Chewing on your bottom lip in focus, you could feel his predatory stare on you, watching as you carefully peel off the dented armor off him. You thought that you would have to cut it off of him from how dented it was. But luckily the latches were still intact. Placing the dented codpiece down on the floor, you resist the urge to smirk, his throbbing erection straining against his sweat soaked small clothes. He had taken what was supposed to be a lethal blow to the ribs. He should be dead. But, he defied nature and continued to live⎯seemingly the promise of you tending to him keeping him spitefully alive. Ignoring the way he leans back on his heels to bring it closer to your face, you innocently begin to remove the armor on his thighs and knees, unraveling the knotted straps. His face instantly turning sour at your teasing.

“You torment me.” He grumbles, teeth clenching at your teasing.

“I am removing your armor, Ser.” You play coy, “Just as I had promised that I would, should you have survived the tourney. Which you have.”

“You promised me other things as well.” He argues, shooting you a glare.

“I did no such thing, good Ser.” You click your tongue scoldingly, “I only promised to help you remove your armor. I am a good noble lady, I would never dare to dishonor myself by tainting my maidenhead.”

Lies. You both knew it. You had promised to ride him until dawn broke if he won the tourney⎯which he did. Grinding his teeth together in wavering restraint, you peel off the armor plates, smoothing out the padding of his linen breeches. A patch of the fabric was torn, ripped from where the armor had dented and got caught on it. Brushing your finger against the exposed patch of skin, he jolts at the touch, taking a sharp breath in. You sear you could see another droplet of sweat drip down his face. Cracking a grin for a second at his reaction, you begin to unlace the breeches, letting them slowly grow baggier until they threaten to slip down his broad hips. 

You could smell lingering blood and leather on his skin. You could taste his sweat on your tongue already. Stopping just at the final lace of his breeches, he stares down at you with hooded eyes, pupils so dilated that you couldn’t tell if his iris was red or blue anymore. His breathing is labored, body trembling from what exactly⎯lust? Self-control? Anger from your teasing? Or all of the above? You couldn’t tell. Dragging your tongue over your top lip, you wanted to keep tormenting him, to really push the boundaries of his restraint. But, the desire to lick the sweat off his navel until he was whimpering underneath you was far too tempting. Far far far too tempting.

“You tease far too much, wife.” He complains, his gaze sharpening.

You don’t respond, not having a good comeback for him.

“Won’t you clean your Lord?” 

Rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip, you shudder violently, the slickness between your thighs grows embarrassingly. You were supposed to be the one in control, not him. Opening his mouth to speak, you could already hear the witty comment on the tip of his tongue, most likely about how aroused you already were. You were, yes. But, you didn’t need to hear it from him. Unraveling the final lace of his breeches, you pull them down his thighs, the sweat on his skin making the linen stick a few times. Peeling them off him with an impatient huff, you chew on your bottom lip hard, the sight of his small clothes only making you more impatient. Damn these many layers.

“Impatient?” He chuckles, watching you through his lashes.

“I am. Problem?” You huff, fumbling to remove the laces as quickly as possible. 

“None.” He smirks, “Though you seemingly do with how many layers I am wearing.” 

“Too many.” 

“To you it might be, but it is needed for my armor.” He explains, taking enjoyment of your huffing and puffing of annoyance. “Unless you want me to get nicked every time I wear it?”

No, you didn’t. But, it was still too many for your liking. Shifting some of your weight off your aching knees, you yank down his small clothes, his erection springing free. It slaps against his lower stomach, making you shudder at the sound it makes. Wet and filthy. Chewing harder on your bottom lip, pre-cum slowly oozes out, sending a jolt of searing wetness between your thighs. It shouldn’t make you this wet, but it did. Wrapping your hand around his shaft, you slowly pull back the foreskin to reveal the tip, giggling softly at the pretty shade of bright red it flushed.

Taking a sharp breath in through his nose, you release your bottom lip from your teeth, rubbing your thumb teasingly over the oozing slit. Smearing some pre-cum around his head, you could smell the sweat wafting off him, heavy and pungent. It should disgust you. It would if it was anyone else. But, the fact it was from him⎯after he killed in your name and honor, only made it all the more desirable. Swirling your tongue over the head of his cock, you hum in delight at the taste, a mix of bitter and metallic. Yet, somehow still addictive. It could’ve been the aphrodisiac in it.

“Christ⎯” He hisses, “Don’t do that, don’t bloody do that.”

You swirl your tongue around the head again, watching him shudder violently.

“Love⎯”

Letting out a soft hum of delight as the back of your throat starts to tingle, you swallow to try to relieve it, but it doesn’t help. It still feels as if you had swallowed a spoonful of honey. Pressing sloppy kisses down the shaft, the coarse greying hairs on his pubes tickle your nose, the scent of his sweat filling your senses. God, if you could bottle the scent of him, you would. Tangling his fingers into your hair, he shifts in place awkwardly, trying to find a way to stand upright that wasn’t putting a strain on his sore limbs but also didn't make him look like an old man. 

Snickering at his shifting, you take the head of his cock into your mouth, lapping the oozing head clean. The tingling in your throat grows with each lick of your tongue. Jerking off what didn’t fit in your mouth with your hand, you begin to bob your head up and down, the filthy sounds of your slurping filling the air. Throwing his head back, he lets out a strangled noise from the back of his throat, something of a mix of a moan and growl and purr all in one. The sound sends another wave of wetness between your thighs, your small clothes ruined. Bucking his hips instinctively, he forces himself to breath, already overstimulated by your devilish tongue.

“Evil..Evil fucking woman.” He pants, chasing after your tongue with his hips. 

Says the vampire, you want to counter back.

“Evil tongue of yours..”

It’s nothing compared to yours, you would say back to him. 

Gagging as he thrusts his hips forward roughly, you slurp filthy, trying to swallow all the drool and pre-cum that kept oozing out from your mouth. It was hard with the way your mouth and throat felt so tingly. Stupid aphrodisiac. Tightening his grip on your hair to anchor himself, you cringe at the sensation of his claws digging into your scalp, surely leaving marks that would scab over by tomorrow. Hollowing your cheeks the best you could, you bob yourself head faster, trying to hurry before your mouth truly went numb and you couldn't do anything but drool. Your nose brushes against his greying pubes a few times from how deep you force him in. 

