been a very, verry horny little bitch,” you tease, a hint of playfulness on your tongue. Remmick whines lowly. “Look at the mess you’ve made— Oh wait, I guess you can’t!” You chuckle, watching as drool drips onto his chest, “Take my word for it”, leaning even closer, your breath fanning against his ear, you whisper “I’m verrry pleased.”

His cock twitches with want in response. “Th-than-you-Darlin’.” Remmick groans under his breath. Drool pouring out of his muzzle, falling onto his chest. The cool breeze sends a shiver through him. 

You run your hand along his face, making contact that earns you another longing groan as he leans into your touch. “Would you like your final gift?”

Remmick nods with a ferocity that makes you laugh in his face. Groaning into your palm, he pleads, “Pleath-Pleath-I-neeth-You.”

“Let Me see you then.” Standing in front of him by design so your pussy in direct eye and nose level, you reach around his head and undo the blindfold. Remmick freezes when he smells at how close he is to you, to her. And you see it in his eyes when the blindfold comes off.

They’re crimson, the whites of his eyes tinged red. Blood vessels extend outwards from his pupils, looking exceptionally bloodshot. You noted the tear stains around his eyes and your gaze softens. 

“Have you been crying?”

“I-didn’t—I-gueth-tho”, he says looking directly into your eyes, “I-neeth-you”.

You reach into the muzzle around his face and unclamp his tongue. Attaching it around his collar to avoid the chain touching his wet chest too much. Though it seems that he’s gotten used to the sensation or whether he had another ache occupying his mind.

Remmick leaves his tongue hanging out for a moment before reeling it back into his mouth. Licking his lips instinctively, wiping some of the drool still hanging off his chin. His puppy doe eyes staring into you with a pout over his fangs, he breathes out, “Thank you”.

“Of course, darling. Let me take this off too.” Unbuckling each strap with intention, you slowly pull the muzzle off his face. You notice his gaze flitting between your face and to your crotch. His breaths shallower now but still erratic, waiting. Wanting to further tease him, “Now look at the mess you’ve made.”

He looks down and you see the tips of his ears turns a tasty pink. “Are you going to clean up after yourself?”

Lifting his face up to look at you, you see an unhinged monster dealing with his delicious shame and lust. Red in the face while goosebumps line his neck and chest at your touch, he whispers, “Y-yes Baby—of course I will.”

“Good, but before you do…” Unzipping your skirt in front of his eager face. He watches with bated breath as you slide your panties off slowly, relishing as his eyes follow your hand. His eyes snap back to the spot that’s occupied his thoughts since you walked in. 

“Think you could clean Me up first?”

Not needing to be told a second time, Remmick lunges forward, placing his clawed hands on your bare ass. Holding on like it was his sanctuary in a storm, he pauses for a moment in front of your slick cunt, as if in prayer.

“Remmic—oh!” You gasp as he swipes his tongue across your wet, sinned in folds. Groaning into you, relishing your taste, sending a shiver through you.

“Mmm, You taste like sin”, he purrs into you as you moan softly in response, “Tell me please...”

He pauses to look up at you with a frenzy behind his eyes, “Was he big? Bigger than me?”

“Mhmm, I couldn’t fit all of him in Me.” Remmick groans into your pussy, planting restrained kisses on your inner thigh towards your entrance.

“Did You cum?”

“So many times, I lost coun—”, interrupting you Remmick inhales your essence, lips hovering above your clit. His breath teasing your sensitive nerves before he whispers huskily into you, “I can smell… 5 times… right, Darlin’?” 

“How did you—”

“I know You. You smell more intoxicating each time You cum.” Not giving you a chance to question him further, he runs the flat of his ridged tongue against your swollen nub sending a jolt through you.

Pushing against it with his bottom lip, he continues, “Was he human?” you feel his teeth lightly graze past your clit causing your breath to hitch.

“Carefu–” you look down to see his eyes blazing into yours. He wanted to know if another human had laid claim to the temple he worshiped at. He lowered his claws from your ass, trailing it down to your ankles. Feeling his sharp talons against your skin, a reminder that he was anything but human. His hands now holding you in place but also putting himself at your mercy.

Your loyal dog, even at the edge of ruin, devout to you.

“Yes, he was.”

Remmick growls into your core sending vibrations through the pulse that was connected from his mouth to your essence. No longer waiting, he starts to claim his final gift for the night.

Planting his face firmly against your pussy, he begins to descend into an animalistic trance. Remmick, a barely tamed predator seeking out its final meal, you. He pushes his tongue against your slick folds while his nose nudges insistently against your throbbing clit, seeking the prize he’d been wanting for.

“Oh, Remmick!” you moan reaching out to hold his head firmly in place, the action earning you a groan that makes you clutch harder into his soft brown curls. In response, Remmick slides his tongue within your folds, lapping into the nectar that slips out.

Remmick wasn’t just feasting on your essence, he was devouring it. With each steady, firm lick that felt like he was gouging out the remnants of the other man, he groaned into you. Sinking deeper into a ritualistic dream state. You feel his right hand leave your ankle and then a shudder goes through him into you.

The room filled with the lascivious wet sounds of his eager muscle lapping up the deviant elixir of cum pooling between your thighs. A new accompaniment of his palm stroking his still very stiff cock, groaning into you with near every stroke joining in. Lush moans ring out from your lips as you near your orgasm, savouring his desire.

“Mmm, you like that, cuck?” you purr at him in between moans, holding his head firming into your cunt as you start grinding into his hungry maw. “Do I taste good?” Remmick nods fervently into you, causing his nose to bump into your overstimulated clit in a way that pushes you towards the edge.

“Soooo good, Baby”, Remmick pausing on your now aching pussy to look at your blissed out face, in a muffled drawl, “thank you–thank you so much, Darlin’.”

Pleased with his response with a twinge of annoyance that’d he paused a beat too long, you push his head back into you with both hands. Moving your hips into him to reach a rhythm that made your pussy throb once more.

 “Perfect, just like tha–”, in a breath that caught on the last word, you grind deeper. Feeling more and more of the cum held within you flow out into his willing hungry mouth. 

Riding his face, you sense him coming undone beneath you. Feeling him tremble, his groans increase in tempo to match yours, you feel him rut into his palm as his mouth on you gets sloppier and desperate.

Feeling yourself get closer, you grasp onto his head with needy resolve. You start breathing faster and heavier while your body begins to tense. The pleasure building from your burning core through to your spine like flames igniting to a fuse.

Remmick groans under your force, feeling how close you were to melting on his tongue. Wanting nothing more than to bring you pleasure, he works his tongue flat against your clit, circling it before running short, quick strokes over the tingling bud.

Your entire body falls into his face as your orgasm claims your senses. White light floods your eyes, blood rushing in your ears, your breath coming out in shudders as your body jerks above him. Remmick doesn’t stop.

He consumes you, enjoying the dollops of cum that flow out of your still throbbing cunt. A steady groan rumbling out from his chest as he drinks in your mess. Heavy swallows followed by a matching shudder rolls off him.

Remmick unleashes a pleading whine as his body spasms under you. Purring at him, you caress his head easing him through his own release. Remmick shoots out thick ropes of cum, positively spent now he’s satisfied you, sighing into your hand.

“You’re such a good cuck, aren’t you sweetheart?” You pull his face up to see his covered in a sticky mixture of cum, slick and drool. His eyes looking at you through his lashes, glazed with bliss with his mouth hanging partially open. His claws steadily retracting into his fingers as the monster slowly retreated to leave behind a drained man.

Whispering gently while still caressing his face, “You did such a great job. I’m proud of you.”

Remmick’s lips curl into a tranquil smirl before turning to kiss the palm resting on his face.

“Thank You, Darlin’.”

~I hope you liked this installment! It’s so much longer than I expected so I’ll try to keep the next couple shorter, haha.

How amusing is it to imagine Remmick using a computer?! And to look at porn?! He hasn’t figured out how to delete his search history but I don’t think he wants to either.

[flixpii]

Chapter 6

link to ao3 !

word count : 5.7k

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

--

November, 1909

By the time November arrived, the air had thinned.

It no longer clung to the skin like a second layer, no longer hummed with the heat that made porch-sitting a luxury and cooking near impossible. The trees had begun their slow, aching change—rich greens bleeding into gold and rust and brown, their leaves drifting down like prayers too heavy for heaven. The cicadas were gone. The air carried a softness now, brittle at the edges, smelling of smoke and turned soil.

And just like the trees outside their windows, the de Pointe du Lac family had changed, too.

Mae, though… Mae hadn’t so much changed as she had learned how to endure.

It had been months since the first morning she found them—the birds.

That day felt like a fever dream now, though the memory lived behind her ribs like a tight fist. For a while after, they stopped. The birds. There were no more sudden piles. No red feathers painting the grass. Just quiet.

Then, two weeks later, one showed up again.

Then another.

And another, the week after that.

Not in droves like before, no. Just one each time. Always near the base of the house. Always beneath her window.

They were still red. And they were still torn.

Something—someone—was still sending her messages.

At first, Mae screamed. Then she cried. Then she tried to tell Grace, but the words never came out the way she meant. Now, she said nothing. She simply buried the bodies.

Some nights, she’d find them early—just before dawn, when the world was still blue and soft and the house still slept. She would lift the broken things gently, wrap them in cloth, and walk barefoot to the grove behind the house, where the trees grew thick and no one ever thought to wander.

She’d dig small graves with her hands.

Say nothing.

Leave nothing.

Just press the dirt back down and return to bed, hands trembling beneath her quilt.

And somehow… that became her ritual.

Her burden. Her secret.

The rest of the house went on.

Louis’s business in the Quarter had taken root like a weed—fast, profitable, and not without whispers. But no one dared ask too many questions. Not in the neighborhood. And certainly not in the house. He dressed sharp now, his suits tailored, his cologne subtle but firm in the hallways when he left in the mornings. His name was beginning to mean something beyond their corner of Louisiana.

Grace, on the other hand, was glowing.

The wedding had been set for next September, and with every passing week, the house brimmed with new fabrics, lace swatches, and a running list of who’d be invited, who wouldn’t, and what colors would make her skin look like satin under candlelight. She hummed more now, and though the loss of Isaiah still lingered in their silences, she poured her joy into something real. Something sacred. Mae clung to that joy when her own light flickered too dim.

Paul was—well, Paul.

He still walked the house with a holy fire in his eyes, talking to himself, or maybe to God, or maybe to something else entirely. He watched birds out the window in ways that made Mae’s chest tighten. Sometimes she wondered if he knew about the bodies. If he sensed it. But if he did, he never said. Never looked at her too long. He just watched. And waited.

Florence had settled into this new house like a queen who didn’t ask for the crown. She had long resisted the presence of hired hands, but now, she allowed it. She would still check every dish that passed her kitchen. Still inspect the linens with a finger’s grace. But she had learned to let go of the need to do it all. Perhaps the world had tired her, too.

The house itself breathed easier now.

It had learned the weight of its new owners. Learned their rhythm, their softness, their ghosts.

But for Mae, the stillness was never full.

The leaves fell.

The air cooled.

But every time she passed her window, her eyes drifted downward.

And she wondered when the next one would come.

Because it always did.

The sky was the color of a bruised peach as Mae stepped out of the grocer’s with a paper sack tucked in one arm.

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle behind her, too tired to ring with any real cheer. She stood there a moment on the wooden stoop, watching the golden-orange sun begin its lazy descent behind the rooftops of the town she knew so well. Even the air had changed since the last time she’d really paid it mind—cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of burnt sugar cane and chimney smoke.

She adjusted her shawl and stepped down onto the dirt road, her boots brushing through brittle leaves that scurried across the ground like nervous mice. The sack in her arm held a handful of sweet potatoes, some green beans, a sprig of rosemary for Mama, and a pear she’d picked up for herself, already softening at the top.

It was quieter in town than it used to be.

The crowds were thinner now that the days got shorter. Folks finished their errands before the sun even thought to dip, as if the dusk brought with it something they didn’t want to name. The few remaining folks shuffled out of shops with quick steps and drawn collars, not stopping to chat the way they might’ve in the summer.

But Mae moved slower.

Not because she wasn’t wary. But because something in her had settled into this pace. Like she was always listening now—for footsteps behind her, for birds above her, for the wind’s whisper through alleyways. Even now, as she strolled past Miss Evangeline’s dress shop and tipped her chin at the window just in case, her eyes scanned more than they used to.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.

She passed by Henri’s barber shop and caught the warm glow of lamplight spilling out into the street, the silhouette of two men playing cards near the chairs. One of them noticed her and tipped his head, and Mae gave a polite wave before tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

The rhythm was different, but it hadn’t vanished.

Just shifted.

Just aged with the season.

She walked toward the corner where the road forked—one path curving back toward the house, and the other stretching down toward the little white church with the chipping paint and crooked steeple.

Mae paused at the edge where the dirt split, her boots sinking slightly in the soft earth.

The air felt colder here. Not wind, not chill—just emptier.

She stood there, caught in a quiet tug. One side meant warmth, supper, the familiar hush of her mother humming somewhere in the house. But the other held something else. A memory. A shape in the dark. A boy with careful hands and a crooked smile, who always met her halfway with a bouquet of something wild and simple—flowers that looked like weeds until he handed them to her, grinning like he’d stolen them from heaven itself.

Mae’s fingers tightened around the top of the paper sack, crinkling the brown with soft snaps. Her breath misted faintly in the light, and for a moment, she didn’t know why her feet moved.

But they did.

Toward the church.

Down the path Isaiah used to walk, slow and steady, like he belonged to it.

The street narrowed as she passed the hardware store, then the old lamppost where the glass was always crooked. A dog barked in the distance. A door slammed far off. But Mae walked slow. Steady. Not in a rush to get there. Just… drawn.

When the church came into view, it looked smaller than she remembered.

The white boards dulled to ivory in the dying light. A few leaves clung to the steps like they were mourning the season, or maybe something deeper. The windows were dark, though she knew Pastor Ward kept a candle burning inside his office even when he wasn’t there.

Mae stopped at the gate and rested her hand on the iron latch.

She didn’t open it.

She just stood there, staring up at that familiar porch, that worn wooden door.

“I miss you,” she whispered, so soft she wasn’t sure if the wind carried it or swallowed it whole.

The sack in her arm felt heavier now.

And her shadow stretched long across the gravel behind her.

Longer than it should’ve been.

Mae stood at the iron gate a long while.

She didn’t know how long, only that her hand had begun to cramp where it held the sack of vegetables and her fingers had grown numb around the gate’s latch. The wind had changed—sharper now, and carrying with it the scent of old wood and something faintly sweet, like dried lilies long past their bloom.

Her thumb brushed against the iron latch again.

It wasn’t that she feared churches. That wasn’t it at all. Mae had been raised in the rhythm of them—Sunday mornings with her hair oiled and pressed, her shoes polished to shine, her mother’s voice like warm honey beside her as hymns filled the pews. They had always gone. Even when Louis began finding excuses not to. Even when Paul grew louder in spirit than scripture.

She believed in faith.

She believed in the comfort it could bring.

But this church…

This place held her unease like water in cupped hands.

It was the silence. The kind that pressed in behind your ears. And the way the steps creaked before you stepped. And the way Pastor Ward’s eyes always landed on her and stayed there too long—warm on the surface, but never quite reaching his pupils, like the flame didn’t know where to settle.

Still, her fingers moved.

She unlatched the gate.

The rusted hinges gave a soft whine as she slipped through and walked up the short, sloped path to the stairs. She kept her breath low, measured, as she mounted each one, her boots clicking softly against the wood. The door, worn but solid, loomed in front of her like the mouth of a cave. The kind that promised something ancient behind its darkness.

She reached for the handle.

It was unlocked.

The door gave easily under her touch, swinging open with the faintest moan of age.

Inside, the air changed.

Cooler. Still.

She stepped into the narrow foyer where the collection baskets and hymnals were kept. The smell was familiar—old cedar, beeswax polish, the faint ghost of burning candles—but underneath that was something sharper. Something metallic. Almost like rust.

Mae’s steps echoed softly as she moved down the aisle, rows of empty pews rising around her like teeth. Her fingers traced the edges of the wooden pew backs as she passed, and though the church was lit only by what the setting sun could pour through the stained-glass windows, it was enough to see the altar up ahead.

And the single candle still burning there.

As always.

Pastor Ward wasn’t there—or at least, she didn’t see him—but somehow that didn’t ease the weight off her chest. Her heartbeat drummed gently behind her ribs, steady and deep, like it was tapping on something inside her memory. Something she hadn’t opened in years. Or maybe never.

She walked slower now. Half her wanted to turn back. The other half pulled her forward.

She passed the third pew on the left, and her eyes flicked downward.

There was a scuff mark there. A faint one. Old, but familiar.

That’s where Isaiah always sat.

She paused, her thumb grazing the top of the wooden seat.

A flicker. Not a memory—something less. A feeling.

Her skin prickled.

And somewhere behind her, near the church doors, a quiet floorboard creaked.

Mae turned sharply—but saw nothing.

Just the empty light of the fading day, and the long stretch of pews.

Still… she didn’t feel alone.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t speak. She just turned back toward the altar and took one final step forward. The closer she got to that single candle, the more she realized that flame wasn’t flickering.

It stood still.

Perfectly upright. Undisturbed by draft or breath or time.

Something in her belly turned.

She reached out—almost without thinking—and then stopped.

Something was wrong here. Not just in her gut. Not just in the feeling that had shadowed her since Isaiah’s funeral. This place… it remembered something.

And Mae felt like it was waiting on her to remember it too.

But she couldn’t.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

The floor creaked again. This time, closer.

Mae took a slow, careful breath, then turned around.

Still no one.

Just the heavy, humming quiet.

And the sharp, low ringing in her ears that started again, like it did that morning they buried Isaiah.

She took a step back from the altar.

And then another.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the nave back into the foyer, it was like something loosened in her lungs.

Mae didn’t look back again.

She slipped out of the church as the sun dipped fully past the treetops, casting long, dark shadows across the yard.

The sack in her arm felt heavy once more.

She didn’t stop walking until the steeple was behind her.

The trees behind her still whispered, but Mae’s eyes were locked on the glow of home ahead.

The house stood tall against the orange-pink wash of dusk, its newness dulled slightly by the season. There was comfort in its silhouette—the soft lights in the windows, the curl of chimney smoke, the familiar outline of the porch. Her shoes crunched softly over the gravel path, her mind still thick with the stillness of the church. Something in her chest hadn’t settled since she’d left, like a pebble was rolling around behind her heart, too small to name but too loud to ignore.

She climbed the path up to the porch steps and paused as the shapes of two men came into view.

One of them was Louis, seated on the porch rail with one boot resting against a pillar, a cigar burning between his fingers. The other stood just to the side, in the glow of the porch lantern, speaking with him in a low, even voice. It wasn’t until Mae moved closer that her steps slowed.

The man.

Her breath caught as recognition struck her—not sudden, but slow, like a fog lifting.

He was older than he looked. Or maybe just quieter. His hair, short and ruffled, caught the last golden bits of the sun. His clothes were work-worn but clean, and his boots had the reddish dust of the land on them. And still, that face. Those eyes.

The man who’d pulled the weeds behind their house.

The man who tipped his hat and asked to be invited in.

The man she hadn’t seen since Isaiah died.

They were speaking. She couldn’t hear the words—not until Louis noticed her approaching.

“There she go,” Louis said, standing up straight and flicking ash over the porch rail. “Mama been fussin’ all over the house wonderin’ where you slipped off to. Sun’s nearly down.”

Mae opened her mouth, then closed it again. She swallowed and nodded slowly. “I ain’t mean to worry her. I just… took a walk.”

Her voice was softer than usual. She hated that it was.

Louis gave her a look—one of those older-brother glances that held more than words—but he didn’t press. Instead, he gestured toward the man beside him.

“Ella-Mae, this here’s Remmick. He’s been helpin’ with the grounds.”

Mae stopped mid-step at the name.

Remmick.

She looked at him fully now, watched how he turned his head toward her. The light from the lantern above cast a soft sheen across his face, and it made his brown eyes seem darker than she remembered. They studied her for a moment—nothing aggressive, just… interested.

A corner of his mouth lifted in something like a smile.

“We’ve met,” she said quietly, her voice tugged back into her chest. “Back when the yard was bein’ tended to.”

“Mm.” Remmick gave the smallest nod, his voice low and warm like it had been that first morning. “I remember.”

There was a pause.

Mae adjusted the shawl around her arms, feeling its woven edge scrape her wrist where her pulse ran fast.

“I’m Ella-Mae,” she added, quieter now, for the sake of manners.

Remmick’s head dipped politely. “Pleasure.”

Louis turned to glance toward the front door. “Go on inside. I’ll be in shortly. I gotta finish up with him.”

Mae hesitated. Her eyes lingered on Remmick a second longer. He didn’t look at her the way other white men did—not with that stiff, expectant air, not with caution, not even with disrespect. He looked at her like he already knew her. Not deeply, but… just enough to keep watching.

She nodded once. “Alright,” she murmured. “I’ll tell Mama I’m home.”

She stepped up onto the porch, the wood groaning beneath her boots. As she passed them, she felt Remmick’s eyes on her back—felt it in her shoulders like heat. She didn’t look back, not even when she reached the front door. Her hand touched the knob, then paused.

Inside was warmth. Her mother’s voice. The comfort of kitchen smells and soft lighting.

Behind her was Remmick.

Not a threat.

Not a friend.

Just… something she wasn’t sure how to place.

So she opened the door.

The warmth of the house wrapped around Mae as soon as she stepped through the door. It smelled of black-eyed peas and cornbread, maybe cabbage on the stove too, and the hush of the house was only broken by the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs and the steady clink of pots coming from the kitchen.

She moved slowly, as if each step inside brought her further into the safety she didn’t quite feel anymore.

The brown paper bag crinkled faintly in her hand as she crossed the hall. Her heels clicked gently against the wood, familiar and soft, until she turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen’s golden warmth.

She barely had time to set the bag down on the counter before she heard—

“Ella-Mae.”

Her name, her full name, pulled from her mother’s throat like a sermon warning, thick with tension and concern.

Mae turned just as Florence rounded the kitchen table, eyes catching hers. Her brows were pulled together, and her mouth set in that firm line Mae knew meant she’d been stewing in worry for a good while.

“Mama, I—”

“Where you been?” Florence asked, voice low but urgent. “The sun just now kissin’ the ground and you still not home. You know better than to be out past sunset.”

Mae stood frozen for a second. She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. She hadn’t meant to worry her. Truly. But time had passed quicker than it felt, and her head was still halfway between the church and the porch.

“I just went out,” she said softly, almost like it wasn’t good enough. “Just to town… and I stopped by the church.”

Florence’s eyes narrowed. “The church? You was there this whole time?”

Mae nodded, but guilt already prickled at her skin. “I didn’t mean to stay out that long, Mama. I was just thinkin’, walkin’…”

Florence reached out and rested a hand gently but firmly on her daughter’s cheek, turning her face a little like she used to when Mae was a girl and caught in a lie about who broke the sugar bowl.

“Your eyes red,” she murmured. “And your hands cold.”

Mae bit the inside of her cheek, eyes lowering.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice thick now. “Didn’t mean to make you worry. I just… I needed air.”

There was a long pause between them, long enough for the stove to hiss and a pot lid to clatter.

Florence finally let out a breath and brushed Mae’s hair back from her forehead. Her hand lingered there, tender and tired.

“I don’t like it when you don’t come home before dark, Ella-Mae. Not with how cruel the world is to women like us. Not after…” Her voice trailed off, but they both knew what she was about to say.

Isaiah.

Mae nodded again. “I understand.”

Florence studied her for a moment longer, her thumb smoothing a crease above her brow.

Then, softer, she said, “Go on now. Change your dress. You smell like cold air.”

Mae let out a half-laugh, watery and low. “Yes, ma’am.”

Florence turned back toward the stove, and Mae took the moment to breathe again, just a little.

She glanced back toward the hallway where the porch door sat still slightly ajar, just barely. Through the crack, she could hear Louis’s low voice murmuring with Remmick’s.

Then she turned away.

And went upstairs.

Dinner was already being set when Mae came down the stairs.

She’d changed into a simple house dress the color of softened clay, and her hair had been tied back with a ribbon that didn’t quite match, but no one commented. The heels of her shoes tapped gently down the stairs, but the house felt oddly still. Not tense, just… muted.

When she stepped into the dining room, the chandelier was lit low and golden above them, casting everything in amber. Grace sat beside Mama, talking softly and fiddling with the edge of her linen napkin. Paul, as always, was slumped in his chair with his Bible not too far from reach, though thankfully closed for now. Louis had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand wrapped around his water glass, the other resting on the table as if he hadn’t quite decided whether he was hungry or just there out of duty.

The table, long and heavy with carved edges, was already lined with food. Chicken smothered in brown gravy, sweet potatoes mashed with syrup and butter, cornbread still steaming in its dish, and black-eyed peas cooked with bits of smoked ham.

Mae slipped quietly into the seat beside Grace, muttering a “’Scuse me” as she passed, and unfolded her napkin into her lap.

The clatter of serving spoons filled the silence for a few minutes. Plates were passed, dishes scraped clean of first helpings. Florence said grace before they all sat, but even that had felt shorter than usual. As they began eating, only the soft sounds of chewing, the gentle scrape of silverware, and the occasional sigh filled the room.

Grace eventually started to speak—something about how she and Mama would need to make a trip into the quarter for wedding fabric, and Florence nodded along with a tired kind of fondness. She added that the seamstress down on Dauphine was expecting them before the frost set in.

Mae heard every word, but they felt far away. She pushed sweet potato across her plate with the back of her fork, her appetite dimmed since returning from town.

“Mae,” Louis said, voice low but clear enough to cut through the small talk. “You alright?”

She looked up slowly, caught off guard. His eyes weren’t hard, just observant, like he’d been watching her for a while and decided to speak only now.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just tired, is all.”

Florence glanced at her from across the table. “She went by the old church,” she said, directing her words at Louis. 

At that, the sound of silverware eased. Louis leaned back in his chair just slightly and looked to Mae with something unreadable in his expression—part curiosity, part concern.

“You did?” he asked.

Mae nodded, keeping her tone even. “I was nearby, and just… felt like stopping by.”

Silence crept into the space between them, just long enough to settle.

Louis’s fingers drummed once on the wood. “Was Pastor Ward there?”

Mae’s eyes lifted to meet his.

She thought about the emptiness of the pews. The way her footsteps had echoed. The uneasy weight in her chest when she stood at the gate. And the hollow way the church still smelled like him, even though he hadn’t been there.

“I didn’t see him,” she said softly.

She didn’t add that she hoped she wouldn’t.

Louis nodded, once. He didn’t speak again right away, but the silence that followed his question was different now—thicker.

Grace cleared her throat gently and asked if the seamstress still carried ivory lace like she used to. Florence responded, grateful for the change in subject, and the conversation slowly resumed its rhythm, like a needle picking its way back through a worn groove.

Still, Louis didn’t ask any more questions.

And Mae didn’t offer anything else.

She just pushed another piece of cornbread to the side of her plate and stared at the flickering candle near the center of the table, its flame bowing gently, as though something unseen had brushed past.

—

The night was quieter than most. No cicadas sang, no wind stirred the tall grass near the edge of the yard. Even the rocking chair beneath Mae creaked gently, like it was mindful of the stillness that blanketed the De Pointe du Lac house.

She sat on the porch like she always did now, book in her lap, unopened. Her fingers rested on its spine, but she hadn’t flipped a page in over an hour. She hadn’t hummed, either. Her voice felt caught somewhere in her chest, tangled with questions she hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the treeline—dark and deep and patient. She rocked softly, counting the trees like they were rosary beads, hoping it might calm her nerves.

One… two… three…

“Mae.”

She flinched.

Her name—spoken low, smooth, almost like it had been sung—came from the left side of the porch. Her heart skipped before her eyes turned sharply to the sound.

There he was.

That man.

Remmick.

He stood just beyond the steps, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other slipped into his pocket. He didn’t wear the same gardening clothes from earlier that summer. No dirt, no gloves, no sun-worn linen. Tonight, he wore slacks and a white shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Clean, composed. But it wasn’t the clothes that made Mae sit up straighter.

It was the way he said her name. Not Ella-Mae. Not Miss. Just Mae. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her body went still.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” she said, voice tight as she straightened up in her seat. “Ain’t proper for a man to be comin’ ‘round a young woman’s house when the sun’s done gone down.”

Remmick let out a low laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. But it curled under her skin just the same.

“You always this proper, Mae?” he asked, head tilted slightly. “Even when no one’s lookin’?”

She didn’t like how that made her feel. Like he knew her in a way he had no right to.

“What you want?” she asked flatly, not unkindly, but with the edge of someone who’d had enough surprises for one lifetime.

Remmick lifted a shoulder like he hadn’t expected the question to sting. “Was passin’ by. Thought I’d see how you were doin’.”

Mae paused, then pushed herself up, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brushed the back of the rocking chair as she moved closer to the screen door—just in case.

“You don’t know me like that,” she said quietly. “Ain’t like we been talkin’. So why you care how I’m doin’?”

Remmick’s eyes never left her. He stepped closer to the railing, just a single stride, but Mae stepped back just as quickly.

Her hand hovered near the door handle.

That smile again—something like kindness stretched too wide, too sharp. “You was hurting when you got back today,” he said. “I could feel it.”

Mae’s breath hitched.

“What?” she asked, blinking slowly.

“I felt it,” he repeated. “Like a cut on your soul. Raw. Bleedin’. Screamin’ so loud I thought maybe you was calling me.”

“I didn’t,” she said fast. “I wasn’t calling nobody.”

“I know,” he said softly, like it mattered more to him than it should. “But that don’t mean I didn’t hear you.”

Mae’s throat went dry. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her shawl.

