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mingapace · 5 days ago

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𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇʀ!ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ꜱᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴛꜱ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 3ᴋ

Darkness still embraces you when your eyes snap open.

At first, you don’t understand why. The bed is still warm from his body, the scent of moss, rain, and ancient incense lingers in the air like a subtle caress. But then it comes—the sound.

A thunderclap breaks the silence like a broken scream, violent, sudden. The whole house seems to tremble. You tense up, sitting on the mattress with your heart already pounding in your chest.

A storm.

Rain lashes the windows with the fury of a thousand fingers, and the wind howls like a pack of ancient wolves. Shadows dance on the walls in rhythm with the lightning. You rise slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold of the empty sheets beside you.

He’s not there.

You knew that, of course.

Remmick went out, like every night, with that gaze of his veiled by a calm that smells of eternity, and lips that brushed your forehead like a promise.

“I’ll be back 'fore you're up, love.”

He always says that. And he always does. But tonight… something clenches your heart.

You slide out of bed. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Every sound in the house is amplified: the creak of wood contracting with the humidity, the sigh of wind slipping under the beams, the relentless drumming of rain on the windows. You pull your robe from the corner of the chair and wrap it around you, but the chill you feel has nothing to do with temperature.

You slip on your slippers in the dark and head down to the living room. The hallway lights he had turned on before leaving are flickering. The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel keeps company with the rumble of the storm.

It’s 3:45.

You approach the living room window. You check to see if he might be outside, like that time a few months ago. You’re sure that if he could, he would’ve torn the door off its hinges or broken a window to get in and avoid being scolded for forgetting the one thing he was supposed to remember—the keys.

But the porch is empty. There is only the fury of nature out there—the world has vanished. The contours of reality have blurred into a shroud of driving rain and shadow. Even the road leading to the clearing is no longer visible. Only a gray, liquid sea swept by wind. The air smells metallic, saturated with electricity and fear.

You clutch the linen robe tighter, trying to contain the shiver running up your spine.

Remmick has told you so many times about his hunts. How he can feel the blood pulsing in the bodies of forest animals, the whisper of arteries, the scent of life. How he could spend hours in the woods. He spoke of it with such passion and obsession that you often feared he might get carried away and forget that the sun, in the end, always rises.

You make yourself some tea—more to keep your hands busy than to drink it. The kettle whines, steam curling into the air like a shy ghost. You pour it into your favorite cup, the one he gave you during your first month together. His hands touched it. His lips laughed when you said it looked like something from another era. But now your hands tremble. The spoon clinks too loudly as you stir.

At 4:30, you’re at the window again. You open it slightly and peer through the half-closed shutters that keep the rain out. You just stare into the night as if you could carve it with your gaze, as if wanting it hard enough would make him appear. The air slaps your face. Forces you to close it.

You begin pacing the house.

In the living room, you stop to tidy the books on the shelf. Pointlessly. Then you adjust the blanket on the couch, fold it, unfold it. In the kitchen, you dry a clean cup. You bend down, pick something off the floor—a dried petal, maybe, fallen from an old bouquet. Every gesture is without purpose, but if you stop… you feel too much. A shadow in the pit of your stomach. A sense of absence pressing against your ribs.

Fucking Remmick and his sense of order.

At five o’clock, you sit in front of the door.

Not in front of the window. Not on the couch. Right in front of the door. On the step before the threshold.

You stare at it, as if it could reveal where he is. Now and then, you think you hear a footstep. A beat of wings. A distant, muffled sound, dulled by the rain.

But it’s not him. Not yet.

You hug your knees and rest your forehead on your arms. The now-cold cup remains abandoned on the hallway shelf.

Once, you asked him if bad weather bothered him.

“Bad weather?” He had laughed, resting his chin on your stomach to look at you. “Darlin', I’ve lived through plagues, revolutions, and over a thousand years without so much as a fire in the grate and you're askin' if a bit o' rain bothers me?”

Then why…? Why was he so late?

Maybe the hunt went long. Maybe he was too hungry.

Maybe he heard a heart beating too loudly and couldn’t resist. And then another. And another.

Maybe he’s still out there, in the forest. With heavy breath, claws and teeth sunk into flesh.

At 5:17, a thud on the porch halts your dark thoughts and lifts your head from your knees. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of keys turning in the lock and leap to your feet before the door even opens.

Remmick closes the door behind him and furrows his brow when he sees you standing right in front of the entrance.

He’s there, soaked, his dark coat heavy with water. One eyebrow arches in a surprised, slightly amused expression.

“Why're you outta bed?” he asks, running a hand through his dripping hair, shaking it out a little. Water slides down his forehead, past his temples, framing that chiseled face—damned as it is desperate for affection.