“Don’t fucking do that⎯” He gasps, face flushing a bright red.

You force yourself to take him deeper, eyes watering up as the head hits the back of your throat.

“Christ, don’t do that. You’ll make me knot your mouth.” 

If that was an attempt at a threat, it was a horrid one. As if having him knot your mouth was a bad thing. Humming around his cock at his words, it sends vibrations up his spine, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Blinking back the tears in your eyes, you pull back slowly, your cheeks hot from lust. A layer of saliva creates a filthy ring around the base of his cock. Watching in lust as the bottom of his shaft begins to swell, it’s small, but the ridges start to become more prominent at the cold air fanning against it. You had taken it before, but had never really seen his knot before.

Licking the corner of your lips with your tongue, it does nothing to clean the drool that kept dripping down your chin, a feeling of embarrassment bubbling in your gut with how quickly the aphrodisiacs had kicked in. Everything felt a little fuzzier than before. But, it was a good kind of high. Slurping up as much drool as possible, you swirl your tongue sloppily over the head of his cock, watching as his knot swells. It was almost like a heartbeat with the way that it throbbed and swelled up. Whimpering softly as you hum around his cock, he bucks his hips softly, thrusting his cock in and out of your mouth. His breathing grows more ragged, sweat trickling down his face.

“Christ⎯God⎯Don’t⎯” He blubbers, stumbling over his words. “Don’t stop, I’m close.” 

Oh, you could tell. 

“I’m⎯” His voice cracks embarrassingly, “That’s a good girl, just a little more.” 

He always started to sound like that when he was getting close. The knight who had murdered men without hesitation, turned into a mewling virgin under your touch⎯or rather tongue. Blindly reaching around for something to hold onto with his free hand, he trips over his feet, his back pressing against the table. Resisting the urge to snicker at the sight, you bob your head up and down a little faster, taking advantage of the fact that you couldn’t feel his cock hitting the back of your throat anymore. Throwing his head back with a whimper, his stomach clench and quiver as his breathing grows faster, a light sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin. 

Teasingly humming around his cock to watch him whimper again, he shudders violently, his knees trembling as he struggles to stand upright. Choking on his breath, he thrusts into your mouth, the warmth of his load flooding your tongue. Watching him through your lashes, you slurp down as much of his cum as possible, a few droplets still managing to fall down onto your breasts. Cringing at the sensation of it dripping down the valley of your breasts, you slowly pull back from his cock, nose wrinkling up involuntarily. Wiping your mouth clean with the back of your hand, you know it’s no use swallowing anymore, not when your mouth feels so numb and tingly.

“Do not tempt me with such words.” 

“Being?” He wheezes, tripping over his feet as his legs give out.

“Knotting my mouth.” You snicker, watching him lean on the table completely.

“You and I know that you will not be able to breathe if I did.” He argues, “Another time.”

“I will hold you to your word, Remmick.” You smirk, your knees popping as you stand up.

“I know you will, you devilish woman.”

"Take yer clothes off and on the bed." He ordered and you were more than happy to comply. "Tha' powder y' decided to smell. Smelt righ' sweet?" He asked, "yeah?" "That was the ground up petals of a succubus flower. Surprised it was even on the sales floor." He grumbled as he removed his own clothes.

"As th' name implies, sex is the only antidote." He explained as he came to lie on the bed beside you. His hands take a hold of your hips and guide you until you're straddling him. "Now, yer gonna fuck yerself on my dick. Line yerself up, lad." Your face heated up as his blunt head pressed up against you.

Taking Remmick was always a struggle with how big he was. Not that you ever complained. Since the stretch of him was absolutely perfect. The effort was well worth it. When you bottom out, he made a growling sound deep in his chest. "There he is." He purred with drool at the corner of his mouth.

You understood the assignment perfectly. His clawed hands rested on your hips to guide you but he let you set the pace. Started off slow and shallow and as your confidence grew it got faster and deeper. "Tha's it., lad. Show me how much you love my dick."

You braced your hands on his strong chest, nails dragging through the coarse greying hair. The red lines left behind healed up fast but not before he arches up into you. It would make his hip act up but he'd deal with that later. Right now, he needed you to have as many orgasms as he could milk out of you to essentially burn through the energy the flower had given you.

It could be a long night. But feeling your tight hole milking his cock made it all worth it. His knot had started to swell at the base, knocking against your already stretched rim with every desperate motion of your hips. His claws tightened on your hips to bring you to a slower pace. He wanted you to feel it as your greedy hole swallowed it.

He pressed down and with a pop, the knot was in. The added pressure made the heat pooling in your lower belly snap. As your orgasm crashed through you, your walls clamped down on his cock. You hear him curse, trying to fuck you through the aftershocks. His rhythm falters and then you feel him release deep inside you. Filling you until it leaks out around the base of him and onto his balls.

"Fuckin''…" he hissed as he gathered you to rest against his chest. "Be awhile ‘fore it goes down, lad. Catch 'yer breath." The talking was more to give you something to focus on besides the pulsing inside of you. He also pressed his fingers in your mouth to give you something to occupy yourself with in the meantime.

"Since we're jus' gettin' started."

I must have been possessed when I wrote this because I did it in about a sitting.

"Gods, Rem, what the hell did you do?" Some of the blood covering him has to be his, you're sure of it. His pants are a muddy, torn mess and his shirt is ripped in multiple places. From the look of things he's been stabbed more than once, and despite how quickly he heals you can tell that there had been a nasty cut across his cheek as well, though not much but drying blood and dirt remains to tell the tale.

"What's it look like I've been doin'?" Not waiting for an answer he steps onto the porch proper, clearly expecting you to quietly go along with it as he moves towards the still open door. With the steady light spilling through the doorway, you end up getting a better look at him than you really want to.