“You talk like you know things,” she muttered. “But I ain’t never told you nothin’. I ain’t never shown you nothin’.”

Remmick’s gaze didn’t waver. “You showed me plenty,” he murmured. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The silence between them stretched. Mae’s heart thudded heavy in her ears, louder than the crickets that had finally begun to chirp somewhere behind the house.

He didn’t move again. He didn’t need to.

“I’m goin’ inside now,” Mae said quietly.

Remmick dipped his head slightly. “Of course.”

She reached for the door and pulled it open, stepping over the threshold. Before she could close it behind her, she turned her head and asked, “You gon’ be hangin’ ‘round here more?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he did, it was simple.

“If you want me to.”

The door shut with a soft click.

Mae stood on the other side, her back pressed against it. Her breath came slow, then faster.

She didn’t know what frightened her more—that he said he felt her pain.

Or that part of her believed him.

The hallway felt colder than usual as Mae climbed the stairs. She gripped the banister tighter than she needed to, each footfall soft against the runner laid down over dark wooden steps. The house was mostly quiet now—voices had hushed, plates were likely being washed, and Grace’s laughter, usually floating through the air somewhere, had long since vanished into her room.

At the top of the steps, Mae hesitated. Just a breath. Just enough time for her to hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She blinked slowly and turned toward her room.

The lamp beside her bed was already lit, casting a low amber glow that barely reached the corners of the room. She closed the door gently behind her, like slamming it might shatter whatever fragile hold she still had on herself.

She moved slowly. Unwrapped the shawl from around her shoulders. Unbuttoned her blouse, fingers trembling faintly—not from cold, but from something deeper. A leftover shake in her bones from that man—Remmick—and the way he looked at her like he’d peeled her open and read the softest, sorest parts of her.

She wanted to dismiss it. She tried to. But the thought kept circling her like a crow overhead.

He felt her pain.

How?

She changed into her nightgown, a soft, thin cotton thing, and moved to the small vanity to untie her hair. Her fingers worked slow through the strands, pulling them apart with gentle tugs. She caught her own eyes in the mirror—watched them, studied them—as if searching for proof she was still who she thought she was. But her reflection stared back blankly. Tired. Haunted. Curious.

When she was done, she walked across the room.

It was the same few steps she took every night, but they felt heavier now, like the weight of that look Remmick gave her lingered on her shoulders.

Her hand paused above the drawer.

The low, narrow one on the left.

The one nobody ever touched but her.

She drew in a breath, and then slowly, slowly opened it.

Inside, wrapped in an old handkerchief stitched with her initials, was a bird. A small one, no bigger than her palm. Its feathers were soft—still clung to the body even though its chest caved slightly from whatever had torn into it. The same wound as the others. Ripped, but not devoured. As if the thing that bit it didn’t want to eat. Just to mark.

Mae’s hands hovered over it, and then lifted the cloth delicately.

The bird’s head lolled slightly to the side, eyes dull now. Its neck had stiffened just slightly in the past day. But it hadn’t rotted—not yet.

No smell. Not unless you leaned in close. And no one ever did.

She didn’t know why she kept them.

That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

There was something about them. Something sacred. Or maybe cursed. She hadn’t figured out which.

Each bird she’d found outside her window—sometimes with a wing bent too far backward, sometimes with blood dried across the grass—felt less like a warning now. And more like… a gift.

A strange, twisted token of something unspoken. A message without words.

She had thrown the first few away. She’d cried over them. Buried one behind the tool shed. Burned another.

But one night, after the fifth bird, something in her shifted.

Something curious. Something quiet and coiled like a serpent resting in her ribs.

She’d wrapped that bird and tucked it away.

And then another.

And another.

And now… four of them lived in that drawer. Carefully folded. Lined in handkerchiefs, each touched by time in different ways.

Mae stared down at the one from the previous night.

It had a red mark along its beak. Red, she noted. Not blood. Red like thread, almost. And she remembered something odd about how Remmick looked at her tonight. Not like a man who stumbled upon a woman by accident.

But like someone who knew her.

Like someone who’d left something behind for her to find.

The thought made her skin crawl.

And yet… she didn’t shut the drawer.

Instead, her fingers reached in and adjusted the cloth slightly—neater, more like a blanket than a shroud.

She closed the drawer carefully and stood there, frozen.

A part of her, a louder part now, felt shame—what was she doing?

But the other part… the one that still felt Remmick’s voice in her ear, still heard him say he sensed her pain…

That part felt calm. Possessed by something it couldn’t name.

That part felt seen.

Mae stepped back, breath shallow, and turned to crawl beneath the covers of her bed. The lamp flickered for a moment as she reached over to twist the knob.

Darkness settled in the room.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

Because something deep in her bones knew—

She was changing.

And something out in those woods was waiting for her to stop fighting it.

[flixpii]

the floodgates wouldn’t be able to stop the absolute rush of what just escaped me.

IM BURNING UP

“i don’t need an invite anymore.”

COME IN !!!

How Often Do You Feel Lonely? (Remmick x F!Reader)

summary: you live alone in the middle of the woods, just how you like it. at least that’s what you tell yourself. your peaceful night in is interrupted by a knock at the door. a man, pleading to be let inside just to catch his breath… but of course, that’s not all he’s after.

wc: 14.5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit depictions of sexual acts! little plot mostly smut, vampire sex, p in v, oral (both giving and receiving), lots of drooling, spit drinking, face fucking, mutual masturbation, creampie(s), face down ass up, hair pulling, claws and teeth drawing blood/leaving marks, blood tasting (he’s a vampire… duh), fingering, multiple orgasms, threats of violence, manipulation, mentions of voyeurism, abandonment and death.

A/N: special thanks to @eternalstrigoii for beta reading, @spikedfearn for inspiring me to get back into writing smut, and of course everyone in the remmick discord for cheering me on and filling my head with wonderful filthy ideas <3 love u guys | translations for gaeilge provided at the end.

The sun had finally set, nestling itself amidst the spiraling, twisted trees. The sky shifted from a crisp orange to a comforting blanket of dark purple, the stars winking from a distance. Clouds hung lazily, dotting the starlit night with blots of grey. The moon, half-full, occupied the sun’s empty throne. 

Although the sun drifted to its nightly embrace, the air still hangs heavy with the humid summer heat. You kept the windows open, though it wasn’t much help. Even keeping the door open a crack didn’t aid in letting air into the stuffy house. 

The dark, empty house - lit only by the soft moonlight and a few candles scattered on the mantle and other various surfaces - creaked. Not unusual for the old place you call home. You live alone, but the creaks and groans didn’t bother you much. Not anymore, at least. You’ve grown used to it, the sounds kept you company, especially at night. A delightful symphony in comparison to the deafening silence that surrounded you most days. 

Sometimes that’s all you need. The familiar creaking of the house, the serene night sky, a good book, a myriad of flickering candles, and some refreshing tea - iced or hot, depending on the weather and your mood. Tonight it was iced, on account of the sticky summer heat. 

Despite having what you need for a peaceful night, you knew deep down in your heart that something was missing. It troubled you to ponder what exactly left you so empty inside, but you regularly stifle that feeling. 

No use thinking about that. No use at all.

You grab your freshly brewed tea, take a sip and set it down on the nearby coaster. You snatch the most recent book you’ve started digging into from the shelf and sit in your typical spot by the window. It was the perfect spot. You could see the moon and stars coalescing in the clouds, their soothing light shining just bright enough through the window for you to read peacefully. Your chair was wooden, but the throw pillow on the seat made it perfectly comfortable.

You curl open the book, a classic Bram Stoker novel, right where you left off. You slide the bookmark from its place and set it down on the table in front of you. Taking another hearty sip from your glass, you begin reading to yourself: 

“I pray to you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

A shadow, swift and sudden, passes by the window. You barely spot it out of the corner of your eye. You twist your head to catch a better glimpse, but the presence went as fast as it came. 

It was probably just an animal. A wolf or a vulture, maybe even a bear. It’s hard to say. Plenty of animals congregate around your humble abode. Living in the middle of nowhere meant that any movement outside was normally a woodland creature just drifting through on their way back to their family or catching their prey… or running from a predator. Nothing more. Except for the occasional birds flocking to your outdoor feeder, they stick around longer than most animals - longer than any guest you’ve ever had, really. 

However you couldn’t shake the feeling that the passing shadow might have been something different. A stillness sets in, yet the candles continue to dance in the darkness, the blazing waltz reflecting in your eyes.

You inhale a sharp breath and try to perish the thought. The loneliness is really getting to you tonight. You shift your eyes back onto the page but a sound startles you before you can begin reading again. 

Your ajar front door creaked. A different creak than you’re used to. There was no wind, not tonight, yet something caused the door to sway and moan. Something was lurking out in the woods. Or worse, someone.

An unfamiliar chill runs down your spine. An animal… that’s all it is. A hungry animal. A scared animal. Reluctantly, you leave your perch once more to shut the door, setting the book page down in your chair. You were determined to not let these noises get under your skin. Not while you’re trying to enjoy a quiet night of reading. You could do without the willies tonight. 

You press one hand on the rustic wooden door frame, the other on the knob. Your eyes travel to the crack, peering out into the darkness. Nobody was there. Nothing was there. Just your overactive imagination getting the best of you. A wave of relief washes over you. 

The door shuts with a groan. Finally… back to peace. You take a step to the side, primed to dive into your reading and enjoy a relaxing night without distraction. Without issue. Peace and quiet, just how you like it.  

Right as you’re about to settle in your chair, you hear a loud knock.

KNOCK KNOCK

Your heart thuds in your chest - it was an unusual sound for you. Nobody comes to visit, not very often. Certainly not at this hour. Fear ripples in your throat as you take in a gulp of air. You just checked outside with no sight or feeling of a presence on your doorstep. How is that possible?

The moisture from the summer heat mingles with the nervous sweat on your forehead. Your heart thrums faster as the rapping on the door continues.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Hello? Hey, is-is anyone home?” The choked voice of a man breaks through the barrier of your door. A southern twang riddled the man’s gravelly inflection. It didn’t sound natural though, more like someone mimicking an accent they’d heard once before. “Hello? Please, I need some help.”

The begging stranger continues knocking at the door, his pleas growing louder. His pounding grows more urgent. You didn’t want to answer. Anxiety claws at your chest. A man? Here? At this hour? I didn’t see him when I peeked outside. I was sure there was no one there.  

“Please, p-please,” The man’s voice is desperate, calling to you like a siren. Your breath trembles as he cries out. “I know you’re in there. I can see your shadow movin’ around.”

You inhale a deep, staggered breath and inch closer to the door, the heavy wood shifting with the man’s incessant knocking. Your hands shake as you slowly open the door - just a hair, to get a look at the man at your doorstep. 

His eyes, a soft but wild blue, meet yours. He wasn’t as imposing as you imagined. Far from it, actually. 

Dark hair sits messy on his sweat-slicked head. He sports a sleeveless, collarless white shirt that clings to his broad shoulders - drenched in what looks like perspiration and god knows what else. A golden chain drapes around his thick neck. His dirty, torn work pants are accentuated by undone suspenders that hang loosely around his sides, as well as a worn out leather belt with a metal buckle - suspenders and a belt? Strange fashion sense, you think to yourself. 

A pungent odor wafted from him - you aren’t able to make out what the exact scent is. A mix of body odor, singed flesh, old blood and pure death. Unpleasant, to put it lightly. 

“Oh, miss. I am terribly sorry to bother you this time of night but I-I’ve been runnin’ for what feels like hours,” he speaks, his voice a low rumble, cracking between every word. Running for hours… that would explain the copious amount of sweat beading on his forehead… and the smell. “I didn’t mean to frighten ya. I-I saw your house in the distance and thought you might be able to help me out of a pinch.” 

“Why were you running?” You ask. A man running in the woods, in the dark, didn’t bode well. Something about this stranger strikes you as suspicious. His stammering and disheveled appearance didn’t help much. ”Mighty strange for a man to be running around the woods at night.”

“I was bein’ chased,” he huffs. “I-I was hopin’… well I was hopin’ I might be able to catch my breath at this quaint little house here.”

“Chased? By who?” Your curiosity piqued. 

“That don’t really matter,” his voice a hushed rasp. His eyes focus on yours, their blue sheen flickers with the dancing candlelight on your mantle. “M-may I come in? Only for a moment. I just. I need a second to breathe, maybe somethin’ to drink, and I’ll be on my way. I swear it.”

“It’s not very smart to let strangers in, you know,” your eyebrows furrow, concern scribbled on your face. Not just any stranger, but a man. Not only a bad decision but potentially a dangerous one. Surely he’d understand your hesitation. “Especially at night.”

“I know, miss,” he whimpers, his eyes glistening with despair. He seems desperate to get inside. Whoever, or whatever, he was running from must have really shaken him. “I-I know. I know, and I empathize. Letting a stranger in… never a good idea, no ma’am. I know. I don’t mean to be a burden, but I just… oh, I just need a quick respite. Please, I’m beggin’ ya.”

“Why should I?” You hiss, your hand faltering on the door knob. He notices the way your body is shaking, the door trembling with you. A pout forms on his plush, pink lips. He falls to his knees with a hopeless sigh. The shredded holes of his pants force his bare legs to scrape against the hard wood of your porch. You almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Oh… I know you don’t got a reason to let a strange man like me in, but I will do anything,” he puts his veined, calloused hands together in a weak prayer. “Anything at all.”

You didn’t respond. You watch his lips quiver as he bows his head - you could see how soaked his unkempt hair was with sweat. Little strands of his dark locks spiked out towards the back of his neck. You feel a bizarre sense of power watching a man crumble like this at your doorstep. You were used to men making you crumble. 

“I-I can give you money,” he falters, scrambling his hand down into his front pocket. He pulls out two sparkling coins - from what you could tell, they didn’t look like any sort of money you were used to seeing. They looked like solid gold. Ancient. The coins shake in his palm, clinking together. ”It’s not much but it’s all I got. You can have it. I don’t want nothin’ from you other than a place to stay for just a moment… somethin’ to drink. Then I’ll get outta your hair. I swear to you that’s all I ask. Please.”

He shuffles near the crack in the door, his hand rattling the coins for you to get a closer look. They were definitely real and you weren’t the type to deny money. Not like you needed it that much beyond grocery trips and occasional house repairs. Still, you can’t help but find yourself enticed by the shining currency and the man’s choked pleas. He’s easy on the eyes too - an added bonus. 

“You sure that’s all you want?” You ask, still suspicious of the strange man kneeling before you. Out of everything you’ve learned in life - men only ever want is one thing - has rang true the most. 

“I promise,” he croaks. His body trembles on the floorboards of the porch, the old wood squeaking beneath his weight. He looks up at you, his gaze wet with distress and yearning. You’d never seen a man look so… pathetic. Weak. His promise feels sincere - he didn’t seem so dangerous to you anymore. 

You sigh and open the door all the way, pulling the ample wood inward and fully revealing yourself to the stranger. He looks you over, darting eyes studying you up and down. A pleasant expression washes over his angular features, almost like he was amazed that you accepted his offer… and all it took was a bribe and some begging for you to fold. His smile is as soft as his eyes, with imperfect teeth lining his gums. His canines glint in the candlelight as his grin widens at the sight of you. 

Something about him charms you. Maybe it was his blue-eyed gaze filled with wonder and a touch of sorrow or maybe that cute, crooked smile. The way his voice cracks desperately while he pleads. The way his body trembles and prays at your doorstep as if you were a goddess made flesh. The way the candlelight dances around his handsome face. Maybe it was the money… no, no… there was something else. Something more carnal. It’s not entirely clear to you, but whatever it is, he charmed his way inside your house. 

“Alright, you can come in,” you exhale, beckoning the stranger into your home. What am I thinking? What am I DOING? Oh god, oh GOD… Your mind races as you watch the man lift himself off the porch. His heavy boots carefully take a step forward through the entryway, hesitant to fully stride in. 

“Oh, oh thank you. Thank you, miss. Thank you,” he repeats his gratitude over and over again, nodding his head continuously like an overzealous puppy. His hands snap back into a prayer position to further emphasize his appreciation. He takes another step, broad shoulders pushing past the threshold of your home. His awestruck eyes never leave you. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” you smirk, shutting the door behind him. It’s too late to turn back now. “You have a name, stranger?“

“You can call me Remmick,” he murmurs, setting the two gold coins in your open palm as he continues his voyage into your personal space. His hand is drenched with sweat. You recoil as the moisture coating the coins kisses your skin. The coins are heavy, definitely real gold. You place them down on a nearby console table by the door and wipe your hand on your pants while his back is turned. 

Definitely an unusual currency for someone to be carrying along with them. The name Remmick… also unusual. You’ve never heard a name like that before. It was different, but you like the ring of it. Remmick. 

“Alright, uh. Remmick,” you nod. “Take a seat, I’ll get you somethin’ to drink. Water or iced tea?”

“Thank you, again, miss,” Remmick’s grin hadn’t faded. If anything, it grows wider as he continues to speak with you. “Water’s fine. I ain’t too picky.” 

“Comin’ right up,” you smile back at him. The stranger takes a seat in your reading spot after moving your book onto the table. He gives you a friendly nod. Great. He’s gonna stank up my favorite chair. You try to shake the thought of your peace being disrupted as you stride to the kitchen. It’s only for a moment, then he’ll be on his way. 

You reach into the cupboard and snatch the closest glass. Did I make the right decision letting this guy in? You can’t help but ponder the outcome of your choice as you let water fill the cup. What if he IS dangerous? What if he just tricked me by acting helpless and scared? Am I going to regret this? What am I thinking…? Why did I let him in?

Water overflowed onto your hand while you were musing. Maybe you’re just overthinking things. Not all men are bad, surely. Maybe he is just passing by. Maybe he was getting chased by something in the woods. What are the odds that a good man just randomly shows up on your doorstep…? Give him a chance. You dry your hand off and try to clear your head. A chance… Everyone deserves a chance. Even smelly weirdos carrying gold coins.

As you make your way back into the living room, you see Remmick holding your book, his eyes scanning the sentences. He hears the creak of your footsteps and turns his attention to you. He’s sitting lax in your chair, making himself right at home. His legs are crossed and propped up on the nearby table. The candlelight accentuates the veins in his hands and the furrow of his brow. A sly smirk creeps across his face.

“Dracula, huh?” He scoffs, flicking his wrist so that the cover of the book faces you. He lets out a little chuckle and cocks an eyebrow as he reads a passage out loud. “Listen to them - the children of the night. What music they make!”

“What’s the problem?” You bark, unamused by his seemingly mocking tone. He quickly reels back.

“Oh, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he pauses. “I just hear it’s… a little scary, is all. You ain’t scared?”

“Hard to be scared of somethin’ that’s not real,” you sneer, inching closer to the strange man in your chair. You hand him the glass of water. Instead of taking a swig like you’d expect a parched man to do, he places it down next to your iced tea - the collected condensation dripping onto the wooden coaster. “Besides, I like a good monster story. I recently read through Frankenstein and it was a hoot!”

“Oh?” Remmick grins, tilting his head to the side. “What makes you think monsters ain’t real?”

“The only monster I know is men,” you snap back. “Vampires, werewolves, stitched together abominations - they’re just fairy tales. Fiction.”

Remmick contemplates for a moment, his fingers still curled around the book’s spine. He looks back at you, his eyes gleaming in the light. They almost looked like they were shining a different color - crimson. But it was nothing more than a trick of the light. 

“Hey now, fairy tales ain’t always fiction. Always a little truth to ‘em,” he teases. He sets the book down pages first on the table, making sure you didn’t lose your place. “‘sides, if you ever met a real monster… oh, I guarantee you wouldn’t be leavin’ your door open or your windows cracked. I wager the heat is safer than the possibility of somethin’ evil creepin’ down the hall.”

Something about the way Remmick spoke of monsters troubles you. His eyelids drooped halfway, hiding his intentions under their shadow. He stares at you, his gaze never wandering from your trembling body, burning into your core and twisting your stomach in knots. Your eyes drift to his left finger - the light of the candles drawing attention to a ring. A wedding ring?

“You married?” You change the subject as quickly as possible, the less talk about monsters the better. His eyelids perk back up. He looks directly at his ring, almost as if it’s the first time he’s noticed it’s there for quite some time.

“Once,” he murmurs quietly. A somber expression plastered on his face, his eyes shying away from you. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it further. “You?”

“Once,” you reply. You lied. You were never married. You were engaged once - but the man you once considered your life. Your soul. Your very home. He has long since abandoned you. All alone in this empty house. Remmick didn’t prod.

“Do you live alone, miss?” Remmick inquires. His tongue licks his front teeth before he shuts his mouth. He still hadn’t taken a sip from his glass of water. You weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t want this stranger to know that you did, in fact, live alone. Better make something up. 

“No, but… I am alone for the night,” you continue to lie. You weren’t always the best liar, and you were almost positive Remmick could tell, but you carry on. “My sister is out in town with her fiancé. They won’t be back for a few hours.”

Remmick nods, sinking into your chair with a hearty sigh. He looks over at you, studying you once again. His eyes pierced through your skin, as if he was looking directly at your soul. Even from a distance his gaze gives you goosebumps.

“But you ain’t alone right now, are ya darlin’?” his eyes soften as he speaks. The polite southern cadence sung through his charming smile. He swapped his gracious honorific for an informal term of endearment. You feel your gut clench when this stranger refers to you by a pet name, followed by a fluttering sensation in your chest. It’s been awhile since someone spoke to you like that. “How often do you feel lonely?”

What a strange question, but one you think about more than you’d care to admit. It’s like he was digging into your brain with a venom-encrusted shovel, asking just the right things to make you squirm.

“Not too often. I don’t mind being by my lonesome. I think I’m good company,” you laugh awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”

Remmick pauses for a moment. You couldn’t pinpoint the expression on his face, but you could see him turn to the window. He stared at it longingly, still silent, still thinking. You could slice the silence in the room with a knife. 

He begins to sift in the chair, uncrossing his legs and setting his boots down on the floor with a heavy thud. Remmick’s head swivels back towards you. 

“I ask because,” he starts, standing up. His shadow flickers on the floor with the dancing candlelight, enveloping you in shifting darkness. “Well… I sure don’t like bein’ lonely.”

Remmick’s voice falters, his words stricken with a hint of sorrow. Your brows knit together. Concern and fear pool in the pit of your stomach as he slowly approaches you.

“And I been lonely for a very, very long time,” his voice cracks slightly. A low growl rumbling deep in his throat. “It’s hard to find good company for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Your eyebrow cocks upward, concern simmering into curiosity. Be careful. Curiosity never fails to kill the cat. 

“A monster,” Remmick exhales. He marches forward, his head bowed down to the floor. The air grew heavier the closer he lurched. You wanted to back up, but something was stopping you. An invisible force holds you in place as this stranger continues his pace forward. This stranger, that you let in, stomps closer and closer. Your entire body tenses with every step he takes. “And I ain’t good enough company for myself. Never have been.”

By the time his feet meet yours, you could feel a yelp blossoming beneath your breath. You stifle it the best you can, gulping it down with a hard swallow. Your heart hammers in your chest and your hands grow clammy. He lifts his head, ever so slightly - a droplet of sweat dribbles from his glistening forehead. His eyes flicker maniacally in the candlelight. 

“I’ve seen so much death. War. Famine. Lost so many loved ones. My wife… killed right in front of me,” he rasps. “I can still hear her screams in the silence… echoin’ in my head.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How COULD you respond to that? This stranger who went from imposing, to pathetic, to sincere, right back to imposing - unloading his trauma on you completely indiscriminately, completely out of nowhere. What was he expecting from you? What exactly does he want?

You remain silent. Silent enough that you could hear the candle wicks crackle. This seems to agitate Remmick, the corner of his upper lip twitching. 

He looks deep into your eyes, his pupils dilating like a wild animal. His eyes shift violently between blue and crimson. You weren’t so sure if it was a trick of the light anymore or if his eyes were literally changing. Either way, it was unnerving. 

He reels himself back a bit, a sharp inhale filling his nose as he lifts his head up to meet your eyes. Your body shudders with anticipation for whatever comes next. 

“I’m so sorry, darlin’. I’m bein’ a real wet blanket, ain’t I?” He chuckles a little, realizing his emotional outburst might have been a bit too intense. “Forgive me. I just uh. I get a little emotional when I take in the sight of a pretty thing like you. You… you remind me of her, is all.”

He gently reaches a hand out and cups your cheek. The sudden touch, chilling and coarse, makes a tingle twist down your spine. He caresses your face softly. The rough pad of his thumb traces circles on your lips. He stares deeply into your eyes again, honing in on the emptiness in your heart - something the two of you seem to share.

Your eyes twinkle in the candlelight as you gaze back at him. You could sense a deep pain buried underneath his rough and tumble exterior. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel in this moment… on one hand, you missed the touch of another human on your skin. On the other, your sneaking suspicion was starting to rear its ugly head. This guy might be dangerous, or worse - he might want something more than he let on. 

Something in your mind pleaded with you to let it happen, begging for the attention you’ve denied yourself. The need for connection. The need for embrace. 

You decide to welcome Remmick’s touch. You raise a hand and plant it firmly over his. A smile forms on his roguish face, those crooked teeth baring themselves. His hand was unnaturally cold, but the feel of it against your face brings you a sense of comfort you’ve long since missed. 

His intense eyes burned into your very being, hypnotically enticing you to stare back. That odor you whiffed before letting him in washed away with his touch, now all you could smell was the burning wicks of the candles and the night air rolling in from the open window.

“Her eyes sparkled exactly like yours in the right light,” he speaks tenderly, musing on his lost love while delicately stroking your face. “Her lips pursed in a way I’d never forget, either.”

He leans in close, his hand never leaving your face. You could feel his hot breath on your skin, his lips nearly brushing yours. 

“May I kiss you?” He whispers, polite as ever. He hovered close enough to your lips that he could lay one on you if he really wanted to. He at least had the courtesy to ask permission. You pull away briefly, contemplating whether or not allowing yourself the embrace would be worth it. But nothing was worse than the fear — what happens if I DON’T? 

You nod, but before you can open your mouth to say anything, his lips crash into yours. His warm mouth covers yours with a searing sweetness. You could feel the stubble on his chin rub against you.

A flurry of emotions caught in your chest. The cold caress of his palm on your face coupled with the warmth of his lips coalesced into a strange sensation, but you weren’t complaining. 

He lets out a soft purr as you purse your lips to return the same fervor, matching his passion. Your eyelids flutter closed as you lean deeper into the kiss. His other hand reaches behind you, splaying ever so gently on the curve of your back. His fingers languidly stroke your back. Without warning, you feel his tongue slither between your lips. You exclaim softly, feeling Remmick’s lips twist into a satisfied smirk as he delves his long, flat tongue deep into your mouth. 

It flicks at the back of your teeth, as if he were tasting your last meal. You let out a breathy, unprovoked moan as his tongue completely wraps around yours in a wet, slimy embrace. He chuckles, thrilled that you’re enjoying this, even a little bit. His hand that cupped your face shifts up into your hair. He takes hold of you gently, pulling you even deeper into the kiss. His fingers knot into your hair as he continues his relentless exploration of your mouth.

A tight, swelling warmth pools in your stomach. This man, this stranger - kissing you with a passion you hadn’t felt in so long, if ever. You were right about one thing. Men only want one thing, but maybe… just maybe, you did too. You allow your tongue to coil with his, melding together in a glorious harmony.

“Santaíonn mé thú…” Remmick whispers into your mouth in a language you’ve never heard before. His tongue hadn’t ceased moving along yours, saliva mixing together with a furious momentum. The hand caressing your back slides further down, nearly grazing your rear.

Your senses begin to come back to you, causing you to pull away - a strand of spit still connecting your lips. He looks at you, eyelids half shut, lips still pursed together.

“My sister and her husband will be home soon,” you say with a hush. He shoots you a look, his hands still gripping you. His lips curve into a devilish sneer.

“Thought you said your sister had a fiancé?” His grasp tightens in your hair. He gives a wicked chuckle that bellows deep from the confines of his throat. “‘sides, I ain’t worried. Your sister don’t live with ya. And she ain’t comin’, not tonight.”

A chill shivers down your spine. You were right again, Remmick could tell you were lying. 

He leans in close, his burning gaze paralyzing you.

“I’ve been watchin’ you for a while now, darlin’,” he growls. “You ain’t ever felt these eyes on you? Heard noises at night outside your window? That was me. Keepin’ ya company when no one else would.”

Panic swirls in your mind. You’d never felt his gaze before today. Not that you could recall. Was he just messing with you? Or was he actually watching you… waiting for the perfect moment to strike… when the loneliness of this empty house had finally caught up to you? 

“Don’t you worry, sweet thing,” he coos, his gaze and his grip softening. His hand trails back up and massages small circles on your back to put you at ease. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya. Don’t wanna hurt ya. I sensed how alone you were. Could sense the hurt in your soul. Thought maybe you needed someone. Needed me.”

His lips peck your cheek, planting a soft kiss. His lips travel further, kissing down to your slender neck. 

He remains there, perfectly still. You could feel him deeply inhale, breathing in your scent like a beast teasing its prey before the kill. Before you could react, his tongue juts out, licking your neck. You shudder as the slimy appendage leaves a trail of spit on your exposed neck. He sighs at the taste of your skin. 

“You know, I wanna thank you,” he mutters. His hot breath weighs heavy on your throat. “I want to thank you for letting me in. Thank you for indulgin’ me. Quenchin’ me.”

“Quenching you?” Your eyes dart to his full glass of water, the condensation nearly soaking the table it sat on. “B-but you didn’t even drink the water I gave you.”

He let out a dark, foreboding laugh. He met his eyes to yours, the blue color you recognized had been completely usurped by a reflective crimson. Your heart thuds ferociously beneath your breast as his grin grows wide, damn near ear to ear - but it was different this time. 

Instead of crooked, imperfect human teeth was a row of pointed, twisted canines. Fangs. 