You just sigh. Slow, deep. Relief bites you gently, but you’re not going to let him off that easily.

He approaches with his usual feline grace, a half-smile curving his lips, a clever light in his eyes. He reaches out to embrace you, but you stop him with two fingers planted firmly on his forehead.

“Not so fast, Count Dracula,” you murmur in a flat tone. “Chair. Fireplace. Now.”

Remmick laughs—a low, hoarse laugh that rises from his chest and dissolves into a smirk.

“You’re heartless. I’ve been trudgin' through muck and thorns for hours, and you go treatin' me like some mangy stray…”

“A mangy stray that reeks of rain and trouble,” you retort, turning away and leaving him with his melodrama. But you don’t see the way he looks at you as you walk off—the look of a man who never really knew what home was until you entered his life.

When you return, you’re holding a white towel and find him already seated by the fireplace, the embers still glowing, casting coppery reflections on his pale skin. He’s taken off his coat, left in a bloodstained shirt, lit by the hallway light.

You slide between his open legs, lying in front of him, without a word.

You start with his head, brushing his skin with the warm cloth, your movements measured, careful. Rubbing his hair to absorb as much water as possible.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the touch.

“You were late,” you finally say in a low voice.

He mutters something in a language you don’t recognize, but you’re pretty sure it’s a curse.

“Sure the storm put the fright in all the big ones — deer, boar, the lot of them. I had to go in fierce deep.”

Your cloth stops. You look at him, serious. A faint wrinkle forms between your eyebrows.

He notices. And smirks.

“Ah now, don’t be makin’ that face. No werewolves took a chunk outta me. No forest spirits, no Custodians neither. I’m here—alive, drenched, and still devilishly handsome, as always.”

But you don’t smile.

“You’re ruining all your shirts. That’s the fourth one this week…”

Your irritation is clear.

Your hands keep moving, sliding down his arms, then patting his chest. But you do it with a kind of affectionate harshness, like you’re trying to punish him through the cloth.

The blood had stained it almost to the hem this time, and it didn’t seem like it would come off. And Remmick, stubborn as always, insisted on wearing a new one every time instead of reusing the ruined ones.

“Oh no. The pout,” he snorts. “That grumpy pout’ll be the death of me, I swear. It’s the only thing that ever takes me down.”

Then, as if the punishment wasn’t enough for him, he starts to pinch your waist. His fingers, ice-cold, slip beneath the thin fabric of your robe, seeking out that exact spot where you’re most ticklish.

You flinch. Try to pull away, but not quite fast enough.

“Remmick!” you protest, half amused, half annoyed. “Stop it, you’re getting me all wet.”

And then he begins to tickle you.

Until you squirm, laughing, trying to swat his hands away.

“Remmick—stop it! You’re such a—”

You shove his hands off, but you’ve already lost the battle. The smile tugs at your lips and you hate him for it.

And he sees it. And he doesn’t let it go.

“Ah, you were worried, weren't ya?” he says, teasing but warm, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “You thought I got meself lost. Or went a bit mad altogether. Or maybe ran off with a new lass in the woods—some doe-eyed beauty struttin’ around like a queen—”

“Stop it,” you cut in, face flushed. You try to wriggle free, but he’s already quicker.

His hands lock around your hips, holding you to him with a firm yet tender grip.

Suddenly, you’re in his lap, your protest drowned by a kiss that steals your breath before it even forms thought.

Remmick always kisses like he’s proving how deeply he adores and desires you.

His tongue finds yours with wild urgency, and you often struggle to keep up with his pace—but it doesn’t matter. He loves taking control just as much as he loves surrendering it.

You feel your robe shift, the ties loosening until your chest is bare, your skin pressed against the cold, wet fabric of his shirt.

His mouth still tastes of rain and coppery blood. He groans into the kiss with that strange mix of desperation and devotion only he seems to carry—like he never wants to stop, like your mouth is the only thing that can soothe his eternal hunger.

When you pull away, you’re breathless.

“Rem…” you scold softly, sighing and rolling your eyes as you feel his hands slip past the edge of your robe and settle on your hips, clothed only in your underwear.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing your throat. “Easy now, you’re all knotted up. Let me take care o’ ya.”

His palms are cold, but it only make your skin burn hotter. You gasp softly as he grab you there, possessive, like he needs to anchor himself.

“You can’t always solve everything with sex…” you mutter, though you clearly had no real objections.

“Is that so?” He murmurs, as he brush his lips on your jaw before pulling his back against the chair and look at you with a devil grin on his stupid face.

You’re ready to argue again or punch him in the face when one of his hands leaves your hip and moves up to his mouth. Yours goes dry when you see him lick a long trail of drool off two long fingers and you think it’s the most pornographic image you’ve ever seen.

