She/her // Fangirl // Virgo // English ≠ first language // Horror, Animal, Metal, and Movie Enthusiast // Russian // 19 // Support me https://ko-fi.com/aniratea
I've been wanting to do this post for a while now so here is EVERYTHING I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT THE GHOULS' IMPERA COSTUMES.
Buckle up because I have a LOT to say about those, this is gonna be a very long one.
The costumes were designed by B Åkerlund, a Swedish costume designer who's worked with Ghost since at least Meliora (that's as far back as I was willing to scroll on her Instagram page lol). B Åkerlund has also worked for many other musical artists such as Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Madonna, the Rolling Stones, Ozzy Osborne, Blink 182 and Hollywood Undead (information from her own website)
The masks were made by Bob Basset, a visual artists who works a lot with leather. I find his work fascinating, you can look him up on Instagram (nsfw warning, there's a few naked ladies).
Fun fact! The horns are real cow horns. That's the reason some of them have gold tips, to hide the imperfections that come with working with actual horns.
He does have a shop where he sells his items, there's a mask there very similar to the Impera ones. You can also buy Papa's batwings if you happen to have 2500$ lying around!
The jackets are made on the same model as one of Papa's. The back is decorated with a spine-like design made from leather and cording. It's adorned with a few of our classic Impera buttons. Some of the hems were left raw and some deliberate weathering was done to make it look old and worn.
Fun fact! The shoulder pieces are not sewn into the garment, I would assume for easier cleaning. I don't know if they're held by strong magnets or snap buttons.
The vest (my beloved 😩) is made from flocked velvet in a paisley pattern, the front hems embellished with satin piping. It closes in the front with custom metal clasps that are riveted into the garment. The D parts are attached with what seems to me like wide elastic, which would lessen the pression on the clasps when moving around a lot. The back is made from two different types of fabric, I'd have to touch it to be able to tell you what they are. I assume the panels closer to the sides have some mild stretch to them. The top of the shoulders are decorated with Impera grucifix patches.
The shirts were not custom made for the ghouls, altho they were altered. The original shirt in the vintage painter linen shirt from Punk Rave and it is still being sold. Some of the cuffs were altered, removing the ruffles for some of the ghouls, but not all. They were removed for Dew, Mountain and Phantom, Aether's didn't have them either. As far as I can tell, all the ghoulettes still have them.
An unfinished piece of linen serves as an ascot, that piece is decorated with a metal devil skull. The colour of the skull doesn't appear to be consistent between each ghoul, Dew's looks gold almost bronze while Phantom's is a silver-like colour.
Another modification is the buttons, a small portion of them were removed in favor of our Impera buttons. Some of the ghouls have more buttons replaced than others, which is still a mystery to me.
The pants are called Jodhpurs, they were invented in the 1800s as horse riding pants. The wide part at the hips and thighs allowing for better movement. The ones the ghouls wear don't reach all the way to their ankles, they stop a bit past the calf muscle, hidden by the boots. (Yes, the ghouls are effectively wearing capri pants)
The boots are motorcycle riding boots, decorated by a grucifix. Like the shirt, they can still be bought online through the All American Boots website, altho the price tag is... Headache inducing to say the least.
The cape is a piece of costume that was only briefly worn on stage by the ghouls, Aurora being the only one who still wears one. I would assume it gets in the way of playing very easily. The cape itself is made of two fabrics, a light blue satin and a dark grey suede. The two pieces are not sewn together at the bottom, they move freely from each other. The cape is attached on the left shoulder with a harness piece that has one strap across the chest, decorated with a metal buckle, and one under the armpit.
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Summary: Your connection to Solas had always felt like an inconvenience. Who would wish for an elven god, especially one inclined towards lies and trickery, living in their head? But deeper down, you felt differently. Deeper down, you found yourself desiring anything from him, being it his attention or more. Thankfully, your subconscious was more than willing to show you how that could feel.
CW: Minors DNI, 18+ only, afab reader, only description of reader is that she is elven and based on Rook from the game, mild bratty reader, mild dom Solas/sub reader, dream voyeurism (I guess!?), Solas being a cocky bastard, oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v sex, innuendo, profanity.
Words: 6378 (I know! And I am planning a part two already!)
Thank you to @towriteloveontheirarms for being my sounding board and beta!
Elvish translations:
Emma salin - I want you within me.
Satha - Please.
Fen'Harel - Dread Wolf
There was much to be said about having the elven god of lies in your head. Between the way those at your side questioned his motivations and you were beginning to question your own feelings about Solas.
It was like he brought out both the worst and best in you. You wanted to prove him wrong and yet somehow found yourself wanting to impress him.
Every time you would return to the Fade, it felt like you were back to a blushing, tongue tied fool. You weren’t one to ever be caught without a witty retort or a biting insult. And while you were more than capable of holding your own against Solas’ own sharp tongue, more and more you found yourself weakly biting back.
What you currently wondered, however, was whether Solas noticed. He currently resided in your head after all.
What was stopping him from seeing more than you allowed him to?
Two blighted dragons. Nothing could have prepared you for two blighted dragons. You still wished that you’d had the power to be in two places at once. No matter what you had done, where you had gone, a city had suffered.
But it had been a blow to the gods and that was something to hold on to at least.
You were finally alone; the battles had been discussed with the team and grievances had certainly been aired. As everyone disappeared to their own rooms, you slowly made your way to yours. You hoped the solitude would be enough to quieten your overwhelmed mind, but it seemed your mental passenger had other ideas.
His voice lingered at the back of your mind. Calling you to the Fade, and despite your exhaustion, you complied.
A wave of calm always seemed to wash over you before the bright light of the Fade would flash behind your eyes. Taking a moment to adjust to the odd, greyscale lighting with a few blinks.
“Two dragons, this is worse than I had feared.”
His voice always seemed to arrive before he did. And you hated how a shiver always seemed to run down your spine when you heard him. You would tell yourself you simply disliked speaking to him, but you were also lying.
You sighed and Solas watched the way you seemed to visibly deflate.
“We drove off one, but the other…I can’t bear to think of the devastation it caused.”
Solas could see the guilt on your face and to his surprise, he felt a twinge of empathy, before soon reminding himself you were to be no more than a tool to bring down his fellow Evanuris.
But the longer he looked at you, the more he could see something else. The second you met his gaze; it was though you were checking his reaction. He could almost feel it, a need to impress him.
“Have you determined how they are controlled? Some manners of control may be broken.” Solas replied, slowly pacing along the rocky edge.
Your eyes followed him, allowing yourself to simply look at him. Hands clasped behind his back, the long strides as he moved…
No, you needed to focus.
“The blight. The gods blighted them,” you snapped just a little as you spoke, as though you knew a blighted dragon wasn’t about to be one of the ‘easily broken manners of control’.
Solas spun on his heel; eyes boring directly into yours.
“The Blight, of course,” he replied solemnly.
You came to the very edge of your own ledge, feeling like you were both close and far away from Solas at the same time. The Fade never failed to confuse you.
“It seems to be the gods’ favourite weapon. New darkspawn, some even controlled by Venatori of all things!”
Solas watched you curiously. He had never quite seen you so angry, unless directed at him of course. There was something fascinating about it, the passion you always seemed to have for everything you did. The fire that forever seemed to linger in your words.
All he could do in response, however, was what he always did. Offer advice. Was it weighted for his own benefit, of course. You were his weapon beyond this prison. And somewhat of a source of fascination for him.
He explained how the Blight would not be easy to fight. How Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain would use it as the cruellest of weapons. But there was a hint of pride in his tone, something you noticed immediately.
“To wound a thrall of the gods is a feat to be proud of, do not forget that.”
You tried to hide the blush on your cheeks at that. Mentally chastising yourself for reacting in such a way. You couldn’t let him see such a weakness.
“A wounded dragon is still a dragon. Whatever it takes, we have to bring those dragons down.”
Solas smiled, a small chuckle leaving his lips. You really were fascinating.
“Willing to do whatever it takes? I believe I can work with that.”
The Fade drifted from your mind, but Solas’ words seemed to stay. This was the first time he had, if you had to guess, complimented you. He had seemed almost…impressed?
You barely made it to the plush sofa you called your bed before your eyes fell closed. Sleeping in the Lighthouse was a challenge, time seemed to mean nothing here. But you were beyond exhausted.
And for the first time in a long time, you found sleep. Solas’ words slowly fading from your mind as you slipped into your dreams.
“…a feat to be proud of…”
“…I can work with that…”
His hands were rougher than you expected them to be and warmer. Fingers trailing across your shoulders and down your arms as he whispered in your ear.
Teasing you. Taunting you. Sending shivers down your spine. Telling you everything he was going to do to you.
And you could nothing more than sigh out his name.
“Solas…”
His low chuckle was muffled against the skin of your throat. His lips barely brushing the column of your neck as his arms moved to circle your waist. Pulling you flush against his body.
“Tell me what you want, and I may grant it.” Solas muttered against the curve of your shoulder, finally letting his lips press against your skin.
Your mind was swirling, filled with so many things you wished he would do. But putting those into words seemed a challenge. And what came out was shamefully desperate.
“Just you…I want you…please…”
His hands had already wandered lower, pressing your body even tighter to his. Reminding you that the lustful tension was more than mutual. His kisses became more forceful, one hand holding you against him as the second returned upwards to wrap around your throat.
Your body relented as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, letting your head fall back against his shoulder as Solas wasted no time finding your centre. The sounds that slipped from your lips only got louder the faster he moves, his name mixed in between soft moans.
“I asked you to tell me what you want, but I think your body is the one telling me.”
You didn’t fight it when he pushed your body forward, caging your body against chaise below. The new angle only sank his fingers deeper into your heated core as your hands steadied against the cushions. Your eyes fluttered closed as Solas began to pick up the pace, his voice low in your ear.
“Good girl…”
And then you woke up.
You were sure you could still feel the heat of Solas’ hands on your skin. The rough pass of his fingers as he’d explored you still lingered on your body.
Your eyes remained firmly shut as you ran a hand over your face. Never had you experienced a dream so intensely, to the point where it had felt real.
And never had you expected to feel that way about Solas, of all people.
But you couldn’t let it affect you. You couldn’t let it deter you from all you had to do to save the world.
Ghilan’nain’s siege on Weisshaupt had put the dream, and pretty much everything else, out of your mind. The loss of all of those Wardens was a blow to everyone’s morale but just like the dream, you couldn’t let anything throw you off your course.
But bringing down an archdemon meant another conversation with the Dread Wolf and that brought the dream back to the forefront of your mind.
You knelt before the table as always and waited for the power of the Fade to wash over your mind. Soon your eyes were opening to the greyscale tone of the Fade and the echo of Solas’ voice as he approached.
“The Fade felt the fall of Weisshaupt, but the fall of the archdemon as well.”
His voice washed over you in a way you had never felt before. A shiver running down your spine as he finally came into view. Your treacherous mind flickering memories of your dream as you tried to concentrate on what Solas was saying.
You rolled your shoulders, mentally shaking off the distraction as you prepared to reply. But Solas wasn’t finished speaking.
“But unless I am mistaken, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain still stand?”
There was almost a hint of disappointment in his tone, and you hated the way your stomach sank just a little. How you were beginning to feel the need to earn the Dread Wolf’s praise.
But at the same time, you bristled a little at his comment.
“We still took down her archdemon, she is mortal now,” you retorted, earning you a smile from Solas.
He was quiet for a moment, long enough for your mind to wander as he paced up and down the ledge he stood on. Your eyes following every move he made.
Watching the slow paces, his frustratingly immaculate posture. To his hands clasped behind his back. The subtle flexes in his fingers as he thought. More memories flashed in your mind, remembering how his hands had felt on your body, even in a dream.
Your mind slowly wandering back to the dream, the Fade around disappearing into those memories. So lost you were to those thoughts that you didn’t respond when Solas spoke again.
“Rook?”
His voice felt louder as you came back to reality. You blinked a few times, pushing the memories away.
“How are you doing?”
You didn’t notice it, but there was a hint of something akin to amusement behind his tone. Clearly, he’d already asked his question once, while you daydreamed.
You quickly reminded yourself that you were here to talk about the gods and the archdemons. Not your hidden desires.
“The team is fractured. Arguing and sniping at each other,” you answered, and you were sure you saw Solas’ face soften.
Solas stopped at the edge of his ledge, holding your gaze as you fought the urge to look away.
“I can see your team is loyal to you and anger can be channelled to passion,” Solas mused, slowly beginning to pace again.