His fangs glint in the candlelight, sharp and horrific. Saliva began forming from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down to his scruffy chin. Thick and viscous like a snake’s venom. 

“Aw, you sweet girl,” he takes a breath in, the clamp of his fingers in your hair and on your back growing tighter again. Constricting you and forcing you close against his body. So close you could feel something thick and warm twitching against your groin. Close enough to feel the faint, slow beat of his heart. “I don’t got a need for water, as kind as it was for you to bring it to me. My tastes are more refined. I can lie too darlin’, I am picky and I wasn’t runnin’ from anythin’… I was runnin’ to you.”

His lips meet your throat, fangs grazing delicately along your sensitive skin. You could feel his tongue slither down your neck like a mindless slug. You couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. 

“I wanna taste you. Just a taste. I ain’t gonna bite too hard… not yet,” he mumbles into your flesh. A sharp prick digs into you before you even have a chance to protest or process what was happening. It doesn’t hurt, but it definitely stings. A warm drop of blood drizzles down your neck. Remmick’s tongue is quick to lap up your essence as it trickles out of your fresh puncture wound. He moans into your throat, hands still gripping onto you as if you’d vanish the second he lets go. “Mmm, like heaven.”

His face journeys upward, his nose sniffing you deeply as he kisses you. Tiny little pecks peppered up your neck, to your cheek, and all the way back home. His lips meet yours once again, the coppery taste of your own blood bitter on his tongue. 

Your mind races. Afraid, aroused - all at once.

He lied to you, he lied to get inside, betrayed your already fragile trust… and yet, the thrill is utterly insatiable. You were petrified but you didn’t want him to stop. The conflicting emotions subdue you, giving into the sweet surrender this monster, this man, was lulling you into. You couldn’t speak, could barely think straight. 

“God… you taste… exquisite,” Remmick licks his lips after leaving yours. He sniffs at the air, his nose working overtime as if tracking the scent of something stronger. Something even more delicious. His hand slides from your back and slides its way to your stomach leaving goosebumps in their wake. It splays wide, the length of his fingers enveloping your womb. “Mm. I wanna taste all of ya.”

With a sudden movement, Remmick scoops you up into his arms, cradling you tight against his chest. He picked you up as if you were weightless. His chin nuzzles your head as you sink into his arms. You don’t try to fight it. It’s not like you had much choice. 

This man that you let into your home was dangerous, you were right to be suspicious. Your intuition rarely fails you. You let your guard down and now you’re being whisked away, carried like a sack of potatoes in your own home. 

The worst part is… you didn’t hate it. In fact, you like it. 

“Which way to the bedroom, darlin’?” His voice a low, husky rasp. You knew exactly what he wanted, and if you didn’t give in, it’s likely something horrible was going to happen to you. A part of you wanted it too… desperately. 

You bite your lip, your body shuddering in his strong arms as you point in the direction of your bedroom. Right down the hall. The loneliest, darkest room in the house.

He strides towards it, not skipping a beat as he kicks the door open, no longer in need of an invitation. The musty smell of old furniture fills your nostrils as he places you gently on the bed. His red eyes shine faintly in the dark. Still hungry. Starved, even. 

“Stay put,” he says, exiting the room for a moment. Remmick’s brief moment of absence, this little moment of peace, left you feeling that empty pit in your stomach again. Perhaps you really were more lonely than you thought. More empty, more longing. It was a feeling you shoved deep down, in hopes that keeping to yourself and enjoying your own company was enough for you. 

But in reality, it wasn’t. 

You see two orbs of orange light bob down the hallway. Remmick, carrying two of the candles from the living room, makes his way back through the door. He sets one candle down on the left night stand, the other on the right. 

“I want you to see me,” he croons, kneeling down onto the bed. His lean, muscular frame canvases you as you decline further into the bed. His broad shoulders cast a mountainous shadow. The light of the candles prance around his features - his soft, wicked smile a ballet across his face. The light bounces off of the gold chain dangling helplessly from his neck. “I want you to see all of me. Every emotion on my face. Every drop of ya on my lips.” 

Your heart fluttered at the last sentence. He lowers his face down to you, mapping kisses along your cheeks, down to your neck where the puncture wound was still fresh. He kisses your wound delicately. 

His cold hand creeps underneath your blouse, navigating up to your sensitive breastd. You let out a surprised breath as his hand caresses the supple mound. His other hand lifts your shirt upward and over your head, revealing your naked torso. He inhales sharply as he soaks you in. 

“Faith and begorrah…” he mutters under his breath, his southern cadence cracking into something more foreign. Brogueish, if you had to guess. His hand is still clutching desperately at your breast, fingers kneading it gently. Drool trickles from his open mouth, his hand picking up the pace. He catches your rigid nipple between his fingers, pulling it forward. 

You let out a whimper, a pleasurable little sound, as he continues to play with your breast. The heat of the summer and the heat of your pleasure started to swelter, sweat causing your hair to stick to your forehead and your breath to develop into a pant. 

Remmick shoves his lips onto yours, his hand rhythmically circling the sensitive skin around your nipple. His other hand raises to your neck, gently wrapping around it to deepen the kiss. His tongue matches the beat of his hand, swirling around yours in a duet of pure bliss.

He inhales deeply again, his nose twitching. He smelled something on you. Something sweet. Something intoxicating. Something delicious. His lips leave yours, his hand not far behind. The strand of spit connecting your coupling breaks apart as he opens his mouth to speak. 

“You smell that?” he asks, his nose huffing the air like a hungry dog. His face travels down your body before finally reaching the apex of your thighs. He takes a mighty whiff again before letting out a sharp whine. “Ohhh, darlin’ you smell divine. You smell like nectar. Warm, exquisite nectar. A sweet honey the bees could only dream of producin’.”

Remmick’s fingers curl around the hem of your pants, pulling them down in one swift succession. His hand finds your panties - a pool of warmth already seeping through the thin layer of cotton. You feel a sense of shame thinking about how much you were enjoying this. His eyes widen as he traces a finger along the lines of your folds through the sopping fabric. 

“Mm. I knew I smelled somethin’ sweet,” he giggles, bringing his dampened finger to his mouth. His tongue wraps around the length of his digit, swirling around the coat of fluids. He moans, the taste of you washing a current of ecstasy over his face. “Ohhh. Wow. Even better than blood, baby. Heavens above, I need more. May I? May I taste you?”

You nod, your body quaking underneath him. Was this really happening? You could feel your cheeks burn hot with anticipation. 

His veined hand tears your panties away in one hurried motion. You let out a wince of surprise as he exposes your sex to the open air. He quickly lowers himself, his face eye-level with your lower half, eager to plunge himself into you. 

“I want you to look at me,” he demands. His hands possessively grip the outside of your thighs. His eyes blazing wildly in the light as he stares up at you. “Watch me, like I’ve watched you, sweet thing.”

When your eyes draw to him, his grin widens as he licks his lips. With no more hesitation, his mouth encloses around your cunt. A jolt of electricity hits your body as the warmth of his mouth encases you. His nose sat comfortably on your clit while his tongue playfully twists at your folds. You could hear him moan into you, tasting every inch of your tender entrance. His tongue pushes forward through the threshold, lapping up all of the juices that flowed from you. 

You shudder. No man has ever done this for you. No man has ever tried to make you feel this way before. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to but, by god, could you get used to it. You let out a moan of your own as he pushes onward, letting yourself fully succumb to the pleasure. 

Remmick’s grip on your thighs tighten, his nails digging red crescent shapes into your skin. His tongue dove as deep as possible into you, circling your walls with an intense dedication. His fangs tease the curve of your cunt, not enough to hurt but you could feel the sharpness graze you. 

You look at him, as he wished. His eyes were shut, mouth working over time solely to please you. You take the reins, reaching down to grab onto his messy dark hair. The greasy strands tangle around your fingers as you pull his face deeper into your heat, anchoring yourself to him. The two of you moan in tandem as you hold on for dear life. He shifts beneath you, digging his hips into the bed as he ground his sopping face against you, licking with all of the power he could muster. 

One hand slips from your thigh and onto your sensitive clit, rubbing delicate circles as he continues his feast. His tongue snaking faster into your walls, keeping up the pace of his thumb on your little bundle of nerves.

You could feel an intense, broiling heat swell deep in your groin. The pace of his thumb and his tongue rapidly increase along with the grind of his hips. The old bed creaks beneath the two of you. You could feel the warmth of his breath as he pants heavily against your entrance. 

“That’s it, baby,” he groans inside you, the tips of his fangs poking at your flesh as he speaks, his voice a low growl. He could feel your release coming, the way your walls fluttered against his tongue. “Sing for me.”

As if spurred on by his words, you feel the tension of your climax overwhelm you. An explosion of pleasure unleashes from you, your body spasming from the intensity. You scream as your walls clamp and contract around Remmick’s tongue. 

He lets out a triumphant grumble as his tongue wiggles furiously inside you, lapping up every drop of your essence as if it was his sustenance. The fuel for his undying fire. 

As your climax ebbs out, Remmick lifts his head, fixating his sights on you. His mouth, wet with your slick, hangs open. Your juices and his saliva dribble down his chin, licking his lips to savor the flavor. He slides two of his long fingers into your dripping, sensitive cunt. He brings his face up close to yours. 

“I want you to taste yourself,” he says, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a similar pace to his tongue. Your body ripples with delight, still recovering from your overwhelming climax. “Taste this delicacy.” 

He crashes his slathered face into yours, his tongue finding itself back home inside the pillowy warmth of your mouth. You have trouble describing the taste, but it was uniquely yours. You’ve never felt anything quite like that, not from any of your partners. No one else has made you feel like that. Remmick was different, really different. Eager to please.

Your heart pounds in your chest - but not from fear anymore. From pure, unmitigated pleasure.

The pace of his fingers falters before he fully removes them, the sloppy sound echoing in the room. You felt something heavier grinding at your groin. Remmick, still fully clothed but baked in sweat, grinds his hips against your quivering cunt. You could feel his pants grow tight against his body, constricting his throbbing girth. His pants are swiftly soaked with you as he continues to rub on you, slowly and meticulously. 

“Mm… feel that?” he moans into your mouth. “Do ya feel what you’re doing to me?”

He snatches your hand and cups it on his clothed length. You could feel it writhe in your grasp. It was big, bigger than you’re used to. You squeeze it, causing Remmick to let out a breathy groan. 

“Oh… le do thoil… let me free,” he rasps, his southern drawl once again breached by a melodic lilt, the heavy brogueish accent riddling his growling voice. You like how it rang in your ears, how desperate he sounded. You oblige him, his needy and wistful eyes piercing into yours as he watches you undo his belt with a metal CLICK.

In a rush to release his throbbing arousal from its clothed prison, he unzips himself. He pulls his pants down past his ankles and onto the floor, slipping his boots off in the process. He wasn’t wearing any undergarments. 

You could see it amidst the dark and unruly public hair - his weeping, twitching cock springing free, bobbing up and down. Thick, blue veins bulged on his thick shaft. The slit on his crown leaks, excited to meet you. Your mouth starts to salivate as you gawk at the massive girth before you.

He swiftly removes his shirt, only opting to keep the chain around his collarbone. His chest was bare, not a single hair or scar to be found other than a large cross tattoo etched into his left side. Ironic, you think to yourself. A sinning saint. 

He leans into you, his body looming on top of yours. His crimson eyes, glowing with desire, lock onto you. His mouth dangles open, sharp teeth peeking out. A thick strand of pearlescent drool trickles from the corner of his mouth. The sweat on his skin glistens in the candlelight. 

He maneuvers the head of his cock to your entrance. It twitches and leaks as it sits gently between your folds. He teases it against you, using your combined slick to rub it up and down, kissing your sensitive clit with every stroke. He bends his head down, his slimy drool dribbling carelessly onto your lips. 

In the heat of the moment, you stick your tongue out and lick the viscous slobber pooling onto your lips. Remmick lets out a surprised gasp. 

“God damn,” he mutters, a dumbstruck smile worming across his face. “Shit darlin’, you want some more?” 

With your eyelids half-lidded, gazing at him seductively, you open your mouth wide. He’s taken aback by this, but more than happy to fulfill your twisted desire. He puckers his lips and allows a controlled stream of saliva to cascade from his maw. The slow, painfully slow, drip of his thick spittle eventually finds its way onto your tongue. 

You swirl it around as it flows into your mouth. The taste is oddly sweet, combined with the taste of your own juices and a slight hint of coppery blood still lingering. It was warm, syrupy, and you hate to admit it, but you fucking loved it. 

He lets the last drops of his drool hang from his chin before wiping it off, only for you to grab his hand and lick the excess smear from his palm. You utter a soft moan, making sure you swallow every last morsel. He smiles a wide, sinful grin. His cock twitching even more violently against you.

“Christ,” he laughs, elated by your lewd gesture. “Fuck, you’re perfect. Ohhh I knew I liked you.”

He leans in for another open-mouthed kiss, mixing more of his saliva deep down your throat. His cock still nipping at your entrance, but not pushing forward. As if an invisible barrier stopped him from penetrating you.  

“Tell me I’m allowed in,” he whimpers into the kiss, sweat sprinkling onto you as the sticking heat of his forehead touches yours. “Invite me into you, baby. I need to hear you say it. You gotta let me in.”

This plea gives you the same sense of power you felt the first time he begged at your door. He wasn’t allowed to fuck you until you gave him the power to do so. He had permission to walk inside your house, permission to kiss and devour you, but fucking you was an entirely different boundary he needed access to. 

You let him linger there, staring up at him with doe-like eyes as he shudders and shakes. He breathes a heavy pant as he sits there idly, cock leaking on your folds. You feel it throb and writhe. He wanted this more than anything.

You remain silent. The silence was agonizing for him. Desperation painted on his face. Just waiting for you to give the word. He balls his fists and grips onto the sheets, anchoring himself to the bed. 

“Please baby, please don’t leave me hangin’ like this,” he whines, the despondent cry of his voice choked from his lips. His eyes began to water, starved by desire and longing. “You want me to beg again? You want me on my knees, prayin’ to the heavens? Prayin’ to you?  ’Cause I’ll do anything, sugar. Anything you want.”

He bites himself with his fangs, a trickle of his blood beginning to flow from his lower lip. He lets out tiny whimpers as he trembles above you, his cock impatiently yearning to claim you. His brows knit and his lips shape into a pout.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, his cock driving onto your clit, nowhere else for it to go. He rocks back and forth. His engorged head smooches your little bundle of nerves over and over as he incessantly repeats his begging, sounding more desperate by the syllable. He glides on your slick folds errantly. “Please, ohhh please. Please, please please. Please. Please. Pleeeeaaaase.”

His pathetic, needy whines awakened something in you. The thought of bringing a man to this state of desperation spurred on your own desire. His whines and whimpers, pleading just for you. The thrum of his cock against your sensitive nub marching onward. His damp crimson eyes flutter open and closed, tears starting to form on his eyelashes. You could feel both of your fluids mingling together as he leaks helplessly against your folds. You love every second of it.

Finally, you say it.

“Come on in.” 

Those three little words were all Remmick needed. He wipes away the desperate tears and looks down at you, smile growing wide enough that you could see the gleam of his mouthful of fangs in the warm candlelight. A fiery, emboldened glint flickers in his crimson eyes.  

He got exactly what he wanted, and now? He could enter you as many times as he pleased. There was no going back. And you were more than okay with that. 

With no further delay, he guides the head of his cock into your entrance. A quiet, staggered breath escapes your lips as the crown stretches you open. The gripping, wet heat welcomes him inside.

“Fuuuck,” Remmick moans, his voice a low grumble. His eyes roll back into his head as he slowly begins to drag his girth deeper. He stops for a moment once his cock is shallow in you - halfway inserted and yet the stretch of him was beyond your usual capacity. It twitches eagerly between the tight cushiony enclosure. Every vein and ripple caressing your insides. “You feel like home.”

He sheaths the rest of his arousal into your warmth with a single, powerful thrust. A hoarse cry escapes his throat once he completely buried himself to the hilt. Your soft, slick walls squeeze and flutter around him as you let out a squeal of your own. His girth fills you completely. Fills that emptiness in your core. It feels good. Real good. 

He remains still, taking in the heat of you around him. Taking in every inch of your body. The curve of your hips, the shape of your breasts. The way your eyes flirt with the candlelight. The sounds of pleasure squeaking from your lips. He commits it all to memory. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. One hand taut around your thigh, the other reaching out to touch your face. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed and lips pursed. He pulls back ever so slightly only to smother his cock in you again. He splays his hand across your womb so you could see the bump of his cock buried deep inside you. “Ya see that? See how deep I am?”

The obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes in the room when he begins to pick up his pace. His thrusts slamming waves of pleasure into you, the friction driving you further into a blissful abyss. 

Remmick drags his cock out to get a look at the fruits of his labor, his tip still hitched in your entrance. The shine of your juices coat his shaft. He grunts, almost inhuman, before snapping his hips back into you. 

A guttural noise escapes your throat. With every roll of his hips, brutal thrust after brutal thrust, you could feel the tension begin to spin deep within your body. Your steady moans in sync with his ceaseless rhythm. 

He pants heavily, tongue drooping from his mouth like a ravenous mutt. Drool continues to cascade from him. He lets it fall onto his pistoning cock, lubricating it even more as it continues plowing into you. You could see the immense pleasure plastered on his face - eyelids fluttering, jaw hung open, lips curved into an expression of pure, unbridled ecstasy. 

He lifts up your leg to push himself as deep as he could possibly go, this new position allowing him to plunge into that perfect hidden place inside you. The swollen head of his cock kisses your sweet spot with every swing of his hips, bringing you closer and closer to your peak.

Your chest tightens, heart rabbiting in your ribs. Your insides stretched and pulled. A burning, boiling heat brewing deep in your chest, rippling throughout your entire body. It coils in your groin, every nerve ending set alight and ready to burst. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Remmick hears you and slams into you harder. Faster. The intensity of him hitting your sweet spot, more and more, over and over, was unbearable. Your fingers clench onto the bedsheets. The headboard of the bed rocking into the wall with each roll of his hips. 

“Don’t fight it, sweet thing,” he coos, the relentless drag of his cock pushing you further and further over the edge. He circles his hips, making sure he hits every nook and cranny within you. “I wanna feel you squeezin’ ‘round me. I wanna feel you close in. Your body seizin’. Ohhh, I can feel it comin’. Come on, baby. Come on and come for me.”

In an instant, a rush of ecstasy flows through you. You let out a loud, gasping sob as your climax crashes into you like a tsunami. Your hips buck and wince. Your walls clamp around Remmick’s cock. He sits idle, his eyes watching your body seize around him, convulsing like a live wire. A devilish, satisfied sneer spreads across his face. He was loving this, but he wasn’t done with you yet. Not even a little bit. 

As your climax starts to dwindle, your body still involuntarily jerking, Remmick continues to drive his hips forward. The sounds were messy. Filthy. The wet, sloppy sounds of his skin slapping against yours, indulging in the mess you made, filled the air. 

His breath grows ragged, his chest heaving. He was close. You could feel it. 

“So warm… so wet… tá tú chomh tais… fuck,” he moans through gritted teeth, brogue accent and foreign words slipping out of his lips. His eyes roll back into his head again, his pace otherworldly fast, growing erratic and uncontrolled. Hitting your perfect spot hard enough to spur on another mini-climax of your own. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

With a final, brutal thrust - he buries himself entirely, howling louder than a wolf, as he forces himself deep enough to reach your cervix. You feel an overwhelming heat flooding deep inside you. His cock pulsates and his hips buck, filling you to the brim with the molten flood of his passion. 

His body tremors, folding over you like origami. His head rests between your breasts. You could feel the wetness of his mouth as he moaned on your skin. Cock still sheathed, still pumping its thick essence into you. It leaks down your ass crack onto the sheets. It seemed endless. His cock continues pushing, instinctually prodding his seed even deeper. 

A sharp pain in your thighs causes you to wince. You peer down to see Remmick’s fingernails - once human and crescent-shaped, were now sharp. Ferocious. Monstrous. Digging deep enough to make you bleed. He gripped you tight, holding you in place to make sure not a single drop of him was wasted. 

“God… damn,” he murmurs, his face still planted in your chest, his breath heavy on your skin. “Holy shit, that was… god damn.”

He kisses your chest before lifting himself off of you. He noticed how deep his claws were digging into you. A look of surprise washes over his sweat-bleached face. He removes his claws - his fingers had grown long and gnarled, dripping with fresh blood. He sticks his bloody fingers in his mouth, tasting your divine essence, quietly moaning as he licks himself clean.

“I’m so sorry darlin’, didn’t realize what I was doin’ to ya. Got carried away. You’re just so… mm. Intoxicatin’,” he sighs, mouth still red with blood and moist with saliva. 

You hear the wet sound of his still-erect girth slithering out of you with a squelching snap. You could feel the excess releases seep out of you, warm against your skin. 

He climbs his way closer to you on all fours until he straddles your chest with his chiseled thighs. His aching, dripping cock twitching over your naked body, leaving a trail of your combined fluids in its wake. 

”Open wide for me, sweet thing.” He nudges the drenched tip of his cock to your lips. The salty mess smears a thin, slimy layer on your mouth. His slender claws tangle in your hair. “Go on and clean me up now.”

Delirious, you follow his directions and open your mouth, your tongue laying flat on the tip. He bares a toothy grin, slowly pushing himself into the warmth of your mouth. He lets out a soft moan as he feels the wet embrace of your tongue wrap around him.

“I’d say watch the teeth, but… well, that’d make me a hypocrite wouldn’t it?” he chuckles, shoving himself deeper until you could feel him teasing the back end of your tongue, a drawn out rasp ripping through his throat. He holds you in place, sharp tendons clawing at your scalp. 

You taste the bitter, savory flavor of your combined excretions as he ruts his cock back and forth on your tongue, slathering it deeper. His cock continues to twitch and throb with each thrust. You could feel every ripple, vein and texture of his skin on your tongue as it glided itself in and out of you effortlessly. 

“Mm. Fuck. I wanna feel my cock in your throat,” he growls, his pace increasing and the grip on your hair tightening, animalistic urges overtaking him. His voice became harsh and cruel, like gravel underneath a steel-toed boot. You look up at him with watering eyes, streams of saliva dribbling down your chin. His red eyes sear back into you with a needy and insatiable glow. “I wanna feel your pretty little throat constrictin‘ me.”

With a sudden movement, he thrust himself deep down your throat. You gag the moment the crown of his cock hammers into the back of your esophagus. A surplus of spit leaks out of the corners of your stretched mouth, coating his balls with a frothy sheen. All you could do is breathe out of your nose and wait for it to end.

He stalls there briefly. Completely still besides his quivering cock. It trembles wildly against your tongue. His claws tighten in your hair, keeping you trapped close to him - your nose squashed against his pelvis. His girth damn near choking you to death.

“Ohhh, fuck, you fit me like a glove. My sweet, filthy girl,” Remmick croaks. He begins to rock his hips slowly at first, each thrust touching the very depths of your throat.  “It’s like you were made for me.”

Your mind starts to blur, the intensity of his strokes making you dizzy with lust and lack of proper oxygen. The corners of your vision grow dark as you swallow him whole.

“Just like that,” he snarls, losing himself with every deep stroke of his cock. Your throat expands and massages him as he smothers himself in you. Your mouth wrapped taut around his length, breath coming in hot, quick puffs against his skin. “Juuust like that, sweetheart.”

His hips continue to rock, a little bit faster with every roll, your moans and muffled sounds reverberating along his shaft. Puddles of your saliva pool onto your skin and down to your breasts. His sounds of pure euphoria were all you could hear amidst the wet sounds of his cock slamming into you and his balls smacking your chin with every stroke.

“We taste good together, don’t we?” He moans. You feel his cock twitch and squirm on your tongue, the swollen crown leaking salty precum down your throat, ready to explode at any moment. His claws tighten their grip in your hair, keeping you steady against his gyrating groin. 

With a thunderous, beastial roar, he heaves himself deep into your mouth one final time - the pulsing head of his cock spewing thick, hot waves of his desire down your throat. His body shudders as he holds you close against his hips. You feel the never-ending eruption pulsating and painting your throat a shade of white. 

As if nature itself told you to, you swallow down his release, swirling your tongue around him as he continues pumping his essence into you. He lets out a squealing moan as you work your magic, cupping and massaging his balls with your hand, coaxing every last drop out of him. Frothy saliva oozing out of your mouth - snot bubbling from your nose as you struggle to breathe through it. You feel the thrashing of his cock slow down, his own breath steadying.

His grip on you finally loosens. He slowly pulls himself out of you, inch by excruciating inch, until the swollen head of his cock escapes your lips with a loud pop. You cough and gasp for air before one last weak spurt of his pearly white passion pumps onto your face. The warm, salty taste of it coats your lips. 

“Oops,” he chuckles, clawed fingers pressed to his mouth, a playful smile hiding behind it. He bends down until his face is eye level with yours, one hand still clutching your hair - much more softly now. 

His tongue presses flat on your lips, lapping up the light layer of his own release, moaning as it glides between them. He weasels his way back into the warmth of your mouth, pushing and swirling his remaining spillage onto your tongue and down your raw throat. 

You could feel the twisted fingers of his free hand reach back down to your dripping heat, cupping it gently. One finger presses onto the swollen nub of your clit, rubbing small circles until a familiar jolt of electricity surges through your body. The claws retract so they wouldn’t scrape you too harshly. 

“Mmm, darlin’,” he mumbles into your mouth, his finger still tracing sensual rings on your devil’s doorbell. He pulls his face away from you, a strand of spit still connected on your bottom lip.

His hand frees your hair from its grasp before slowly and intimately grabbing hold of your hand. He keeps it there for a moment, interlocking your fingers together. His hand is large, even larger with the gangly claws. He sighs longingly. A sweet, soothing sound after the chaos he just put you through. 

“Darlin’… oh, you sweet, sweet girl,” he coos, his eyes meeting yours. The harsh red tint glowing in the candlelight, searing deep into your soul. He looked like he wanted to kiss you again. Instead, he places your hand on his still-throbbing length. It’s still hard, still aching for your touch. “I know how bad you been wantin’ this. Almost as bad as me.”

One hand wraps around yours, guiding you up and down his length. It dribbles more precum, allowing your entangled hands to slide smoothly around the throbbing shaft. The other hand continuously presses your button, two fingers slipping in and out of your slick entrance. Your body tingles from the dual sensations.

“I know how you been hurt," he whispers, his grip around your hand tightening as he jerks himself with your palm. “I know how many sleepless, lonely nights you been dreamin’ of someone there with ya. Nights where you pleasure yourself, all by your lonesome. But you weren’t alone - not really. I was there, outside, waitin’. Waitin’ for the perfect night.”

Your hips buck in tandem, waves of pleasure uniting the two of you. His cock twitches in your grip, the friction from your movements causing his breath to catch in his throat. The rubbing on your clit and fingers in your depths picking up speed. His words are a blur as your focus narrows onto the way you’re feeling in the moment. The feeling of pure, unmatched ecstasy - the heights of which you’ve never climbed before.

“Waitin’ for the perfect night where your loneliness was at its worst,” he groans, feeling his climax building with every stroke of your hand on him. “Ohhh, I been waitin’ ever so patiently for you. I’ve dreamt of ya. I could sense your achin’ heart, sweet thing. Your achin’ cunt. I know you were dreamin’ of me too.”

Drool drips from the corner of his lips as he speaks. Your mind in a haze of lust, the unbearable intensity of pleasure consuming your every thought. Maybe you have dreamt this stranger before. His glowing, red eyes lurking in the shadows of your brain. His sharp, hungry smile just itching to sink into your memories. Haunting you from the inside-out. Deadly desire that woke you up, soaking and aching. Aching for him. 

Maybe he was always there in the back of your mind, and now? He’s here with you. In your bed, by your side. His cock in your hand. You always knew, deep down, that you wanted something like this, but never allowed yourself to let it in. Until now. 

“Achin’ for someone like me,” Remmick continues, his breath faltering. He releases his hand from yours, allowing you to tug on him at your own pace. His tongue lolls from his mouth, the coupled pleasure at the mercy of each other’s hands bringing you both to the brink of another release. “I’m here now, darlin’. I’m here to give you the lovin’ you deserve. Make ya feel whole. Make ya feel complete. Loved.”

With one last buck of his hips, another round of hot release spills onto you. It pumps into your hand. Warm, sticky seed drenching your fingers and your breasts, splattering on them like paint on a blank canvas. He plunges his fingers deep into you, adding a third and hitting that sweet spot hard enough to make you surge upward. Your own climax sweeps over you. You writhe and convulse on his spindly digits, feeling the gush of your fluids careening onto the sheets. Both of your mouths gape open, synchronized moans flooding the room. His fingers slip out of you as both of your orgasms fizzle out. 

The room reeked like sweat, sex, and the faint earthy scent of the burning candles. His hand cups your cheek, lightly petting you with his thumb. He twists your head to the side, showing him your slender neck - open, tantalizing, irresistible. Blood pumping through your veins with the thud of your heart. 

“Grá mo chroí… love of my heart,” he purrs, voice low and sultry. “You ain’t my long lost love, no, but… oh, you make me feel the same way. Make me feel things I ain’t felt since I was human.”

“What… are you, exactly?” you weakly pant, your glazed-over eyes gazing desperately into his. Your body trembles a bit. You already know the answer but you want to hear him say it.

“I told ya, sweet thing,” he laughs, baring his fangs at you. The candlelight only serves to make them look sharper, even more dangerous. And yet? You weren’t scared of him. Not entirely. “I’m a fuckin’ monster, baby. A creature of the night. A creature of desire, a cold-blooded killer. Blood-hungry beast. That book you were readin’? Well, consider it research.”