His hand moves away again and his satisfied smile returns to tease you.

“Do I have the all-clear, then?”

You glared at him but your eyes still dropped, drawn to the slight pull he was exerting on the waistband of your panties, separating it slightly from your skin. A clear request, his fingers slick against the soft flesh of your thigh, waiting.

You didn’t need to speak. The way you leaned into him, the soft hitch in your breath, the way your fingers slipped into his damp curls and tugged just a little—it told him everything.

He used his dry fingers to push your panties aside just enough and you held back a shiver when you felt his cold, wet fingers press against your naked center.

“You’ve always taken care o’ me, haven’t ya? Now let go, darlin'. Let me make you feel good.”

He murmurs sweet words to you when you arch slightly, biting the inside of your cheeks. To him, you are a vision. He will never tire of watching you give in, breaking the mask of indifference and sarcasm you wore most of the time. Unraveling on him, thanks to him.

“It’s late…I have to wake up soon…I—” you try to wriggle away but the hand still resting on your hip wouldn’t let you move an inch. He was always stronger, when he fed.

“Let me, love.” He looks at you with those puppy dog eyes that you can never say no to. “I’ll only use me fingers. Won’t take long, swear it.”

His high confidence in his abilities pisses you off but you don’t have the audacity to argue back. Remmick was really good at what he did.

You nod, leaving a caress behind his head and closing your free hand on his shoulder to steady yourself astride his closed legs.

His knuckles return, but this time, the contact is more concrete. They separate your vaginal lips and rub inside, making you gasp and tilt your hips lower, wanting more.

“There she is, my good girl.” He hums, stretching his fingers into a V and letting them slide out, clearly wanting to torture you some more. But before you could go back to your old self, all bossy and everything, he’s pinched your clit between his fingers, making you throw your head back from the pleasurable discharge along your spine.

“Rem…”

“I know, darlin'. I know. Just be patient for me.”

His gray eyes fall to your breasts and he leans over one of them as he continues to torture you.

You winced at the wet sound and the wave of heat that ran through you as he pressed the flat of his tongue to your sensitive nipple and sucked hard, closing his lips around it.

Your fingers closed in his hair, just the way he liked it, and you tugged a little, making his moans vibrate against your flesh.

He moves a little in his seat, shifting your body with his movements, as if he were seeking relief himself, but he was almost immediately still, continuing to care for you.

“There,” he whispers after pull of your nibble leaving behind a flushed, wet mark. “There. That’s where ye belong.”

You watch him — how his pupils dilated, how his jaw tensed as he starts to push his thumb against your clit, now all wet and ready.

He found it with maddening precision, drawing small, slow circles that made your breath catch in your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “Let me feel ye. Let me give this to ye.”

You rock your hips gently against his hand. He groans like you’d hurt him in the best way.

“Always so perfect like this,” he whines. “On me lap. Letting me have ye. Letting me love ye like this.”

You whimper as he slid one finger inside, slow and deep. He kiss your throat, your jaw, your cheek, never once stopping the movement of his hand.

“Gods above, ye're suckin’ me finger right in…” he choks. “Yer body’s so honest.”

You cling to his shoulders, breath hitching as he add a second finger —stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow and steady as he curl his fingers just right inside you.

You moan — softly, brokenly — and he groans in response.

“That’s it, darlin'. Let me hear it.”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the way your hips moved in tiny, helpless circles, chasing the rhythm of his fingers, the heat blooming low and deep in your belly.

You grip his shoulders tighter, hips jerking as the coil inside you tightens.

“Ye gonna come for me?” he asks, leaning back again to meet your eyes. “Right here, in me lap, so I can feel it?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

“Go on then,” he stammers. “Let go, princess. Show me how much ye missed me.”

You shatter with a cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you. Remmick kiss you through it — holding you tight, grounding you, worshipping every sound you make.

You collapse against his chest, shaking. His fingers stays inside you a moment longer, gentle now, soothing — coaxing you down, back to yourself.

He kissed your hair.

“Did I do good?”

Him and his constant search for approval.

“I can’t fuckin’ think straight…you did just fine…”

You hum, voice ragged.

“Just fine.” He repeats.

You smile, eyes closed. “Mmhm.”

You felt his breath shift. A tiny hitch. Then — nothing. Until suddenly, he lifts you off his lap in one fluid motion, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

Your eyes blinks open, your hands closed instantly at his neck. “What are you-?”

He doesn’t answer.

He carries you — slow, steady, controlled — out of the living room and down the hallway. You see the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes. That particular expression he wore when he had something to prove.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot making you laugh.

“Just fine…I’ll show ya just fine."

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