But he never took his eyes from you. Staring deep, as if trying to read your very soul.
“People like that will follow you anywhere, do anything necessary.”
And you could feel the implication in his words. Your team would do…anything…to stop the gods.
Solas offered, then, a means to bring out another opportunity to bring down the gods. Aggravate them, halt any plans they may have. The Fade around you began to wash away as he left you with some parting words.
“I have absolute faith in your ability to aggravate your enemies, Rook. A talent to be admired, dare I say.”
The Fade disappeared then, replaced by the bright light of your chambers.
You had to get a check on yourself. Solas was there as a guide, if not a slightly reluctant one. No feelings could be involved. No feelings at all.
Weisshaupt had left your team and your allies broken. The focus now was to restore everyone and their strength before you could even consider facing the gods again.
Sleep became an escape. You had yet to experience another dream, you were hoping it had been a one-time thing. A lapse due to the stress of saving the world.
How wrong you had been.
You were exhausted when you returned to the Lighthouse. You had sought out your allies, helped where you could. But it was like everything had piled on you at once.
As your eyes closed, a little part of you prayed that your dreams would remain safe tonight. But you were wrong again, so very wrong.
Soft lips trailed over bare skin. Solas making a slow, torturous path down your body. From your neck to your stomach and lower. Hands pushing your thighs apart as your back arched from the chaise below.
Moans and sighs left your lips as Solas’ lips continued to descend. Kissing a path down one thigh and over to the other. Chuckling as you whined impatiently.
“Impatient, aren’t you?” he teased, sliding down to lie between your spread legs.
Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips pressed kisses over your mound, but never quite finding the place you needed him to be.
A hand came up to press against your stomach, holding you still as he edged closer and closer.
It was like a beacon, calling out to Solas in the depths of the Fade. Curiosity bit at him as he followed it. Realising quickly that it was you. Or your dreams specifically. His curiosity only grew.
He knew he shouldn’t. You were beginning to trust him and surely using his connection to you like this was breaking such a trust.
But it was so very tempting.
Solas allowed his mind to follow, soon finding himself watching your dream. And it was nothing close to what he expected it to be.
Seeing you splayed upon your chaise and dreaming of him.
It shouldn’t have excited him quite as much as it did. To know you thought of him that way, even if it was only in your subconscious. As even more of a surprise to see it was his younger self with his face hidden by your thighs. Your hand tangled in the soft brown strands of his hair.
That was a question he didn’t quite care for the answer to in this very moment.
His focus was your dream. Solas simply watched for now, thankful his presence remained hidden.
Solas’ tongue was insistent. Switching between long swipes over your folds to soft kitten licks to your swollen bud. Your fingers already tugging at his hair.
Incoherent moans leaving your lips as one hand lay flat against your stomach and the other hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. The same arm wrapped around your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh beneath as he devoured you.
Your eyes rolled back as his attention on your core only got rougher, pushing you further and further to your release. Suckling at your bud as you almost squealed out his name in pleasure.
Solas let out a low groan against your body, feeling the muscles of your thighs twitch beside his head as you careened over the edge. Your hands painfully tight in his hair as you found your peak.
But he didn’t stop. The hand on your stomach moving to wrap around your other thigh as he held you tight against his face. He was like a man starved, ravenous as he buried his face impossibly deeper into your cunt.
Spurred on by the way you arched from the bed, tugging at his hair until his scalp began to sting.
“You can give me one more, hmm?”
The longer Solas stayed, the more he felt the tug of the Fade around him. The temptation to connect and slip into your dream himself.
Was this why you had seemed so odd the last time you spoke to him? So distant, distracted? Had you dreamed of him like this before? Had you imagined the things he might do to you when he had been stood in front of you?
Temptation was winning as Solas let his mind reach out, grasping at the tendrils of your dream world and letting him slip into the image of his younger self. Not enough to embody the dream form completely…
But enough to turn things a little more to his own desires.
He watched still, but the new connection meant he could feel more. He might not yet be able to influence quite what his dream-self did, but he could just about feel how you responded.
How you preferred when he was rougher, when he pushed your limits just that little bit further. So why shouldn’t he make that happen for you? Even in your dreams, you should get what you wanted.
And luckily for Solas, you were too lost in your dream world to notice anything changing.
A little push made his dream-self hold you tighter, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thigh but not hard enough to mark. It made his teeth drag against the still sensitive bud until you arched and keened. All of it was enough for the real Solas to learn what you liked.
What made you tremble, what made you moan louder.
And if the opportunity arose, Solas had every intention of putting that information into practice.
When you woke up the next morning, you were sure you could still feel the press of Solas’ fingers on your thighs, the softness of his hair between your fingers.
That part had surprised you. Apparently hunting down Solas’ memories in the Crossroads had stayed with you a little more than you thought. But it wasn’t just the appearance of a younger Solas that had surprised you.
Something else had felt different. Like the dream hadn’t been entirely yours. Or maybe the dream itself had been so unexpected, it just felt odd.
Because Solas couldn’t see your dreams…could he?
You realised that you didn’t quite know exactly how your connection to him worked, and yet there was that deep, sordid part of you that enjoyed the idea. Wondering if he could see what you thought about him, could see the filth that would enter your dreams.
And of course, whether he found it as enjoyable as you did. Admitting your desires openly, however, was not going to come easily.
Solas’ presence in your mind had never been more welcome than it had been in Arlathan Forest. Elgar’nan’s trap was beyond frustrating, winding paths that seemed to just circle around and around.
You had tried to hide your relief as Solas’ voice echoed insults at Elgar’nan whilst guiding you and your team to freedom. But you knew he felt it, even if you hadn’t voiced it.
The elves were saved and Elgar’nan had been sufficiently angered, based on the vicious stare you had felt at your back as you had left the crater with your team.
But what you didn’t feel in return, was Solas’ surprise at your thanks.
You were back at the Lighthouse, the Dalish returned to their clans and the Veil Jumpers leaving after lavishing you and your team with their thanks. Now that you were alone, the others having returned to their own chambers, you felt Solas calling out to you again.
But it felt different to the other times he would call for a meditated conversation, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way.
As it always did, the Fade shimmered into view behind your closed eyes, and you were back on your rocky ledge. The atmosphere felt different. For a while, you had tried to make these conversations as short as possible.
Your dreams however had made you, whether it was intentional or not, want to linger here a little longer. And now you found yourself looking for Solas before he had even appeared. Anticipation biting at your insides.
“The Dalish prisoners escaped safely?” Solas asked, his voice softer than you were sure you had ever heard it.
Almost…hopeful.
“They did,” you responded, and the gratitude was evident in your tone, which didn’t go unnoticed by the man before you.
“And we have you to thank, Solas.”
That took him off guard, though he hid it well. You were Dalish yourself, so maybe your gratitude was simply born of your kin’s safety. But Solas found a part of him hoping there was something more.
“For all the trouble I have had with the Dalish in the past, I am glad I could help our people again,” Solas’ tone remained soft, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.
A small silence fell between you both, as if you were both waiting for the other to speak. It was strangely comfortable, more than it had been in the past. Yet you could feel the way his eyes seemed to bore into you, as if trying to find something within.
“And, of course, for the chance to infuriate Elgar’nan. That I most appreciated,” Solas chuckled, his eyes moving from your face to subtly trail down.
You were too taken aback by his gratitude, that you didn’t quite notice the path his gaze took. A slow, appreciative path down your body and back up again.
You couldn’t help but mirror his chuckle, remembering just how easily Solas had wound Elgar’nan to rage.
A small laugh left you as you spoke, “You did get him quite riled, dare I say you enjoyed it?”
There had been something in his tone. Something you had heard most, though you shuddered at the thought, in your dreams. That harshness, the almost teasing tone mixed with disdain. That had been the Solas who featured in your dreams, or at least your version of him.
“Enjoyed it? To have the Dalish see Elgar’nan finally for what he was, that was the most satisfying of all.”
You knew Solas disliked your people; he hadn’t exactly been silent about it since you had met. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. Finally, you saw it, the stare as he spoke. A stare that hardly mirrored his words in its emotion.
Intense and directed solely at you.
“But you have met him now, had his voice echoing in your mind, and you have met me. Can you see why we might frustrate one another?” Solas asked, and you had to admit he was right.
You shrugged, finally averting the elf’s intense gaze. But it didn’t stop you trying to fire off a snarky retort.
“The two of you are much alike, both fighting to be in charge…”
You regretted that as soon as it left your mouth. Fighting the heat that you knew was creeping up from your chest to your cheeks. Silently praying that Solas would simply pass the comment by. But the moment you heard him chuckle, you knew you would barely survive whatever he said next.
“I have no desire to be ‘in charge’, as you put it,” Solas replied, savouring the small shiver he saw run through your body at the teasing tone.
Here, in the Fade he could feel more of what you felt. His connection to you had felt stronger recently and it was only heightened here. And despite the obvious fluster, he could see a spark of frustration.
“No…you just want to correct anyone not doing something the way you would.”
Solas had to fight the urge to comment on your dream. In charge, which was how you liked him, it appeared. Even if only your subconscious would admit it. But instead, you were trying to hide it under your usual snark.
“Hmm, so you are observing me as well during our talks?”
He could see your jaw twitch, countering the clear flush on your skin now.
“Admit it, winding him up was fun,” you countered, ignoring the way your heart beat just a little harder and trying to somehow hold on to some control of the conversation.
Solas’ eyebrow quirked. He could hear the sudden increase in your heartbeat and even the deepening blush on your cheeks.
He huffed out another chuckle, “As fun as I imagine you find aggravating me.”
There it was again, your heartbeat raising just a little more. Solas was testing the waters, to see exactly what it was you felt towards him. Was it simply base lust or something deeper?
The teasing tone was as unexpected as almost everything else in this conversation had been. Before now, Solas had seemed dismissive of you at his worst and simply bored of you at best. You didn’t know what had changed, but something had.
“So, I do aggravate you? Managed to get under the Dread Wolf’s skin?”
What were you doing? Never had a conversation in the Fade been so…personal. Yet Solas seemed to have as little interest in changing the topic as you did.
Solas stepped closer to the edge of his precipice. Head tilted as a smirk finally graced his lips.
“Aggravating is among the words I word use to describe you,” he almost purred the words, waiting to see your reaction. To see how deep your desires truly ran.
The implication of his words was no longer hidden. Was Solas complimenting you? Why did that idea make your skin prickle and flush.
And Solas could see it. The subtle hitch in your breath. The ever-deepening hue on your cheeks and he knew it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was a flush he had seen in your dream.
You were flustered and you hated it. Not because it was Solas that had made you feel that way, but because you had no response. Not one worthy of uttering anyway. And you knew Solas could see it.
He shrugged; having let you suffer through finding a retort long enough.
“You should rest; I am sure we will see each other again soon.”
You had time. For the first time in a long time, you had some breathing space. The gods needed time to make their lyrium dagger. While you couldn’t exactly relax, something felt a little less heavy.
While you would still need a plan, defeating gods was not something you could just make up on the spot. You had allies, Mythal’s essence, and backup plans to back up your backup plans.
So, allowing yourself a little respite wouldn’t be too much to ask?
Your allies were without need for help. Your companions handling whatever they need to alone. Your time was yours and you could have done anything you chose.
To the surprise of even yourself, you chose to lay in your room and try to find sleep. Though it should have been no surprise that Solas was waiting. Just out of sight that you wouldn’t see him until he wished you to.
With the minimal control you had of your dreams, you returned to your last conversation with Solas. The only thing telling you it was a dream was each time you felt yourself respond this time.
You were less flustered and more flirtatious. Allowing hindsight to invade your dream and redo a less than confident encounter on your part. Counter Solas’ flirty remarks with your own. Acting as you wish you would have in reality.
You had heard the Fade was pliable in dreams, that with practice one could take full control of your dreams and make them what you wanted. Maybe it was worth a try, you were within the Fade in the Lighthouse after all.
But little did you know, you weren’t the only one who had taken hold of your dream.
Solas could feel you connecting to the Fade. It was impressive really, not many found such control of their dreams on the first try. But he had told you before, you were impressive.
His own connection to his dream self was smooth, almost unnoticeable. All he had to do was wait for the right moment to fully participate.
It was no surprise you chose this particular moment to dream of. Even Solas had to admit, the flirtatious banter had been quite enjoyable. Your dream self was entirely more confident, throwing back as many flirtations as his own did.
It was more than clear that you truly did desire him, and dare Solas even admit the feeling was mutual?