In a single, swift movement, he flips you onto your hands and knees. He shoves your head down into the pillow, arching your back and presenting your ass like a freshly cooked meal. The surprise of the sudden shift startles you, causing you to stumble - but he catches you. His hands wrap around your stomach, holding you close to him. 

You could feel his hips pressing up against you. His still-hard, still-weeping cock twitching against the meat of your flushed backside. The ridges of his girth rolled against you, smearing his leaking head all over your ass. 

“The things you do to me, darlin’,” he whispers, sweet words pouring into your ears like honey. “Never felt a cunt so perfect in my life.”

He maneuvers the head of his cock towards your glistening folds. It nudged insistently - prodding you, begging to be welcomed back and embraced into your gripping heat. His other hand sits firmly on your ass, the claws digging into your flesh as he teases you - gliding his engorged crown across your glistening folds with ease and precision. 

“I don’t need an invite anymore,” he rumbles, his voice low and coarse. You feel him pumping his cock with his hand - it brushes against your entrance with every movement of his fist. The slick head helplessly sobbing. “I can come in… anytime I want. Your home, your mind, your mouth, your perfect cunt. You’re mine now, sugar. All of ya. And I don’t think you mind one bit, do ya?”

His hips buck, plunging the head of his cock into you. You let out a gasp as he slides the rest of him as deep as possible, sheathing himself to the hilt. Your body adapted so easily to his size. It molded itself to him, gripping him like a vice that didn’t want to let go. Holding onto him like he was always meant to be there.

“Aw, look at ya,” he jeers, pulling himself all the way out of you. “Look at her. I leave her for one second and she’s already quiverin’ for more.” 

Was he… talking about your pussy? Your hazy mind thought for a moment, only to be overtaken by a searing pleasure when he slams himself back into you with a wicked snap of his hips. A guttural noise escapes your throat as he continues this teasing motion.

All the way out. All the way in.

Out.

In.

The rhythmic rolling of his hips punctuated by obscene smacking sounds. His claws grip onto your ass, pulling you into him with every deep thrust. You didn’t mind the pain anymore - the pleasure was all-consuming, encompassing your entire being with electric energy.

You were under his spell. 

“Mm, that's a good girl,” he coos. Drool continues to drip from his mouth, falling carelessly onto your bare cheeks. He wipes it off and smears it onto his cock for additional lubricant, not like he needed it. His praise and his drool only amplifies the pleasure he was already pumping you with. You couldn’t remember the last time someone praised you. “Takin’ me so good. Takin’ me so deep.”

One hand detaches from your reddened ass and tangles itself in your hair. He pulls your head from the pillows, arching your back even further. A choked groan escapes from your lips as his thrusts only grow more rapid, slamming deeper into you. You could feel the head of his cock kissing your cervix, nearly deep enough to break through the sensitive barrier and into your womb. 

The tension in your loins begins building again. Sweat pouring from both of your pores as he relentlessly fucks into you, the smack of his balls on your clit only ramping up the heat broiling in your core. Moans and filthy sounds of coupling flesh flooded the room. 

“Say my name, baby,” he leans into you, his voice a gentle whisper. He flicks his tongue out, licking the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Scream it to the heavens when you come undone. I know it’ll sound real pretty comin’ outta yer lips.” 

“R-Remmick,” you whimper. He thrusts into you - HARD. The sudden, powerful motion makes you hiss out of clenched teeth.

“Pretty, but you can do better,”  he demands, the grip on your hair and ass tightening. “Louder.” 

“Remmick,” you moan, almost teasingly. Another brutal thrust. 

“I said louder,” his voice shifting to a hoarse growl. He puts his mouth to your neck, his fangs making contact with your skin. If you don’t scream his name, he was going to rip your fucking throat out. “Louder or I’m gonna shred this pretty little neck of yours to pieces. Gonna drink my fill of you. Drain ya dry. Make ya scream my name one way or another.”

The pressure rose to unparalleled heights. He continues  relentlessly pounding into you as hard as he could without completely splitting you apart. His fangs poke at your neck, raking against you as he moves. His hot, broken breath puffing onto your skin. Tongue pressing flat against you. 

You could feel his mouth start to close in, sharp teeth ready to rip you open. Shivers spark down your spine. There was a chance he was bluffing, teasing you into submission, but you weren’t willing to take that risk. 

Your body tenses, tingling with that familiar sensation. You feel your walls close in, squeezing his cock as it rams into you with no sign of stopping. He unclaws his hand from your ass and slides it down to your clit. His gnarled finger twirling rigorously around your swollen nub.

The pain of his claws poking at your sensitive nerves and his fangs fixed at your throat paired deliciously with the pleasure of the drawn out circles being drawn on your clit and his cock furiously driving deeper and deeper into your sweet spot. It’s unbearable. It’s searing. It’s fucking bliss.

In the heat of the moment, when the tension swells to its highest possible peak, your floodgate bursts open.

“REMMICK!” 

A mischievous smile stretches across his face against your throat at the cry of his name out of your lips. Bursts of color and light flash in your eyes as your entire body convulses on him. A powerful gush of arousal rushes out of you, coating Remmick and the already soaked sheets below in a glossy, sopping wave of relief.

“Ohhhh, fuck yes, sweet thing,” he rasps, leaning back from your neck, holding himself steady inside you. He watches as your release completely unravels you, taking in the beauty of the rapture he unleashed. He absolutely loved watching you wriggle and writhe underneath him. He slowly pulls his cock out just enough to see how drenched you left him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Like music to my ears, baby.”

He hilts himself back into your spasming warmth, the sloppy squelch as he reimmersed himself tears a breathless moan from his heaving chest. Both of his hands mindlessly slide back to your hips, pulling you tight against his pelvis. The swollen head of his cock twitches against your battered cervix, as if begging to push past it. 

“You’re mine, now, sugar,” he rumbles, punctuating his words with every deep, passionate roll of his hips. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. Gonna visit you every time you’re feelin’ lonely. Every time you’re scared. Gonna keep you close to me, darlin’. Ain’t—ever—gonna—let—you—go.”

The movement of his hips grows erratic, uncontrollably plunging into your still-fluttering depths with animalistic abandon. The sound of his rasping moans mingle with the wet, obscene sounds of his thrusts. 

You’re still dizzy from the throes of your multiple climaxes. Your face flops back into the pillows, eyes glazed-over and drool all over your face. Usually, the only person who could do that to you was yourself. Your own hands, your own tools. Rarely ever has a man been gracious enough to send you into such a euphoric state of bliss - let alone more than once in a single night. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, ya know that?” He says through ragged breaths, his own climax gearing up. His voice shifts back and forth between that southern drawl and melodic lilt. “Perfect. Perfect body. Perfect face. Perfect… so perfect. Tá tú ar foirfe. Perfect.”

He pulls out of you almost entirely before hilting his entire length into you one last time. He lets out a deep, bellowing roar of pleasure as his cock throbs violently within your core. His entire body shakes and shudders above you. His claws hook deep into your skin. 

You were enraptured, captivated by the way his body tremors against you. The way his moans fill your ears like a symphony, a song meant to serenade only you. The way the scalding splatter of his release floods every ridge, every crook of your depths. His cock pumps endlessly, stirring his seed as deep as he could with every weak jerk of his hips. You feel as if your belly is swelling with how much of his thick essence spills into you. 

When the aftershocks of his climax finally begin to fade, he collapses onto you. He releases his grip on your flushed ass and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down onto the sheets with him, laying you down on your side. His softening cock still buried in you, plugging you up so none of his pearly white proof of passion would dare to escape.

He nuzzles into the nape of your neck. His sweat-soaked forehead rubbing gently on the back of your head. Soft purrs of satisfaction slip through his closed, smiling mouth. 

He starts leaving gentle trails of kisses along your neck, stopping at the knicks he left with his fangs. He kisses them even softer, apologizing for the damage he inflicted on you. 

“I could get used to this,” he sighs. His arms caressing your naked body as the two of you lie side by side, still conjoined at the groin. His hot breath brushes against your shoulders.

“Me too,” you hum. You turn your neck to face him, gazing longingly into his crimson eyes. This sets his undead heart aflutter. You feel it beat gently beneath his chest. Your own heart thuds wildly against your rib cage.

The quiet was palpable for a moment. The chaos of your coupling had finally settled. The candles continue their dance around the room, illuminating the curves of your entwined bodies.  

“You mean it?” He murmurs. A soft smile melts onto his face, eyes twinkling with awe. He sounds stunned by your words. Surprised that you’d reciprocate. “You really mean it, darlin’?”

“Remmick,” you start, fully twisting your body to face him, careful not to let his softened cock slip out of you. His arms are still wrapped around you in a warm embrace, eagerly waiting to hear what you were going to say. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. I’ll be honest… you terrified me at first. You terrified me every time you had your fangs in my throat. But I don’t know... it… it thrilled me. I liked the danger. I’ve spent so long cooped up alone to protect my peace that I started to miss spending time with another person... thank you.”

He looks at you, a shimmer of what you could only describe as longing glistening in his eyes. His wide, crooked smile radiates a sense of comfort. Despite the danger, the fear he caused you, you feel safe in his arms.

“Oh, sugar,” he whispers, one hand freeing itself from your waist to cup your cheek. His thumb lovingly brushes over your lips as he stares deep into your eyes. “How sweet of ya. I do apologize for frightenin’ ya. It’s in my nature, y’know. But… oh, it warms my cold dead heart to hear that comin’ from you. Thank you.” 

He captures your lips in a searing, passionate kiss before reluctantly sliding himself out of you. You feel his absence instantly, already missing the way his rigid girth perfectly squeezes into your walls. The remains of his essence drip down onto the drenched sheets. 

“I should get goin’, the sun’ll be up in a few ticks,” Remmick sighs with a hint of uncertainty. He didn’t seem to want to leave your side, but he starts to unhook himself from your waist in an effort to get up. You grab his retreating arm before he can completely let go.

“Stay. Please,” you beg. You caress his arm, soft hands kneading small circles across his skin. He studies your face with wistful, misty eyes. He didn’t want to leave, even if he felt like some kind of invisible force was pressuring him to. As if nature itself called for him to scurry off into the night and hide from the dawning sun. “I have a cellar you can stay in. No windows, so light won’t touch you. There’s even a little cot in there for you to sleep on… big enough for two.” 

Silence permeates the room between you. That emptiness you felt, the lonely feeling you tried so hard to shove deep down, vanishes with his touch. It disappears with him by your side. 

You didn’t care that he was a monster. You saw past that. He brought you back from the depths of isolation, and you knew, in your heart, you did the same for him. 

“Ohh, darlin’, I’d love to, I really would, b-but,” he stammers, desperately trying to fight against nature pulling him away from you. “I still gotta feed before the sun comes up, can’t go to bed on an empty stomach. I’ll be back tomorrow night, I promise. I promise you I will. Cross my heart and hope to die. No more lyin’.”

You gaze at Remmick as he slowly lifts himself from the bed. He picks his clothes up from the floor and starts to dress himself, his eyes refusing to leave you, as if he wanted to commit every ridge of your face to memory in case he’d never see you again. As if your body was a beautiful, one-of-a-kind painting that he wanted to soak in for hours.

He ties up his boots and zips his pants back up, fully prepared to head back out into the fray of the night. Before he finishes fixing his suspenders, you climb to the foot of the bed and reach for his hand.

You interlock your fingers with his. The gentle thrum of your heartbeat pulsing underneath your ribs. You slowly tilt your head, presenting your neck to him. His eyes widen with surprise and his mouth starts to salivate. He quietly descends, kneeling down to face you. He presses his lips against your supple flesh. Instead of sinking his fangs into you, he simply peppers your throat with delicate little kisses.

“No,” Remmick whispers into the crook of your neck. “Not tonight, sweet thing. When I drink from you, I wanna make it special. I don’t wanna turn ya on our first meetin’ like this, as much as I’d love to. It just don’t feel right.”

Despite saying he wouldn’t bite you, he takes your finger to his mouth and pricks it on his fangs ever so slightly. He puts your finger between his lips, suckling on the tiny droplets of blood that trickle from the small puncture. He lets out a broken moan from the flavor of your sweet scarlet nectar before releasing your finger, wet with his saliva. His eyes glow a blazing red, the fires of his feral hunger stoked from the mere taste of you. 

“Exquisite, simply exquisite,” he gently strokes your face with his calloused hand. “I swear to you, darlin’, I’ll be back tomorrow. And even though I don’t need it anymore, I’ll still beg for ya to let me in. I’ll beg like it’s the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on a beauty like you.”

With that, Remmick plants one long, tender kiss on your lips. He holds your head in both of his hands, pushing his mouth closer into the intimate embrace. He pulls away slowly, his eyes burning into yours. A touch of sorrow gleams in his crimson gaze. His hand takes yours to guide you out of the room with him.

The two of you make your way down the dark hallway. The darkness starts to embrace you, knowing that once he walks out that door, its over-encompassing reach will consume you as it always does. Your heart sinks to your stomach at the thought. 

Remmick stands at the door, his free hand twisting the knob. You take a good look around your living room. Your private little space, your personal sanctuary. Your tea and his untouched glass of water completely soaked your coasters with their condensation. Your book sitting idle in the same position Remmick left it. The candles had burnt nearly down to the holster, the dying flames petering out, their dance coming to an end. 

The night air is still humid, but a crisp breeze wafts through the opening door. Remmick stands still for a moment. His clammy hand is still firmly, possessively gripping onto yours, afraid to let go. 

He turns to you, hungry eyes gazing into yours. His hand slowly starts to release from your grasp, pulling your heart along with it. The stars twinkle dimly in the sky behind him. The crickets chirp, the nocturnal animals chitter and howl, and your old house… your old, soon-to-be-empty house creaks and groans as it always has. As it always will. 

“Until tomorrow?” 

“Until tomorrow.”

Remmick walks back out into the night, his body fully enveloped by the darkness. He leaves you, for now. But he left with a promise, something no man has ever followed through with. You were confident that this time, this man - this vampire - would come back. Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. You’ll see him again tomorrow. 

translations provided by both google and @fuckoffbard ------------------------------- Santaíonn mé thú - I want you Faith and begorrah - by god / expression of surprise le do thoil - please / "with your will" tá tú chomh tais - you're so wet for me Grá mo chroí - love of my heart Tá tú ar foirfe - you are perfect

[flixpii]

omg i want to read this so bad but i haven’t seen godless yet cry

i’m screenshotting, bookmarking, reblogging, and liking this so that i remember to read 🙇🏾‍♀️

i have no doubt this is amazing, and i’m gnawing on the bars of my enclosure in anticipation

giver (no woman like you)

PAIRING: roy goode x fem!reader

WC: 8.2k

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

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

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just another runaway.

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

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

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

Like the sight of you was a walking sin.

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

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

Bullseye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A man dressed in black half-smiled at you.

“Afternoon, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?”

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

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

“(y/n). (l/n).”

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

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

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

You glance off in the distance for only a second.

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

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

Any good with a rifle? “Good enough.”

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

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

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

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

Neither of you spoke much.

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

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

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

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

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

A brief silence settled between you before he broke it.

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

“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

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

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

“No, ma’am.”

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

“You’d make good money as one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did try to steal my horse.”

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

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

You ignored the smirk on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.

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

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

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

“Roy Goode.”

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

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

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

A long silence followed.

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

“Fuck,” you said under your breath.

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

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

“Careful, now.”

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

“I know how to shoot, Goode.”

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

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

“Shut up,” you hissed.

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

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

The rabbit dropped to the ground with a gentle thud.

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

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

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

But not you.

“Now, where’d you learn to do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come again?”

“I’ll name him Johnny.”

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

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

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

But not you.

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

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

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

Roy nodded. “That it does.”

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

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

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

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

“You got the money for dinner?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better than rocks and dirt.

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

You laid on your side and forced your eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Your boots clicked against the wood floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Roy’s eyes softened.

“You can read,” was all he said.

“What?” Did he even hear you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Roy knew exactly what you meant.

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His bashful smirk matched your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like what you see?” You giggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, he pulled his hand away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the wood floor. It’d surely leak through to the ceiling above the poor woman downstairs.

Before you could say anything, Roy’s mouth landed on yours again, his fingers running through the dry roots of your hair.

“Can’t get enough of you.” His words came out muffled and broken through the kiss.

“It’s yours,” you say, placing your hands on his chest and breaking the kiss. A small, gentle push has him settling on the floor, and you’re quick to take your seat on top of him.

His eyes softly close when your folds envelope his cock with an insatiable warmth.

“I’m yours. From the moment you showed me,” you relax and feel his solid shaft right under that swollen pearl. “Kindness when I did you wrong.” Your fingers lace with his. “I’m all yours, Roy. So take it.”

His right hand lifts your hips the slightest bit, allowing him space to take his cock in his left hand. He strokes it gently with a tight fist. The tip of it bumps against your hole, and you can feel it leaking against you.

“You ain’t real,” he whispers, eyes focused on where you two touch. And in a moment, you become connected. “Are you?”

One swift move of his hips pushes his full length past your folds. Your jaw drops open, but it’s the overwhelming feeling of him splitting you open that leaves you surprisingly quiet.

Roy doesn’t seem happy at that. He juts his hips upwards at a different angle so a sweet yelp cuts through the air. “Fuck, that’s good,.” He pulls you so close that your flesh nearly melts around the bone. You’re putty in his hands. “Pretty cunt’s grippin’ me like a vice.”

Everytime Roy’s hips draw from you, only to vigorously push themselves into you again, you swear you see God.

The skin on your knees splits against the splinters of the floorboards. A pleasurable pain. You steady yourself with your hands on his chest.

“‘S my turn, now,” your words slur together, eyelids heavy from how sweetly the tip of him kisses your cervix. “Gotta give you something too.”

He doesn’t object. His hands settle like a loose weight over your hips as you start to move yourself. Your hips grind against him, letting his cock rub against every inch inside of you. The motion is too familiar. For a second, you swear you’re riding off into the sunset with heaven in your pocket.

Your eyelids flutter close when you begin to bounce. And though you can’t see it, Roy can. His chest under your hands lets out heavy breaths as he gazes at how you swallow his entire length like it’s nothing.

But he knows it’s not. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he feels his body go loose. He lets himself give in to you. “Ride it.”

Gravity pushes you down just for you to lift yourself back up again. Your tits bounce in the most mesmerizing way, and Roy’s hand reaches up to grab the flesh of them. His thumb rolls over your nipple.

“You’re beautiful,” he grunts out, bending his legs so you can rest your back against them. But your movements don’t stop.

And neither does the way Roy looks at you like you’re the only thing worth living for.

When you catch his eyes on you, you clench around his girth, pulling another sharp moan from him. Suddenly, his hips begin to meet yours in a pleasurable rhythm; the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breaths, and your delicate yet guttural moans make the most beautiful music.

“Don’t stop, sweetheart,” Roy pleads.

Your mouth curls, “Who’s begging now?”

He chuckles. A soft tension around his cock grows into a desperate need to finish off how good you feel around him.

“You got it, baby.” His drawl leaves your hips stuttering, and he can tell from how you’ve tightened around him, you’re feeling just the same as him. “Make yourself feel good on it, just like that. Wanna see you turn to pieces all over me.”

Suddenly, your head is too heavy to hold upright. It lulls back onto your shoulders, all of your energy going towards the way you ride him.

“You feel it? Gonna make a mess for me?”

You nod, rapidly and loosely.

“We’ll just have to clean you up all over again.” He mutters to himself, and you can hear the smirk on his face. It stays there even as his brows furrow together, a mixture of bliss and pressure.

You feel the pad of his thumb press against your clit again. You instantly break at the contact. He feels your orgasm wash over him, a lush shower of warmth that brings his own release.

It mixes together inside of you like the sunrise bleeding into the remainder of the night outside your window. It’d be illogical to sleep now, but you can’t find it within yourself to keep your eyes open as your cheek rests against Roy’s chest.

His hand lazily rubs over your spine. “S’pose Les Moore will have to wait to die another day,” he whispers.

You chuckle, “Don’t waste your bullets on that man. I’ll do it myself.”

Roy cocks his head. A few days ago, you would’ve protested at any mention of doing his bidding. And here you were, now, ready to make yourself a wanted woman.

There were many women he’d slept with. Many women who’d opened their doors, shared their beds, held him in their arms. Many women who’d sing him to sleep thinking it’d make him maybe even love them.

And sure, he’d been with whores. He’d paid good money to see fine women dance like there was no God above. Maybe even paid them off enough so they wouldn’t have to suffer under any more men with a heavy fist.

Many women who’d liked the color of his eyes. Who’d gasped and shuddered at the sound of his name. Who’d fawned over the sight of him.

But never a woman like you.

He tells himself to remember that forever as he carries you to the bed.

You’ll wash in the morning he thinks when he pulls the covers to your chin. And when Roy moves to draw his own bath, he hears your tired voice from behind.

“Don’t go,” you call out to him.

He hums. “I’m only right here, darlin’.”

Your eyes are closed shut, lost in a dimension between sleep and wake. “Here,” you say softly, motioning to the spot in the bed next to you.

He ignores the sheer layer of sweat clinging to his skin. He ignores that there’s still dirt in his hair from earlier in the day. He ignores the grimy feeling underneath his nails and the ache in his feet. Roy carries himself to the side of the bed.

The sheets are cool against his skin as he takes the spot beside you. Then, he feels the warmth of your arm draped over his chest. He stills.

“You never held a woman, Roy Goode?” you tease with a tired smile.

“Sure, I have,” he says. “First time it’s felt right, though.”

You move your head so he can tuck his arm underneath it. He feels your soft, mindless clouds of breath against his skin.

This is it he thinks. Heaven.

© faestunna 2025.

[flixpii]

Not Inside

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 2.7k

happy juneteenth !! 🥹

a/n : i want to tag this blessed soul @remmicks-salvation for bringing the remmick degradation into the spotlight for me 🙇🏾‍♀️

this is in lowercase … i don’t feel like typing on my laptop after six p.m …

also, working on the salem witch trials au & a remmick & stack x reader one-shot

synopsis : reader told him no. so he fucked her thighs instead—desperate, messy, and still completely hers.

warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : oral (f receiving), denial of orgasm, degradation, pathetic remmick, dom!reader, reader is lowkey mean (he deserves it), unprotected rutting (no intercourse), drool/spit, period blood, remmick’s a slut for praise

tags : @pathetic-remmick @avidreader73

———

thigh-fucking.

it was the only thing you’d allow him to do while you were bleeding.

he looked heartbroken when you said it. not because he didn’t want it—no, he wanted anything you’d give him. but he craved more. craved the slick, pulsing heat of your cunt wrapped around him like a vice.

“please,” he’d whispered, voice rasped and aching. “just let me have it… let me feel you.”

but you said no.

now, his hands tremble as they knead into the softness of your thighs, spreading them wider over the edge of the bed. his knuckles press into the backs of your knees as he lowers himself between them, mouth watering—literally—as thick strings of spit dangle from his parted lips and drip onto your inner thighs.

“fuck,” he groans, forehead pressing to your knee for a moment as his cock jumps in his fist. he looks up at you like he’s starving—like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

he jerks himself slow at first, hand slick with spit and pre-cum, sliding over the flushed, leaking head. you can see how swollen he is—how red and angry the tip looks from neglect.

“baby, please,” he whimpers, voice cracking as his thumb rolls over the slit. “i just wan’ to be inside of you.”

you stare down at him, lips parted slightly, breath shallow. but still—you shake your head.

“no, remmick,” you murmur, voice barely a breath. “you know the rules.”

he lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a growl and a cry, and buries his face against your thigh.

“then let me fuck them,” he breathes against your skin, hot and wet, kissing the curve of your flesh. “let me fuck your thighs like they’re your cunt.”

you hum, teasing, letting your knees fall open just a bit more.

“is that what you want?”

he nods frantically, stumbling to his feet with his cock still in his hand. one hand finds your thigh again as he steps closer, dragging you just a little more to the edge of the bed until your ass barely clings to the sheets.

his tip grazes your skin, smearing precum over the softness as he lines himself up between your thighs, jaw clenched tight.

“please—please,” he babbles, voice unsteady, almost breaking. his hands grip the tops of your thighs, squeezing tight as he pushes forward, slotting his cock between the blood-warmed press of your skin.

you tense around him slightly, thighs pressing together just enough to mimic the feeling of your cunt. he lets out a low, guttural moan, hips twitching.

you look up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

“then fuck them, baby,” you whisper, voice like honey. “fuck them like you wish it was me.”

he lets out a ragged groan as he pulls back, then drives forward again, his cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. your skin slicks with sweat and blood, and the friction only makes him moan louder.

his hips slap against you with more force now, the sound obscene—wet and sharp, over and over. drool slips from the corner of his mouth, falling messily onto your abdomen, mixing with the sheen of sweat already there.

“fuck… you feel so good,” he slurs, voice choked with need, the words barely coherent through his panting.

his pace quickens—sloppier now, more frantic.

you tighten your thighs around him, pressing in, and he cries out like a wounded animal.

“shit—fuck—do that again,” he whines, already fucking into the vice of your thighs like he can’t hold himself back anymore.

his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your thighs, hard enough to bruise. his knuckles turn white from the pressure.

“smell so fuckin’ sweet,” he growls, inhaling the coppery scent of your blood like it’s perfume. he salivates.

“want to fuck you properly,” he pants. “want to split you open and stuff you full, feel this bloody little cunt pulse around me while i fuck you raw—”

you feel his cock throb between your thighs as he ruts harder, desperate, hips jerking like he’s already close.

his brows knit together, muscles straining as his thrusts grow faster, harder.

he moans, loud and wrecked, chest heaving as his body curls forward just slightly—like the pleasure’s too much to bear. his eyes squeeze shut and his rhythm starts to falter, every snap of his hips more desperate than the last.

you feel it—how close he is. how his thighs start to tremble.

and then you speak.

“stop.”

his eyes fly open, wide and glassy, a pained whine ripping through his throat as he slows to a trembling halt.

“n-no,” he stutters, voice breaking. “fuck—please.”

your name falls from his lips, guttural and raw, as his cock twitches between your slicked-up thighs.

then—your legs spread, slow and deliberate.

the bloody mess between them glistens, spilling onto your inner thighs and smeared across the crease of your cunt.

he stares like he’s hypnotized. drool spills from his mouth again, thick and slow as it drips down his chin.

“come on,” you whisper, breathless.

he lunges forward instantly, grabbing your thighs and yanking them up around his waist. his cock slides up against your folds, already seeking your heat.

but just before he can breach you—

“you can’t fuck me.”

he lets out a deep, broken groan, his body shaking with the need to come, to bury himself deep.

he snarls softly under his breath, grinding his cock against your cunt instead, letting the flushed head slide along the wet, bloody mess.

his tip nudges your clit with every pass and you jolt each time, breath catching as your moans start to echo his.

he fists the sheets behind you for leverage and ruts hard, faster, his cock coated in the sticky sheen of blood and slick.

he pants, watching the way his cock glides against your folds, dragging your swollen clit every time.

you clench around nothing, your walls fluttering from the pressure and the build.

his moans get louder, almost pained, as your blood paints his cock in messy streaks.

you watch him unravel.

his breath hitches every time your clit catches under the swollen head of his cock, slick and red smearing across both of you. his muscles shake as he ruts into you, chasing the high you’re dangling just out of reach.

you lean back slightly, propping yourself on your elbows, eyes heavy as you look down at the scene between your thighs.

“look at you,” you murmur, voice slow and syrupy. “so fuckin’ desperate. cock all messy and throbbing, and you’re not even inside me.”

his head drops forward, forehead brushing your shoulder, a strangled groan leaving his chest.

“please,” he gasps. “baby, please let me—”

“no,” you cut him off, rolling your hips slightly to meet his next thrust, just enough to tease him, to keep him shaking. “you come like this. not inside me. not tonight.”

he whimpers, actually fucking whimpers, grinding harder like he can force his way in if he tries.

“god, you’re mean,” he moans, voice thick with frustration. “so fuckin’ mean to me.”

you smile lazily, trailing one hand up his chest, nails dragging through the light sweat gathered there.

“then stop,” you offer softly. “pull back. get off me.”

he jerks his hips again in answer, a growl rumbling in his chest.

“can’t,” he chokes out. “you smell like blood and sex and you’re fuckin’ soaked—fuck—i can’t.”

you hum low, pleased, and shift your hips so that your folds part just a little more, letting his cock nestle perfectly between them. your clit throbs from the stimulation, but you bite down on the whine building in your throat.

“you keep going like this,” you whisper, voice dipped in threat and promise, “and you don’t get to come at all.”

his whole body stutters, cock twitching hard between your folds.

“n-no, don’t do that,” he gasps, fingers bruising your thighs now as he clings to them like a lifeline. “please, baby—i’ll be good. i’ll be good, i swear, just let me—fuck—just let me use your cunt.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think, enjoying the way he begs—how wild he looks with his face flushed, his jaw tight, his mouth wet, cock pulsing and soaked in blood.

“i said no,” you whisper against his ear. “you’re gonna come. outside.”

he lets out a sound that barely qualifies as human, hips snapping wildly, frenzied now.

and you—

you don’t stop him.

you just watch him fall apart.

you can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in how his cock twitches violently between your folds, tip catching on your clit with every sloppy drag.

his hips stutter. he gasps your name like a prayer, like a curse.

“fuck—fuck, baby, i’m gonna—”

his hands grip your waist, desperate to hold himself steady, to not come before you give him the word.

but you see it—the way his jaw locks, the way his thighs shake, the way his moans grow ragged and high.

he’s right there.

and just as his body starts to curl forward, just as his cock pulses hot against your blood-slicked cunt—

“stop.”

one word. soft, but firm.

and it cuts through him like a blade.

he sobs. actually sobs, a sound torn from the back of his throat, thick with denial and disbelief.

his body convulses as he forces himself to still. his cock jumps against your clit, leaking, throbbing, aching.

his chest heaves, mouth open, spit stringing between his lips and your collarbone where he’d leaned in too close.