"Hold on..." Putting a hand on his chest, you can't keep from grimacing at how the ruined shirt sticks to your fingers, the smell of blood so strong that you can taste it at the back of your throat. "Is that…actual pieces of someone in your damn hair?" Frowning, you crane your neck before quickly deciding you're better off not knowing. "Actually, don't tell me, just… get cleaned up."

"Gon' need to get inside to do that, sugar."

"The garden hose is right there." With the chill in the autumn air it feels a bit mean to suggest it, but it's a damn sight better than the alternative. He frowns and takes a half step closer, perhaps in the hope that you're just bluffing. You and him both know that he could just waltz right in whenever he likes, but when you refuse to move out of the way he takes a small step back all the same.

"You're shittin' me." When the only response he gets is a glare, he gives the door a longing look. Being what he is you know damn well that he's in no danger of freezing and he knows it too, but that doesn't stop him from aiming some weapons-grade puppy-eyes your way. "Seems a shame when you've got all o' that perfectly good hot water, is all..."

"And let you smear whoever you're wearing all over my damn house?" Crossing your arms, you do your best to sound stern even though he's making it more difficult than it should be by looking so pitiful, and the worry that's twisting through your gut certainly isn't helping any. "You can either hose yourself down or I'll do it for you."

"Alright, you damn harridan. No need gettin' your panties in a bunch over nothin'." Reluctantly stepping off the porch he gives you one last pleading look as he paws at the mess in his hair, but when all it earns him is another glare he heaves a put upon sigh and starts to strip out of his ruined clothes. It's a quick process, nothing showy or flirty about it, and the entire time he eyes the garden hose in its holder as if it's a snake all coiled and ready to strike. Once bare, he gathers the discarded garments, his frustration palpable as he wads them into a ball and carelessly throws them into the back corner of the porch.

"Just so you know, I'm burning those."

"Don't you worry none," he grumbles, reaching for the hose. "I'll handle it." It's not exactly snippy, but you can tell that he's none too pleased about you not letting him walk right in the way you usually might have. "'Sides, don't need you doin' me any favors—" Maybe you should feel worse about watching him swearing up a storm under the freezing spray but the fact that you're not the one turning up at his door looking like an extra from a bad horror-movie does a good job of nipping any sympathy right in the bud.

Could've at least tried to clean himself up instead of coming straight here.

It ends up being a perfunctory cleaning at best and while not completely effective, at least there's thankfully nothing solid left when he's finished. Tossing the hose aside he shakes himself off, shivering in a way that's a shade too exaggerated to be wholly genuine.

"Y'happy now?"

"I don't know." Stepping off the porch, you make a show out of inspecting him, walking around him in a slow circle. Just looking but not touching, not that you even want to with how filthy he still is. He looks so wretched under your searching gaze that it's difficult to keep laughter out of your voice. "I suppose it'll have to do."

"Glad you fuckin' approve," he snarks, shivering again in another transparent attempt to draw your pity. It doesn't work, but it still has your lips pulling into a reluctant smile. "Now let me in 'fore I freeze my damn cock off, will you." He doesn't wait for a response before sidestepping you and scrambling up the porch steps, passing over the threshold as if it's not even there. Which you suppose it isn't, anymore. The sound of his bare feet wetly slapping the floorboards with every step has you biting back another grin, but to his dubious credit he does head straight for the bathroom, albeit dripping dirty water the entire way. Deciding to leave the mess for later you follow behind him, careful not to step in the trail of small puddles in his wake. While he darts into the shower without even bothering to pull it shut you lean against the doorjamb, watching him fumble with the knobs in his rush to get the water going. As the pipes grumble and the shower hisses to life he ducks under the spray with a relieved groan, scrubbing at his face and turning the heat up until the small room starts to fill with steam. You're not entirely sure if he's pissed off about you standing your ground or if he's just so absorbed by soaking up every bit of warmth that he's forgotten that you're even there, but nearly a minute passes before he finally speaks.

"You plannin' on standin' there all night?"

"That's a lot of attitude for someone who just turned up on my doorstep looking like a dog that's been rolling around in roadkill." Your thoughts go unbidden to the meaty piece of something you'd seen in his hair, and you have to suppress a small shudder.

"Now, that's a mite unfair." Pulling a face, he reaches over and carelessly plucks the washcloth from its hook, nearly dropping it in the process as he gesticulates. "Feller was the size o' a damn ox is all, an' he put up a bit o' a fight."

"So you had fun, then." Perhaps that shouldn't be your first response, and in the past it certainly wouldn't have been. But after spending so much time around him it's proven impossible not to get pulled into the dark, step by tiny step, until everything feels a lot more gray than it used to. Besides, you know where he's been hunting lately. Even if he hasn't outright told you, the gruesome gift he'd left on your doorstep a few weeks ago had made it clear enough; a piece of ripped skin bearing a tattoo, every angular, hate-filled line a little too crisp to be anything but fairly fresh.

Let him have his fun. It's no loss.

"Could say that." Shooting you a toothy grin, he wrings the washcloth out before picking a seemingly random smear of dirt at his side to scrub ineffectually at. "You're starin', sugar."

"Just making sure you're not missing any spots." And you're not really staring, at least not just for the sake of it. While he's definitely easy on the eyes that's not the only reason why you watch him so closely, not that you're going to tell him that. He already teases you enough without you offering up free ammunition in the form of concern, whether there's reason for it or not. Tonight, it's perhaps not entirely unfounded; he's definitely been stabbed. There's a long, jagged gash right between his shoulder blades, still sluggishly seeping blood. You can see a few other marks here and there, but with him freshly fed the speed at which they're fading is almost visible to the naked eye, even through the layers of grime.

"Be a bit more convincin' if you weren't oglin' me like a piece of meat."

"You mind it?" It's not really a question; being alive for as long as he has you can't imagine that he wouldn't be used to being looked at by now, in that way or in any other. He's certainly never had any complaints about it before.

"Nah. Y'might have an easier time overseein' things from in here, though..." Despite the rinsing off he's still absolutely filthy, the steam carrying the smell of copper and wet earth a little too well. Wrinkling your nose, you watch the murky water swirl down the drain.