Solas waited for his moment, easy enough as his answers followed quite closely to what had been reality.
Until they didn’t.
Now was his chance. He could hear his dream-self uttering familiar words, knowing it was time to take things into his own hands.
“Aggravating is among the words I word use to describe you,” his dream-self purred and finally Solas took full control.
Had Solas’ ledge moved closer? Maybe it was just the unusual world of dreams, always a little different from reality. But he was definitely closer, close enough even to reach out and touch him if you wished.
You opened your mouth to answer, willing your dream-self to be more confident than the real you had been.
But somehow, Solas beat you to it.
“Though it is not the one I wish to use right now.”
Your eyes widened just a fraction. It did sound like something you might make him say, but you were almost positive you hadn’t had a hand in it.
No…this wasn’t your own doing. This certainly wasn’t a Solas you had control of anymore. You weren’t going to be the flustered mess you had been the last time. But curiosity got the better of you, quelling any cheeky response you had.
“Solas?” was all you managed, but the question in your tone was enough.
He stepped closer, no space between your ledge and his anymore. For the first time, he was stood directly in front of you.
“Rook,” he answered, stopping just out of your reach.
You were certain now; this was actually Solas. Should you have been disturbed that he had entered your dream? Most likely. But the way he looked at you now, you found yourself no longer caring.
Your head tilted, a small smile on your face. Solas responded with a smirk of his own.
“Dare I ask if this is the first time you’ve paid a visit to my dreams?” you asked, so concentrated on Solas that you didn’t see the Fade changing around you.
Morphing into your chambers, the change so instantaneous that it took you by surprise as you noticed.
“Only once, but I was merely a…spectator.”
Solas took a single step closer, mere inches between you both now. You stepped back just a little, finding the edge of your chaise pushed against your legs. This was far too familiar, you thought.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lip and you didn’t miss Solas’ eyes darting down.
“A spectator? What exactly did you spectate?”
Part of you knew the answer. But there was a spark of confidence igniting in you.
You expected an answer intended to fluster you and you prepared yourself for a confident response. But Solas had other ideas.
His hand moved slowly, still giving you the chance to deny him. Dreams were one thing, but this was reality. Gently holding your chin and tilting your face higher.
“I think you know exactly what I saw.”
His thumb stroked over your chin, and you barely bit back a sigh. His hand felt exactly as you had imagined it. The perfect balance between calloused and soft.
“How…how are you here?” you whispered, no longer caring about how breathless and needy you sounded.
Solas urged you closer, his hand moving to cup your jaw.
“It is the Fade, darling, anything you desire can be made for you to enjoy.”
His voice was torturous. A low, sultry whisper that you knew you never could have imagined yourself.
Anything, you thought. While what Solas felt for you wasn’t entirely clear, beyond the evident lust in his gaze, you were not about to deny yourself this.
Solas leaned in, a single step pushing you to lay down on the chaise behind you. Caging you beneath him with an arm either side of your head. His face was so close, almost close enough for you to press your lips to his.
Before you could, his head dipped to nuzzle into your neck. His nose pressed into the curve as he waited for your answer. Your lower lip now tugged between your teeth as you tried to find the words.
“All I want is you.”
That was enough. In a second, his lips found your pulse point. Your hand finding purchase on the back of his neck, holding him close. But Solas had seen what you wanted. What your dreams had allowed you to experience, and he had every intention of giving it to you – in his own way.
With a final kiss to the spot beneath your ear, Solas pulled back.
“And how do you want me? I saw your dream. How you liked me…in charge.”
He felt your hand tighten on the back of his neck, the expected flash of defiance behind your eyes. Oh, how he would enjoy taming it if he had the chance.
With a soft green shimmer, his armour and your own clothing was gone. The power of the Fade, you thought. But feeling his skin against yours, feeling how it really felt, was enough to send a wave of arousal through your body.
Solas’ hands moved down to grip your thighs, spreading them enough to nestle his hips between them. He could already feel the heat emanating from your core, the soft musk of your arousal as you dug your nails into the skin of his back.
“Come now, darling, where is the bite you usually have when we speak?”
You could feel him chuckle as his lips began a path down your body. This was far better than anything your imagination could have conjured. Yet somehow it was exactly what you wanted.
His lips had made it to the valley of your breasts, a painfully slow pace as he savoured the taste of your skin on his tongue. Your hands clung harder, surely leaving marks that he had every intention of keeping.
“Emma salin…” you sighed, arching your body towards his wandering lips in an almost desperate bid for more.
Solas heard, chuckling at the breathy elven slipping so beautifully from your lips. But you would need to work a little harder to earn his touch.
“I did not catch that, do you not wish me to continue?” Solas teased, pausing in his path down your stomach.
He pressed softer kisses across your hips, then the crease of your thighs. Waiting patiently for you to decide if you would remain defiant or let the Dread Wolf finally take you.
You sat up on your elbows, chest heaving as you tried to glare down at him. But you faltered as Solas met your gaze. Staring up at you between his lashes, with nothing but lust and need in his eyes.
“Emma salin, satha, Fen’Harel…”
It took all of Solas’ restraint to not immediately bury himself inside you there and then. When he didn’t move, you let out a soft whine, reminiscent of the delightful scene he had seen in your dream. Insistently clawing at his back as you pressed yourself impossibly closer.
“Shh,” Solas soothed, moving back up your body until he could roll his hips against you.
His hand coming down to wrap around his length, lining himself up at your entrance. His free hand hooking a thigh over his hips. All Solas had to do now, was move.
“Solas, please!”
That was enough for him to push forward, easing himself between your slick folds until he was fully seated inside you. The hands on his shoulders pulling him down until his lips found yours in a desperate kiss.
There was little rhythm to his movements. As much as he’d tried to hide it, Solas wanted you almost as much as you wanted him. Few people had ever gotten under his skin like you had. Ignited a fire he long thought extinguished like you had.
And now he had you in his grasp, he wasn’t about to let you go.
The only sounds that filled the room were your soft moans, his low grunts into your throat and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Your nails digging into the flesh of his back. Leaving stinging scratches as he lifted your hips, slamming deeper into your waiting core.
His name like a chant on your tongue, spurring him on until he felt your soft walls fluttering around him.
“Are you close, my darling?” Solas mumbled against your neck, peppering his words with insistent nibbles to your flesh.
Your answer was an incoherent mumble of what he assumed was a ‘yes’. Your body pliable and willing beneath his as you surrendered yourself to the pleasure he offered.
Solas wasn’t much further behind you. Just the feeling of you pulsing around his cock, pulling him impossibly deep inside you as you careened towards your release.
“Please,” you panted, as the sparks of your peak began to burn at the base of your spine and in the pit of your belly.
“Solas, please…”
He responded with stronger thrusts, slamming himself into you until your release broke over you in a wave. Your eyes rolling back in your head as your back arched away from the chaise. His name falling into to breathless moans on your tongue, a delicious sheen of sweat coating your body.
“Rook…” Solas groaned into the hollow of your throat as he spilled himself with a final thrust.
Silence fell over you both. This may have been a dream, but what exactly did it mean for both of you now? The feelings were mutual, but how deep they ran was still up for question.
You felt something for Solas. Something deeper than base desire. But you couldn’t even consider any other emotions. Even this felt like a huge push in your dynamic.
No longer was he your frustrating mental passenger. No longer were you a thorn in his side.
The silence remained. But at some point, the questions would need answering.
It was well past 2:30 a.m. when the only customer inside the café shut down his laptop, paid for his drink at the counter, and headed toward the exit—where the storm that had been raging violently over the city for hours was waiting for him.
As soon as the door closed, silence fell like a thick blanket, muffling even the patter of rain against the windows. The night felt dimmer than usual—gloomy, motionless. But that was no surprise, in the middle of the week, with the downpour and that heavy dampness that seemed to weigh down even your thoughts.
Not that you minded. Deep down, you loved that kind of stillness. You liked to lose yourself in the muffled sounds of the night, in the steam rising from the warm cup between your hands, in the soft lights of the now-empty café.
And yet, a part of you missed the usual buzz. The chatter, the laughter, even your coworkers’ weary complaints whenever some difficult customer got on their nerves.
That week you had decided to cover the night shift alone, to ease the burden of a colleague dealing with a complicated family situation. No one had asked you.
You had simply volunteered, without thinking too much about it. A spontaneous gesture. A small act of kindness.
Because you knew it well: if you didn’t help each other, no one else would. And in a place like that—where the hours stretched and time seemed to hold its breath—community was more than just a word. It was survival.
You opened the trash drawer to throw away the used tea bag, still warm and dripping. But as soon as you lifted it, you noticed the container was nearly full. Paper, coffee grounds, tea bags, wrappers—all quietly piling up throughout the evening.
You let out a quiet sigh. Maybe you should have emptied it earlier.
If you didn’t hurry to take it out, you risked missing the garbage collectors, and leaving it for another day didn’t feel like much of an option—especially with the wild animals scavenging around the area.
You grabbed the trash bag with one hand, the umbrella with the other, and stepped out of the café.
The wind hit you immediately. It was cold.
The damp air seeped into your bones, and every step on the wet street was accompanied by the dull, steady drumming of raindrops on your taut umbrella. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving you alone in the downpour as you made your way toward the bins across the street.
The bag sank with a soggy thud among the other trash, and you had just turned to head back when a shadow froze you in place.
A figure stood in the middle of the road, just beyond the curb, straight as a nail driven into a wooden board.
You hadn’t seen him arrive. Not even out of the corner of your eye.
One moment, the street was empty. The next, he was there.
Your hands tightened around the umbrella’s handle. You couldn’t explain why, but something about the way that man—if he even was a man—stood there in silence, as though he were part of the night itself, made your blood run cold.
He wore only a white shirt and a pair of dark trousers, soaked through, yet he didn’t seem to care.
He was just standing there, staring into the void ahead of him.
A sudden glare hit your eyes.
Headlights, far off, slashed through the darkness like blades of white light, warping shadows and reflections on the wet road. You immediately caught the sound of tires on asphalt, a rising hiss, familiar… and yet, in that moment, dreadful.
You looked at him.
The man was still there.
Motionless.
In the middle of the lane.
Drenched in rain, unmoving, as if he had no awareness of the oncoming danger—or worse, as if he were waiting for it.
Panic wrapped around you at once, hot and cold all at once. Your breath escaped your lips, short, clipped in half by fear.
“Hey! Move!” you shouted, instinctively.
No reaction.
Not a step back. Not even a flicker.
The sound of the engine grew louder. The headlights drew closer at a speed that made your teeth clench. Your heart burst in a blind impulse: you didn’t think, you didn’t weigh it. You just moved.
You darted across the street, shoes slipping on the asphalt, rain blurring your vision, the sudden blare of the horn ripping through the air.
You grabbed his wrist.
It was like touching frozen marble. His skin was cold, hard, and yet alive beneath your fingers. His arm didn’t budge at first. It took a sharp, desperate yank. Only at the very last second, with the car just meters away, did you manage to drag him aside with you, out of the middle of the road.
The vehicle tore past in a spray of water that hit you both full on. The stench of burnt rubber and gasoline mingled with the deafening thud of your heartbeat.
You found yourself inches away from him.
Your umbrella was gone.
You were struggling to breathe. His wrist was still clutched in your trembling hand.
He was looking at you.
Not confused.
Not frightened.
Almost… surprised. As if, for a long moment, he couldn’t comprehend what you had just done.
As if he couldn’t fathom why.
The rain kept falling around you, dripping from your hair, sliding down your collars, soaking your skin. But you no longer felt the cold. Not really. The adrenaline had pumped enough fire into your veins to keep you warm.
His eyes lowered slowly, trailing to your hand still wrapped around his wrist. Your grip trembled, unsteady yet stubborn. And he—he seemed entranced by the gesture.
You clear your throat, forcing your voice to work against the chill.
“Are you okay?”
You had never studied psychology, nor taken any emotional first-aid course, but even without training you knew that asking someone—who had just stood waiting in the middle of a dark road, in the dead of night—why the hell they had done it wasn’t exactly the best choice of words.
He blinks slowly and lifts his gaze back to you. The rain streams down his face, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shiver. It’s as if the cold can’t touch him.
At this distance, lit by the glow of your café, you could see his face more clearly.
Pale, a strong jawline, the faint shadow of dark stubble on his cheeks, and two deep, large grey eyes.
“C-Come inside. I’ll fix you something warm while you dry off, what do you say?” you offered after a moment, nodding toward the café behind you.