“please—please, i can’t,” he gasps, voice hoarse and broken. “baby, don’t—don’t do this to me.”

you lean forward, one hand stroking down his trembling stomach, stopping just before you touch his cock.

“you almost came without permission,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “that’s not very good of you, remmick.”

he shudders, his cock twitching again like it’s trying to come anyway, leaking thick pre against your folds.

“but i—I tried,” he stammers, eyes glassy, tears threatening. “i stopped, i stopped, please, i’ll do anything—just let me finish, please.”

you hum softly, pressing your fingers into his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

“then prove it,” you whisper. “prove you deserve to come. get on your knees.”

he blinks, confused for half a second—then his legs fold beneath him like he’s been shot, collapsing to the floor at the edge of the bed.

his cock stands flushed and furious, twitching with every mimicked beat of his heart, streaked with blood and thick strings of slick.

he presses his cheek against your thigh, panting, shaking, whimpering softly into your skin.

you tilt your head.

“no touching,” you warn, one hand sliding gently through his hair. “not yet.”

his hands clench uselessly at his sides.

you smile.

he’s so close you can feel it vibrating off him.

he stays still.

kneeling between your legs, chest rising and falling like he’s run miles, face pressed to your thigh.

you feel the heat of his breath—fast, uneven, desperate—as it ghosts over the mess between your legs.

he whimpers again, soft and pathetic, like a dog trying not to whine, and it makes you smile.

“good boy,” you murmur, dragging your fingers through his damp curls, slow and teasing.

he makes a noise at that, a quiet broken little thing, like just the praise alone might undo him.

your thighs part a little more. the blood has started to dry in some places, but the warmth still lingers, slick and coppery and thick.

“clean me up,” you say.

his head jerks up immediately, eyes wide and blown black, like he didn’t believe you’d actually let him close.

but you nod, just once.

“with your mouth.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

his lips press to your inner thigh first, reverent, like he’s praying.

then—his tongue.

slow at first. testing. trembling.

he licks a stripe through the blood smeared across your skin, groaning at the taste.

and then it’s like something snaps.

his mouth drags lower, hotter, messier.

he moans into you, lapping at the blood pooled between your folds, drinking it like he’s parched.

“fuck,” he pants against you, tongue flicking your clit by accident—and you jerk, biting your lip.

he freezes, like he’s afraid that was too much.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, fingers in his hair again. “but slow. tease it. just like that.”

his breath shudders against your cunt as he licks again, slower this time, taking his time now, dragging his tongue through the mess he’d made earlier—your blood, his spit, your slick.

every now and then, he bumps your clit just right, and you twitch, thighs tensing around his head.

he moans again, like your reactions are the only thing keeping him alive.

his hands grip your thighs—not to guide you, not to pull you closer, but just to hold on.

his cock hangs between his legs, flushed and twitching, untouched and angry.

you look down at him, his face painted with blood and lust, mouth slick and red, eyes pleading even as he obeys.

“such a good mouth,” you murmur. “you want to come, don’t you?”

he nods into you, desperate, tongue slowing just to answer.

“then make me come first,” you say softly, “with that pretty, bloody mouth.”

he moans into your folds again, the sound vibrating against your clit just enough to make your legs twitch.

your fingers tighten in his hair.

you don’t guide him—he’s learned by now.

and fuck, does he want it bad.

his tongue laves through your mess, slow at first, then faster, more focused, circling your clit before flattening against it, dragging long, wet strokes over the sensitive bundle.

you gasp softly, hips rocking forward.

“just like that,” you whisper, breath breaking, “keep going.”

he hums in response, and the sound rumbles through you like lightning.

his mouth moves with more purpose now, more pressure. messy, but good—so good, so fucking good.

your thighs clamp around his head.

you start to pant, sharp, fast, your hand fisting in his hair as your body begins to tense, the pleasure burning up your spine like fire.

he sucks gently, then flicks his tongue in quick, tight strokes—again, again, again.

you cry out.

your whole body jerks as it hits—hard.

your orgasm rips through you like a storm, blood rushing in your ears, your thighs clenching, your back arching just slightly as you grind into his mouth.

and he doesn’t stop.

he moans like he’s the one coming, like tasting you unravel against his tongue is better than anything he’s ever known.

you breathe heavy through it, letting it take you, letting him have it.

and when you finally come down, you tug gently at his hair, easing him back.

his face is soaked—slick, blood, drool, all of it—and his cock is still flushed and twitching, drooling precum onto the floor beneath him.

he’s shaking.

“please,” he rasps. “please, can i—can i come now?”

you drag your fingers down his throat, watching him swallow hard beneath your touch.

“stand up.”

he stumbles to his feet, cock bobbing, angry and glistening red.

you look at it, slow and deliberate.

then up at him.

“you come,” you murmur, voice low, “but you don’t touch yourself.”

his jaw falls open.

“w-what?”

“grind against me. like before.”

he groans—loud, pained—as he steps forward, dragging the tip of his cock along your still-throbbing folds.

“fuck—fuck, baby—”

he ruts into you, wild and broken, his cock slipping against your blood-slick cunt, head catching on your clit again and again.

you moan softly, overstimulated, but you let him use you.

“gonna come,” he gasps, hips stuttering. “gonna come all over your pussy, please, let me—fuck, let me—”

“do it,” you whisper. “make a mess of me.”

that’s all it takes.

he lets out a strangled, half-sobbed cry as his cock jerks against you, hot ropes of cum spilling across your folds, painting you with thick, pulsing streaks of white.

his legs nearly give out as he collapses forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling.

“thank you,” he pants, voice cracking. “fuck—thank you—”

your fingers stroke through his hair again, slow and soft.

“good boy,” you whisper. “such a good fucking boy.”

[flixpii]

your fingers were blessed by the writing gods.

this was amazing FUCK

i NEED more

ᴴⁱˢ ᴹᵘˢᵉ.

Summary: Charlotte, a talented harpist, attracts Remmick with her music. Against her better judgement, she explores the new frontiers of her desire.

Warnings -> Mentions of the Klan, p in v s3x, oral (f! receiving), oral (m! receiving), doggystyle, cum play, spit play, breath play, blood play, creampie, corruption kink, dom!Remmick, miss girl cannot handle a touch-starved freak like him pray for that cooch mama, not proofread because i'm perfect

A/N: I've become aware that another user has a Sinners OC named Lottie as well--this is a pure coincidence and this story has no association with their character (which I love, by the way!). Truly a sign I need to write faster, though.

Word Count: 10.8k

Lottie had been cooped up inside for weeks when Mama heard of what happened at the Juke Joint a couple towns over. She didn’t go anywhere without her brothers then—although it wasn’t like they didn’t hover before— they stuck to her sides like gnats in a flytrap. It didn’t make any sense to her, why her Mama kept such close watch over her, even though she’d always spin endless reasons why:

“You too pretty, them boys ain’t gon’ act right!”

“You sure as hell ain’t goin’ out with them little fast girls—ain’t bringing back no babies under my roof…”

“You ain’t gone waste your smarts talking to them good-for-nuthin’ boys. You got music to practice fa’ Sunday.”

And on, and on, and on.

It had been summer, too—usually Papa could get his wife to see sense, let the kids go into town under his watchful eye, but the summer after the Juke Joint was different.

Everything after that night was different.

People talked to each other—mothers and aunties, of course, but even the men—pondering their troubles about what they’d heard or what so-and-so might’ve seen under feverish, urgent whisper. Maybe it was from the Klansmen one of the Smokestack twins had killed. Vengeful white men put trouble in the air that reached across sky and land, choking everything in its path. But the white men never came.

Not any new ones, anyhow. Besides, white folks loved Lottie and her Mama—she worked in one of those white men’s houses, and the wife loved having Lottie and her harp traverse the dirt roads into town to sing through their halls. She grew a little famous, even, putting on mini-concerts of Fauré and Debussy for living rooms full of white women, while their patient husbands smoked cigars over brandy in the other room. They would watch her slight, dark hands nimbly dance over the strings with their flutes of champagne on holidays, eyes damn near full of tears—or that’s what her Mama told her, at least.

White folks loved Lottie and her Mama so much the wife hosted her for music lessons on her dime. From twelve to eighteen, she would hitch a ride in someone’s car to meet with Mrs. Desjardins, who was too severe to marvel at her, but too impressed to not impart a compliment.

“You could go somewhere with a gift like that, Charlotte,” she would tell her, “Not too many of you get such a chance.”

But Lottie didn’t think of chances that summer. She heard whispers under the adults’ breath, felt the tension in the air when she played for her church on Sundays, could practically taste the sweat and alcohol and hear the screams echoing out into the unyielding darkness in her dreams.

“I hear there ain’t even no bodies. Just blood and burnt dirt. I tell you, it’s the devil’s work.”

“I ain’t takin no chances with me or my children, Esther,” her mother said, voice hushed, “I mean, how a whole juke joint of folks just up and disappear like that? Just some ashes and some cars. How we know we ain’t next?”

It made Lottie wonder, especially at the worst times when she was the only one awake with the stillness of night to keep her company. She would listen to the crickets and cicadas and feel her heart pound in her chest as sweat trickled down her temples. How could all those people disappear? What was out there, in the darkness, waiting for them?

The thought would make her draw the blinds, trying the get the images of haunts out of her mind so she wouldn’t scare herself to death, but the silence made it worse, pressing down on her mind like the Delta heat.

So, she played.

Softly, so as not to wake anyone else up, especially her brothers, who were already sick of the sight of the thing, always grumbling about having to carry it in and out of the house. No, no, not too loud.

Just soft enough for her to hear. To soothe her nerves. Rêverie did the trick.

Something in the air changed when she played, something she could feel. The night wasn’t so mysterious and vast anymore, full of blood-hungry Klansmen or ghosts and haints. There was no more fear. She could close her eyes, imagine an audience, and play.

She didn’t know the power her playing had, to move people, to heal, to bring God down in the room with you. But she felt Him at night, Him and His angels answering her call, to watch over her and her family through the night.

She didn’t know that one day, the night would answer her call, too.

Years passed, and fear was forgotten for happier times. Lottie managed to pick up piano and become a music teacher. She grew into a woman, too tall and full of curves to be welcomed into a white man’s house by his wife, but received fifty dollars every two months from Mrs. Desjardins, who had her mind set on sending her East. There wasn’t much work for a colored music teacher, but the women she used to play for had begun to hire her for proper gigs. After putting her money together, she’d finally saved enough for a home of her own.

It was a rotting shack at first, but her father and brothers made it up into a proper place to live. Soon enough, talk made it through town of the colored woman music teacher living by the edge of the woods, just outside of town, and gifts poured in to decorate her home. Quilts, drapes, a tablecloth—all mended together by hand by church women. (A shotgun, from her father. A pistol from Freddie, her old schoolmate.)

“Now, all you need is a husband,” her mother told her, “And I won’t have to worry bout nothing no more.”

Lottie laughed at the remark. “Nothing ‘cept some grandbabies making your house a mess.”

Now, she was twenty-three. Too old to be scared of the dark, too busy with students to practice during the day. She practiced her harp late into the night now for work, sitting with God all the while, her fingertips callousing with hours spent perched at her instrument, squinting in the oil-lamp light.

That was when he found her.

It was summer. Too hot to keep the blinds drawn when she desperately needed to let fresh air in, so she’d put screens over the windows and cracked them open. She was working on Vers la source dans le bois, too absorbed in her practice to catch the glimmers of reflective pupils in the trees. Her playing sang into the shadows as her fingers danced over the strings. The music fell onto her ears like rain, drowning out the sweat rolling down her neck, the way her mouth dried with thirst, even the cicadas. Her brows knit in focus and effort as she gracefully traveled back and forth over the strings, her head cocked ever-so-slightly despite her rigid posture, her eyes darting briefly over to the sheet music to check her tempo.

“Ow!”

She winced as her finger slipped, nicking on the string. She stopped abruptly, sucking on her fingertip, then pressing it onto her thigh through her cotton nightgown. Slowly, with a groan, she stretched out her back, then rolled her neck and massaged her hands. She looked around her home as if for the first time, snapped out of her trance.

That was when she heard it: the silence.

It hadn’t just been her playing drowning out the cicadas; they had gone dead quiet in a way that made her stomach drop. She stood quickly, brows drawn again as she swallowed. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit room, then peered out of the windows. On the left, there was nothing, just vast expanse under the moonlight. But…on the right…

Lottie was too grown to be scared of the woods, she knew it, but they didn’t sit right with her the moment she saw them. Trouble was, this house was the only one she could afford while still saving money, so she put on her big girl boots and dealt with it. But now, as her skin crawled under the silence, she regretted her choice.

Quickly, she slammed her left window shut and drew the blinds, unwilling to look out the right. She turned out her oil lamp, finding a sense of shelter in the dark, and after grabbing her pistol from the floor right next to her, finally approached the right window.

Her hair stood on her arms.

She could feel it now.

The eyes watching her from the trees.

She couldn’t see a damn thing through that thicket, but she could feel it. It froze her in place. She didn’t want to move closer, not even to close the window.

Don’t stop, the air suddenly whispered. So lovely.

Lottie felt her heart drop down to her stomach as a soft voice carried over the still air. Her heart was beginning to pick up its pace. Surely she imagined it.

Play.

Lottie clicked the safety of her pistol. She most surely didn’t.

She inched carefully toward the window, pulse thrumming in her ears.

“Whoever out there better be ready to get shot,” she warned, the timbre of her voice surprising her.

She didn’t even think she could speak.

Then, they finally appeared: a pair of wolf’s eyes, but too high to be a wolf’s. Her eyes widened as her shoulders tightened. Ain’t no way it was a bear, either.

Something moved in the trees as the eyes came closer, and Lottie’s legs nearly gave as her eyes made out the silhouette of a man. No man’s eyes glowed like that. His voice gently lilted through the window.

“I don’t mean no harm,” he reassured, coming into view.

It was a white man, dark-haired in a button up shirt and suspenders. Despite what he said, the moonlight carved shadows out of his eye sockets that sent a shiver down her spine. She pointed the gun at the window, making him stop and lift his hands in surrender.

“Just appreciatin’ yer playin’s all.”

She squinted, but couldn’t make out his face.

“What the hell a white boy doin’ in the forest this time of night if he ain’t looking for trouble?”

“Ah,” he remarked, a chuckle making his shoulders shake for a moment, “I suppose it is strange on my part, but I happen to live around here.”

“I ain’t never seen you.”

“Nor I you, till tonight.”

He came closer to the window, and Lottie turned her oil lamp back on to see his face instead of the silhouette that made her blood run cold. His features were handsome, but it didn’t put her at ease. He smiled as if it did.

“I happen to play myself,” he continued, revealing a banjo strapped to his torso, “Though not half as pretty as you.”

His eyes fixed onto her in a way that set her teeth on edge.

“I don’t think I’ve heard a harp in ages,” he said, “How’d you come across such a fine piece?”

She frowned, unsure if she should shoot the strange white man or humor him. If he was a man—the glowing of his eyes was still fresh in her mind. He lowered his hands, resting them on his banjo and beginning to pick a melody.

“My name’s Remmick,” he said, “What’s yours, darlin’?”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” she quickly replied.

He rose his eyebrows, smile still playing on his lips. Slowly, she clicked the safety back on and set her pistol down in the chair.

“Charlotte.”

He stopped playing, frowning. “Not Lottie?”

She groaned in discomfort, quickly running up the window and shutting it. His face fell as if in hurt. With a swallow, she drew the blinds and turned down her oil lamp, hugging her knees in her bed.

Remmick started playing again, lingering outside the window. His voice came through the glass.

“Was it something I said, darlin’?”

She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, willing the stranger away.

“Oh, come now, don’t be so scary,” he teased, “I promise I don’t mean ya any harm. Just heard talk of ya, that’s all. Wanted to hear ya play for myself.”

She stayed on the bed, her knees slipping against her sweaty arms. He played the melody a few more times, then suddenly fell silent. Then his voice sounded closer to the window.

“I know you’re not sleeping in there,” he said, “Not in this heat.”

Lottie stared at the curtains with her heart in her throat.

“Whatchu want with me? Get on outta here,” she said, her voice faltering, “I ain’t got no business with your kind—whatever it is.”

Another chuckle. “Just trying to be neighborly. But if you insist—“

“I do.”

“‘Til next time, darlin’.”

She listened to his playing fade away into the night, and let out a sigh of relief as the sound of cicadas returned.

Lottie barely made it through the day in one piece without a lick of sleep. She couldn’t have after the strange man from the woods. Even after an hour had passed, she half expected to hear him coming back to play his melody again and linger outside her window. She laid still in her bed, sweating through her nightgown, until the sun rose.

Under the protection of the sun, she felt less worried about running into him again, but a pit formed in her stomach as dusk came and went.

She locked up her doors and windows, and began to play. Same piece, same practice, but she couldn’t focus, not in this heat. With a sigh, she sat at the harp in silence, wiping her face and neck off with a cool towel.

Then, a tink.

She tensed at the sound coming from her right window, and sat alert.

Tink.

She frowned. Were those…pebbles?

Tink. Tink.

Slowly, Lottie rose from her seat and peeked through the blinds. The moon was bright tonight, so she could make him out easier. He was between the forest and her window, tossing pebbles at the glass. She squinted.

“Boy, what the hell…”

The light of her oil lamp peeked through her curtains, and he stopped tossing the little rocks, walking up to the window and gently tapping on the glass, puckering out his lower lip in mock sadness. She made a face, wiping her forehead again with her towel. Might as well see what the cracker wants this time.

She pulled one of the curtains open, peering at him cautiously. She unlocked the window and cracked it open. She welcomed the slightly cooler air on her skin.

“I ain’t playing tonight,” she said, “Too hot.”

“Oh, you’re breakin’ my heart, lass.”

“Mhm.”

“I s’pose it’s enough just to see your pretty face, though,” he said, devious smile evident in his voice.

She sucked her teeth, turning away from the window.

“You a fool, ain’t ya?”

“Hardly,” he replied, “I’m just too much a gentleman to say it the first time I met you. Playin’ that harp, you look just like an angel.”

The breeze blew the curtains apart gently, and Remmick leaned against the windowsill, grinning as he cocked his head, his gaze meandering her figure as she turned back around, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Doubt you know much about angels, whatever you is.”

“Enough to recognize one in front o’ me, sweetheart.”

She sighed, wiping her neck and chest as she collapsed in her chair.

“It’s too hot for all that nonsense, quit it. Whatchu doin’ back here, anyway? I told you I ain’t want nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean that,” he said, placing a hand on his chest, “I just gave you a little scare, that’s all.”

She didn’t answer. She rose from her seat, taking her towel to the washbin and swishing it around. She wrung it out and wiped her brow, pressing it against the back of her neck for some cool.

“Don’t leave me lonely over here, Charlotte,” his voice called out into the house, daring to sound wounded, “I only mean to be your friend. Little ladies like you shouldn’t be all alone in the night, sitting in the dark, without any friends.”

“Some friend, leering through my window like you do,” she said as she eased herself back into her seat, eyes shut.

“Well, you could always let me inside,” he suggested, no, offered, “Keep ya company through the night.”

Her head snapped over to him, eyes sharp. He smiled at her. She swallowed, looking at his mouth—his…his teeth. They were sharp and glimmering white like a beast’s. She shivered slightly despite having to wipe sweat from her neck again.

“What kinda monster are you anyhow, can’t make his own way into a little lady’s house?”

His teeth glistened in the lamplight. “I told ya I was a gentleman, ain’t gonna force my way in.”

“Can’t get no way in is more like it,” she dismissed, taking a small music program and starting to fan herself with it. She regarded him cautiously.

“I reckon you’d eat me whole if you got in here.”

He laughed softly, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated all the way to her bones.

“All the way up, sugar.”

Suddenly Lottie felt a bit too naked in the thin little nightgown stuck to her skin. She perched slightly in her chair, holding his gaze as he leaned closer to the window, eyes catching a red glow.

“Ain’t seen nothing as sweet as you.”

She pressed her knees together awkwardly, looking away.

“That ain’t no way to talk to nobody. I hardly know you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, gaze pressing through the fabric, “I’ll fix that soon enough.”

In an instant, he was gone. The vice grip around her heart loosened as she took a deep, gasping breath. With a trembling exhale, she closed the window and shut the curtains.

Another sleepless night passed.

“Where you from, anyway?”

Remmick watched her lithe hands strum through the strings of the harp with a pleased smile on his face. Her pulse was racing, he could hear it, but her hands remained steady. His gaze skimmed the slight curve of her back, the fine muscles working in her slender forearms as she plucked through scales. Then she stopped and looked at him.

“You ain’t from round here.”

“I’m from somewhere long lost, darlin’. Nothing you’d know.”

“Europe, I reckon.”

He grinned, but his focus was on her hands.

“Play something, won’t you? Came all this way just to hear you play.”

The heat had lifted a little tonight, prompting Lottie to cover up a bit with a shawl. She adjusted it over her shoulders with a small bow of her head, then went back to passively strumming the strings.

“Whatchu wanna hear?”

“Somethin’ sweet like you.”

He earned a modest smile from her lips as she shook her head.

“ ‘Spose I can do that.”

She took a deep breath, lifted her arms like a dancer’s, hovering them around the strings. She paused to think, then shut her eyes with a purse of her lips.

“I learned this one a while back,” she said softly. “This here’s Tournier.”

Remmick watched in fascination as her fingers began to work the strings in earnest. The melody started soft, but grew to a resonant level under her hands. The sound was cool and soft, lapping at his ears like the gentle caress of a flowing river. He shut his eyes. The Mississippi heat became a memory as visions of a time long passed flashed in fragments behind his eyes. He could see it, taste it even, the rolling green hills of his homeland, the salt of the crashing sea.

The song only lasted a few minutes. He stood still as she masterfully softened the sound again, gently pulling him from his dream as the music concluded. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Lottie cleared her throat, resting her hands on her knees.

“Well, what’d you think?”

His face had softened. He stared at her hands, then looked up at her face. Where her wide brown eyes watched him curiously.

“You’re a precious thing, Lottie,” he told her, voice soft as silk.

She fidgeted with her shawl again, looking down shyly.

“That’s a mighty fine compliment.”

He smiled slightly, still in a daze from what her playing had conjured.

“Might I listen again from the porch?”

She hesitated, but nodded. He disappeared from the window without a sound. Willing herself to stand, she went to the door, bringing the lamp with her. His weight creaked the floorboards, and she slowly wrapped her hand around the knob, almost too nervous to open the door.

“You promise you can’t come in?”

“Not unless you let me.”

For a moment, her body fought her. She rested her forehead against the wood, her breath trembling. He waited patiently on the other side. She could feel him there.

“I promise I don’t mean you no harm,” he assured her.

After a moment of stillness, the locks clicked and the door slowly creaked open. Lottie peeked out from the other side, eyes both curious and weary. She wasn’t sure what good a devil’s promise was, but his voice sounded different. Gentler. She opened the door wider, turning her lamp up so she could see him better.

Up close, he wasn’t half as scary. More beautiful if anything. The warm light kissed his pale skin lovingly, caressing the manly curve of his jaw, the soft blue of his eyes. He looked more like a man than she had imagined possible. She shifted onto one hip, looking down at her feet.

“My, you’re lovely,” he said to her, slowly leaning against the doorframe, “Swear I ain’t ever seen nothing as lovely as you.”

He’d been around too long for that to be true. She slowly met his gaze again through the screen door. He smirked.

“What’s the matter? Man ain’t never told you how lovely you are?”

No man ever came near Lottie. Everyone was too afraid of her Papa to even think of speaking to her in an inappropriate matter. All the boys in town knew he’d come with a shotgun if her Mama caught sight of them looking at her the wrong way. Her brothers grew up big, too, and kept watch like dogs guarding sheep. She used to long for one of them to come in the night, take a chance when the men were fast asleep and her harp sang out the window softly, but they never did. Maybe that’s why Remmick had appeared. Maybe she’d still been calling into the night without realizing it.

His eyes glinted. “Man ain’t never taken care of you?”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she stepped back.

“That ain’t a proper thing to ask.”

“I asked you nicely, didn’t I?”

“Whatchu asking for in the first place,” she hissed back.

His gaze dragged over her face as if he was learning every inch, and he languidly caressed the screen door with the back of his knuckles.

“I’m just tryna figure out what I’ll give you in return for your lovely music. I’m a real generous man, y’know.”

She rose her eyebrows, unamused. “Is that right?”

“Right it is.”

She rolled her eyes and fanned her neck with her shawl. Remmick leaned closer, inhaling her scent. He hummed, hiding his hand behind his back and clenching it into a fist. He could taste it, the sweat on her skin, that slight fruity scent that clung to it.

“You droolin’?”

He quickly wiped his mouth, chuckling a little.

“Look at that,” he remarked.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You tryin’ to eat me?”

He laughed, stepping back from the door. “No, no, I won’t eat ya. Might keep ya, but won’t eat ya.”

She swallowed, frowning at his words. “I think it’s time you went on, Remmick.”

His smile lingered on his lips as he rubbed his lower one with his thumb. He studied her a bit longer, a white silhouette in the doorframe, then descended the steps of her porch.

“You’ll see when I come in,” he said, “It’s not too bad, being kept.”

She turned off her lamp and locked the door. She listened to him play his melody into the night, shutting her eyes with a sigh.

Lottie didn’t know how to feel about it. Being kept. The word echoed in her mind as she watched unsure hands stumble over piano keys inside the chapel, and it made her feel guilty—she couldn’t pinpoint why. The dry air was like sandpaper against her throat as she smiled and gave an encouraging nod to the young boy who glanced up at her in question between measures.

“You’re doin’ just fine, Joe,” she told him.

The boy stopped abruptly and rubbed his hands, wincing. Lottie peered down at him curiously.

“I’ve been playin’ thirty minutes straight, Miss Lottie,” he complained, “Can we take a break?”

Lottie’s heart stopped. Had the time passed that quickly? Why hadn’t she noticed? All she’d been thinking about was…

She blinked rapidly and cleared her throat, cheeks burning in shame. Him, she realized. She’d been thinking of him. His strange sounding voice, his slender fingers grazing the screen door, the slight scent of sweat that clung to his skin, the way he’d looked at her.

She smoothed a hand over her hair. “Of course.”

The boy eyed her strangely. “You alright, Miss Lottie?”

Lottie laughed breathlessly. “What makes you say that, Lil’ Joe? ‘Course I’m alright.”

He shrugged, massaging his wrists. Lottie’s mind cleared, and she considered his hands again with newfound perception.

“Play that last part for me again, will you?”

He gave her a rueful look, but obliged. She quickly stopped him before the first note rang out and circled her fingers around his wrists, lifting them slightly then correcting the arch of his hands.

“You gotta hold them like this, okay? Like you’re holding a small baseball.”

“But that hurts worse!”

She tapped his elbows correctively so he’d lift them, then nodded for him to play.

“I can’t, Miss Lottie,” he complained.

With a smile, she lifted her hands to the keys to demonstrate the correct posture.

“Okay, then watch me. I’ll go slow.”

She was about to start playing when the wooden door creaked open, breaking her focus and making her stomach jump in shock. Joe’s father’s eyes widened in surprise, then crinkled as he smiled.

“Didn’t mean to give you a scare, Miss Lottie,” he apologized, taking off his hat as he stepped in, “Just came to get my boy.”

She frowned, checking her watch in confusion. They had about fifteen minutes left.

“We off to visit my mama today, she’s a town over,” he explained, lingering by the doors.

Joe jumped up from the piano bench as Lottie slowly rose, gently closing the piano and gathering up the music from the stand. She watched the young boy ran up to his father and embraced his legs with a smile, following behind him. His father grinned, gathering him up in his arms and resting the boy on his hip, putting his fedora on his son's head. He looked to Lottie warmly.

"Where you headed, Miss Lottie?"

Lottie clutched her music to her chest. "Oh, I don't know, Charlie. Maybe into town, get me something to drink."

She just knew she couldn't go home. Not when Remmick's presence had imprinted itself onto the doorway. She needed a clear head, even for a moment, even if it required corn liquor and muggy, dark rooms.

Charlie flashed a charming smile at her. "Well, we'll walk you there."

Lottie smiled and looked down as Charles offered her passage out of the chapel and closed the door behind them, careful of his son as he went through the doorway. It was high noon—the sun was beaming down with a vengeance today, hotter than usual, with no breeze to grant a reprieve. Charlie and Lottie's feet moved in sync as they walked down the dirt road, squinting under the sun and stealing glances at each other, offering one another polite, fleeting smiles.

"How's work treatin' you," Charlie asked, brown eyes blinking through the sunlight to look at her face. "You seem mighty tired."

Lottie nodded, rubbing her sweaty neck and wiping it off on her dress. She glanced over at Joe pulling Charlie's hat over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and smiled again.

"Work's treatin' me just fine. It's when I'm home the trouble starts."

Charlie's eyebrows rose from their low knit, and he stopped walking, letting Joe down. Joe scampered on ahead, hat bouncing. Charlie eyed Lottie with concern, stepping closer to her in one stride as they started to walk again.

"Ain't a man, givin' you trouble, is it?"

Lottie chuckled. "No, my brothers would've handled any man quite easily."

Charlie hummed, then hesitated. "A woman?"

Lottie gasped, slapping Charlie's arm with her music sheets. "Charlie!"

He let out a deep laugh smooth as molasses, dark forehead glistening in the sun. He stuck his hands in his pockets, cocking his head playfully with a shrug.

"Just askin'."

"Dog," she shot back, a smile playing on her lips. "Bet you'd like that just fine, wouldn't you?"

Charlie squinted at the sky, devilish smile playing on his lips. "Well..."

Lottie shook her head with a chuckle. "You a damn dog. God knows what you teachin' Lil' Joe."