"That's really not as tempting an offer as you think it is." It's not entirely true; the dirt isn't nearly enough to keep your eyes from wandering, gaze lingering on the way the muscles in his back and arms move as he washes himself.

"Suit yourself." Shrugging, he picks a new spot to scrub at. It's at least as haphazard and sloppy as before, and you and him both know that he can do it a damn sight better than that, but apparently he's decided to try and get on your nerves tonight. "Wager it'll be a while 'fore I'm up to those exactin' standards o' yours, though."

"You're absolutely ridiculous," you snort, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice. Ridiculous though he might be, at least he's yours, as much as something like him can belong to anyone. You refuse to acknowledge the victorious smile on his face or the low whistle he lets out as you start pulling your clothes off. Leaving them folded in a neat pile on top of the toilet, you lean over and prod the top of his chest with a pointed finger. "Come on, scoot." He steps back easily, eagerly, barely giving you time to step into the shower and pull the door properly closed behind you before winding his arms around your waist with a pleased sound.

"Maybe lettin' things get messy ain't such a bad thing," he murmurs, pulling you so close that the tips of your breasts rub against his bare chest. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise you that he's flirting with you even though he still looks like he just crawled out of a ditch, but that's probably on you since it's not like his lack of manners have been much of a problem before. With the temperature of the water turned up it's uncomfortably hot but it's not unbearable, at least not after the chill of the evening air. His usually cool skin turned warm and slippery is more distracting pressed against you than it has any right to be, dirt or no dirt, and the smile on his face is damn near boyish. Or at least, it would be if it wasn't for the blood stubbornly clinging to his hair and you knowing better than to believe it. As he leans in to steal a kiss you quickly lean away, reaching up to push at his chin with a grimace.

"Absolutely not, you're filthy!" The scandalized tone does little to deter him and he easily dodges your hand to bury his face in the crook of your neck, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin with a grin that you that can feel and hear rather than see.

"An' here I thought you loved me filthy."

"What was that? You don't actually want my help?" It's shaky, broken up by the laughter that you have to fight to keep down as you push at his chest in an effort to pull away. Whatever he's doing with his mouth tickles. "Maybe I should just leave you to it then—"

"Oh no, you fuckin' don't," he laughs and tightens his grip, with an extra squeeze for emphasis that makes the air rush from your lungs in a squeaky little wheeze.

"Will you stop it, you're getting—ugh— all over me!" You shudder, sending a quiet prayer to the god of small mercies that the worst of it has gone down the drain already.

"Oh, quit your whinin', it's gon' wash right off." It's reluctant, but at least he lets you go. Stepping away you duck under the water with a disgusted noise, frantically scrubbing at the dirt and whatever else he just smeared all over you. It goes easily enough but it's revolting all the same, making you glare at him once it's gone. "Don't go lookin' at me like that, sugar." He doesn't sound sorry in the slightest and he doesn't exactly look it either, even with his hands raised in a mockery of surrender. "Gon' keep my hands to myself from now on, swear it on my—"

"Just give me that." When he goes to offer the washcloth with a smirk you quickly snatch it out of his hand before plucking a brightly colored bottle from the shower caddy.

Initially the sweet scent of the soap does little to drown out the smell of mud and blood that's filling the cramped space, but as you start to work up a lather it at least tempers it into something more tolerable, and if the prospect of smelling like a piece of candied fruit bothers him at all he doesn't show it. In fact he's suspiciously well behaved, at least if you don't count the hands that stubbornly creep to your hips, clearly eager to pull you close again as they start to not so sneakily wander back and down. But as much as you usually enjoy his touch, your patience is starting to run low.

"If you're trying to make me regret coming in here, you're doing a great job." That has him reluctantly pulling away, giving you space to move.

"There's that cruel streak o' yours again."

"Cruel?" Running the washcloth over one of his shoulders has the suds almost instantly turning an unpleasant rusty color. "Cleaning up your mess, aren't I? If anything I'm being too damn nice." He just hums in response, but at least he doesn't argue as you methodically scrub at his shoulders and chest. Aside from a huge bruise over his ribs that's already fading into a blotchy shade of green he looks mostly unscathed now, at least from the front. You can tell that there's been a fair few cuts and scrapes littering his body though, even if the only evidence of it is quickly vanishing down the drain.

"Let me guess," you trace the edge of the bruise, already looking slightly more faded than when you first laid eyes on it. "I should see the other guy?"

"Maybe. Don't reckon you'd like it much, though." He grins, sharp and self-satisfied. You can't really argue with that, so instead you turn your attention back to the task at hand. Between the scent of the soap and the grime being slowly rinsed off the smell of copper and wet earth lessens little by little until it's completely drowned out, and for a short while it all feels frighteningly domestic, making it dangerously easy to forget precisely what you're helping wash away.

You let yourself forget anyway, focusing on the warmed up skin under your hands and the way he relaxes into your touch as you work. And it is work. While the initial grime had rinsed off fairly easily the layers beneath are downright stubborn, requiring some real effort on your part. It's not without reward, though; every pass with the washcloth reveals another patch of clean skin, tinged faintly pink from the heat of the water and the blood he's gorged himself on tonight. With nothing but the hiss of the water between you the silence is surprisingly comfortable. It doesn't last, of course.

"What did you even get hit with?" Grimacing, you trace the jagged edges of the wound that's marring the usually smooth expanse of his back. Whatever it was, the initial blow must've hit bone in order for it to still look this bad. "A fucking ax?"

"Spare me the lecturin'," he mutters, pushing his soaked hair away from his eyes. "Been huntin' since long 'fore your great-great grandpa was a twinkle in his pa's eye, an' I can damn well handle myself."

"Must be getting careless in your old age, then."

"Careful, sugar." As far as warnings go it's not exactly convincing, mostly on account of him reaching back and giving the top of your thigh a pinch. "Keep that up an' you gon' find out I ain't too old to be puttin' you over my knee jus' yet." If the washcloth ends up scraping over the wound hard enough to make him twitch away with a sour look over his shoulder, it's almost completely by accident.