He nodded—barely perceptible.
Inside, the café was wrapped in an unreal silence.
The machines were all shut down or in standby, the faint lights on the digital panels pulsing like sleeping hearts. Despite the quiet and the absence of customers, the air was still thick with aromas: the warm persistence of freshly ground coffee, melted sugar, cookies, cakes.
You guided him to one of the tables closest to the counter, small and discreet.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t resist. He sat down slowly, letting you lead him.
Your hand, still locked around his wrist, loosened at last. Only then did you realize just how cold his skin had been—and how long you had held on.
As you let go, you caught the faintest, almost imperceptible motion: his hand started to follow yours, as if to hold it back. But then it froze midair. Stopped. As though he had realized too late what he was about to do.
A shiver ran through you, but you said nothing. Maybe you had imagined it.
Or maybe not.
“Stay here,” you murmured, calm but firm. “I’ll get you something to dry off.”
He raised his eyes.
Those eyes struck you again: clear, almost translucent, yet deeply disoriented.
It wasn’t a dangerous gaze.
It was… lost.
Like a soaked stray left out too long, not sure whether to trust you, but already decided to follow you wherever you went.
You moved behind the counter, and you could feel his gaze on you. When you returned with a small white towel in your hands, he was still watching you as if you were the only solid thing in this frantic night.
You handed it to him wordlessly.
He took it with care, fingertips brushing the fabric as though it were fragile. Or precious.
“Do you want some coffee?” you asked, without thinking—but then hesitated. Given the night’s events, maybe not…
“Or maybe… better a tea.” you added, trying to keep your tone light, as if all this were normal.
His gaze softened, his lips curved into the faintest smile, and his voice slipped out dripping with syrupy sweetness.
“Whatever ye decide to give me'll be fine.”
The words struck you. Not so much for what he said, but for how he said it. Laden with undertones.
Maybe you were wrong but… this man, who had just nearly let himself be hit by a car, was flirting with you?
“Uh… well… I guess.” you laughed awkwardly. “What’s your name, by the way?” you asked as you moved back behind the counter.
“Remmick.”
A foreign name, yet simple. From his accent, probably European.
You opened the tea drawer. The packets were in messy order, shuffled by countless hands rummaging through chamomile, lemon balm, and ginger like they were picking at random.
Your fingers slid over each label until they found one with a delicate, floral scent.
Linden and honey. Something simple. Warm. Soothing.
You boiled the water. The kettle whistled softly, that familiar sound—normally comforting—now felt almost too loud in the unnatural silence.
Every now and then you cast a glance over your shoulder, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, composed, hands clasped on the table’s surface.
Remmick smiled when he noticed your attention, and you quickly looked away, finishing the drink in haste.
Carrying the steaming cup in your hands, you walked briskly back to his table and leaned forward slightly to set it down.
But he moved before you could.
He leaned forward just enough, his hands ready to take it from yours. A simple, instinctive motion—but enough to make you stiffen.
You flinched slightly back, your wrist trembling. Not pure fear… rather a silent alarm, rooted deep, impossible to ignore.
He noticed.
For a brief instant he froze mid-gesture, then pulled back, sinking into the chair with a contained air, as if he had made a misstep.
He let you finish without another move.
Then he spoke.
His voice lowered, softer, threaded with an echo of sincerity. A shadow of warmth—or at least, something like it.
“Thanks… for earlier. Out there, I mean.”
A nod.
A whisper.
You gave a small nod back, rigid, avoiding his gaze. You had no wish to relive the scene. It had shaken you enough.
He lowered his eyes to the cup. His fingers shifted around the warm ceramic, but he didn’t lift it.
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then added, voice lower. Emptier.
“I’m not doin' too well, y'know. People… they're always headin' off, one way or another. An' it's myself that's left standin' at the end, every time.”
A pause.
“It wears ye down, after a while.”
Something in the way he said it hit you harder than you wanted to admit. It was raw, weary. Like he had simply grown used to the thought.
The tension in your chest began to ease.
You looked at him as he tilted his head slightly, as if he wanted to sink into the warmth of the untouched cup. The shadows of the lamp carved his profile into something almost fragile. And for a moment, he seemed different.
Not threatening.
Not strange.
Just… lonely. A drifting soul.
A bit like you.
You spoke before you had truly decided to.
“Well… if you ever need company, you can always come here.”
You offered a faint smile, though it was more a clumsy attempt to ease the tension than a true invitation. Something to say out of empathy, not commitment.
He raised his eyes.
He didn’t smile. But his eyes seemed to shine in a new way. A barely perceptible flicker, like a spark ignited in the dark.
“Aye… aye, that seems like a good idea.”
It was his answer.
Simple.
Calm.
Yet it left a strange, subtle unease on you.
As if he had read something inside you that you hadn’t even noticed yourself.
As if that offer, so vague and harmless, was for him a promise.
Remmick had returned every night. Always at the same table near the bar, always with that composed, affable… vigilant demeanor. It almost seemed as if his gaze followed every move you made, even when he wasn’t looking directly at you. During the week, between customers, you had started sitting with him. Small fragments of conversation that, night after night, stretched like thin threads, stitching together a strange familiarity.
But not Saturday night.
The place was alive, pulsating. The lights, slightly dimmed, cast golden glimmers over the crowded tables; the chairs creaked under customers weighed down by a long week, and the dense scent of burnt sugar, roasted coffee, and sweet liqueurs hovered above everything like a warm blanket.
Glasses clinked against the marble bar, the coffee machines puffed like old, tired locomotives, and laughter—often loud, sometimes boisterous, rarely genuine—filled every corner of the bar. Your body moved naturally: a hurried order, a forgotten plate to pick up, two fingers brushing together to hand over the change.
You had been so distracted that it was only when Remmick grabbed your arm that you noticed him at the usual table. When had he arrived? You couldn’t say.
“Oh, hi, Remmick. Sorry, I didn’t see you at all…”
“It doesn’t matter, darlin'. I noticed it.” He said with a quiet smile. His fingers bent slightly, sliding over your shirt in a tender brush. “I’ll be here when things've settled down.”
You nodded briefly, and only then did he let go. But from that moment on, you felt his presence like a fixed echo in the room. Silent, still, yet undeniable.
Around three in the morning, the place began to empty, and you finally managed to slip into the chair opposite where he was sitting. His gaze was fixed on the window, brow furrowed, teeth nibbling his lower lip, but when he saw you, all that vanished.
“Sorry again. I told you, weekends are terrible.”
He looked at you, and this time his smile widened, revealing his teeth. It was a crooked smile, but strangely charming.
“I was worried ye’d gone and forgotten about me.”
“Impossible. You’re the only customer who never orders anything and just sits as if you were in your living room.”
You let your back sink into the chair, stretching your legs under the table to ease the calves that were burning.
“Ye look tired,” Remmick observed in that calm voice of his, as if it weren’t just a simple observation, but something he had genuinely sensed in you.
You ran a hand through your hair, trying to hide the small yawn that escaped. “It’s nothing. One night of sleep and it’ll pass,” you replied with a weary but genuine smile.
The metallic jingle of keys interrupted the moment.
You looked up just as Serena, your colleague on shift, peeked out from behind the bar, eyes searching for you among the now-empty tables. She waved a bunch of keys over her head, arm raised like a small trophy.
“Are you waiting for Jad?” she asked, her voice cheerful and slightly muffled by fatigue.
You reflexively glanced at the wall clock: the hands, worn by time, showed it was past four. Even the usual night owls had left by now.
“Yeah, sure,” you nodded with a half-smile. “I don’t think a bachelorette party will come in at this hour.”
Serena giggled, already putting on her jacket. “Well… if so, you can always get help from your boyfriend.”
The silence that followed was immediate and sharp; you could feel it even in your ears. Your cheeks flamed almost instantly, and you blinked several times, searching for something to say.
“He’s not my—”
Remmick coughed. Or maybe he pretended to cough. He turned slightly to the side, fist in front of his mouth, but it wasn’t fast enough to hide that smirk creeping across his lips.
“Goodnight!” Serena said teasingly, pushing the back door open. The metallic click of the lock was her last word. And then, silence.
You stayed there. Still. Eyes fixed on the table, ears still red.
“You're not my boyfriend,” you muttered under your breath, as if you had to immediately erase that misunderstanding from the air, before it took shape, before it became something real.
Was that what people thought? Was that what Remmick was beginning to think? That you had some sort of romantic interest in him?
The question slipped under your skin like a fine needle.
You had started building something with him—you knew that. But that something, in your mind, was a form of friendship, an unexpected connection. Something deep, yes, but not romantic. Not physical. Not with him.
With Remmick, it was like talking to a mirror forgotten in an attic. You didn’t always like what it reflected… but it saw you. And you saw him… or at least, you thought you did.
You needed that. You needed someone.
Perhaps, you thought, you were getting too involved. Too present, too open with him.
Remmick rested his elbows on the table, fingers intertwined in front of him, and watched you with a gaze… amused. You were probably starting to smoke from your ears from the speed of your thoughts.
“Well, that’s a quare shame then,” he said in a low, calm, almost teasing tone. “If a hen party wanders in, I won’t be throwin' me hand up for the strip show — doin’ ye a favour.”
You licked your suddenly dry lips and lifted your gaze slightly toward him. This time, it was you who laughed, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”
Suddenly, you remembered a new tea blend, a kind gift from a downtown shopkeeper who often stopped by to chat with you. Chamomile, orange peel, and pink pepper. A curious scent, different from the usual, but pleasant.
You turned with a smile, ready to offer it to Remmick.
“By the way,” you began, “I have a new herbal tea for you to try—”
But you stopped.
Remmick had stood up.
Not abruptly, not quickly. But slowly. As if detaching from something he wanted to hold onto.
His hands slid down from the edge of the table, then smoothed, with a distracted gesture, the nonexistent wrinkles of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at you yet. His eyes were directed at the window, where the night was just beginning to fade.
A shadow of bluish light crept into the sky, imperceptible but present.
“It’s late,” he finally said. Voice lower, restrained. “I have to go.”
You froze for a second, slightly surprised. It was rare for him to end the evening. He usually stayed until you convinced him, with a laugh or an exasperated but affectionate expression. But this time… no.
“Oh… really? I thought—”
“Another time,” he cut in, but gently. He gave you a small smile. A strange expression, almost melancholy.
You watched him take his coat, carefully left on the chair back. His movements were fluid, precise, yet seemed slightly… forced. As if every second counted more than the previous one.
“Well, okay, have a good day, I guess…”
And then… he touched you.
His hand rose, with a slowness that wasn’t hesitation but choice. His fingers brushed the side of your face, just below your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your skin with a gesture so delicate it seemed unreal.
A gesture that, in other contexts, would have been tender. But not in that moment, and not from him.
You stiffened slightly, unwillingly. An instinctive reaction, of discomfort. A small pang of something you couldn’t name, as if your body sensed an intention your mind hadn’t yet processed.
“Sleep well,” he said.
You stayed there for a few moments, uncertain, even after Remmick’s figure had disappeared behind the door.
Then you turned toward the bar, trying to return to reality. But a small, stubborn inner voice kept company:
That touch… wasn’t friendly.
After that night, something had broken. Or maybe just cracked—imperceptibly, but enough that you could no longer ignore it.
The caress he had left on your face hadn’t been vulgar. It hadn’t even been invasive in the most direct sense. But the way he had touched you—that almost tender slowness, almost… possessive—had lit up a subtle, persistent alarm bell inside you.
Now, every time you sat with him, you felt a weight in your throat. A bitter aftertaste. As if something deep inside was telling you that this closeness… was changing shape.
So you started to pull away.
Nothing drastic. Nothing that could be openly read as rejection. Just small gestures.
When he arrived, you suddenly became busy at the counter. When his eyes called you, you answered with a polite nod, but you no longer sat down. No more teas made just for him. No more smiles held too long. No more silences too comfortable.
And Remmick… kept coming. Every night. Always the same table. Always the same patience. But his eyes—those eyes—never left you. You felt observed as if you were an equation to be solved. A behavior out of pattern that escaped him. A disruption of balance he could not accept.
And then, it happened.
It was a Wednesday evening, almost spring. The air was mild, the door of the café left half-open to let in a bit of breeze. The bar was calm, with a few customers at the tables and soft music blending with the clinking of cups.
You were behind the counter, then stepped out to bring a dessert to table six.
He was there. The other one.