"Aw, no, now, Miss Lottie," he said, "Joe's a good boy. Gonna go to Chicago one day, just like you."

He flashed another brilliant smile, and Lottie was helpless to do anything but be soaked in its radiance. She met his eyes with a small smile of her own, and their gazes lingered on each other for a moment before breaking and focusing on the road ahead. Joe was looking at them curiously, clearly waiting for the slow old people to hurry on up. They picked up their pace accordingly.

"But really, Miss Lottie," Charlie began, eyes focused on his son through the rippling air. "You alright?"

Lottie sighed. That seemed to be everyone's favorite question lately. Her mother, her brothers, Lil' Joe, and now his father. It was only this time, though, that she felt she could answer honestly.

"Somethin's been heavy on my mind," she admitted. "Something...strange."

Charlie nodded, eyes wandering in thought. "What kinda strange?"

Lottie fell quiet, unsure how to begin. How could she explain to Charlie the strange feelings swirling inside her about her dark visitor with the gleaming fangs and beautiful blue eyes? About how he purred, how he smiled, how he always kept coming back despite her attempts to push him off? How could she tell him how it made her feel, for the first time, alive in a way only her music could?

She swallowed, frowning, then abruptly asked--

"What does it mean for a man to keep a woman?"

Charlie paused, taken aback and thoroughly amused. "Thought you said it wasn't a man."

It wasn't, she thought to herself. More animal than man. More creature than human. She quietly fumbled with the worn edges of her music pages, pursing her lips.

"Will you tell me, or not?"

Charlie laughed, then sucked in a deep breath, broad chest puffing up under his overalls and dirtied button-up. He reached for his hat to rub the brim, then remembered it was gone. Awkwardly, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

"Well, Miss Lottie...it means a man's found something real special. Something he can't share with nobody. Something that's...that's got to be all his or he'll go mad."

He stared at Lottie's profile thoughtfully, then cleared his throat and looked away when her eyes slid over to his in question.

"At least, that's what I'd say it means."

Lottie frowned at her shoes in thought, turning the information over in her head. Charlie stole a couple glances at her, then finally spoke again.

"Man want to keep you, Miss Lottie?"

Remmick's soft gaze flashed in her mind, making her breath catch in her throat. Charlie noticed this and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

"Lottie," he said gently, "If a man's botherin' you, all you need to do is say the word and I'm there."

She blinked away the image of Remmick's face, gripping her music pages tightly. Lottie let out an exhale, then gave Charlie a small smile.

"Nothing's wrong, Charlie," she assured him, "I promise. I'd tell you if there was."

She knew not to, but she let him look at her.

She’d play for him, then she’d leave the door open like she ain’t had no sense, and let him linger there, eyes glowing red in the dark as she smoked a cigarette in her bed, knees drawn, her nightgown pooling at her hips. Her chest and thighs sparkled with sweat in the faint lamplight, and she could feel his eyes grazing her bare skin.

She didn’t know why, but something was being drawn out of her by him. Something that liked to be watched. Seen.

She’d look at those glowing embers in the dark and feel some kind of charge build under her skin, a new kind of heat that made the muggy air unbearable. She’d stretch and wriggle slightly in her bed, staring back at them, exhaling smoke as he watched her from the doorway.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to tempt me,” he said to her.

She chuckled to herself, sitting up and grabbing her carton of cigarettes.

“Can devils be tempted, Remmick?”

She took a lighter between her fingers and went over to the door.

“They just as helpless as any ol’ man?”

She opened the screen door slightly, and he pressed himself through the crack, opening it fully. She leaned slightly against the door, blowing cigarette smoke into his face.

“You know what you’re doing, little lady,” he questioned.

She pulled a cigarette from the carton, twirling it between her fingers. She lifted it to his lips, smiling wryly.

“Want one?”

“I take it you don’t.”

“What am I doing, then?”

“You’re playing a game you’re set to lose.”

“I thought you’d love a game,” she said softly.

She gestured for him to come closer, and he did. She placed the cigarette in his lips, then leaned forward to light it with hers, her head peeking out of the doorframe. He inhaled, his cigarette sparking. The corner of her mouth curved slightly, threatening to send him over the edge. He could see her breasts down her nightgown, and swallowed. She quickly ducked back inside, letting out a heavy breath.

“You still scared of me,” he said, smiling, the cigarette hanging from his lips, “I can smell it.”

She just held his stare, finishing her cigarette.

“What ya scared of?” He put the cigarette out on the doorframe. “Scared I’ll fuck you too good?”

He hadn’t said it yet before that moment. He just teased it with his eyes, the rasp of his voice, the way he caged the doorframe like a hungry animal. She licked her lips, taking a shaky breath.

“Oh, don’t get nervous now, darlin’,” he reprimanded gently, “Not after you got me so excited to give you what you want.”

“I ain’t scared of you.”

He tutted at her, shaking his head. “No one likes a liar, baby.”

She honestly hadn’t thought of it before he said it. Now she could see it clearly in her mind. She stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as she threatened to cross her own threshold. She was looking at him proper now, imagining what it could be like to feel a man’s touch, or a not-so-man’s touch, and her fingers crept across the doorframe.

“I’m happy to give you what you need, Lottie,” he said, “Just gotta be a big girl and say it.”

She drew her eyebrows, finally meeting his gaze.

“C’mon,” he whispered, “You know I’ll take good care o’ ya.”

Before she could regret it, she grabbed him by the collar and sealed her lips against his, pushing up on her toes to stay behind the doorframe. Then, she quickly jumped back, a line of drool stretching and breaking between them. He looked shocked. Shocked she actually did it, kissed him like that. He didn’t take her to be that bold. Just a little neglected, wanting to toy with him.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. It was like watching a foal learn to walk. She stepped carefully near him again, her hands trembling.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she admitted, “But I ain’t never wanted a man much as I want you.”

“I ain’t no man, darlin’,” he said with a grin.

She saw the drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. She leaned forward on her toes again, licking it off. His breath shuddered. She stepped across the doorway, kissing him again, putting his hands on her waist. She nuzzled his neck, taking off his thin suspenders.

“Maybe that’s what I like.”

“Say it,” he told her, “If you’re so big and bad.”

She leaned in to kiss him again but he pulled back, making her weak legs nearly buckle as his glowing eyes peered down at her.

“Come in.”

He smiled.

“Come in and do what?”

His hands palmed the fullness of her ass and squeezed greedily through her nightgown. He could feel her pulse thrumming eagerly as she pressed herself against him, her hips pushing against his.

“Come in an’ fuck me good like you say you can.”

She hooked her fingers into his collar and dragged him in as he kicked the door shut, grabbing the back of her neck and hotly pressing his lips against hers.

“Mm, if you so big and bad,” she breathed into his mouth.

He chuckled and shook his head, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back. She whined softly and grabbed at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. His drool smeared against her neck as he bared his fangs against her skin, pressing them against her pulse, feeling how helplessly she melted against him. He gathered up the skirt of her nightgown and dabbed his chin with his fingers, slid his hands between her legs and groaned, pressing her against the wall.

“You’re a sweet little thing, ain’t ya,” he whispered, fingers rubbing firm circles against her clit. “Tried to show off for me, but you’re just a good girl.”

Her breath fanned against his face as he pressed his forehead against hers, making her hold his stare as he pressed two of his fingers inside her and curled them just right enough to make her eyes fall shut in anguish.

He fell to his knees and pushed her thighs apart, inhaling the smell of her sweat and slick with a growl. He buried his face between her legs without thinking, lapping up her taste greedily before he could remember himself, flicking his tongue against her clit and sucking it until her legs shook too bad for her to stand as she moaned like a sick man. She gripped his hair as her thighs quaked against the sides of his face and clenched as her pussy clamped down on nothing and her body flooded with white hot heat. He groaned into her, only spurred further instead of cooling down.

“Oh god, I can’t—I can’t—“

He held her up by her hips and continued, sealing his mouth over her pussy and circling her clit with his tongue before pushing it inside her. Lottie cried out and grabbed onto nothing desperately, trying not to fall onto his face but gradually sliding lower and lower down the wall as her body melted. Her head was fuzzy and the room was spinning and Remmick only kept going like he was attached to her. Her breath stopped and started as she tugged at her own nightgown and stretched the neck until she came into his mouth with a tortured sob.

She had collapsed on the floor, staring in a daze up at the ceiling as he finally came up from between her legs. His chin and mouth were dripping with sweat and juices. He grinned at her, wiping his face clean and unbuttoning his shirt as she breathed heavily, gently writhing beneath him.

“You’re in for it now, lassie,” he warned, tugging his shirt off, “Sun’s coming up soon, I ain’t goin nowhere, and neither are you, are ya?”

She shook her head slowly, struggling to move. He laughed softly.

“Don’t tell me you’re all tuckered out now, I haven’t even started.”

“No man…ever licked me like that before,” she said under her breath.

“That’s a real shame,” he lamented, shaking his head, lowering himself between her legs again. “Want me to do it again?”

“Yes, please.”

He kissed down her thighs, inhaling deeply, eyes shut as he brushed his nose against her soft skin. He moved slower this time, each kiss getting a slight twitch out of her as it connected, listening to her breath hitch in her chest every time his tickled her pussy. His head dipped low, and Lottie took a deep, heavy breath as he pressed his full tongue against her clit and dragged it up slowly as if he’d already forgotten her taste. The sensation was unbearable, her sensitive nerve endings enveloped by his mouth, velvet tongue sliding up and down and side to side as she pushed into him, her legs pried open by the strength of his hands, her back arching off of the floor.

“Like that?”

“Mmm,” she groaned, sliding her fingers into his dark hair.

His teeth gently scraped against her clit, making her hips buck up in response.

"Attagirl," he whispered.

His tongue danced nimbly against her clit as if he’d already been doing it a lifetime. For all Lottie knew, he had--he was devouring her like a man starved, rough fingertips digging into bruising, soft flesh. She suddenly lurched forward and cried out, nearly sitting up straight before collapsing onto her right elbow and keening against his tongue. The feeling was impossible enough, but the noises...the sounds of slurping and sucking and his feverish, guttural groans against her core sent her over the edge. She could see white out of the corners of her eyes before they rolled back, and her mouth fell open. No sound came from her lips as heat consumed her body like a possession--this must be what it felt like to have some kind of demon take control of your limbs, rip your soul from its throne within your heart. Choked, stuttering breaths broke free from her throat, and she slowly crumbled onto the ground, a tremor rolling down her spine and colliding with Remmick's greedy mouth.

Sweet Jesus.

Her mind was fuzzy for a moment, but he didn't give her one. Before she knew it, he had scooped her up in his arms and threw her over his shoulder, one hand securing her by her ass. Her thighs trembled as she blinked away tears in her eyes that she didn't realize were there. She had barely sucked in any air into her lungs before he tossed her onto the bed, knocking it all out of her chest as she bounced.

Her glassy eyes made out Remmick’s silhouette as he closed the windows and tugged the curtains shut, leaving her in complete darkness. Lottie held her breath again as she waited, listening to him rustle around, kicking off his boots and taking off his pants. She sat up and fumbled around in the dark blindly until she clutched the oil lamp, jumping back at the residual heat, then turned it on with trembling, clammy hands and set it on the chair.

She only saw a flash of pale skin and he was on her. Lottie gasped weakly as his fingers curled painfully into her hair, tugging roughly to keep her eyes on his. Her heart pounded wildly as those small suns pierced into her soul. Her ragged breathing made him smile.

"Now, darlin'," he said, leading them both to her bed with every step, "I'm gonna need you to listen to me. Can you do that?"

She fell into sitting on the bed and found herself met with his cock. It bobbed gently between his thighs, risen to attention, already leaking with precum. It was thick, small veins protruding on the sides, and the sight tortured her—she needed it. He yanked her head upwards to make her eyes focus on his. He tilted his head, smiling.

“Baby, I asked ya a question.”

It was too much to ask of her to speak anymore. Instead, Lottie reached up her back to start to undo the buttons of her nightgown to answer, fingers trembling as they struggled to grab hold of the tiny buttons, spent arm muscles strained in the awkward angle. Remmick watched as the cotton fabric went limp around her chest, exposing her fine clavicle bones, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dainty points of her dark brown nipples. Her breath trembled as she nervously peeled it off, looking up at him for approval, for direction.

His hold in her hair loosened as he stepped closer, grabbing her chin and slowly circling her lips with his thumb. She parted them, and, balling up her nightgown into fists on her thighs, closed her lips around it, letting him ease the pad of his thumb further down her velvet tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut as she took a stuttering breath, knees falling open on their own—much to Remmick’s pleasure. He nudged her chin, making her eyes open. They stared up at him with that same look that drew him in the first night he’d seen her: soft, sweet, lost.

“Don’t take your eyes off mine,” he said, dragging her mouth open with the force of his hand, “Don’t even think of it.”

She shook her head slightly to show her agreement, and he tilted her head further upward, releasing her tongue from his hold.

“I’ll take good care of you, okay? Real good.”

He leaned over her, staring achingly at her open her mouth. She was perfect, already so obedient, waiting on him to do as he pleased. So good.

It was a shame he had to ruin her.

“Gimme yer tongue,” he instructed softly.

Shyly, she obeyed, pink tongue glistening in the lamplight as she stuck it out. Without missing a beat, Remmick’s thumb caressed her jaw as he leaned further down and slowly spit into her mouth. She made a soft, timid sound of surprise, her eyes widening as it trickled to the back of her throat, slimy and alien. She never thought it’d be so easy, but she could feel the spark of desire squeezing her thighs together again.

Straightening up, he hooked his thumb against her teeth and opened her mouth wide, relishing in the confusion that glistened in those brown pools as they remained fixed onto his gaze. He placed his other hand on the crown of her head, positioning her before using it to take hold of his length. His breath shuddered as he teased his tip against her wet, soft lips and watched her gaze soften with desire, begging him to go further. So he did.

He was going to be gentle with her, he’d promised himself. Nothing too harsh, lest he scare her away. But when he felt the way her mouth sucked him in, saw her pretty little lips wrapped around his cock, he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed the base of her head again and pushed, easing his hips further into her mouth in greedy lust. He sucked in air sharply, brows furrowing as he moved her head—her mouth—slowly along his shaft to ease her into what he was about to do to her despite himself. She moved in sync, a soft moan rumbling at the back of her throat, the vibration barely reaching his head as his breath shattered out of him. His eyes flashed down at her in surprise.

“Careful, lass,” he warned, but she didn’t listen. She flattered her tongue against him instinctively, one of her beautiful, sacred hands reaching up to close around the base of his cock, squeezing him just enough to make his hips jerk forward. “F-Fuck…”

His fingers lifted slightly off of her skin as she eased off of the bed, her nightgown falling and pooling around her knees as they met the wooden floor. Remmick lifted his head slightly, staring down at her in disbelief as she dragged her mouth back along his length, took a small breath that teased his cock with cool air, and then enveloped him in that soft warmth again, pushing up on her knees. His hand moved from the base of her head to her hair, tugging her forward, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. She allowed it, moved into it, pressing her breasts against his thighs as she moved her hand away and let him sink deeper into her mouth. He hissed quietly, hips snapping a bit as the tip of his cock pressed hotly against the back of her throat. He held still, pulling her further, daring to slip past into her throat. A violent gag erupted from her body, making her lurch and cling onto his legs as if it would help.

“Don’t move,” he breathed out, firm hold returning to the base of her head, “Stay fuckin’ still.”

Her nails dug into his skin as another gag built up inside her that she fought to keep down. Remmick’s hips keened forward, testing as she tried to breathe, to get any sort of relief, but failed. Everything, every sense she had—her taste, her smell—it was all him. His eyes shut as his head tilted back. He reared his hips back slowly, only to for Lottie to lean forward, determined to take all of him like her body begged for, but he grabbed his cock and pulled it out of her mouth roughly, tutting his tongue.

“What did I just tell you?”

She caught her breath, hands falling to her lap. Remmick sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“ ‘M sorry,” she managed to say, head spinning as her eyes blurred, “I just…need you.”

And she did. Painfully. Her lips trembled as she watched his part thoughtfully, his knuckles caressing her cheekbone tenderly. Her eyes were teary, but Remmick could see the quiet determination in them, the hunger, the need. It was only the gentlemanly thing to do to oblige her.

He gathered up her hair in his hand and her mouth fell open naturally, tongue finding his head like it was the only place it belonged. Remmick allowed it, fascinated by the woman he was now watching worship his cock who had trained a pistol on him barely a week ago. She curved her tongue underneath his shaft and licked up its length, tilting her head to keep her eyes on his like he’d told her to. She let spit bubble from her mouth and, with quivering breaths, spread it slick over him with her lips, watching him melt into her touch as a heavier, deeper sigh escaped his lips.

“That’s a girl,” he said, voice barely a rasp escaping his throat.

She took him into his mouth, eyes flitting up expectantly. He grinned, fingers curling roughly against her scalp.

“You want me to fuck every little part o’ ya,” he muttered, forcing his cock down her throat, “Is that it?”

The sensation was so intense that Lottie felt each thrust echo through her whole body. He didn’t give her time to gag on him, just take his force, his heat, and all of it pooled between her legs as weak moans vibrated out of her. She placed one hand on the floor between her thighs to steady herself, pressing her arm against her swollen clit and squeezing around it to find some release—Remmick was too distracted by the sensations of her mouth to stop her.

She pressed against her wrist, grinding slowly until Remmick abruptly stopped, pulling out of her mouth with a pop. She made a soft whine, trying to catch him. He raised a brow, tugging her head back.

“Think yer slick, rubbing your pussy like that?”

She swallowed against her sore throat, eyes trailing away shyly. Remmick grinned, but dropped it as soon as she managed to meet his eyes again. She really was too perfect. He leaned down, grabbing her by the throat and standing her up on her weak legs. She gasped, hands fluttering around his on her neck, nearly stumbling over her feet. His eyes meandered her lovely, ruined face.

“Such a sweet girl,” he whispered, grinned creeping back in again, “Can’t help yourself, can ya?”

She shook her head feebly against his strength, pussy throbbing. She needed him, and she needed him now.

“Please,” she begged quietly.

He leaned his head toward her, moving her closer by his hold on her throat, making her gasp as she was lifted to her toes. She could feel herself getting lightheaded, she hadn’t gotten enough breath after his cock had smothered her before.

“What was that, darlin’?”

“Please,” she choked out, “Please…fuck me.”

He smiled, looking down at her quivering lips, her trembling hands holding onto his securely around her neck. He squeezed gently, toying with the flesh, then pulled her closer to place a soft, slow kiss on her lips. She gasped for air as their lips parted, their mouths slick with saliva and laced with each other's taste, grabbing onto his shoulder and rubbing her thighs together desperately.

"I could snap your neck," he said softly, brushing dark coils off her forehead gently, "I could kill ya without even trying."

He lifted her up a bit more, eyes studying her face as if he was thinking it over, and Lottie couldn't believe how good it felt to be weak, at his mercy. Remmick chuckled.

"I could kill ya, and all knowing that does is make ya even wetter?"

He tossed her back onto the bed, listening as she yelped and gasped for air, rubbing her throat and crawling further onto the bed. Remmick climbed on top of her, admiring the handprint he'd left on her neck, caressing it gently with his fingertips and watching her shiver. He smiled, shaking his head.

"No one knows, do they?"

"Know wha--mmm..."

She eagerly closed her mouth around his fingers, sucking on them as he slid them out of her parted lips. Remmick couldn't help but chuckle again as he parted her weak legs, slowly pressing his two digits inside her slick pussy. He pursed his lips and hissed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Ooh, no one 'cept me knows."

He slowly dragged his fingers across her spongy walls, curling and pushing them out and in, admiring her slickness as she moaned, grabbing onto his arm as her knees bent to open up more for him.

"Please," she begged, " 's not enough..."

Her head fell back into the bed as he pushed his fingers inside roughly, that wicked grin permanently plastered on his face. His thumb pressed against her clit and rubbed as he picked up his pace with his fingers, watching her hips rock in sync, her pussy desperately closing around his digits and squeezing tightly as she whimpered and came.

"Oh," he murmured in mock surprise, "That easy, baby?"

Lottie felt close to weeping. Her body was on fire--each release only made the feeling worse, the ache for his length to be pounding inside her until his seed quenched the flame raging between her feverish thighs. He slid his fingers out, sliding them into her mouth and smiling as she sucked off her own juices, too hungry for his skin to be put off by the taste. She whined as he slipped his fingers out of her mouth again, grabbing his hand and cupping it against his cheek so he could feel what he was doing to her; the heat...it was unbearable.

"I know," he muttered affectionately, "I know."

His hand slid back to her neck and gripped it tightly as he pressed himself on top of her and kissed her forcefully. Her fractured breath burst out of her nose as she kissed him back, her mouth opening wider for their tongues to meet. The heat on her skin grew stronger each time their jaws moved together, and she began to lose herself in the feeling, the agonizing blaze becoming a little easier to bear, so long as he never stopped kissing her, so long as he never stopped grinding his shaft against her puffy folds and groaned into her mouth. He broke his mouth away from hers, peppering kisses on her cheeks and grunting into her ear.

"You need it, darlin'?"

Her words slurred out, mind numbing out as she struggled to find them. "Fuck, please--"

"You sound so good when you beg," he whispered against her cheek, lining his hips up with hers. "Keep doin' it."

She groaned heavily as he dragged his tip against her cunt, teasing her entrance. "I need you to fuck me so badly, please don't make me wait anymore."

Another whine escaped her lips as he pulled her upright, holding her against his chest as he lined himself up with her cunt then slowly, excruciatingly, eased her onto his cock. Her weight leaned onto him as an overwhelming wave of relief weighed down her limbs, tears pricking at her eyes. It was good, it was so good, it felt impossible to bear. Slowly, with shuddering breaths, she pressed herself deeper so she could fill herself up to the brim with his length, whimpering at the feeling of his engorged head kissing her cervix. Her nails dug into his shoulders as his hands slid up her back and fastened onto the base of her neck, holding her down firmly as her hips slowly rocked against him.

"So good," she slurred, lips smushed against his neck as she gasped, " 's so good, Remmick..."

Lottie's mind swirled into nothingness as her body moved on its own, picking up the pace. She had never felt so full, so complete, and the friction of him against her sweet spot made her keen onto him, shuddering breaths slowly evolving into moans as Remmick's breath grew heavy against her breasts.

"Fuck, baby," he uttered softly, inhaling that fruity scent, pressing his lips into a firm line. "You gon' give it all to me, huh?"

She nodded, eyebrows creasing as she bit down on her lip. The bed began to squeak as they rocked against each other, shaky moans and heavy grunts filling the room. Lottie could feel something sharp digging into her skin, dragging down her back, but the pain only made her squeeze around him as she cried out, grinding against him harder, a surge of energy striking through her like a second wind.

"That's it," Remmick encouraged, voice quaking as his forehead wrinkled, "Oh, that's a girl."

Her hips began to rock and down as she clung to him, desperately trying to create more friction inside her, her folds dragging against ever little ridge of his cock, her pussy clenching and sucking him in as her ass began to bounce off of his thighs, Remmick's hands quickly shifted to her hips, claws digging into her sweaty stomach and lower back as he moved with her, his gravelly moans filling her ears.

"All those boys lookin' at ya," he breathed into her ear, "Thinkin' you're so pure and innocent, scared to touch ya..."

The thought made Lottie groan in frustration as her teeth broke her skin. Remmick moved her hips, his strength lifting her up and down on his cock, claws scratching her thighs and ass as the slivers on her back and stomach began to weep out droplets of blood. His nose flared, fangs peeking out of his gums at the sweet aroma of arousal that poured from the ruby red substance.

"I ain't scared to touch ya," he said, "Am I?"

Lottie shook her head, straightening up and tilting her head backward, tears spilling out of her cheeks. Remmick stopped moving her to grab her chin and kiss her, tongue swiping over her bloodied lips as he let out a soft growl. She whimpered, afraid to open her eyes and see the monster she could feel against her nude, slick body, hanging onto the back of his neck as their tongues met and another painful wave of heat burned through her muscles.

"You taste so sweet, darlin'. So sweet."

Remmick lifted her up to her knees--much to her weak noises of disapproval-- and turned her around, pushing her face into the patchwork quilt and pressing his hand into her back to ease it into a curve. He bent over, tongue greedily skimming the blood on her back, and gently nipped at her neck with his fangs.

"Please--please--"

He caged her body underneath his, leveraging his weight above her, spitting in his blood-smeared hand and stroking his length. "I'm putting it back in, baby."

He did it in one rough thrust, taking all the air out of her lungs. Her breath rasped as he eased his hips against hers, the tip of his cock pressing firmly into the deepest crevices she didn't even know she had. He hooked one hand around one of her hips, leaning on his other, which he placed lovingly on her head, and shifted his hips back and forth slowly to ease her into the new angle he was piercing her with. A string of breathy moans broke through her lips as she gripped onto the quilt, swallowing as heat and slick filled her pussy and gushed around Remmick's cock. He let out a breathy chuckle, then a whimper as his hips moved faster until they drove against hers, making the headboard crash against the wall.

"Oh--my--oh my god," Lottie squeaked, leaning desperately into him, "Oh my god!"

He dug his claws into her punishingly. "Bad word, dove; dirty word."

She cried out, hand flying back to squeeze his wrist and try to tug his claws off of her. He loosened his fingers to ease the pain, watching the muscles in her back shudder and relax. The headboard hit the wall loudly, overpowering the sounds of skin against skin, whimpering, and Remmick's low muttering into Lottie's ear.

"You make the perfect whore, ya know that? You're my perfect little whore," he said hotly into her skin, "I'm not sharing ya with anybody--you're mine. All mine."

Lottie could feel it building at the base of her spine. She tried to lift a weak arm to touch herself, but couldn't manage the strength. With a pained grunt, she backed into his thrusts, making the bed rock fully. It felt like the walls were shrinking, closing in, stealing air from her lungs as the ball of fire inside her built and built until she shrieked.

Her vision went white, and she shuddered violently underneath Remmick's body, trying to bear the force of release that was overtaking her. She thought her brain would melt inside her feverish head and leak out of her ears. Remmick gave two more stilted, harsh thrusts, but the way she squeezed around him was too much. He dug his claws into the quilt, tearing the fabric, fangs baring as hips stuttered and locked against her, cum spilling inside her, hot and fast as her blood.

"Remmick," she gasped, "Remmick, it's inside--"

She moaned as he covered her mouth, grunting, relishing the feeling of emptying into her as she softened beneath him, hips keening into him. Remmick caught his breath, slowly straightening up, fingers gently grazing her back. Lottie's hands trembled as she lay still, eyes shut, the fever mercifully broken.

"Shit," she whispered, inhaling deeply through her nose.

Remmick smiled at the remark. "You liked that, didya?"

Still inside her, he laid them down onto their side delicately, mindful of her cuts. She let out a deep sigh, reaching for his hand and pulling his arm over her waist to hold her closer, intertwining his fingers with his.

"You a real generous man, Remmick," she said, weak smile forming on her lips. "Real generous."

Remmick chuckled, pressing a soft kiss onto her neck. He eyed the baby blue light of the morning against the white drapery, then looked back down at Lottie’s peaceful face. He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed it, listening to the crows calling outside.

[flixpii]

Is it wrong that I’m craving for a part 2 of too much not enough 😩

you may be onto something …

[flixpii]

One of the funniest little moment in Sinners is when Pearline says Sammie seems like a nice young man, and he responds with “I ain’t always nice. Ain't that young either” and he looks like this –

[flixpii]

Chapter 5

link to ao3 !

word count : 3.8k

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

--

The church was too quiet.

Too still for a summer morning. Too heavy.

Even the wind outside had silenced itself, like it knew not to press against the windows of St. Augustine’s while grief sat thick in the air.

Mae couldn’t remember walking inside. Couldn’t recall sitting down in the front row beside Grace. Her hands were clenched so tight in her lap that her nails had broken skin, but she didn’t loosen them. She barely even felt it.

Her eyes were swollen, lashes stuck together with dried salt and tears that refused to stop no matter how long she stared ahead.

And ahead—there he was.

Isaiah.

Laid out in the coffin beneath the gold-trimmed altar, dressed in his Sunday suit. The red tie was gone. In its place was something plain and dark. His hands folded neat over his chest, his curls brushed back the way his mama used to like them. The funeral director had done a good job. Maybe too good. He looked clean. Peaceful.

Untouched.

That was the part that made Mae sick.

They said he was found in the woods, not too far from the road that led home. Just past the fields, near the river bend where folks never walked after sunset. The grass around him was soaked red, the dirt stained dark beneath his body. They said his chest was torn open—deep, deliberate slashes, like something had raked through him. And his neck… Mae couldn’t stop thinking about his neck.

Two bites.

Like a creature had taken hold of him—not a man, not the Klan, not anything human—and fed.

The paper didn’t print those details. Called it a “targeted act.” Blamed it on racial violence, on night riders looking to strike fear. The church ladies whispered it was the Klan, too—said he must’ve been jumped and brutalized. Said the mortician cleaned him up too well. Painted over the truth like whitewash on rotted wood.

But Mae knew what she’d heard. What the coroner told Isaiah’s daddy in a hush when he thought no one else was listening.

“They ain’t never seen wounds like that.”

Wounds that didn’t look made by knife. Wounds that were missing something—something no one could explain.

Mae didn’t want to hear it.

She didn’t want to hear anything.

The pastor’s voice echoed faintly at the pulpit, bouncing off the stained-glass windows in a way that made Mae’s head throb.

“…a young man taken too soon… in the arms of our Lord now…”

The words slipped past her like water, like a language she couldn’t hold onto. Her ears rang. That sharp, underwater ringing that made the world sound like it was cracking in half.

Just eight nights ago, Isaiah had spun her around in her family’s yard, laughing with his whole chest, sweat glinting at his temples, eyes shining. eight nights ago, she’d leaned against his shoulder on the porch, long after the party was over, and told him to come by tomorrow so she could show him the book he asked about.