"Sorry." Grinning, you run the washcloth over the wound again, a shade gentler this time. You're pretty sure he's just playing it up for sympathy anyway; it's barely even bleeding anymore and you can feel the torn flesh knitting together right under your fingertips. Wringing the washcloth out, you give his bicep a quick poke. "Come on, arms up."

"'m not a damn invalid," he grouses, giving you another one of those grumpy looks. You're not sure what it would actually take for that to be the case, but whatever happened tonight clearly doesn't come anywhere close. Ignoring his indignant noises, you give him another impatient prod.

"I know, but let me anyway."

"Bossy thing." Grumbling under his breath he reluctantly raises his arms, lacing his fingers together behind his head with a huff. "You jus' watch those fingers o' yours, I've had enough damn holes poked in me for one night."

"I can see that." Eyes lingering appreciatively on the curve of his shoulders and the width of his back you dispense some more of the sweet-smelling shower gel, discarding the mostly useless washcloth. With the water starting to run mostly clear and the air less fouled by the scent of copper and damp earth it's downright pleasant, letting you focus on the feel of his skin and the tickle of soft hair against your palms. If the way he's all but melting under your hands is any indication he seems to think so too, despite him muttering under his breath that you can't quite make out as you move down his sides. "Not going to become an annoying new habit, I hope."

"Not plannin' on it." It's not an apology, but at least it's something.

"Better not." Playfully smearing a generous glob of lather across his backside, you let your hands linger there for a moment before wrapping your arms around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. "Much prefer you intact, anyway."

"That right?" Another glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a wry half-smile. It's a not at all subtle attempt at getting you to elaborate further, but you press your lips together in a stubborn line.

"Mm-hm." A few seconds tick by and when the anticipated stroke to his ego doesn't come he sighs, gently encircling one of your wrists with his fingers.

"…Gon' try keepin' that in mind." The soft way he says it has something pinching in your chest but rather than letting yourself dwell on it you clear your throat, pulling away.

"Good." Reaching for the soap again, you turn your focus back on getting him at least somewhat presentable. At this point it's more out of stubbornness rather than anything else; with the water finally running all but perfectly clear there's not much left to actually do, but you've always been thorough so you see no reason to stop now. Especially not when you're enjoying it so much. While he doesn't say anything at first, the tense set of his shoulders speaks louder than words as your soaped up hands glide over his sides, following the downy trail of hair down the plane of his stomach, letting your hands fan out over the angle of his hips. It's when you move lower, dropping down into a crouch to gently massage the thick muscle of his thighs that the facade starts cracking.

"You plannin' on lettin me out o' here sometime this century?" Patience clearly doesn't come with age, and as he turns around it's a challenge to keep a straight face. Ancient and inhuman though he may be, he's still a man in the ways that matter. The proof of it is all but impossible to ignore when it's right in front of your nose, half-hard and tempting as you finish washing his legs.

"You're the one that wanted me in here." Flicking your eyes further up, you have to fight to keep from laughing at his sour expression. "But I'm kind of getting the impression that you don't mind this all that much."

"View ain't too bad, I suppose…"

"You suppose?"

"Can think of a few ways of makin' it better, is all." He grins down at you, sharp and playful and infuriatingly perfect, even in his sorry state.

"I'm sure you can." Preempting any helpful suggestions you straighten back up, reaching for the shower gel again.

"If you're expectin' me to get any cleaner…" He trails off, unneeded breath catching as you wrap your newly soaped up fingers around his length.

"You were saying?"

"…Nothin'."

"Thought so." It's mostly meant to be just another step in the cleaning process but it turns out to be a surprisingly effective at shutting him up, if only for the moment. Massaging the soap into the wiry patch of hair at the base of his cock has his hips eagerly tilting to meet your hand, and you can't resist giving his stiffening cock a little squeeze, watching the bobbing of his throat as he swallows. There's something almost hypnotic about how impossibly soft his skin is, how smoothly it glides against your palm as you lazily stroke him from root to tip.

"Darlin'—" Cradling his balls in your free hand and letting your fingers rub over the sensitive spot behind them as you work up a lather has him letting out a choked noise, so quiet and small that the hissing of the shower-head all but drowns it out.

"Sorry." Snatching your hands away, you blink at him as innocently as you can. "Guess I forgot all about watching my fingers."

"Not what I meant, an' you know it." You've half a mind to give in and put your hands on him again, but after what he's put you through tonight he certainly hasn't deserved it, though the need plastered all over his face makes it obvious that he's got a very different idea about what he deserves right now. Perhaps that's why it feels so good to make him wait for it a little while longer.

"Well, right now I know only one thing…" Moving in close, you stop just short of brushing your lips against his.

"Yeah?" It's quick, rough, barely more than a breath. "Tell me, sugar."

"Close your eyes, first." Maybe it's trust or perhaps he's just indulging you, but his eyelids slide shut downright eagerly all the same.

He's clearly not expecting the shampoo.

"Oh, you treacherous little—" It's dangerously close to a snarl, though there's not enough heat to it to stop you from dropping a quick kiss to his lips, cutting him off.

"Now who's whining?" Your cheeks are nearly burning from the effort it takes not to laugh. "I'm nearly done, anyway."

"Better fuckin' be." After a moment of blind fumbling his hands settle at your hips again, and this time you don't bother pushing them off. Instead you turn your attention to tackling the sopping mess on top of his head, doing your best not to think about what you might find. Thankfully there's nothing too alarming there and the last of the caked on grime barely tints the nest of bubbles a muted shade of eggshell. He actually takes it surprisingly well, leaning into your touch with a contented noise as your fingers massage his scalp, and when you direct him back under the water it's met with nothing more than something muttered under his breath in a language you don't speak. As he ducks into the spray you've half a mind to ask what he said, but the notion is quickly discarded. He'd probably just lie again, anyway.

"You gon' polish my damn teeth next, or we done?" For all that it sounds gruff he doesn't look it, hair a soggy mess and lips stretching into another one of those almost boyish smiles that has your heart trying to climb your ribs like a set of monkey-bars.