A new customer. Nothing remarkable—he wasn’t particularly handsome, nor particularly elegant. But he had a gentle way of speaking, of listening. He had made you laugh with a silly joke, and you had lowered your gaze, a little embarrassed.
Remmick saw it.
From his usual shadowed corner table, he saw everything.
He saw the way that man spoke to you, leaning forward to hear you better. He saw you blush, lowering your eyes the way you did when you tried not to show interest. But you were showing it—clearly.
He saw your fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of the tray, then you laughed—really laughed, not the nervous, uncertain kind you used to give Remmick when you weren’t sure whether to stay or run.
You were at ease with him in a way you had never been with Remmick.
That was what made something in his chest break.
Then, he knew.
The distance.
The sudden coldness.
It wasn’t the wrong time. You weren’t unready. You weren’t in crisis.
You were choosing someone else.
His eyes narrowed, just slightly, like two sharp blades in a perfectly still face.
And even though his body remained seated, calm, at the corner table, something in the air shifted. An imperceptible tightening of the temperature. A silent contraction of the room.
You didn’t notice it right away.
But later, when you returned to the counter, your heart beating a little faster than usual, for a moment the room felt… emptier.
Colder.
You turned toward the corner. And Remmick was gone.
No goodbye. No door creak. Only a still-warm cup and a shadow that seemed to cling to his seat.
He would grant you that. That false idea of freedom.
He would let you believe you were in control of your choices. Let you build, step by step, the illusion of a normal love.
He would watch from afar, without interfering.
You’d finish late shifts, tired, and the boy'd be there waiting with that sweet, innocent smile.
He’d walk you through quiet nights, where each streetlight seemed to flicker on just for the two of you. You’d share little things, trivialities. He would listen as if every word mattered.
He’d let you sit beside him at the movies, during a film too silly to deserve the tears slipping down your cheeks. And when you hid your face against his shoulder not to be seen, he would take your hand—shy, respectful, affectionate.
And you—you would think that maybe, finally, it had come for you too, that magical moment every human being chases.
The boy would let you kiss him, the first time.
In the parking lot.
With his fingers trembling against your cheeks and your hearts racing too fast.
Remmick would let you believe. Hope. Love.
And then he would take it all away.
With the same calmness with which a candle is blown out in a dark room.
The jingle of the door closing behind you marked the end. The last customer had left with a tired farewell, a small nod of head and hand, and you’d answered with an automatic smile that never quite reached your eyes.
You moved toward the door, exhausted and desperate for a pause, flipped the sign on the glass with weakened fingers, and let silence fall like a damp blanket over the long night. The lights were low, dim. The floor still slightly sticky from the quick wash after a couple of spilled drinks. All around you smelled of fatigue, alcohol, lemon, and cigarettes.
You paused behind the counter, your gaze lost in the smeared reflection of the fridge glass. It was your first moment of quiet after hours of forced courtesy, serving drinks with slightly trembling hands, pretending the emptiness inside wasn’t gnawing you hollow. Your dark circles ran deep, temples pulsing, and the exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was the kind that clung to you when you no longer even had the strength to ask why you were still holding on.
Ryan, your boyfriend, had quite literally disappeared. You had called him countless times, sent endless messages, even buzzed at his apartment, but nothing. Wherever he was, he was deliberately ignoring you.
Out of the corner of your eye, through the reflection in the fridge, you saw a vague shape just beyond the counter.
Of course, he was still there.
Remmick sat in the far corner, his body still and composed, like a forgotten shadow. Somehow, his presence didn’t surprise you. After all, he had never stopped coming to the bar, even after you had pulled away.
Your eyes met. His were calm, clear, impenetrable. No judgment. No pity. Only silent recognition. As if he already knew everything, every detail, every thought that had passed through you in the last forty-eight hours.
You lowered your gaze and, without a word, moved toward him. Your steps were slow, dragging, your legs heavy as though every inch you covered drained your breath. You still had your apron on, your shirt stained with red wine at the sleeve. You looked out of place, out of time, out of yourself. There was no grace in the way you dropped into the chair across from him. You didn’t seek posture, or distance. You simply collapsed.
Your back curved, your shoulders sank as though something inside had gone dark. Your eyes stayed fixed on the table between you, lost in the worn wood. You couldn’t pretend, not anymore. Not with him.
Remmick watched in silence. He didn’t ask, didn’t try to break the moment. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full, dense, charged with everything he could have said and, with perfect precision, chose not to.
“I’m driving myself insane,” you murmured, your voice so low it nearly dissolved into the shadows. “He hasn’t written. He hasn’t answered. It’s like he just… vanished.”
You added nothing more. Your throat was tight, your mouth dry. You had already cried too much in the past days. There were no tears left to spend.
Remmick rose without a sound. He moved slowly, circling the table with measured steps, almost ceremonial. In moments, he was beside you. A hand brushed your shoulder with delicacy as he sank into the chair next to yours.
His arm wrapped around you naturally, with an intimate tenderness that didn’t belong to you two. And you, who only days ago had avoided any touch, no longer had the strength to pull away.
“Yer wearin' yerself down,” he said at last, his voice warmer than usual, more human maybe, yet veiled with something you couldn’t place. “Ye need to mind yerself better, sweetheart.”
You closed your eyes, and the tears—the ones you thought gone—returned. Silent. Soft. Humiliating. You cried in the truest way possible: defenseless, soundless. Only pain spilling over.
Remmick didn’t try to wipe them away. He let you cry, patient. His fingers traced slow circles across your back, steady motions that didn’t even seem conscious, but simply a part of him.
“What’s wrong with me,” you whispered, as though speaking to yourself more than to him. “Why can’t I just be happy?”
Remmick looked at you, and something slipped into his gaze. Not pity. Not surprise. Something far more dangerous: satisfaction disguised as tenderness. But it was fleeting, just a shadow, a flicker beneath the surface. He moved carefully, as if fearing a sudden gesture might make you close off again.
“Oh, poor darlin',” he said, leaning toward you, his voice low, honeyed, the kind used on a wounded animal. “There’s nothin' at all wrong with ye.”
He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, his touch cold yet impossibly gentle. His fingers seemed to know every curve of your face, as if he had studied it through a thousand sleepless nights, as if his eyes had rested on you even when you hadn’t seen him.
“The problem's not yerself. It never was.”
His voice dropped further, like a whisper brushing across skin.
“The problem is… ye keep lookin' for love in the wrong places. In the wrong arms. In mouths that can promise all day, but never keep a word of it.”
He drew you closer again, and you didn’t resist.
You let yourself be shaped like fragile clay in his hands.
“The world’s not made for folks who love too much, y'know?” he went on, his fingers tracing light, almost absent lines along your arm. “Those who love like we do always end up hurt. Others feed on our hearts as long as it suits 'em...an' then they're off, leavin' us behind.”
A sob escaped you.
“We’re made for each other…” he whispered, lowering his gaze to your lips, your neck, your weariness. “I’d sooner be dead than leave somethin' as sweet as ye.”
He kissed your cheek. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. There was no urgency in his movements—only that damned toxic sweetness, so comforting it made you forget that it wasn’t his touch you longed for.
“Ye don’t need to be sad,” he continued. “Ye just need to stop carin' for those who never truly see ye.”
His lips brushed your ear again. His arms closed around you, gently, as though he meant to gather every broken shard you had scattered about.
The tears kept falling, though you no longer knew where they came from. You weren’t sobbing anymore. You weren’t speaking. You were simply there, curled against him, arms limp, eyes lost somewhere beyond the pain.
Remmick moved.
He tilted his face slightly. You felt his breath closer, warm and uneven, and when you lifted your gaze just a little you found his eyes locked on your lips.
Before you could turn away, he leaned in, and his mouth pressed against yours—deep, hungry, as though he wanted to devour the last breath you had left. His breath burned against your lips, hot and insistent, a wave that crashed over you and forced your fingers to clutch the armrests of the chair, searching for something to hold onto.
You gave him no chance to deepen the kiss: the moment it grew real, more carnal, instinct ripped you from him. You pulled back abruptly, heart in your throat, voice breaking.
“Remmick… Remmick, no… You’re—you’re such a good guy, but I don’t—”
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he whispered immediately, with such disarming calm it almost made you feel guilty. “I see ye. Always. Even when ye can’t.”
He didn’t give you time to react. His lips slid over your forehead, then your temples, your tear-streaked cheeks. Every kiss was slow, measured, unhurried, certain you wouldn’t push away from those attentions the way you had from his mouth. His hands caressed your neck, your shoulders, pressing just slightly, in small but steady motions, as if trying to ease every knot, every resistance.
You felt yourself giving in, bit by bit. Your body loosening under those caresses, as though it only craved a place to rest. But your voice came again, faint, trembling, like a knot struggling to undo itself in words.
“I-I know… I know… but I don’t want this… I don’t—”
“I’m just lookin' after ye, love,” he murmured, his tone soft as velvet but hiding steel beneath. “Just let go a bit. Ye deserve it.”
He said it as if it were undeniable truth. As if resisting was a cruelty against yourself.
And then, slowly, his mouth moved to a precise spot—just behind your ear, where the skin was warmer, more sensitive. When he kissed you there, you flinched involuntarily. Your feet curled, a bubble of heat burst in your belly, and your breath stopped for a second.
Your hands—before you knew how—slipped into his hair. Not to push him away. To pull him closer. Because even if your mind tried to swim against the current, your body—your tired, wounded body—wanted only something that resembled comfort.
“Just let me have a wee taste,” he breathed, so low it sounded like a thought caught between his teeth. “I’ll be so good for ye. A bloody good lad.”
His lips found their way beneath your chin, to the spot where your heart pulsed, wild and restless.
“I’ll give ye everythin' ye desire.”
You didn’t stop him.
Not this time.
The second your silence gave way, Remmick surged forward like he’d been holding his breath for years—and you’d just given him air.
His mouth crashed into yours, needy, trembling. Not anymore gentle. Not anymore careful. Just desperate.
He moaned against your lips the moment they met, low and guttural, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—like he’d waited too long, held back too much. His hands cupped your face like he was terrified you’d push him away again, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you like you were already his.
And the taste—your taste—undid him.
You felt it in the way his whole body shuddered, in the strangled whimper that tore free as his tongue slipped into your mouth, hungry and reverent. His tongue surged forward without hesitation, pressing against yours, seeking it and chasing it with quick, urgent, almost feverish movements. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an assault.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, breaking away just long enough to gasp. “Ye taste—gods, ye taste like I always dreamed—”
He kissed you again, deeper, whining into your mouth like the pleasure of it was too much, like he was already stung by it. Addicted. Lost.
Your back hit the bar as he pressed you into it, not rough, but insistent—driven by need, not dominance. And still, his hands never roamed. They stayed at your face, cradling you, grounding himself in the one thing he never thought he’d have:
You.
His lips trailed down your jaw, fevered and worshipful, then returned to your mouth like he couldn’t stay away, like every second apart hurt.
“Ye don’t even know what ye do to me,” he whispered between kisses. “Ye don’t know.”
You did now.
You felt it.
And something inside you cracked like thin glass under too much pressure.
Your mind staggered, lost in a whirlwind of tangled sensations, words failing to come. But in the end, your mouth opened:
“Rem… Rem, the door is—”
It came out as a broken sound, your breath caught, and you weren’t even sure Remmick had heard, since he was already moving.
Strong hands gripped your hips, and in one swift, confident motion, he lifted you and sat you on the bar, your back hitting the bottles with a soft clatter. His body came between your legs, kneeling on the floor like a prayer ready to have his sins forgiven.
His hands spread your thighs wide, and the look in his eyes turned dark—hungry. Not just lust, not just want.
Need.
“No worries now,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Lemme do this.”
He dragged his hands down the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing along your skin—savoring the way you trembled, the heat radiating off you. And then he saw you.
Wet against your panties.
Dripping for him.
His breath caught in his throat—like it hurt to see you that ready, that open, that undeniably his.
“Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. “Yer perfect.”
His hands flexed on your thighs, as if he were grounding himself there, keeping from diving in too fast. His fingers slid slowly, almost hesitantly, to the waistband of your panties, gently pushing it aside. He stared at your wet folds with such obsessive intensity that your cheeks burned, as if he wanted to imprint every detail in his memory. His breathing grew ragged in short bursts as his fingertips traced lightly over your exposed skin, parting your slick folds and pressing against your sensitive bud, making you shiver and tremble for him.
He didn’t seek your eyes for permission; he didn’t need it. Every quiver, every involuntary moan, every subtle clench of your thigh muscles spoke louder than any words ever could. Your body was already giving him everything, shouting desire and surrender that your lips wouldn’t dare to utter.