And now he was gone.

Gone.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Grace reached out and placed her hand over Mae’s, gentle and warm, but Mae didn’t lift her head. Couldn’t. Her gaze was locked on Isaiah’s face, blurred through her tears.

It didn’t look like him anymore.

He looked like a photograph. Like something she’d hold in her palm and ache over in secret. Not a boy. Not her friend. Not the man who gave her flowers and danced like he had two left feet just to see her smile.

The church pew creaked slightly to her left.

Louis sat stiff beside her, his jaw clenched tight, hand gripping his knee like it was the only thing tethering him to the room. Their mama, Florence, had tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. Paul stared dead ahead, unmoving, his mouth silently forming the words of the scripture being read. Something about passing through the valley of shadow. Something about mercy.

Mae couldn’t listen.

Her stomach twisted.

And up front, in the first pew, Isaiah’s father and uncle sat like statues. The elder man’s shoulders were square, but Mae could see the tremble in his hands. His lip was drawn so tight it looked like it hurt to breathe. The uncle had his hand braced on his thigh, head bowed low—not in prayer, but to hold back the sob threatening to break free. The kind that would shatter a room.

Mae’s vision swam again.

She pressed her palms harder into her lap, trying to stop the shaking.

She remembered the first time she met Isaiah—him calling her name across the street like they’d known each other forever. She remembered the feel of his fingers slipping between hers as he pulled her toward the dance floor. She remembered his voice that night at the party when he leaned in close and said, “Now this is a party.”

She didn’t remember saying goodbye.

Because she never got to.

The pastor’s voice rose again.

“…and though we may not understand why the Lord has chosen to call this child home, we place our faith in His divine will…”

Mae’s hands clenched tighter. She didn’t want divine will. She wanted him.

She wanted one more morning. One more minute.

She wanted to hear his laugh again.

Outside, the cicadas screamed into the heat.

Inside, the air felt thick enough to drown in.

The pastor’s voice faded behind the hammering of her own pulse, and Mae, sitting in her black dress with her shoulders curled and her eyes burning, knew that nothing about this summer would ever be the same again.

The repast was held in the same church hall where Sunday school took place.

Long tables were lined end to end beneath tall windows, their frames cracked slightly to let in the summer air. The buzz of fans hummed over murmured conversations, and every table was laid with food—platters of fried catfish and ham hocks, bowls of collard greens slick with oil, corn pudding, sweet potatoes, warm rolls stacked high, and red punch so sugary it made the back of your throat tingle. The women of the church had worked quick, as they always did, bustling in and out of the kitchen like time didn’t matter when grief was at the door.

Mae moved through it like smoke.

She sat when someone pointed to a seat. Ate when a plate was set in front of her. Smiled weakly when a cousin patted her shoulder. But she wasn’t there—not really. The food tasted like ash. Her head throbbed. And her eyes still burned with a tiredness that reached down into her ribs.

Across the room, Isaiah’s father sat hunched slightly at the end of one table, barely picking at his plate. His uncle stood near the windows, speaking low with one of the older men from the church. Their voices were just out of reach, but Mae didn’t try to listen. She already knew what they were saying.

“The boy was too young.”

“Shoulda walked him home.”

“I seen him headin’ past the river road that night—never shoulda gone that way.”

All the men had theories. All the women had prayers. And all Mae had was a tangle of memory and confusion knotted tight in her chest.

Grace sat beside her, hand resting on her arm whenever someone else came by to speak. Most offered condolences. A few—mostly folks from their old neighborhood—spoke to Mae like they knew what Isaiah had meant to her, and their voices were gentle, warm. “That boy thought the sun rose just for you,” one auntie whispered, and Mae nearly choked on her punch.

Paul hadn’t spoken much since the service. He sat across from Mae, folding bread into little pieces, stacking them absentmindedly beside his untouched greens. Occasionally, his lips moved, whispering something—prayers, most likely. Verses only he could hear.

Louis, on the other hand, was at the far end of the hall, speaking with one of the deacons. His eyes flicked toward Mae every so often, but he didn’t approach. Not yet. He’d always been good about knowing when she needed space. And she did now. Lord, she did.

She felt crowded in a room full of people who loved Isaiah. That should’ve comforted her. Should’ve made her feel less alone. But instead, she felt like she was watching the whole world from behind a glass pane—separate, muted, cold.

A little girl, no more than seven, toddled up to Mae’s chair with a brownie in her hand and a ribbon tied crooked in her braids. She stared up at Mae with wide eyes and tilted her head.

“You okay, miss?” she asked.

Mae blinked. Something in her chest cracked. But she smiled, somehow.

“I’m alright, baby,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

The girl nodded solemnly, like she understood death already, and returned to her mother’s lap.

Mae pushed her chair back and stood. The room spun briefly before settling again. She muttered something to Grace about air, about needing to breathe, and stepped out the side door into the heat.

The sun was bright—too bright for a day like this. The air was thick, humming with cicadas, heavy with the smell of fried oil and cut grass. Mae moved past the side of the church, skirt brushing her ankles, and found herself near the low hedges that lined the building.

She sank to the ground.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t pray. Just sat.

The wind shifted once, tugging at the collar of her dress.

Behind her, the sound of the band from the party crept into her mind like a ghost—laughter, the trumpet, the beat of Isaiah’s hand against hers as he danced her across the grass.

She pressed her forehead against her knees and stayed there.

Long enough for the world to start spinning again.

But not long enough for the ache to go quiet.

The ride home had been long, though it only took seven minutes.

No one said much. Even the sound of the carriage wheels over the dirt road felt muted. The sun was already beginning to slip down the sky, painting the world in long shadows and orange hush.

By the time they reached the house, it was nearly dusk. The door creaked open to stillness. No clatter in the kitchen. No smell of cornbread or roast. Just the soft groan of wood and the way the house seemed to breathe when no one filled it.

Mae drifted into the kitchen, like a spirit herself.

Her mama had lit the stove again, not to cook, but to boil water for tea. The kettle’s whistle was weak, like even it knew the day wasn’t meant for noise.

“Come on, now,” Florence had whispered as she poured the water into a chipped floral cup. “Get this in you. Settle your nerves.”

Mae didn’t argue.

She sat at the table, her shoulders curved in, one arm folded around her waist as she held the teacup in her other hand. Grace sat beside her, fingers wrapped gently around Mae’s. Their mama moved around them like she always did—light on her feet, careful not to let her own sadness crack her voice. But Mae could see it. In the stiffness of her back. The way her hands lingered too long at the rim of the cup. The way her eyes wouldn’t meet Mae’s for too long.

Louis had disappeared into his study the moment they stepped through the door, muttering something about “followin’ up with the twins.” His voice was low, like even he knew today couldn’t hold any more bad news. Mae didn’t blame him for slipping away. Not this time.

Paul stood at the back door, staring out into the dark yard. One hand rested flat against the frame, the other clutched the worn leather of his Bible, thumb rubbing absent patterns across the spine.

The house was loud with silence.

So loud it felt like something might scream.

Then Paul spoke.

At first, it was a whisper.

“Maybe…” he said, voice dry, distant, “maybe God had a plan.”

Mae’s cup stopped mid-sip.

Florence paused where she was folding a kitchen towel and turned her head slightly. “What was that, baby?”

Paul didn’t turn from the door. “I said… maybe God had a plan for Isaiah. And the plan needed for him to die.”

The teacup in Mae’s hands rattled against the saucer.

Grace’s hand tensed around hers.

“Paul—” Florence started.

Mae squeezed her eyes shut.

“—maybe it ain’t for us to understand,” Paul continued, louder now. “Maybe it’s divine. A preparation. A cleansing. Maybe the Lord took him to keep him from sin.”

“Stop it,” Mae whispered.

But he didn’t.

“He was wearin’ that red tie. I remember. Red. Maybe it was a sign.”

“Paul,” Florence warned.

“Maybe it was blood—”

“Stop it!” Mae’s voice cracked as she stood up so fast her chair scraped loud against the floor.

The cup shook in her hand, sloshing tea over her knuckles. She set it down hard enough that it clinked against the table.

Paul finally turned.

His face was unreadable. Calm. Composed. But his eyes… they looked like a storm had passed through them and dried everything it touched.

Mae stared at him, chest heaving.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling, still soft but rising with each word. “Why you always gotta be that way, Paul? Always with your prophecy, your ‘maybes,’ your holy mouth full of riddles that don’t mean nothing to people who loved him.”

Paul didn’t speak.

Mae let out a humorless laugh. “What? Ain’t got no more scripture to pull out your pocket? No verse about how people like Isaiah supposed to die?”

“Ella-Mae,” Florence snapped, sharp as a knife. “That’s enough.”

“No, Mama,” Mae said, tears sliding freely now, her voice cracking beneath the weight of her heart. “No, it ain’t enough. I’m tired. Tired of all this—” she motioned around the room, to the too-quiet kitchen, to Paul’s still face, to the way the house echoed more than it breathed, “—tired of pretending this house ain’t heavy. Tired of people dying and no one ever saying they’re scared.”

Grace stood too, reaching out, but Mae jerked slightly, her breath catching.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “I… I can’t right now.”

Her voice broke. She turned away quickly, gathering her skirts and heading for the stairs.

“Mae,” Grace said softly.

But Mae was already walking fast, her hand gripping the banister like it could steady the quake in her chest. Her feet echoed on the steps, each one faster than the last, like maybe if she got to her room quick enough, she could leave the ache at the bottom of the stairs.

-----

The sky outside was bleeding into dusk when Mae slipped into the bathroom and quietly locked the door behind her.

No one asked where she was going. No one followed.

The bathwater was already drawn—she had asked one of the kitchen girls to run it a half hour ago—but it had cooled slightly by the time Mae stepped out of her dress and underthings and lowered herself into the porcelain tub. The coolness didn’t bother her. If anything, it helped numb her chest.

She sank low into the water, knees bent just enough to fit. Her arms folded across her stomach as her back settled against the cool curve of the tub. The surface rose just under her chin, and she tilted her head back so only the tip of her nose and lips peeked out.

It was almost like floating in a lake—still and silent, save for the occasional shift of water licking the ceramic when she breathed.

The room around her was dim, lit only by the final haze of light slipping in through the frosted pane of the window high above the tub. The same window that had always been too small and too high for anyone to see in. That was the comfort of it. That was why this room had always felt like hers.

She stared ahead, at nothing. At everything.

Isaiah’s laugh. Isaiah’s tie. Isaiah’s hand in hers on the porch stairs. The bouquet he brought her. The quiet way he said, “Ain’t much, but I saw ’em and thought of you.”

Now he was gone.

Just gone.

And nothing made sense.

They said it might’ve been the Klan. They said they found his body by the water. But no bruises. No bullet. No marks that explained why.

Mae didn’t realize she was crying until a tear slid across the bridge of her nose and vanished into the water.

She closed her eyes and let the ache unravel in her chest like thread pulled too tight for too long. Her legs shifted. The water moved. Her skin prickled in the still air.

And then—

Bang.

Her eyes snapped open.

The sound came from the window.

That window.

Her breath caught as she turned her head, barely making a ripple in the water. She blinked and stared up at the glass pane, where golden twilight bled into dark. Nothing moved. Not a shadow. Not a leaf.

Bang.

She jolted.

This time the sound was louder. Harder. Like a hand. Not tapping. Hitting.

She sat up fast, water sloshing up and over the edge of the tub. Her breath left her in a short gasp, chest heaving, arms slick and bare in the cooling water.

“Stop,” she whispered to no one, her voice cracking.

Bang. Bang.

Her hands lifted to cover her ears.

“Stop!”

Her cry was swallowed by the air—and then something grabbed her.

Rough fingers—no, claws—wrapped around her throat and yanked her under.

The water rushed up over her face. Cold. Violent. Deafening.

Mae kicked, thrashed, her hands clawing at the wrist holding her down. She couldn’t see the face, but the arm was pale and strong. The grip was merciless. Her lungs screamed. Her body fought. Nails scraped against skin, trying, begging for the surface.

She saw Isaiah’s tie, red against his black coat.

She saw birds, writhing, broken in the grass.

She saw the man from the garden—his brown eyes staring like he knew her, like he wanted her.

No.

She dug her fingers in deep and screamed underwater—

And woke up.

Gasping.

Sobbing.

Mae bolted upright in her bed, the sheets damp beneath her and her skin slick with sweat. Her nightgown clung to her like wet silk, her curls matted to her neck. She choked on a sob, one hand flying to her throat as her other grasped for the headboard to steady herself.

Her room was still.

The only light came from the lamp left burning low on her dresser. The breeze from the open window moved the lace curtain just enough to let in the moonlight. Everything was in its place.

Everything—except her peace.

Mae curled into herself, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around her chest as she cried silently into the sleeve of her gown. Her throat burned. Her stomach twisted. And still, in the back of her mind, she could feel that hand. That pull.

That darkness.

It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. She kept telling herself that.

But still, she didn’t move from the bed again that night.

Not even to close the window.

Morning crept over the land slow and gold, spilling across the trees in long, honeyed ribbons. But for Mae, there was no comfort in the sun.

She had not slept since the dream.

If it could even be called that.

Her limbs still felt heavy with water, her throat still raw with screams that had never passed her lips. And now, even the warmth of morning felt wrong—like it was trying to cover up something terrible that didn’t want to stay buried.

She moved through the house like a wraith. Her bare feet whispered across the floorboards, her nightgown clinging damp and wrinkled to her body. Her curls, flattened by sweat and sleep, stuck to the sides of her neck and cheeks. Her eyes—puffy, red, and full of a sleepless ache—stared ahead with no focus, only direction.

She needed to see.

She didn’t know what, or why. But her feet carried her toward the same side of the house the bathroom window faced.

Where the water had swallowed her.

Where something had grabbed her.

The hallway passed in a blur. Her breath stayed low and shallow in her chest. The house was still. Too still. No pots clanging. No voices rising. Not yet. She unlatched the back door, and the moment the air hit her skin, goosebumps flared across her arms.

It was cool. Quiet.

Mae stepped out onto the porch and rounded the side of the house with cautious steps, like something might be waiting for her.

And it was.

She stopped halfway along the wall, just as her shadow touched the dewy grass—and froze.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Just a dry, strangled breath.

Birds.

Dozens of them.

Strewn across the ground like fallen leaves.

Red.

All of them red.

Not just from the blood—though that was there, soaked into the feathers and glistening in morning light—but from their very bodies. Crimson feathers dull and matted, their wings spread awkward and broken. All that color, too rich, too strange.

It was the same red as Isaiah’s tie.

The same tie he wore that night.

She blinked hard, thinking it might be a trick of the light, but it wasn’t. It was real.

The closer she looked, the worse it became.

Chunks were missing from them. Torn out with no care. Their sides, their wings, their necks. Deep gouges where something had bitten—but never swallowed. Every bite spat out, as if in disgust. Little bits of bone and flesh littered the grass like gristle no one wanted to chew.

Mae’s knees buckled, and she stumbled back a step.

Her hand flew to her mouth, but she couldn’t stop it.

The scream came anyway.

A full-bodied, hoarse, ripping cry that tore from the very pit of her stomach. It sounded more like an animal than a girl—ragged, cracked, and broken by the sheer wrongness of what she was seeing.

Inside the house, footsteps jolted awake. Voices stirred. But Mae didn’t hear them.

She was still staring at the birds.

Still hearing the water in her ears.

Still seeing Isaiah’s red tie, dancing against his chest as they laughed in the dark.

The scream echoed once more.

And then the sun, bright and golden, rose a little higher—

Unbothered by the dead.

[flixpii]

Sweatheart, I keep checking your account like a heroin addict because i neeeeeeeed a chapter 5. PLease, I am begging you. Can you give us a sneak peak? I need to be fed. I didn't know about this fic three days ago and i read all of it in one sitting and now i need more.

I want to know if she's going to sing at the party. I want them to have more interactions then 2, cuz him creeping up on her and eating birds at her window is not enough. PLease.

Also please don't feel pressured in any type of way. I just want to show my appreciation for you and your amazing writing skills.

thank you 😭 im going post chapter 5 today as soon as im home from work ! i already have chapters : 5, 6, 7 completed, but i space out the post dates so that i can write in between them. i don’t want to post all the chapters and then leave you guys dry for 2-3 weeks 🙏🏾 i plan to post chapter 6 on the 19th, and chapter 7 on the 22nd !

[flixpii]

i just wanted to say i love interview with the vampire and im a sinners fanatic as well and every time you update i get so excited and i probably sound like a loser but its the highlight of my day never stop writing pls :>

please. you do not sound like a loser. this means so much to me—that people are enjoying my work 🫶🏾 thank you.

[flixpii]

I’m just about to read the next chapter and OMG HER SMILE!!!!! Remmick’s gonna need to learn how to share. She’s so pretty!!

i’m glad you like the face claim ! 🫶🏾 it took me awhile to pick one for her 😮‍💨

[flixpii]

Chapter 4

link to ao3 !

word count : 8k

A/n : I have a face claim for Ella-Mae !!

Rosanne Katon (70s)

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

--

The house was still wrapped in morning hush when Mae stepped outside, her shawl drawn tight across her shoulders and the hem of her nightgown tucked into a pair of old house shoes. The sky was gray with early light, the sun just barely slidin’ over the horizon, casting long shadows across the dew-touched lawn. The air smelled of damp soil and the faintest trace of smoke—leftover from someone’s chimney the night before.

She hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t spoken to anyone. The house was stirring awake behind her—floorboards creakin’, kitchen doors swingin’ open as breakfast preparations began—but Mae walked with quiet purpose, her hands trembling in the folds of her shawl.

She needed to know.

The window. The sound.

It hadn’t been a dream.

She rounded the side of the house, her steps slow, her slippers silent in the grass. Her room sat above—second floor, far enough up that nothing without wings or hands had any business hittin’ it in the night. Her eyes scanned the side yard, the siding of the house, the flowerbeds beneath her window, now dark with dew and shadow.

At first, there was nothing.

Just the usual mess of fallen leaves and crooked patches where the gardeners hadn’t quite managed to pull every weed.

Then��

Something small. Out of place.

She slowed. Inched closer.

A shape nestled near the base of the hydrangea bush. Soft. Feathered. Curled in on itself like it had fallen asleep in pain.

Mae’s breath caught.

She knelt slowly, brushing the leaves aside.

It was a bird.

Small. Black-feathered. One wing bent awkwardly beneath it. Chest rising in faint, shallow movements.

Still alive.

“Oh no,” she whispered, reaching out.

As her hand hovered near its body, she could finally see the full shape of it—the raw, red wound along its side. A chunk of flesh torn clean out. Bitten, not slashed. The feathers around it slick with drying blood, the skin around the wound raw and jagged like teeth had worried at it.

Mae’s stomach turned.

The poor thing trembled weakly, its head twitching against the grass, beak parting in a tiny, silent gasp.

She reached for it slowly, carefully, her fingertips cradling the fragile frame, lifting it from the damp ground. Its body barely weighed anything. Just bones and pain and the last flicker of life.

She held it close to her chest, eyes glassy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Then, without letting herself think too long, she braced the bird’s head between her hands and snapped its neck.

The motion was quick. Gentle.

The kindest thing she could offer.

Still, her hands shook. She sat there for a moment in the early light, cradling the still-warm body in her shawl, her heart pounding with more than just grief.

Because she knew—something had done this.

It hadn’t been a simple fall from the sky. Not a hawk. Not some accident of wind or wire.

Whatever had slammed against her window the night before… it hadn’t missed.

It had thrown this bird. Or dropped it.

Or worse.

A million thoughts churned through her as she knelt there in the grass. Was it a warning? An accident? Could this thing—whatever it was—be testing the house? Watching?

Was it watching her?

The bird was still warm in her hands, its wings folded now like it was only sleeping.

Mae blinked hard, rising quickly to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her as she turned and crossed the yard, the weight of the tiny body wrapped in her shawl like a secret too heavy for words.

She didn’t stop through the front door. Didn’t glance toward the kitchen, where she heard the clatter of pans and the warm voice of Elsie laughing with one of the servers.

She climbed the stairs slow, breath shallow.

One foot after the other.

The house creaked beneath her—normal sounds, but now, every noise had a shape, a presence, like the walls were leanin’ in to listen.

When she reached her room, she shut the door behind her and stood in silence for a moment.

The morning light stretched across her bed, catching the edges of her vanity and the delicate stitching on her coverlet. It looked normal. Calm.

Mae turned to her wardrobe and opened it quietly. Inside, beneath folded linens and two boxes of keepsakes, was an old cedar chest she hadn’t opened since the move.

She knelt beside it, lifted the lid, and gently placed the bird inside—still wrapped in the shawl, its tiny frame invisible beneath the folds of cloth.

She closed the chest, fingers lingering on the lid.

Her heart was still racing.

And somewhere in her mind, a voice whispered: It didn’t come for the bird.

The water was cool against her face. Clean. Sharp. Mae cupped her hands under the tap and let it pour again, splashing the back of her neck before reaching for the towel beside the basin.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the bird.

Even as she wiped her skin, combed her fingers through her hair, and tied her scarf again just so, the weight of the morning clung to her. She’d washed her hands three times, but she still swore she could feel the blood there—thin and warm, memory-deep.

Still, she squared her shoulders, stepped out into the hallway, and made her way back downstairs.

The smell of breakfast was stronger now—eggs, fresh biscuits, sausage fried crisp in a cast-iron skillet. Butter melting on grits. Something sweet, too—peach preserves or warm cinnamon apples. For a moment, it almost comforted her.

Almost.

The dining room was full of clatter and talk when she entered.

Paul was already seated, as always, carefully layering his plate in order—grits first, then sausage, then eggs. Louis stood near the window, halfway through a cup of coffee, already dressed for the day with his suspenders hooked and boots polished. Florence sat at her usual place, sipping tea, her Bible folded neatly beside her plate like it always was. Grace was arranging the last of the silverware, already halfway through a laugh about something Mae hadn’t caught.

“Mornin’, Mae,” Grace said, waving her over. “Come sit.”

Mae offered a soft smile and made her way to her seat beside her sister, her movements measured. She avoided looking out the window.

Louis cleared his throat and leaned against the edge of the buffet.

“So,” he said, setting his cup down, “we’ve got the music settled. Band’ll be in from Lafayette tomorrow. Goin’ to set up out back, near the swing tree. Figured that space opens up nice.”

Florence raised her eyebrows. “They playin’ loud?”

“They playin’ joyful,” Louis replied with a grin. “Might get some folks dancin’, too.”

Mae nodded faintly, pressing her napkin into her lap, listening as forks clinked against plates.

“Kitchen’s bein’ deep-cleaned this afternoon,” Louis went on. “Then the linens swapped out tomorrow. Shouldn’t be too many folks wanderin’ upstairs, but best to keep things tidy just in case.”

Mae stiffened slightly.

He kept talking.

“Gonna have folks in and out all week settin’ up—chairs, tables, lights. Might get a little noisy round here.”

Grace leaned in toward Mae and whispered, “I don’t care how noisy it gets, long as it’s pretty. Levi’s bringin’ his mama with him.”

Mae blinked. “He is?”

Grace nodded, practically glowing. “She said she wanted to meet the whole family—said she been hearin’ about us for months. She real proud, Levi says, but she’s sweet when she wants to be.”

Mae tried to smile, watching the way her sister’s cheeks flushed with excitement. She deserved this. Grace always had a softness about her that people trusted, and Mae was glad—truly—that she was getting something good.

Still, her thoughts shifted.

Isaiah.

She hadn’t told him about the party yet.

Part of her wanted to. Part of her already imagined what it would feel like to see him standing in the middle of their new backyard, sleeves rolled up, that easy smile on his face as if he’d belonged there all along. But another part of her hesitated.

Because this place—this house, these woods, whatever this was that had started stirring—it wasn’t the world she knew. And if she wasn’t sure she felt safe here, how could she ask someone else to be?

“Mae?” Grace said, nudging her elbow. “You gonna invite him?”

Mae blinked, startled.

Louis looked over, smirking. “You best. I already mentioned him once, and Mama didn’t fall out her chair, so that’s a good sign.”

Florence didn’t respond. Just sipped her tea and turned a page in her Bible.

Mae gave a small laugh and reached for a biscuit. “We’ll see.”

But in her mind, she was still upstairs, kneeling over that chest. Holding something lifeless in her hands.

The house was starting to fill.

With music. With family. With strangers.

And beneath it all, something else.

---

The sun had risen higher, but the warmth of the day did little to settle the unease curling in Mae’s belly.

She sat on the back porch, her feet tucked beneath her, fingers lightly stroking the smooth ridges of the small gold cross that hung from the thin chain around her neck. The rocking chair creaked beneath her slowly, matching the beat of the wind threading through the trees. Her shawl draped loose over her shoulders, sleeves pushed just enough for the morning air to graze her arms.

She had thought about going back into town. About walking until her thoughts dulled and the road wore her worries down. About seeing Isaiah, maybe. Just to hear his voice. To feel something familiar and good.

But something inside told her not to leave.

Not today.

So she stayed, letting the world move quiet around her. Letting the trees hold their secrets while she studied them from a distance.

She kept thinking about the bird.

The hollow wound in its side. The way it had been flung against her window, not fallen, not chased. Placed. Like someone—or something—had meant for her to find it.

Her thumb moved absently over the edge of her cross, her lips parting slightly as she exhaled, long and slow.

The woods in front of her didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

And still, her mind ran wild—her own thoughts louder than the sounds around her.

She didn’t hear the footstep.

Didn’t catch the shift in the grass, the faint rustle near the porch.

Not until a voice came from just over her shoulder.

“’Scuse me, ma’am—didn’t mean to startle you.”

Mae jerked, the chair lurching slightly beneath her. Her hand flew to the armrest, heart thudding as her eyes snapped to the side.

A man stood just beyond the porch railing, close enough for her to see the faint dirt under his nails and the dark sweat at the collar of his shirt. He was dressed in simple work clothes—a linen shirt rolled to the elbows, trousers dusty at the knees, boots worn down but sturdy. He held a cap in one hand, and a pair of gardening shears dangled from the other.

He looked no older than his thirties. Short brown hair, a bit mussed from the sun. Eyes brown, steady, fixed on her.

But what struck her first—before anything else—was that he was white.

A white man, alone, standing just outside the back porch of a Black family’s home.

Mae’s spine straightened slowly, the weight of the moment pressing against her skin like heat.

The man held up a hand in what seemed like peace. “Apologies. I know I shouldn’t be ‘round the back. I was just lettin’ you all know I pulled the weeds by the fence. They was wrapped ‘round the gate hinge.”

Mae blinked.

His voice was low and even. Southern. Not local, but not unfamiliar either. He spoke like someone who’d learned to sound humble in places where pride was dangerous.

“I knocked on the front, but no one answered,” he added. “Didn’t mean no disrespect. Just thought the gentleman who owns the house—Louis de Pointe du Lac, was it?—might be out back.”

Mae’s lips parted slowly. Her voice felt dry.

“He’s—he’s out handling business,” she said, the words slipping out on instinct. “I’m his sister.”

The man nodded once, eyes never leaving hers. For a second longer than was polite, he watched her. Not rudely. But fully. As if he was taking inventory of her—how she held her shoulders, how she sat in the chair, how her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the cross at her throat.

Then, very faintly, his nose twitched.

Just a small movement. A wrinkle. A brief narrowing of the eyes.

Mae noticed it only because everything else had gone so still.

“You injured?” he asked suddenly.

Mae blinked. “What?”

He gestured subtly, chin tilting downward. “Your hand.”

Mae followed his gaze and looked down.

There, on the inside of her right finger—just beneath the knuckle—was a thin, red line. Barely more than a paper cut. She hadn’t even noticed it. But now that her eyes were on it, she saw the thin trail of dried blood along the edge. Must’ve been from the bird. Its beak, maybe. A nick from its last breath.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, closing her hand. “Didn’t even notice it.”

The man nodded slowly, like that answer only half-satisfied him.

“I’ll let you get back to your peace,” he said after a long pause. He tucked the shears into the satchel at his hip and dusted his hands off, flicking bits of dirt to the side. “Just wanted to pass on the word.”

“I’ll let Louis know,” Mae said.

He tipped his chin. Not quite a bow. Not quite nothing. Then he turned and walked away—back around the side of the house, footsteps soft but purposeful.

Mae sat frozen for a long while, breath shallow.

She watched until he disappeared.

Only then did she exhale, her fingers slowly unfurling from the cross at her throat.

She hadn’t seen him arrive. Hadn’t heard his steps.

But somehow, he’d seen everything.

Even the part of her she hadn’t noticed bleeding.

Mae stood on the porch for a long minute after the man disappeared, her heart still beatin’ a little fast, her breath uneven despite the stillness around her. The rocking chair beside her swayed slightly from the breeze, creaking like it remembered the weight of someone sittin’ in it moments ago.

She pressed her lips together, gave herself one more second, then turned toward the door.

The familiar sound of voices reached her before she even stepped inside. The low, pleasant murmur of conversation. Paper rustling. A chair scraping the floor.

She entered through the side hall, easing the door shut behind her.

In the front parlor, just past the high archway, she found her mother seated in her favorite straight-back chair near the bay window, one hand resting over the fine embroidery on her lap, the other gesturing as she spoke. Across from her stood a young man—no more than twenty-five, with a pressed vest and dark skin, one foot nervously bouncing as he scribbled notes on a small pad.

Florence’s voice carried calm and command in equal measure. “No red. That house across the street tried red and it looked like a church revival gone wrong. We want warmth. Soft yellows. Mauves. Nothin’ too garish.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man replied, making another note, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Yellow, not gold. Mauve, not crimson.”

Mae lingered at the doorway for a breath before stepping farther into the hall, letting her fingers brush the edge of the entry table.

“Mama,” she said gently.