"All done." Taking a small step backwards, you half turn around to leave. "So I'll just—"

"Jus' nothin', that's what." He's fast, gathering you to him easily and tightening his grip until you're all but trapped against his body. In another life it might have been a source of panic and by rights it still should be, but all it makes you feel is safe. Kept. You've half a mind to try and wiggle free anyway but then he's nosing at your cheek, pressed in so close that the words reverberate through your chest. "All that fussin', I'd say I've earned myself a kiss and then some."

"Alright." Pretending to look for some stray speck of dirt somewhere, you push at the wet curls that are stubbornly sticking to his forehead. This close and with barely a whisper of red in their depths, his eyes are almost impossibly blue. "But only because you clearly hated it the whole time."

"Was startin' to think you were gon' keep me in here 'til mornin', is a—" It's only meant to be a quick peck but this time he's ready for it, steady hand at the back of your neck to stop you from pulling away as he deepens the kiss. The taste of copper and salt and him coats your tongue until your knees threaten to buckle, and there's nothing rushed about it. It's too slow, as if he's tasting you for the first time all over again, and between the hot water and being freshly fed his mouth feels feverish against yours. As far as distractions go it's not a terrible one. But if he thinks a half-assed seduction attempt is enough to get him off the hook for making you worry and nearly turning your house into a damn bio-hazard to boot, he's got another thing coming. At some point, anyway.

"…Don't think that I don't know what you're doing."

"Do you, now?" Tilting his head with a disarming smile, he gives you a tiny nudge backwards. Another small push and you follow without even thinking, attention entirely taken up by his lips brushing against yours and the erection that's digging into your stomach. Or at least it is until you hit the tile, making you arch into him with a yelp.

"That's cold!"

"Oh, I bet it is." Caged in by his arms there's nowhere for you to go, and it's embarrassingly easy for him to flatten your back against the freezing wall. "Goose an' gander, sweet thing." Gasping for air you clumsily slap at his chest, throat seizing somewhere between laughter and a shriek.

"Get o-mmf!" It's an underhanded tactic, cutting you off with a kiss, and maybe it would work less well if he wasn't so clearly enjoying it. As he shamelessly rubs against you, his cock sliding along the crease of your thigh nearly makes you forget all about the cold.

"Quit squirmin', damn you—"

"No-o!" Laughing despite yourself you give him another useless little shove, but it only makes him grin into the kiss and push back harder, grinding his cock into you more purposefully.

You're not even thinking as you go to hook a leg around his hip, completely losing your footing. While chivalrous is not a word you'd ever use to describe him but somehow the way he catches you still is, despite how his fingers hungrily grasp at the soft flesh of your thighs and the way he holds you up with a deceptive kind of strength that definitely isn't natural. Every lazy rock of his hips has the broad head skidding over your entrance, equal parts tease and promise. Angling your own hips just slightly rewards you with a quick intake of breath as he catches there, just on the edge of slipping inside. Except with the rushing water turning everything the wrong kind of slick, it's not so much slipping as it is pushing.

And he does; panting all the while as he works his cock into you. With the heat making the steam stick in your lungs like wet cotton, his mouth on yours becomes your only anchor as the world threatens to tilt on its axis. There's effort behind every inch, so much so that it has him nearly trembling, as if it's costing him something to hold back, do it slowly.

"Gods, lass," he groans, breath hitting your lips in shaky bursts, "d'you have any fuckin' idea what you—" Voice cracking he breaks off, face twisting up in something like relief as he bottoms out. Even though he's stopped moving, just the merciless pressure of him being buried so deep has you fumbling for words, for thought, for anything at all, but with your head starting to spin everything that isn't him feels out of reach. "What you do to me," another slow thrust, the delicious drag of it making a moan stick in your throat, "what you fuckin' feel like."

"…Tell me?"

"Warm…" There's something almost sweet about it, how messy he's getting even though he's clearly trying to be careful in his own clumsy way. How he can't help himself. How he tries anyway, panting and frantically swallowing to keep saliva from spilling over. "A-alive…an' so damn soft I could—" Despite being freshly fed you can see his teeth sharpen, a split second before they prick the crook of your neck. The words turn garbled as he sucks a patch of skin into his mouth, moaning low and raw at your blood eagerly rushing to the surface as he suckles there, breath hot against your ear. "Like home." The thing that lurches inside your chest at that is foolish, sentimental, and above all things, possessive. You couldn't sum it up with mere words even if you'd been clearminded enough to try, so you don't. Instead you drag your nails over the nape of his neck, pulling him close.

"Good." That's foolish too, but you don't care. Can't care, not when he's still holding onto you as if you're the only sustenance he'll ever need. Not when he's looking at you with a hunger that has blue bleeding into red so dark that it's nearly black, all carefulness forgotten. As he crashes his mouth to yours in a consuming kiss the scrape of his fangs leaves your lips swollen. Being trapped between his body and the chilly tile isn't exactly comfortable, but for the moment you can't think of anywhere you'd rather be than right here. Part of him might even be right there with you.

The rest of him is lost to instinct, fixated on pushing his cock into you as if he could brand you with it if he only tries hard enough. Even though he does it slowly every thrust is claiming, leaving you gasping desperately for air, scrambling for any part of him you can reach. The solid curve of his shoulder, the thick muscle of his bicep, the back of his neck.

In the haziness of it all, it's easy to imagine that he's something you can keep. That this is not some fleeting thing, that it won't all end so incredibly badly. End in blood. Yours, by the odds of it. So you cling right back, holding on to him almost as much as he's holding onto you, as if the moment will last longer that way.

It doesn't, of course. Even without purposefully trying to every rock of his hips has the tension at your core winding tighter, driving the breath from you in reedy gasps.

"Rem—" It's nearly lost in the rush of water and your shattered breaths but if course he hears anyway.