He leaned forward slowly, tilting his head with careful precision.
His tongue flattened, wide and warm, over the spot where his fingers had just wandered, savoring your excitement between the soft folds with an almost devoted delicacy. Every touch was calculated to send spasms of pleasure through you—pleasure that fed him even as it consumed him.
His hands slid under your thighs, gripping tight, pulling you forward so your pussy was flush against his mouth, his nose, his entire face buried in your sweetness.
He didn’t just eat you—he devoured.
Every lick was needy, every flick of his tongue purposeful, as if he could pull the heartbreak from your body with his mouth. His breath mingled with the warmth of your skin, hot and ragged, and the soft, muffled whimpers escaping him intertwined with your own gasps, creating a silent, insistent rhythm—a tangled dance of control and surrender.
“Let me hear ya,” he murmured between licks. “Don’t be holdin' back.”
And God, you couldn’t.
Not with the way his tongue circled your clit, slow and then fast, not with the way he kissed your pussy like it was the only thing that had ever mattered to him.
Remmick was utterly lost in you.
He was driving you to the edge and pulling you back, as if he needed to savor every reaction you gave him.
You threw your head back, fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging as the heat in your core built to an unbearable tension. You could feel it climbing, curling through you, sharp and slow like a storm just before it breaks.
Then, he pulled back just enough to lift his face and study your contorted expression, eyes tracing every line of tension and pleasure etched across your features.
You looked down, breath hitching—
And you saw them.
His eyes.
Red.
Not glowing. Not fiery. Bleeding through grey, otherworldly, hungry in a way that was not human. A flash of something unnatural and dangerous flickered across his face, just for a breath.
Your heart stuttered.
But before you could speak—before you could even think—the sight was gone.
His gaze was grey again, soft and wild, fixed on you like you were everything. And his mouth was back on you, firmer now, his tongue flicking faster, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking just right—
You shattered.
Your climax tore through you like a breaking wave, fast and violent, your body arching off the bar as his name fell from your lips in a liberating cry. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t pull back. He held you through it, licked you through it, reverent until your body finally slumped forward, quivering and overwhelmed.
He rose slowly, his lips were still wet and glossy from your release. His hands remained on your thighs, light points of contact that tied up him to you as his face glided over your exposed skin.
Remmick kissed up your thigh, up your covered belly, across your low-cut chest, your collarbone—
And then your lips.
He kissed you with the taste of you still on his mouth, a taste that seemed to ignite every sense. The contact was intense, consuming, just like his body, which was pressing closer and closer onto yours.
You pulled back, just enough to breathe, to look him in the eyes.
“Remmick… wait—”
He smiled, brushing his thumb over your lower lip.
“Just want to make ye feel loved.”
He was kissing you like he couldn’t stop. Like something inside him had snapped the moment he tasted your climax—and now it was all unraveling.
“Need ye,” he whispered against your lips, breath ragged, voice strained. “Need to be inside ye. Now.”
You barely had time to respond before he lifted you slightly, guiding you back on the bar with a low groan as your thighs parted for him again. You felt the thick weight of him drag against your slick entrance—already hard, already leaking for you.
You looked up at him, catching his face—his jaw tight, his eyes wild, pupils blown. There was no cool control left. He wasn’t composed. He was ruined with want.
He pushed inside in one trembling thrust, and a sharp, sweet burn coursed through you as he forced himself into your still-sensitive body. It was a pain laced with pleasure, a sting that mingled with the intense sensation so completely that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
You both moaned, ragged breaths and broken voices intertwining in the air. His cock was thick and heavy, filling every inch of you, stretching you to accommodate him fully.
Every slight thrust forward made him tremble, and the pressure against your walls sent shivers down your spine, forcing you to clench your teeth to endure the mix of pain and pleasure. His hands gripped your hips almost bruisingly, mooring himself as he pulled out and then plunged back in, each motion deliberate, fast, shallow, yet devastatingly sensual.
“Yes,” he gasped, head falling forward against your shoulder. “Yer so—so tight—I’m not gonna—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
His hips started to move, fast and desperate, fucking into you with the kind of rhythm that wasn’t supposed to happen yet—frantic, messy, like he’d been holding back for weeks and couldn’t hold the line anymore.
You clung to him, gasping, as the counter beneath you creaked with every thrust. The pace was needy, almost clumsy—he couldn’t even pretend to slow down, couldn’t even manage to be rough in a controlled way. It was just raw call.
“I can’t—I’m sorry—I can’t hold it,” he moaned against your neck, his voice breaking with each thrust. “Ye feel too good—I’m gonna cum, fuck—I’m gonna—”
His whole body tensed.
You felt him twitch deep inside you once—twice—
And then he came with a harsh cry, hips jerking against you, cock pulsing in thick, shuddering waves. He gripped you tight, his face buried in your shoulder as he whined through it, loud and wrecked.
His cock twitched one last time inside your body—already softening—his climax fading fast.
You blinked, dazed.
That was it?
He had barely lasted more than a few minutes. You hadn’t even had time to adjust before it was over—just a blur of desperate thrusts, heat, and trembling release.
Your body still ached, not quite satisfied.
But before you could process it, before you could even think about disappointment, Remmick pulled back, face flushed, hair messy, eyes shining.
And he smiled.
God—he smiled like you’d just saved him.
Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft, with the kind of affection that made your chest tighten.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ve been dreamin' about that for so long.”
You didn’t say a word.
Just kissed him back.
Because he looked so happy. So in love.
You could feel it in the way his hands touched your face, tender. In the way he kissed you like he didn’t care how fast it happened, how messy or imperfect it was. To him, it wasn’t just sex. It was a claim. A promise. A moment he’d wanted for so long, maybe too long.
And even though your body still buzzed with unspent need, every fiber of you taut and burning with lingering pleasure, the rational part of you forced silence.
Remmick seemed calmer now, an air of quiet, deep satisfaction wrapping around him like a thin mist as he bent down, pressing his face between your neck and shoulder. You could feel the muscles of his body relaxing slowly, and his breathing, though still slightly ragged, grew more even and measured.
Yet, in that fragile balance between calm and euphoria, your heart raced. Remmick, as tranquil and almost harmless as he seemed in that moment, had bent you to his will in a way that left you simultaneously terrified and unsettled. The awareness of his power—the ability to dominate not only your body but your mind—stirred a deep unease that you couldn’t shake.
So much so that, in the days that followed, you found yourself pleading with your boss to avoid night shifts, trying to minimize every possible future interaction. The memory of that encounter clung to you, vivid and impossible to dismiss, a mixture of desire, fear, and awe that haunted your thoughts in quiet, unexpected moments.
When Remmick learned of it, he wasn’t particularly pleased. The calm he displayed was only skin-deep: beneath it, discomfort and frustration simmered like lava ready to erupt. He didn’t like change, especially when it involved you. He had savored your routine, the predictability of your behavior, and suddenly everything had shifted.
Every tiny variation in your daily life seemed like an affront, a signal that you were trying to slip away from him.
It didn’t take long before he began appearing around your apartment after sunset. He wasn’t aggressive in his approaches: Remmick knew every move had to be measured. He watched you from the shadows, sometimes standing at a distance, other times walking along the opposite sidewalk, measuring each step as if it were part of a ritual. He observed you coming and going from home, always with friends, always surrounded, but never alone. His frustration grew with each missed opportunity, yet patience was part of him: he knew he didn’t want to create chaos during already turbulent times.
Still, he missed you. Your scent, drifting like an irresistible call; the sound of your voice piercing his attention even from afar; your smiles, bright and spontaneous, that seemed to defy every shadow in his nature. Every time he returned home, or wandered through the city, thoughts of you obsessed him. He couldn’t simply ignore you: your absence from his world was a wound that kept bleeding.
Remmick knew he would have to do something drastic to access you without relying on chance encounters that fate seemed to perpetually deny him. He didn’t want to make a scene, not yet; it wasn’t the time, and anyway, he wanted to maintain some control. But he had to find a way to get close without breaking all the rules—at least, not completely.
So he devised a subtle plan, typically Remmick. With a classic excuse—a newly moved-in neighbor in search of a cup of sugar—he transformed the apartment across from yours into his vantage point.
From this new, privileged position, he could observe you without being seen. The window of your bedroom became the focal point of his obsession, the portal through which he could perceive every movement, every tiny habit you once thought insignificant. He didn’t need to speak to you, not yet. Watching was enough: the way you moved, how you opened the door for fresh air, how you arranged yourself in the sheets.
You never drew the curtains, convinced the darkness of your room shielded you from prying eyes. But you hadn’t accounted for his. Predator eyes, cutting through the shadows with the same ease your breath faltered under his touch. He saw you clearly. He saw your hand slide between your thighs, the way your body tensed as you touched yourself, oblivious to being watched.
On the other side, Remmick groaned softly, a restrained sound vibrating from his throat as he rubbed against the folded pillow. He moved slowly, then with increasing force, testing the resistance of the fabric as he longed for the feel of your flesh. He imagined you bent beneath him, knees sinking into the mattress, your back arched into a perfect curve as his hands pressed on the back of your neck. In his mind, your voice was no longer a sweet sigh, but a broken moan, a desperate plea for mercy.
He pictured your face pressed into the sheets, lips parted in supplication, as he drove deeper and harder, breaking every shred of resistance. He imagined you trembling, nails scratching at the bed for purchase, while your voice called his name as if condemning yourself to him.
“Remmick…” you murmured, blissful as he leaned into your neck to bite.
He growled low between his teeth as a violent wave overtook him. His hips halted in a final, deep thrust, body shaking in the throes of pleasure. Warm, white streaks stained the fabric beneath him, while his brow lowered, red eyes glued to your window, shining with infatuation and craving.
And while you succumbed to your pleasure, oblivious, he licked his lips, exhausted yet satisfied, already savoring the night when he would no longer be content merely watching, when he would make you entirely his.
It was one of those afternoons that left you more exhausted than you would have imagined. The sun hung low, its rays filtering through the blinds of the bar where you had covered your colleague’s shift, forcing you to stay until just before sunset. Every minute seemed to drag endlessly, and the waiting left a strange tension in you, like a tingling under your skin you couldn’t shake off. Finally, when the clock marked the right moment, you managed to slip out before Remmick walked through the door.
You sighed in relief. You thought you had made it. The city was a mosaic of long shadows and sluggish traffic, and you moved through the familiar alleys, heading toward your usual path through the park district. The cool air on your face soothed you, and for a moment, everything felt normal. But then you heard that voice—low, enveloping—and your heart skipped a beat.
“Darlin'…”
Your breath caught. You turned slowly. There, only a few meters away, his eyes pinned you in place. Every muscle in your body froze.
“Remmick…” your voice trembled, thick with disbelief and fear that washed over you in waves. “…what are you doing here?”
He took a step forward, a tired but razor-sharp smile lighting up his features. “It’s been a fair since we’ve managed to see each other, darlin'. I’ve missed ye terribly.”
Something in his eyes sparked then, a light and familiar glimmer that dragged you back to that night… when his mouth had brought you pleasure, when you had yielded—if only for a moment—to his dominance. His hair was tousled, his expression weary as if he had been running, and yet his gaze caught you entirely.
“I… I know, I’m sorry. I had to cover extra shifts, you know…” Your voice carried a thread of unease, as you tried to keep it light, friendly. Your heart pounded in your chest, your hands trembled slightly as you clutched your bag against your side like a shield. Every backward step you tried to take felt useless.
“I know.” His voice sounded understanding, a whisper wrapping you in false acceptance. “But yer free now, aren’t ye?” His tone shifted, urgent, charged with sick excitement. It wasn’t just a question—it was a veiled command that unsettled you. His eyes never left yours, piercing, and for a moment you felt he could read every thought, every hesitation, every fear you tried to mask behind courtesy.
You drew in a slow breath, trying to push back the tension coiling down your spine. “Yes… but… y'know, I’m tired. It’s been such a draining day at work. I’d just like, y'know… to relax.” The words came out tighter than you wanted, a mix of evasion and caution. Your shoulders curved slightly inward, as if to protect yourself, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down. And yet your body stayed alert, prickling with that subtle, electric tension that lit up whenever Remmick drew closer.
A shadow of disappointment flickered across his face, but it was brief, almost imperceptible—an emotion quickly replaced by that gleaming, eager look that defined him. “Then we can head back to yer place. We’re close enough, after all.”