Florence turned her head, her mouth softening. “Yes, Ella-Mae?”

Mae’s gaze flicked to the young man, then back. “The yard worker came by. Said he pulled up all the weeds by the gate. Couldn’t find Louis, so he came ‘round the back.”

Florence’s brows lifted faintly. “Round the back?”

Mae nodded, keeping her tone even. “Didn’t stay long. Just passed the message on.”

Her mother gave a thoughtful hum and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders.

“Tell your brother later. He’ll want to double check it, you know how he is with details.” Then, with a glance toward the staircase, she added, “Go on now, baby. Grace and the other girls are upstairs sortin’ through colors for the house. Help them out so they don’t choose somethin’ that’ll have me explainin’ to guests why my walls look like Mardi Gras.”

Mae nodded, lips parting in the smallest smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Before she turned, she saw her mother’s eyes linger on her for a second longer than usual—like she was lookin’ through her. As if she could sense some shift in Mae’s shoulders or read somethin’ off the lines of her face.

But Florence didn’t ask.

She just returned her attention to the man with the notepad and said firmly, “Now, let’s talk centerpieces.”

Mae moved through the front hall, her fingers skimming the smooth banister as she began to ascend the staircase.

The light was different upstairs—gentler, filtered through long drapes and high windows. It cast a warm hue across the runner, flickering just slightly as the breeze moved behind glass.

Down the corridor, she heard soft laughter. Grace’s voice, bright and teasing, followed by another young woman’s response Mae didn’t recognize. Boxes were being opened, fabric swished, something dropped and rolled—a spool, maybe—and someone exclaimed, “Lord, girl, you got more color swatches than the sun got shades.”

Mae stepped softly through the threshold and into Grace’s bedroom, where sunlight spilled onto the floor and three young women gathered around a large trunk that looked like it had been unpacked and repacked five times already. The bed was half-covered in folded ribbons, bolts of cloth, and sample cards.

Grace looked up, her smile stretching across her face like it had been waiting for Mae to walk in.

“There she is,” Grace said. “Come save us from Arlena pickin’ that funeral blue.”

“It’s slate,” the girl named Arlena muttered.

Mae let out a soft laugh despite herself, crossing the room to kneel beside them. Her eyes caught the scattered bits of decoration—small brass candle holders, bundles of artificial flowers, drapes still rolled into tidy bundles. For a moment, it was easy to fall into the familiarity of it all. Girls and gossip. Sunlight and lace.

The sunlight had shifted by the time the others left the room, casting long golden bands across the floorboards. The laughter of the other girls trailed off down the hall, fading into the sound of footsteps and shifting furniture as they went to see how the decorations would look in the parlor.

Mae and Grace stayed behind, the room now full of a soft, companionable quiet.

They sat on opposite sides of Grace’s bed, a mess of ribbons and folded silks between them. The scent of lavender sachets drifted from the nearby wardrobe, mixing with the distant smell of something baking—maybe sweet cornbread or peach cobbler, depending on who’d taken over the kitchen.

Mae had a swatch of golden fabric in her lap, her fingers working it into a loose fold, then unfolding it again.

Grace was quiet at first, neatly sorting through a tin of pressed flower pins, but her eyes kept sliding sideways to her sister.

She knew that rhythm Mae moved in—calm on the outside, but hands always fidgeting. Like she was trying to keep still something inside her that didn’t want to rest.

Grace turned slightly, studying her.

“What’s bothering you?”

Mae looked up, surprised. Her lips parted just slightly, but the smile she gave was one of habit, not ease.

“Botherin’?” she echoed. “Ain’t nothin’ botherin’ me.”

Grace gave her a look. Not sharp. Just knowing.

Mae tried again, a bit too light this time. “I’m just excited for the party, s’all. Lot to think about.”

“Bull.”

The word landed fast and flat, and for a moment, the room went still.

Then Mae’s mouth opened in a startled laugh, and she clutched her chest with exaggerated scandal.

“Grace Marie de Pointe du Lac,” Mae gasped between giggles, “if Mama heard you sayin’ that—”

“She’d faint clean out,” Grace said with a grin, her eyes sparkling. “But she ain’t in here.”

“A bride-to-be usin’ words like that?” Mae teased, shaking her head as she wiped at her eyes. “You got no shame.”

Grace’s smile faltered just a little, warmth still flickering there. “You said bride.”

Mae froze briefly, then gave a smile soft and full.

“I did.”

Grace sat back on her palms, looking at the ceiling like she was tryin’ not to float away. “Feels good to hear it. I don’t know why. Guess I’m still waitin’ for someone to say it wrong and me wake up back in that old house.”

Mae nodded, her fingers idly brushing the edge of the gold swatch again.

But Grace, sharp in her softness, tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

“Uh-huh. You changed the subject.”

Mae smirked and tried to play innocent. “Did I?”

“You did.”

Grace reached over and lightly swayed her arm, a playful bump that didn’t need words to say, go on now, I’m listenin’.

Mae let the quiet fill the space between them before her gaze fell to her lap. She twisted the edge of the fabric once, then again.

Finally, her voice came—lower this time.

“I just been… feelin’ off, is all. Like somethin’ is… wrong. Or about to be. I can’t explain it right.”

Grace’s smile faded slowly, replaced by that older-sister expression she always wore when things stopped being play and started being real.

“You mean with the move? Or the house?”

Mae hesitated, choosing her words with care. “I think it’s more me than the house. Like the house is fine, but somethin’ about bein’ in it… makes me feel like I’m not.”

Grace nodded, thoughtful, but didn’t speak yet.

“I ain’t scared,” Mae added quickly. “Not like that. I just… I been feelin’ uneasy, is all.”

She didn’t mention the bird.

Didn’t mention the man. Or the woods. Or the way her hand had bled without her knowin’.

Grace reached out and gently took Mae’s hand, thumb brushing over the knuckles.

“You ever think maybe you feel uneasy ’cause you got good sense?” she said with a small smile. “We moved into a white neighborhood with neighbors who stare like we stole somethin’. You’re allowed to feel a little outta place.”

Mae gave a soft hum. “It’s not just that. I wish it was.”

Grace squeezed her hand and let the silence settle again.

“I won’t push,” she said quietly. “But if that uneasy ever turns into fear… you come find me first. Not second.”

Mae met her eyes, and for a moment, the warmth between them dulled the cold that had settled at the back of her neck all morning.

She nodded.

“I will.”

Grace let go of her hand and sat back up. “Good. Now help me decide whether these little brass doves are cute or gaudy.”

Mae exhaled a laugh and picked up one of the delicate pins, letting herself be pulled back into the comfort of Grace’s voice.

The decision came slow and full of laughter.

It took nearly an hour, three playful arguments, and Grace pretending to throw a whole box of velvet ribbon out the window before the girls finally agreed on the final layout for the decorations. Warm tones and candlelit glimmers. The parlor would be draped in soft mauves and golds, the staircase threaded with thin garlands of pressed flowers. Ivory doilies beneath polished brass holders. No red. No harsh light. Just something graceful, soft, and beautiful—something that looked like family but felt like celebration.

When the last swatch had been folded and the final lace chosen, Mae sat back with a huff of satisfaction.

“I’m goin’ down to the kitchen,” she said, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Y’all want somethin’? Some crackers or somethin’ sweet?”

Grace, still seated on the floor beside the bed, gave a grateful nod. “If they got that sugared cornbread left, bring it. Lord knows I could eat it for supper and call it a day.”

The others laughed, and Mae stepped out, smoothing her dress as she moved through the hallway. The house felt warmer now—less heavy, less strange. It was easier to breathe when laughter had filled a room, even for a short while.

Down in the kitchen, the smell of sweet potatoes and fresh bread still clung to the air. Two of the hired ladies bustled by the stove, one stirring something fragrant, the other arranging things on a tray. Mae stepped lightly inside, offering a soft “’Scuse me” before reaching for a plate.

One of the older women glanced up and smiled. “Y’all finally picked somethin’?”

Mae laughed softly. “Took long enough.”

The woman chuckled and slid a tray toward her. “Got y’all a snack plate ready—bit of fruit, some cornbread, even a few pickled eggs if you brave enough.”

Mae grinned, grateful. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She balanced the tray carefully, arms steady, and turned toward the hall again. The dishes rattled gently as she walked, her slippers soft on the polished floorboards.

It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the staircase that she noticed the movement near the back door.

There, pacing just before the glass-paned frame, was Paul.

He moved like a man chased by something only he could see—back and forth, hands tight at his sides, eyes somewhere far beyond the trees. His lips were moving, though no sound came loud enough for her to catch.

Mae hesitated.

She shifted the tray in her hands and spoke, not loud, just enough to cross the space.

“Paul.”

He didn’t respond. His steps kept coming, even and slow.

Mae watched him for a moment longer, her head tilting gently. Then, soft but insistent, she tried again.

“Come with me back upstairs. We settin’ up decorations. Grace got some ideas I know you’ll hate.”

Still no answer.

But this time, his steps faltered.

He didn’t stop—but his pacing slowed. Like her voice had reached the part of him still anchored here.

Mae stepped closer, her tone just a hair more playful.

“Come on, now. You need a break from whatever sermon you writin’ in your head.”

Paul turned slowly, finally meeting her eyes. There was a flicker of something behind his—something wild, or weary, or simply worn too thin.

“I don’t wanna hang out with no girls,” he said, voice low, but not unkind.

Mae rolled her eyes, shifting the tray with a dramatic sigh. “Ain’t nobody askin’ you to braid our hair, Paul. Just come sit and pretend you got taste.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his face softened.

For a second, it reminded her of when they were children—when Paul had first started pacing, first started speaking in tongues he didn’t yet understand. Back then, she’d been too small to reach his shoulder, so she’d tugged his sleeve and made up songs just to get him to laugh. Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, it didn’t. But she always tried.

Now, she stood just a few feet away, waiting with arms full of snacks, and the same stubborn patience in her eyes.

“Please?” she added, gentle this time.

Paul’s shoulders eased, and with a small grunt, he stepped away from the window.

He followed.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t hum. Just followed her up the stairs like a shadow learning how to walk again.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Paul still hadn’t said much. His steps were slow, like each one took convincing. Mae glanced over, catching the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands stayed clenched even now.

She let the silence sit for a breath before speaking.

“You always gotta make things hard, don’t you?” she said, not angry—just tired, just honest. “Ain’t a single thing we do you don’t frown at first.”

Paul’s head turned slightly, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “Y’all play too much. Laugh at things that ain’t funny.”

Mae held onto the tray as she exhaled. “Maybe that’s ’cause laughin’ helps us breathe. You ever think about that?”

They reached the door to Grace’s room, the sound of the girls inside faint like wind chimes in another part of the house.

Mae paused, resting her hand on the doorframe. Her voice softened.

“Paul, I know you… feel things different than the rest of us. You carry things. Things I don’t even understand. But sometimes when you talk the way you do, like we wrong for tryin’ to be happy… it hurts.”

That got him.

He blinked, finally looking over at her. His mouth opened, then closed again. For a long second, all that fire behind his eyes dimmed to something else—something almost lost.

“I don’t mean to hurt you, Mae,” he said. “You know that.”

“I know,” she whispered, the smile touching her lips this time, small and sad. “But you do anyway, sometimes.”

Paul’s brows drew together, like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.

Mae reached out with her elbow and nudged him, gentle. “Come on. Be decent tonight. Try not to preach at nobody ‘fore dessert.”

Paul huffed through his nose. “Can’t promise that.”

Mae grinned. “Didn’t ask you to promise. Just asked you to try.”

He gave the faintest nod.

And that was enough.

---

The next night, the house was coming alive, one note at a time.

Soft jazz hummed in from the backyard, where the band had finally set up beneath strings of paper lanterns and hanging lights. Voices murmured through the hallways, guests arriving in scattered pairs, shoes clicking against polished floors, laughter skipping along the parlor walls. The glow of the lamps inside was golden and warm, casting long shadows and making every surface gleam.

Upstairs, the air was thick with the smell of rose water, pressed powder, and pressed silk.

Mae sat at the edge of Grace’s bed, back straight, shoulders stiff, her fingers knotted tightly in her lap.

“Ow,” she hissed, wincing. “Lord, Grace, you heavy-handed as a mule.”

Behind her, Grace tugged a brush through her sister’s curls with practiced hands, a pinched smile tugging at her mouth. “I wouldn’t be if you didn’t flinch every time I so much as breathe near your scalp.”

“You pullin’ my scalp,” Mae shot back, trying to angle her head away from the next stroke. “You act like you tryin’ to wrangle a horse.”

Grace gave an exasperated laugh, swatting at Mae’s reaching hand with the flat end of the brush. “Now hush. You want it lookin’ nice, don’t you? I don’t want folks thinkin’ Louis got his sister out here lookin’ half-done.”

Mae let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling like she was enduring great suffering. “Tender-headed, that’s all. You always been rough.”

“I always been thorough,” Grace said, parting another section. “You just soft.”

Mae smirked, eyes twinkling in the mirror across the room. “Ain’t what Isaiah says.”

That made Grace pause, hand mid-air, before she let out a sharp laugh and swatted Mae’s shoulder. “Girl, don’t start.”

Mae giggled and ducked her head, the sound light and young and full of mischief. For a moment, it was like they were ten and thirteen again, sitting on the porch steps in cotton slips, fussin’ and whisperin’ secrets over the hum of summer cicadas.

“You excited?” Grace asked after a beat, her voice softer now as she began twisting the curls at Mae’s crown into a loose, elegant updo. “I know it’s been… a lot, but Louis done really outdid himself.”

Mae’s smile faded just a touch as her gaze drifted toward the window, where flickers of light glimmered between the trees. Music curled through the air again—slow, sweet, like molasses in late August.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “I’m excited.”

Grace studied her reflection in the mirror, her hands still moving with careful grace. She didn’t press. Just finished pinning the last twist, smoothing the edges of Mae’s hair with gentle fingertips.

“Alright,” she murmured. “You look beautiful.”

Mae met her sister’s eyes in the mirror and offered a smile, soft and grateful. “So do you.”

They sat there a moment longer in the hush of the upstairs room, the laughter and footsteps below like distant waves. Mae touched the necklace at her throat—the small gold cross she hadn’t taken off in years—and drew a breath.

“Let’s go on down,” she said finally. “’Fore Mama starts tellin’ guests we ain’t comin’.”

Grace laughed. “That woman been ready since noon.”

They stood, adjusted each other’s sleeves, and opened the door to the glowing hum of the house below.

By the time Mae and Grace made their way down the stairs, the house had opened like a bloom.

There were people everywhere.

The parlor was full of old neighbors—familiar faces from their corner of town, dressed in their Sunday best, the women gloved and beaded, the men freshly shaven, voices raised in laughter that filled the room like a hymn. Some were gathered near the piano where a little girl in braids tapped out a melody, others lingered near the refreshment table, sipping sweet tea and sneaking glances at the pastry tray.

Out back, the band played beneath strings of swaying lights, the beat smooth and honey-slow. Couples drifted across the trimmed lawn like shadows, and the smell of peach punch and roasted meat lingered in the breeze.

And then, scattered in between, like strange punctuation marks, were them—the new neighbors.

White folks in tidy clothes, hovering near the edges like they didn’t quite know where to stand. Their smiles were thin and their eyes always moving, sliding across the walls, the guests, the decorations like they were inventoryin’ something. A few had come out of obligation, Mae suspected, trying to be polite. Trying to see what kind of Black family had the money to move into their part of town.

Mae didn’t mind. Not too much, at least. It was their house now. Their music. Their joy.

And no one could take that from them.

She was standing by the hallway near the dining room, speaking with a girl named Lorena—a bright-eyed thing with a nervous laugh and a floral ribbon tied round her wrist—when her gaze, wandering past the girl’s shoulder, caught something that stole her breath just for a second.

There, just inside the open door, stood Isaiah.

He looked different than he did in the sun-drenched streets of their old neighborhood. Cleaner, not just in dress, but in posture. Like he’d stepped into the house knowing he needed to carry himself tall. He wore a crisp navy suit that caught the light in soft places, the buttons polished, collar neat. His dark curls were smoothed back, and in his hand—

Mae’s eyes dropped—

—was a bouquet.

Not too big. Not too much. Just enough.

Cornflowers. Sprigs of rosemary. Some soft yellow wildflowers she couldn’t quite name. Tied together with twine, like he’d wrapped it himself.

Mae forgot for a moment what Lorena was saying.

“’Scuse me,” she said gently, touching the girl’s arm before stepping past her, her dress swishing softly at her ankles as she moved across the floor.

Isaiah saw her then. Their eyes met across the crowd, and something in his face lit up—not wide or boastful, just that small flicker of light that came when you saw someone you were glad to see.

When they reached each other, the air between them hummed.

“Well,” Mae said, smiling as her eyes swept over him again. “You clean up real nice.”

Isaiah dipped his head, a crooked smile on his lips. “Likewise.”

The music outside drifted in as a soft rhythm beneath their words. The house felt both full and quiet, like the noise around them had dimmed just enough to make space for this moment.

There was a pause before Isaiah lifted the bouquet between them.

Mae’s brows rose slightly. “What’s this?”

“Flowers,” he said plainly, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he already knew what she was thinkin’.

She eyed him playfully, one brow arching. “You tryin’ to charm me, Isaiah?”

He gave a low laugh, warm in his chest. “They’re for the house,” he said, not missing a beat. “Housewarmin’ and all that.”

She didn’t move to take them just yet, waiting.

“…But I ain’t gon’ lie and say they weren’t mostly for you.”

Mae smiled then—slow, radiant, a kind of smile that couldn’t be faked if it tried. She reached out and took the bouquet from his hands, brushing her fingers briefly over his in the exchange.

“They’re lovely,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

Isaiah shifted his weight, glancing around before returning his gaze to her. “Place is somethin’ else. Never seen a party like this.”

Mae nodded, her voice quiet. “Me neither.”

They stood like that for a breath longer, between the rhythm of the band and the murmurs of the guests, and in that breath, the unease that had haunted Mae these past days faded just a little. Like the flowers had rooted something solid in her hands. Something she could hold onto.

—-

The sun had long since fallen.

The glow of the lanterns strung across the backyard flickered like stars on strings, bobbing in the breeze above dancers swaying slow and steady. The music was velvet-rich, carried on the wind—upright bass and trumpet crooning under the buzz of conversations that now filled every room of the house. Laughter spilled through the open windows, chairs were dragged closer, and the smell of bourbon and fried fish and fresh magnolias mingled into the sort of scent you remember decades after it’s gone.

Inside the house, it felt like something holy and simple. Like Black joy blooming against every expectation.

Mae had been surprised, honestly, at how many of the white neighbors had come. A few stood stiff like fence posts, offering stiff smiles and drawn conversation. But more than she’d imagined joined in like they’d been part of the neighborhood for years. Sharing stories. Laughing over punch. As if they’d grown up on the same streets, danced at the same church socials, known Mae and her kin their whole lives.

It was strange—but not unpleasant.

One tall man with a salt-and-pepper mustache had leaned over to tell Louis he remembered when “Miss Florence used to win all the church raffles,” though Mae knew good and well her mother hadn’t stepped foot in a raffle since before Mae was born. Another woman in blue lace kept saying how happy she was to see “such a fine family” in the neighborhood, like she’d been waiting on them all her life.

It should’ve felt put-on.

But it didn’t.

Their words were too relaxed. Their laughter too easy. If it was theater, it was the kind folks gave willingly—genuinely—even if it was rooted in stories they made up as they went.

Mae couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Whether it was nerves dressed as warmth, or something else altogether. But for tonight, it didn’t matter. For tonight, everyone was laughing. And that was more than she expected.

She found herself on the long front stair, where she’d perched next to Isaiah just to rest her feet—but then hadn’t moved for what must’ve been an hour.

He sat beside her, jacket slung over his shoulder now, the top buttons of his shirt undone, tie still fastened—bright red and perfectly knotted.

They’d drifted from conversation to conversation. Talkin’ about the band, the weather, the way one of the white men out back looked like he’d never seen a Black woman spin in a circle before.

“You see how he damn near dropped his drink?” Isaiah laughed, leaning back on his elbows.

Mae chuckled, warm and deep. “Poor man looked like he seen a ghost.”

They laughed again, their shoulders brushing every so often.

Mae glanced down at the tie, and her smile flickered—just for a heartbeat.

She knew that tie.

It had been his brother’s.

She remembered the fabric from the funeral—remembered how it clashed against the man’s charcoal suit. She remembered how Isaiah held it in his hands afterward, folding and unfolding it while folks in the yard drank sweet wine and talked in hushed tones.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if he wore it to feel closer to the man who basically raised him. Or if he wore it like armor. Or if he even realized he had it on. It didn’t matter. She just tucked that knowledge into the space between them and kept listening.

“You think your mama havin’ a good time?” he asked, glancing toward the front room.

Mae followed his gaze and saw Florence seated beside one of her friends, fanning herself with one hand while sipping from a glass of punch. Her face was bright with soft amusement.

“I think she needed this,” Mae murmured.

Isaiah nodded. “Y’all did.”

Mae looked back toward the path, watching more people trickle up the walk. The door was still wide open. Always open. No one had knocked all night.

Which is why, when the sharp rap of knuckles sounded against the doorframe, it stole her breath.

She looked up.

And there he was.

The man from earlier that morning.

He stood just past the railing now, cleaner than before. His shirt was pale gray, the sleeves rolled. His trousers crisp. His brown hair had been combed and slicked neatly, parted at the side like he’d taken care to appear presentable. But it wasn’t his appearance that held her still—it was him.

That same… wrong feeling, humming faint under her skin.

He wasn’t out of place in the way the white guests sometimes looked uncertain. No, this man… he didn’t look like he didn’t belong.

He looked like he already knew everything.

His eyes settled on her, and the same smile curved his mouth—thin, polite, practiced.

“Evenin’,” he said, tipping his hat.

Mae blinked. “Evenin’.”

“I apologize,” he said smoothly, his voice low but clear over the soft murmur of the crowd inside. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was by earlier… workin’ in the yard. Pulled the weeds up by the gate.”

Isaiah sat up straighter beside her, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

The man nodded toward the open door.

“Beautiful gathering. I was hopin’ to step inside a while. Thought it polite to ask.”

Mae hesitated.

The door was wide open. No one else had knocked. No one else had needed to.

She glanced toward Isaiah, who had grown quiet, his hand resting against his knee.

The man waited.

And though her stomach twisted with something sharp and uncertain, Mae found herself rising to her feet. It was that same strange pull, the one that had made her fingers tremble when she found the bird in the grass.

“Of course,” she said, voice soft.

Then, carefully, like the words were being plucked out of her before she could stop them—

“You can come in.”

The man nodded once. Smiled just enough to show he was pleased.

And then he crossed the threshold.

Mae didn’t move for a moment, her fingers brushing against the skirt of her dress like trying to shake off a chill.

Behind her, Isaiah stood too, his eyes fixed on the man as he disappeared into the crowd.

“You know him?” he asked.

Mae shook her head slowly, the air around her suddenly too still. “No. I don’t.”

The night was draped in velvet now.

Every inch of the house and yard was alive—glowing, humming, pulsing. Lantern light swayed in the branches like fireflies caught in rhythm. The air was thick with heat and perfume and roasted spices, the kind of summer scent that clung to your hair and your memory. The band out back had leaned into their groove, letting the notes spill slow like molasses, the trumpet kissing every corner of the lawn with its gold-touched sound.

Mae stood beside Isaiah again, their hands brushing now and then as they passed between guests.

The stranger from the porch—the man from that morning—was somewhere inside, lost in the swell of the crowd. Mae didn’t speak of him. Didn’t tell Isaiah that her fingers still tingled from the moment she’d spoken the words aloud. She carried it like a stone in her chest and forced her mouth into a smile as they slipped toward the refreshment table.

“Can’t believe I ain’t tried the punch yet,” Isaiah said, reaching past her to grab a cup. “Been here near two hours and you ain’t offered me a drink.”

Mae chuckled, accepting a glass herself. “You had time to ask for one.”

“You right,” he grinned, bumping his shoulder lightly into hers. “Still ain’t polite, though.”

She took a sip. Cool, sweet, with a whisper of peach and lemon. Her eyes trailed over the crowd—Louis deep in conversation with a white man in a too-tight vest, Grace laughing quietly with a young couple near the porch steps, their mama seated under the canopy of lights with her closest friends fanning away the summer heat.

Everything looked so full. So good.

For a while, Mae almost believed it could stay that way.

“Let’s go out back,” Isaiah said, tilting his head toward the music. “Band’s cookin’.”

They made their way outside again, stepping out into the pulse of warm light and music.

The band was in their element now. The trumpeter had taken center stage, leaning back into his notes like he was being possessed by the sound. Folks were swaying, their shadows stretching long and fluid across the yard.

Isaiah cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out to the stage between bursts of laughter. “Ain’t y’all got somethin’ to make folks move a lil’ faster?”

The drummer let out a bark of a laugh, and the bassist gave a low whistle as the piano player cracked his knuckles with dramatic flair.

Then, all at once, the rhythm shifted.

The drums picked up first—crisp and syncopated—followed by the plinking roll of the piano and a cheeky wail from the trumpet that made the crowd whoop and clap in delight.

It was alive. Joyfully alive.

Isaiah turned to Mae with a grin that showed all his teeth. “Come on, Mae.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

He didn’t wait. Just reached out, fingers brushing hers before curling gently around her hand and tugging.

“Come on, let’s dance. You always act like you too proper when you ain’t.”

Mae let out a protest that dissolved into laughter as he pulled her forward, right into the patch of grass where the others had begun to stomp and spin. Her skirt fanned out around her as Isaiah led, their steps awkward for half a breath before falling into something smooth. Familiar.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that—full and open, eyes squinted shut as Isaiah spun her in a circle and she nearly toppled against his chest.

They moved together like they’d been doing it for years.

Other couples joined them, feet tapping, dresses twirling, the music bubbling over into claps and hollers and shouted lyrics from half-drunken guests. A few of the white neighbors watched from the edge, uncertain but smiling, some even nodding along with the beat.

Mae threw her head back and laughed again, wind tugging at her curls, face warm and flushed from the rush of it all.

Isaiah leaned in close as they danced, voice low near her ear. “Now this is a party.”

Mae grinned. “You ain’t got rhythm.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He gave a mock-hurt expression, but she could see the affection in his eyes even as the trumpet screeched into another round. It filled her to the brim, that feeling—light and bold and golden.

She didn’t look toward the house.

Didn’t think about the man in the gray shirt.

For now, there was only the grass beneath her shoes, Isaiah’s laughter, the music in her bones, and the way her heart knocked in her chest—not from fear, but from something far sweeter.

[flixpii]

No way, look who I saw at pride 😭

[flixpii]

my ovaries just did a little giggle and released an egg to be fertilized.

i need to kiss you, sab.

i made @iceemochaa upset bc i don’t like tea/iced tea and i am 19 so i hope this redeems me 😞

18+ below the cut. smut, vampirism, masturbation, panty-sniffing!remmick

yes, it shouldn’t have to be said, but remmick is a panty-sniffer. that man is so fucking feral and desperate for you, he takes whatever he can get.

and most times, it’s your panties.

the first time he noticed how intoxicating it is was after your birthday, to which remmick gifted you with a deliciously bruised cervix and scattered kisses and bite marks over your chest.

you were passed out on the bed, dead to the world, so you didn’t notice when he picked up the pair of black lace panties off the floor. initially, he admired them and how they looked on you before he caught a whiff in the air.

ever since then, he’d managed to get a hold of them whenever you aren’t looking.

but he doesn’t just smell your essence off of them—remmick’s more creative than that. he’s gotten into the routine of balling them up in his palm and shoving them to his nose as close as possible until he convinces himself the fabric is your skin.

his eyes squeezed shut while his other hand grips his cock, moving so smoothly with the slick of his own spit as he inhales your scent.

he pretends the feeling of his fingers are the ridges of your womb, that you’re squeezing around him so perfectly, but it’s just not enough.

so…he stops for a moment. thinks. then it clicks.

his hand drifts down and wraps the panties around his length, letting them soak in the warm wetness. it’s still nothing in comparison to your own arousal, but it amplifies the smell of it so it fills the entire room.

he feels like he’s on fire. his brows knit together, his lips tightening into a small, puckered ‘o’ because this may be the second best thing—the first being your cunt swallowing him whole.

“that’s it, angel,” he says while his hand moves faster. he’s picturing you above him, collapsed and weak but forcing yourself to bounce over him. “split yourself open for me…what a good girl.” he says to nothing but air.

and maybe, for a brief moment, it starts to get a little dry. but he’s too close to quit. so he brings the panties back up and flattens his tongue against them. remmick moans at the distant taste of you, something like a quick starter before the main course comes back home.

he spits into the panties and fists his cock with them again. his forearm begins to burn but it’s no matter. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart…make a mess jus’ for you.”

he doesn’t even hear the front door open when his groan cuts through the silence of your home as he releases a heavy load into the lace and his hand. even when his palm is coated sticky, he doesn’t stop. his movements soften, slowing down so he rubs himself at a gentle pace.

he doesn’t even see you standing in the doorway, eyes wide with an evil smirk at the sight of him in your bed, getting himself off with the merest trace of you.

it’s desperate, raw, and powerful. he’s a man in all of his glory like this, eyes gently closed shut from the bliss. when he opens them, he hardly startles at the sight of you. “did someone miss me?” you tease.

if anything, he matches your grin and holds up the panties—dirtied by both you and him—and says, “come taste how much.”

[flixpii]

y’all hear me out. a one-shot taking place during the salem witch trials. reader is accused of adultery after helping remmick, who was injured one night. since people were getting accused left and right, and reader wasn’t exactly the best person, she gets accused of witchcraft (y’all they accused literal animals of witchcraft—i don’t think this is far off). that night, before she is executed, remmick comes through and saves her