"I know—" He's no better off; you can feel him swell and twitch, barely holding on as the rhythm threatens to falter. As your cunt clenches around him, he whines. "Fuck, that's it, go on—" Still stubbornly hanging on his thrusts are almost frantic, bringing you right up to the edge that he's already teetering on. Every desperate, ragged moan pushes you closer to the point of no return.

He breaks before you do, capturing you in a greedy kiss as he swells and spills with a broken noise, grinding himself into you as if as if nothing he does can ever get him close enough to you, as if he'd crawl under your skin if you'd only let him. In that moment it feels as if you would, and then you're lost. Spent and oversensitive, he groans as your cunt convulses around his still twitching cock, release washing over you in waves that almost choke you. It leaves you wrung out, gasping for air until he's the only thing holding you up.

And he doesn't let go. For a few moments you simply let yourself be held, cocooned in the safety of his arms and the rushing of the water as he leans his forehead to yours with a satisfied grin.

"Knew you'd not stay cross at me for long," he murmurs, nosing at your cheek. "You never do."

And perhaps the worst part is that he's right. What does that say about you?

Masterlist ★The Master-masterlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ NEW YORK, 1999.

Resisting the urge to gag as your friend rambles on about her latest date, you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to keep your cocktail down. You couldn't understand the thought process of a man. Just..why? Why the fuck did they have be so god damn gross? Seriously. Never in your life have you looked at a man suggestively licking ice cream and want to throw your panties at him in lust. It was just cringeworthy and disgusting and made you grateful for having Remi. Shaking your head the more that describes the way that he was licking his ice cream, you take a sip of your cocktail, swishing it around in your mouth. The burn was far far more pleasant than her story.

“That is disgusting.” Remmi nods, her nose wrinkling up in disgust.

“Agreed.” You smack your lips together at the lingering burn of liquor in your mouth, “I just don’t get how anyone can do that and think that they look sexy.”

“I can’t believe a man would do that.” 

“I can, it’s a man.” You scoff, biting back a giggle at your own joke.

“Not as bad as doing that.” Remi argues, pointing to a couple on the other end of the bar. 

Following her hand, you raise a brow up at the clearly drunk couple, sprinkling a line of salt on each other's arms. Grabbing a lime from the bartender's hand, the couple proceed to lick each other's arms, downing the shot then sucking on the lime slice. Oh fucking please, that was tame compared to the man from your friends date. They were licking each other's arms to take a shot, they probably knew each other and were totally fine with it. They weren’t licking an ice cream cone to try to seduce someone who they had just met on a first date. Two totally different things. Rolling your eyes hard at the sight, you shake your head firmly, pushing hair over your shoulder. 

"Oh, shut it, tampon sucker.” You scoff, “You eat pussy, licking someone's arm to do a line of salt for a shot is nothing compared to what Jessie is talking about." 

"Tampon sucker?" Remi scoffs, placing a hand onto her chest.

"You heard me, Remi." You argue back, "Don’t act like you totally wouldn’t do it if I let you." 

It was a low blow and just an overall shitty insult, but too late to take it back now. You had said it and she had heard you. Narrowing her eyes hard at your words, she grit her teeth tightly, sucking in a breath through her teeth. Opening her mouth up to argue, she stops herself at the last second, tightly shutting her lips. Diverting your gaze back onto your friend, she’s continuing to ramble on about her date, not noticing you and Remi’s bickering. Good. She clearly needed to get all of this out of her system, and you weren’t going to tell her to shut up any time soon. 

Feeling Remi’s glare still on you, you turn your head, raising a brow up at the look on her face. It was a mix of anger, hurt, and brattiness. Wrinkling her nose up as she festers in her feelings, she pushes back strands of hair from her face, leaning forward on the bartop. You barely resist the urge to glance down as she pushes up her chest, clearly attempting to rile you up. She had worn that skimpy little band shirt, one that you had cut up for her for the summer time. She knew just how much you enjoyed it, how you liked how it hugged her curves. Evil little bitch. 

“I have standards.” She argues, making your scoff.

“I’ve seen the people you eat, you do not have standards, Remi.” You roll your eyes hard, “Blood is blood to you.”

“Nuh-huh! Blood is not just blood. I have very high standards for the things I eat.” She pushes back tousled curls over her shoulder, acting like she was above your claims. 

“Bullshit, Remi.” You scoff hard, shaking your head in firm disagreement.

“Bullshit? I do!” She argues, her voice raising up in offense.

“You don’t!” You argue back, “I saw you eat a literal rat out of a dumpster.”

“I had drunk the blood of someone with drugs in their system, that was not on purpose.” She argues back, lowering her voice to not be overheard. “I just had the munchies!” 

As if that was a good enough reason to justify eating a literal rat. Sure, you had gotten the munchies before after smoking a blunt with her before. But, there was always other options to get a snack⎯grocery stores, convenience stores, the chinese place next door or the pizza place down the block from the apartment. Surely, she couldn’t just find someone randomly on the street and just steal a quick bite? Instead of just eating a rat. Pointing at your tongue to pretend like you were sticking a finger down your throat, you let out a dramatic fake gag, mocking her shitty reasoning. Nothing could justify it. Nothing.

“You still did it.” You bicker back, leaning in closer to her. “That is far more gross than licking salt off someone’s arm.”

“Gross enough for you to not want to fuck me?” She pouts, pathetically giving you puppy eyes.

“If you eat another rat, I will never touch you again.” You argue firmly, “Let alone let that tongue of yours near me.”

“It was one time.” She huffs, dropping her facade instantly.

“One time too many!” You scoff, shaking your head.

Pushing open the door to the apartment, you kick off your shoes, watching Remi lingering in the doorway. Her lips curled down into a big and pathetic pout. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes hard at the sight, you don’t bother to invite her in just yet, throwing your jacket on the couch. She grumbles loudly, her face darkening as you deny her entry into the apartment. Taking an annoyed breath in through your nose at her grumbling, you walk away, continuing to deny her entry. 

She was being too much of a brat for you right now. She could sulk a little longer outside, maybe that would snap her out of it. Letting out another loud grumble, you don’t give her the attention that she was clearly demanding, unbuttoning your jeans. Pressing your back against the wall for support, you shimmy yourself out of them, kicking them down the floor in front of the laundry machine. Kicking the wall beside the doorway, she lets out another pestering huff, glaring at you.