You blinked, startled and uneasy, a knot tightening in your chest. “Remmick, I don’t think that’s a—” you began, trying to build a verbal barrier, to buy yourself time. But your question slipped out anyway: “How do you know I live nearby?”
He hesitated for a moment, tilting his head slightly, his eyes studying yours, searching for every reaction, every flicker of doubt.
“I just assumed, darlin'.” His voice was soft, but every word carried an urgency that made you step back half a pace, even against your will. “Ye left the bar on foot, didn’t ye?”
His words froze you. He wasn’t assuming—he knew. Something only he could know. Your eyes widened, your mind scrambling for excuses, explanations, anything as a chill swept down your spine.
Remmick moved a step forward, close enough to shrink the space between you, not touching yet, but his presence pressed against you like a shadow wrapping itself around your body.
Your heart lurched, pounding so hard you felt it in your temples. “You… you followed me?” Your voice wavered, betraying shock and fear. Before you could say another word, his fingers closed around your arm with a grip that left no escape. Panic fogged your thoughts, paralyzing you for a moment, trapping you between curiosity and terror.
“Don’t touch me!” you cried, half fury, half panic, wrenching yourself free of his hold and stumbling back. Adrenaline shook your legs, your skin hypersensitive, as though every fiber of your body still felt his touch.
Remmick stepped back slightly, hurt, yet his eyes glimmered with dark allure—a mix of pain and admiration for your defiance. “Why d'ye always have to make things so hard, love? Look at us… we were made for each other.” His voice was velvet, hypnotic, every syllable vibrating in the air like a siren’s call.
He stopped beneath the nearest lamppost. Cold light spilled across his face, illuminating his mouth, revealing sharp teeth and long nails that glinted in the shadows like blades. You froze, unable to look away, a shiver crawling down your spine. The air thickened, every breath heavy with tension.
“But ye keep livin' in the light, an' I can’t reach ye there.” His words were a whisper sinking into you like venom, deep and dangerous. His eyes gleamed, then flared into a glowing red.
Every word seemed crafted to ensnare you, to hold you still, locked under his gaze. Tears welled as his clawed hand seized you again, gripping with inhuman strength. Your skin burned beneath his long, sharp fingers, and a sudden tremor ran through your body.
“Shhh, shhh, darlin'… don’t be afraid,” he murmured inches from your cheek, his cold breath brushing your skin, making you shiver. Each word froze you further, sapping your will to resist.
“That night...I… I helped you. So please…” your voice cracked, a plea laced with terror and desperation. You tried to explain, to beg, but your words fell into emptiness.
“Ah, but sure that’s exactly why I do this,” Remmick whispered, his red eyes burning into yours, his teeth glinting faintly under the lamplight. “What were the chances that ye’d be there at that very moment? How many would've just walked past me? But not you… no, ye’re good. Ye deserve a reward for bein' so good, so ye do.” His voice deepened, thick with darkness, making you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to break away from him.
His gaze locked on yours, unyielding, as though he could carve his will into your mind. “An' what greater reward could there be than eternal life by me side?” Each word dropped like stone, and your heartbeat stumbled, racing in disarray.
“Don’t… don’t hurt me, please,” you managed to whisper, your body rigid in his grasp. Every muscle was taut with terror, tears streaming down your cheeks unchecked.
“Don’t worry, darlin'.” His mouth spread into a dreadful smile, his fangs bared, gleaming with thick saliva. “It will only take a wee moment,” he added, voice low and controlled, tinged with the feverish thrill that vibrated in the air around you.
Remmick led you through the silent streets, his hands firm on your hips, leaving you no chance to escape. It wasn’t a calm walk: your heart pounded so hard you feared he might hear it. His warm breath on your neck made you shiver, and terror gripped your stomach in a cold vise. There was nothing seductive in his movements: every action was predatory, deliberate, and you could clearly feel that your will no longer mattered.
When you reached the door of the apartment, your breath quickened. You barely turned, searching for a way to flee, but it was too late. With a sharp motion, he opened the door and pushed you inside. There, in the dim light of the apartment, you realized with horror that he had been watching you all along, every day, every night. In the faint light, the window revealed the park and streets you walked, and suddenly everything made sense: every time you thought you were alone but felt vaguely watched, he had been there, hidden.
When your foot hit the rug, it made a thick, disturbing sound.
You looked down and your eyes caught the large, dark stain where your foot had landed. Some flies buzzed up into the air, circling, before returning to settle on it. The red outlined the contours of your white sneaker, making it painfully clear what you had stepped into.
You froze there, in the center of the room, your body paralyzed with terror. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, and goosebumps prickled your skin.
“Go on, sweetheart,” Remmick whispered behind you, his tone dripping with a sweetness that made you shiver. You felt the weight of his body pressing against yours as he slowly guided you toward the bedroom. Each step was a reminder of your vulnerability: there was no escape, no choice. You were at the end of the line.
When you crossed the threshold of the bedroom, your body unblocked and you rushed toward the window on the opposite side of the room, trying to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the monster. But when your eyes landed on the building across the way, you froze. The apartment he had dragged you into faced directly the window of your own apartments.
Remmick’s body flattened against yours from behind, a hand rising to encircle your neck, forcing your head to face the horrifying discovery before you. His lips brushed against your head, your temples, your neck, and with every touch, you felt the weight of his control.
“I swear… I hated seein' ye leave the house and not bein' able to follow ye through the day,” he whispered, his words barely a sound between kisses. The tone was melancholic, but there was something fierce beneath that melancholy, a possessive desire that made your hands clutch your chest without your realizing it.
“Wh— what are you?” you managed to ask, your voice a tremor, as you barely turned to meet his eyes. He stared at you, a flash of pride and excitement crossing his gaze.
“Ye can call me a vampire,” he declared simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The revelation left you breathless. Stories about such creatures had circulated over the years, but they had always remained just silly horror tales. Nothing had ever proven their existence.
“And this is how you want to make me? A monster who drains blood and hides forever from the sunlight?” you asked. Your voice shook, but you still managed to inject a hint of defiance, a scrap of pride clinging to your dignity. “What kind of ‘thanks’ is that?!”
His grip on your neck tightened slightly, as if warning you to maintain a compliant tone. His cold breath brushed your skin, and his eyes glimmered in the shadows with an unsettling intensity, as if every word of yours were a sweet provocation to his predatory ego.
“Oh, darlin'…” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “Ye call it a curse, but I call it a gift. A blessin'. Few are lucky enough to become what ye will be, to live above human mediocrity. Ye should feel honored, not frightened.”
“You don’t understand…” you tried to reply, attempting to maintain a rigid posture. “I don’t want to be… like you. I don’t want—” Your voice broke when you felt his firm, unyielding grip on your neck, forcing you to turn toward him.
“Enough talkin'.” He growled, now irritated by your continued resistance.
Before you could react, he shoved you backward with force. The backs of your knees struck the bed with a dull thud, and your body collapsed onto the mattress, your heart hammering furiously.
The mattress gave way beneath his weight, making you flinch, and you felt the pressure of his body on top of yours like a weight impossible to escape. Remmick leaned over you, hands gripping your hips with a firmness that left no room for movement. His cold breath brushed your face hovering just in front of yours, while those crimson eyes, filled with desire, locked onto you without hesitation, immobilizing you like prey.
“Love…” he murmured, his voice astonishingly calm yet razor-sharp, “it’s not a matter of wantin'. It’s a matter of what ye're destined to become. Like it or not… I'll be guidin' ye through this process.”
As your eyes darted around, searching for a way out, a flash of silver caught your gaze, dangling just above the headboard. A small crucifix, gleaming, almost imperceptible in the dim light. If the stories were true, that symbol should have harmed him, restrained him. But reaching it would require distracting him. And there was only one way to do that.
Before his face could descend onto your neck, you moved decisively, catching him off guard. Your arms wrapped around him, suspending him in the air, muscles tensed as you held him at a distance. Your heartbeat raced, and your eyes locked with his: in them were surprise, excitement, and a trace of challenge.
“Wait… wait…” you said, voice trembling, uncertain, as if the words had come at the last second and you didn’t really know what to say. Your hands gripped the fabric of his white shirt nervously, seeking purchase.
“Tryin' to buy time, are ye? It won’t get ye anywhere.” His voice was flat, but the smirk on his lips betrayed an almost cruel amusement. His eyes flickered, fiery, alert to your every movement.
“Let me...let me make love as a human one last time… you owe me that, damn it.” Your words came out more like a plea, full of desperation. Your fingers tugged at the fabric, trying to impart urgency, necessity.
He froze for a moment, the smirk unchanged, but something deeper appeared in his eyes: genuine interest, an intriguing surprise. He seemed to evaluate, calculate, as if considering granting you that unusual concession. His body was tense, every muscle alert, yet he made no move toward you.
So you moved. With slow, deliberate gestures, you began to undress him. As the buttons gave way one by one beneath your fingers, a subtle shiver ran through his body, as if each motion of yours were a tiny spark igniting his arousal.
The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath his shirt. Your fingers ran down his back, across his chest, following the curve of his tense muscles. He watched you, his pupils dilated, his breathing slightly more labored, the smile now absent from his lips.
“Don't you want me?” you asked, your eyelashes fluttering in mock shame, tilting your head slightly. He remained still, his gaze fixed on yours, preventing you from moving closer or allowing yourself a free hand to grasp the crucifix.
“Of course I want ye…” his voice sounded tense, somehow hurt. “…but ye were always so distant.”
You felt a long, curled claw leave a delicate caress along the line of your jaw, and you bit your cheek to keep from pulling away. Instead, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath through your nose before looking directly into his haunted eyes again.
“I'm here now, aren't I?” You threaded your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the roots as you watched him bend and lean into your touch. He nodded dumbly at your observation.
Remmick's gaze was desperate, and for the first time you saw him vulnerable, almost pleading. His lips were slightly parted, his sharp teeth barely visible, his hands shaking as they tried to find a place to rest.
“Please, dove…”
You stared at him for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm the anxiety coursing through your chest. “It's okay, Remmick…” you said softly, your voice soft but firm. “Lay down for me, okay?”
Your words seemed to have an immediate effect. His body relaxed slightly, sliding sideways to free you from his weight and lying on his back, his eyes begging you to continue, to come closer. You didn't wait a second, afraid he'd change his mind: you towered over him, slowly climbing onto his lap. The skirt of your work uniform rose up your thighs as you moved on top of him, every inch of your body touching his. The heat between you was palpable, a mix of excitement and tension that enveloped you like a living flame.
Your hands slid down his chest, feeling the muscles tremble beneath your fingers. His, on the other hand, rested on your ass, pushing you down and rubbing against his aroused cock that was pushing against the fly of his pants.
“Babe…” he hissed, tilting his hips upward to pursue the friction, “do… do somethin'…”
You didn't respond immediately, letting the silence between you amplify every small movement.
Gently, you leaned slightly into him, your bodies very close, and you felt a shiver run down your spine when his teeth were so close to your face. Remmick didn't notice, or at least he seemed to attribute your shiver to arousal, because he slid against your body with a lewd moan, brushing your lips in the process. His eyes were fixed on yours, full of desperation and desire, as he sought comfort in your words and gestures.
“It's okay…” you whispered, leaning your face slightly forward to brush his lips with a light kiss, just to reassure him. “I'll take care of you… leave it to me.”
You placed your lips on his forehead in an almost compassionate and affectionate gesture. As much as you hated the situation, in that moment, your body was your weapon, and you had to use it with a precision that burned your skin.
You felt his hot breath brush your neck, his intense gaze burning into you. From that position, you could see it. The crucifix was there, on the wall, an arm's length away, but every muscle in your body knew you couldn't reach it openly. Not with him so alert, so ready to make every move.
You didn't know his speed, and you were already gambling on all the stories you'd heard over the years.
With a ragged breath, you let your hand slip into his pants, your fingers sliding between the fabric and his skin. His body responded immediately, a tremor running through his hips as your fingers firmly gripped his already hard, throbbing cock. He was hot, incredibly alive. How could he be so hot there when he was so cold and dead everywhere else?
At the feeling of your touch, his mouth opened in a low moan, a guttural sound that vibrated the air.
“Jeez…” he whispered, his voice cracking with euphoria. “Oh, sweetheart, like that…”
It only took a few blows. You felt him give in, let go. His eyes, which just moments before had stared at you with the ferocity of a predator, slowly closed, long lashes trembling against his cheeks. His head tilted back slightly, vulnerable, exposed, and you seized the opportunity.
With your free hand, shaky but determined, you reached toward the wall, your fingers gliding along the drywall until they brushed against the base of the cold, familiar metal. Your heart pounded so hard you were afraid it would burst in your chest. But when your hand grasped the crucifix, a wave of courage surged through you, as if you were holding not just a symbol but a real weapon.
And without hesitation, with all the strength built up from anxiety and fear, you slammed it against his face.
For a split second, you thought it hadn’t worked, that all the stories were false. But then the sound that followed milliseconds later hit you straight in the stomach: a disturbing sizzle, followed by a scream that made your bones vibrate. The burned flesh gave off a pungent, unbearable smell—a mixture of charred skin and blood that made you nauseous—but you didn’t let go. You continued to push cruelly with both hands now.
Remmick screamed, his voice broken, tormented, as he struggled against the crucifix burning his flesh.
For a moment, you felt victorious, in control. But his rage was faster than yours. With a sudden jerk, he grabbed your shoulder with his claws, sinking them into your skin and forcing you to release the crucifix. He pushed you away from his sides, hurling you sideways, and the world spun as you fell off the bed, landing heavily on the floor, your breath knocked out by the impact.
You looked up just in time to see Remmick rip the sacred object from his face. A piece of skin stuck to the metal, leaving an open, smoking wound that made him even more terrifying. His eyes glowed with a dark, ravenous light, and blood trickled slowly down his cheek, mingling with sweat.
Panic gripped your stomach. You scrambled to your feet, staggering toward the bedroom door. Every fiber of your body screamed to run, to push your legs to the limit just to get away. You almost reached the threshold, hand outstretched toward the handle. But not quite.
A moment later, two cold arms wrapped around you from behind, hard as iron. Remmick pulled you back with superhuman strength, lifting you slightly off the ground, then threw you back onto the bed. The impact stole your breath, forcing you to curl over yourself. Before you could react, his body was on top of yours again, the crushing weight pinning you against the sheets.
You gasped loudly, your throat tight with a mixture of fear and rage. You tried to wriggle free, but his hands pinned your wrists above your head, sharp nails pressing into your skin, scratching and drawing blood.
You thrashed, shook your head, but it was useless. Thick, warm drops splashed onto your face: blood and drools from his devastated, silver-burned face. They coated your cheeks, mouth, even your eyes, and your stomach knotted in desperate revolt. You tried to turn away, to escape the nauseating contact, but every movement was in vain: his grip tightened, as if he relished your helplessness.
“This…” His voice was no longer human. It was a deep, cavernous sound, echoing as if from the very depths of hell. “…wasn’t very kind of ye, sweetheart.”
The crucifix had hurt more than you had dared to hope. The silver had penetrated deep, carving into his skin, leaving a smoking mark that reminded you of a fireshot wound. But it wasn’t just that which terrified you: as you stared, trembling and disgusted, you saw his mouth distort. More teeth sprouted from his gums, white and sharp, joining the already monstrous row of fangs glinting in the dim light of the room. It was as if the pain had only revealed what he truly was.
A grin spread across his face, cruel and delirious. “But that’s fine. I understand.” His words dripped with both venom and tenderness, a paradox that made you shiver. “Ye had to try until the end. My clever little snake.”
You felt his hot, damp breath on your cheek as he leaned close. The grin twisted his mouth, and the burnt skin still gave off that nauseating smell of raw flesh that filled your lungs. “But ye’re lucky. I love ye. I’ll forgive ye even this.”
Those words, instead of bringing relief, churned your guts. The very concept of “love” from him was a sentence, a yoke, a chain crushing your soul. There was no tenderness in him, only possession.
Your stomach knotted, a mixture of anguish and rage lodged in your throat. There was no room for fear anymore: something sharper, more cutting, was growing inside you. A hatred that burned in your blood.
“Remmick…” you spat his name as if it were poison, eyes shining with tears and fury. “Remmick, if you do this, I’ll make your shitty life a living hell.”
He didn’t move immediately. He seemed to savor the declaration, letting it hang between you like a gift. A slow, distorted smile formed on his bloodied lips. He leaned closer, his breath sliding over your neck, warm and damp.
“I’ll hunt you down and kill you, I swear.” Your voice broke somewhere between threat and plea, but the words were blades that came out sharp and true.
Remmick chuckled softly, a sound both intimate and monstrous. “Ah, sweetheart…” he murmured, patient, amused. His lips brushed your skin, wetting it with a dirty, cruel kiss. “It’ll be fun to watch ye try.”
Time seemed to stop at that instant. You could feel every drop of sweat running down your temples, every shiver along your spine. You held your breath, silently praying it was just another of his psychological tortures, that he wanted to make you suffer with the promise of pain without delivering it. But you were wrong.
His mouth opened against your throat, fangs scraping your skin as he sank in.
The pain tore through you like lightning. You screamed, but your voice was quickly choked, suffocated by the blood filling your mouth with its metallic, thick, intoxicating, nauseating taste. You felt the flesh tear, blood vessels give way under the pressure of his jaws. Every nerve in your body ignited, a fire running from your veins to your brain.
It didn’t last a moment. That would have been merciful. No, Remmick wanted to prolong it, to take every single breath from you, dragging you through agony step by step. His bite was not swift, but slow, hungry, ravenous. He drank your life as if it were divine nectar, and your very existence was sucked away with every sip.
Your hands struck him, clawed at his shoulders and arms, tried to push him away, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His clawed hands held you fast, and his body crushed yours with no escape. Your feet kicked, uselessly, tangled in the sheets.
The world around you began to dissolve. Pain became muffled, transforming into a continuous wave dragging you down, down into the depths of unconsciousness. The room faded, its outlines dimmed, and only the wild beating of your heart reminded you that you were still alive—for now.
Your eyes, in a last desperate gesture, fell on the crucifix lying a short distance away on the floor. There, among the shadows of the room, it glimmered faintly, still stained with the blood and flesh he had torn from himself. And in that glimmer, you found your last anchor.
Not salvation. Not hope. But something more powerful.
The desire for vengeance.
As darkness gripped your limbs and Remmick continued to feast on your body, a single thought solidified in your mind: that creature would pay. With fire, with silver, with every shred of your soul, you would drag him to hell with you.
And it was with that vow etched in your heart that you sank into the abyss of unconsciousness.
When you woke up, the first sensation was that you no longer had a body. As if you were only consciousness suspended in the void. A warm void, timeless, where even pain seemed suspended, waiting for something. You didn’t know if days, months, or years had passed. An entire eternity. And yet, in reality, only a few minutes had gone by.
The return of the flesh was brutal. First, the perception of your heart—not a steady beat anymore, but an irregular spasm, as if the organ itself rebelled against what you had become. Then the lungs: they didn’t really breathe, but simulated the act, making you inhale and realize that air had no taste anymore, except that of dust and iron. Everything was different, and everything seemed cruelly sharp.
You opened your eyes, and the darkness around you was no longer darkness. Shapes that would have been invisible before now stood out with precision: the folds of the stained sheets, the densest shadows in the corners of the room, even the particles suspended in the air, illuminated by a glow coming from nowhere visible. Silence was not silence: you heard the slow drip of a liquid somewhere, the rustle of fabric moving beneath you, the imperceptible sound of someone else’s breathing.
And then the taste. A taste you would never forget. Iron, copper, yet sweet, nauseating, and irresistible. You realized it came from your mouth, from your dirty lips, from the throat still pulsing with a pain that burned and stunned. You realized it was blood.
“Welcome back, princess.”
The voice slid over you like poisoned silk. You turned toward the sound and blinked several times, as if the gesture could erase what you were seeing.
A man.
He was there, sitting on the bed, his body resting with insolent ease, his skin still marked but only with superficial wounds. The smile he gave you was intact, pure, and sounded so wrong.
His name exploded in your mind with the force of thunder: Remmick. And with it came a wave of something that threw you off balance. A feeling of acceptance, of warmth, almost of love. As if that voice, that face, were what you had always desired. His presence cradled you, and for a moment you felt safe, protected, as if you had finally arrived at the place where you belonged.
But it didn’t last.
The feeling cracked, like glass shattering under a sudden blow. An abyssal hatred rose in your stomach, boiling violently. It wasn’t simple anger. It was venom. It was fire. It burned hotter than fear, more blinding than any desire. You found yourself staring at him with eyes that wanted to tear flesh, break bones, reduce him to ash.
Your tongue felt heavy, your lips clotted. But inside, words screamed. “I’ll hunt you down and I’ll kill you, I swear.”
And then it happened.
A sudden flash tore through your mind, a brutal snapshot that did not come from your eyes. It was like looking through another perspective, not your own. A vision that hurt more than the bite itself.
You saw yourself.
You saw the harsh and raw image of your body. Lying on the bed, the sheets stained, your throat ripped by a deep bite from which blood slowly flowed, forming a dark pool beneath you. The surrounding skin was torn, violated, the marks of fangs etched like an eternal brand. Your eyes were open but dead while a single tear slowly slid downward.
You could see no more.
The cut was clean. The image vanished.
The bond broke, and you felt it deep in your bones like the sudden collapse of invisible chains. The pressure that had gripped your mind, that bittersweet hold that had deceived you, disappeared in an instant. Your eyes lit up with a pale color, a bluish light that belonged to no human being, and Remmick’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and disbelief. He didn’t even have time to mask it. He leapt to his feet just before your claws tore his head from his neck in a single motion.
Your body lunged forward, striking the air, new and lethal claws spreading from your hands as if they had always been there, only waiting to emerge.
Fear no longer mattered. Your burning throat, the thirst that carved through you like blades—none of it mattered.
“You killed me, bastard…” Your voice was a guttural growl, a vibration not your own through sharp, hard teeth in your mouth.
Remmick stepped back slightly, raising his hands theatrically, almost amused by your fury. “Now… I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” he said, his tone smooth, pleased, as if explaining a simple concept to a stubborn child. “Look at yerself. Ye move, ye speak, ye breathe. Ye're not dead, darlin'. You’re… more.”
That calm drove you mad.
You growled again and, without thinking, grabbed the bed’s headboard. Your fingers sank into the wood, which gave way like butter under your new strength. With a single violent yank, you ripped it off, the sharp crack of the broken plank echoing in the room like a harbinger. You gripped the jagged piece in your hands, turning it into an improvised stake.
Remmick followed every move with his eyes, a flash of alertness betraying his feigned calm.
You lunged at him, the wood pointed straight at his chest. Your body moved faster than you could ever have hoped, senses heightened, muscles guided by a new and brutal instinct. But he was even faster.
He grabbed your arms with a ferocious grip. You felt his clawed fingers squeeze your flesh, almost penetrating it. The plank missed its target, easily deflected, and before you could react a sharp, raw pain exploded from your wrist: a clean, brutal snap that made you scream and fall to your knees.
The plank slipped from your grasp and rolled away, far.
He let you drop to your knees, gasping, while the pain from the sprained wrist pulsed with every beat. But stronger than the pain was the awareness: his strength was superior. Despite the new power boiling in you, he remained something older, more accustomed to the hunt.
He looked down at you with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, as if you had been a slightly more complex puzzle than expected. “I can’t sense ye anymore,” he said softly, and there was genuine astonishment in his words. He stared at you with eyes trying to peer beyond your skin, to read your soul as he had before, but now he found nothing.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to give him the pleasure of your voice. But a sudden wave of exhaustion hit you, along with a piercing thirst that burned your insides. It was a void that devoured everything, an impossible hunger to ignore. You tried to resist, to stay standing against that new pain, but every breath, every heartbeat nearby—even Remmick’s—felt like an irresistible call.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” you finally hissed, your voice hoarse, broken but full of venom.
For a moment, you thought you had wiped the smile from his face. But no. His lips curved again, slower, more pleased, forming that grin you hated so much.
“Ye can try,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, a whisper seeping into your skull. “But ye’ll need blood to do it.”
He leaned toward you, his eyes glowing bright red, pupils completely gone. He extended a clawed hand. Claws longer and more terrifying than yours.
“Come, darlin'. Daddy will show ya how it’s done.”
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Hey my lovelies! I recently published yet another story on Wattpad called "Oblivion". It's about Øystein Aarseth aka Euronymous from Lords of Chaos!
It's a bit controversial since its about the movie Lords of Chaos, based off of the band Mayhem's backstory. But I swear I don't support them or their actions, I just really like the movie lmao
RORY'S EURONYMOUS ONLY!
Fascinated by all things evil and chaotic, Ada finds herself entangled in Norway's notorious bl...
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