“I can’t believe you seriously brought up the rat at the bar.” She huffs, tapping her foot on the floor.

“Remi, you started it.” You argue, shooting her a look.

“Did not.” She argues back, her tone ridiculously petulant.

“Did so, you little brat.” You threaten, “Keep it up and I won’t let you in.”

“You’d do that to me?” She gasps, acting like she was in some kind of crappy soap opera.

“Remi..”

Slapping your forehead with your hand, you let out a defeated sigh as she keeps on going, patience drying up quickly. Tapping her foot annoyingly, you let out a grumble, eye twitching at just how annoying she was acting. God, you just wanted to strangle and fuck this brattiness out of her at the same time. For someone who liked to brag about being a dominant top, she was sure acting like a bratty pillow princess. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you try to focus on removing your socks, trying to show some self restraint. She was just trying to piss you off on purpose. She was tipsy and just pestering you like how she always did when she drank blood laced with liquor. 

“Stop it.” You scold, “You’re tipsy, Remi.” 

“You’re tipsy…bottom bitch.” 

“Remi, stop it.” You shake your head, “I’m serious. You’re being ridiculous and you didn’t even really drink that much blood tonight.”

“You’re not letting me in because you know the moment you let me inside I’d have you bent over the bed and moaning my name.” She taunts, letting out a soft giggle.

Letting out another pestering clearing of her throat, you lose all self control, sharply turning on your heels to face her fully. Oh, this little bitch. Now she was going too far. Smugly smirking at your reaction, you narrow your eyes hard at her, hands trembling at your side. You wouldn’t hit her. You wouldn’t hit her. Sticking her tongue out childishly, she flips you off, swaying slightly from side to side. Ugh, she didn’t even drink that much. It was one fucking slurp from your neck while the two of you were in the bathroom. It was literally nothing compared to 

“Suck it..” She taunts, “Or else I’ll find some other chick who will.” 

“You’re making a fucking fool of yourself, Remi. Get your ass inside now. I invite you or what the fuck that I need to say.” You snap, shooting her a firm glare. 

“Oooh, I’m so scared!” She mocks, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

Narrowing your eyes hard at her antics, she takes it a step further, mimicking jerking off her imaginary cock. It was ridiculously childish. Throwing her head back in a loud cackle, you lose what little of your patience that held you back, cheeks flushing hot from burning anger. God, why the hell were you with her again? She was such a fucking brat. Wrapping your hand around her throat, you spin her against the wall, kicking the door with your shoe. Choking on her laughter at your seriousness, she stares at you with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. From embarrassment? Lust? Shock? Anger? You couldn't really tell nor did you really care.

“Say one more thing, I fucking dare you, Remi.” You sneer, “I’ve been letting a lot slide, more than I should. And now you wanna talk about fucking others? Act like pretending to be tipsy is gonna save your ass, huh?”

She doesn’t respond, and you let out a sigh of relief. 

“We both know that you’re not really tipsy, you’re just acting like a brat for fun.” You press, trying to get her to finally act maturely about all of this. “So drop the act, I’m not having it tonight.” 

“Suck my dick.” 

That fucking does it. Giving her throat a firm warning squeeze, she lets out a pathetic whimper, squirming in your grip to break free. Not a fucking chance. She started this shit and she was gonna endure until you felt like it was enough. Opening her mouth to protest, you don't give her the chance, smashing your lips against hers to swallow the sound. Letting out a strangled noise against your lips, you could feel her hands everywhere, unable to linger in a spot for more than a second. One second they were in your hair, tugging hard at the strands until your scalp ached. The next they were groping at your waist, as if trying to rip apart your underwear like a rapid little beast.

Dragging your tongue over the seam of her mouth, you force her to let you in, dragging your tongue slowly over her fangs. All slimy from all the drool in her mouth. Humming in delight at the taste, you nudge her trembling thighs apart, forcing your knee in between them. Jolting at the pressure of your knee against her crotch, you swear that you could already feel how wet she was, practically dripping like there was a waterfall between her legs. Pathetic slut. She may pretend to be a domiant top who never faltered to your friends, but at heart she was still a pathetic bottom in need of getting fucked right by you. Breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connects from your lips.

“I can feel how wet you are already, haven’t even touched you.” 

“Am not.” She argues, her face flushing brighter from embarrassment.

“No?” You mock, tilting your head to the side. “No, Remi? So if I stick my hand in your panties they’ll be all dry? That pretty little pussy of yours isn’t gonna be drooling for me?” 

“No.” She lies, her voice trailing off at the end.

“Liar. I should stop right here and leave you in a puddle of your own wetness, slut.” You scoff, putting more pressure on her crotch. “But, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re a little fucking sadist, like torturing yourself.”

Letting out a shuddered breath at the increase of pressure, she bucks her hips involuntarily, seeking out some friction. You could see that familiar glimmer in her eyes, the one that always came whenever you topped her⎯that craving for you to breed her, even though it was biologically impossible. Clicking your tongue scoldingly at her, you slowly pull your knee away, earning a high-pitched protest. It wasn’t quite words, but it wasn’t quite a noise either. It was something desperate and inbetween. God, it was beautiful. Smirking at her reaction, you give her throat a punishing squeeze, holding it for a second until you were sure that her lungs would burn from the lack of air. 

“Keep it up and I’ll tie your ass up.” You warn, releasing your grip just enough to let her breathe again. “Put you right in front of the window.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You think I won’t after how much of a brat you’ve been acting since we got back from the bar, sweetheart?" You press harder, “Fucking mocking me. Fucking taunting me. Fucking acting like you’re drunk. You’re just an attention seeking whore.”

"You're being mean.” She whines, pouting deeply.

“You’re being a brat.” You argue, “Brats don’t get treated nicely.” 

Letting out another whimper at your words, she squirms around, clawing at your hips with her nails. Perhaps, you were being a little too mean to her. But, she deserved it after how she was acting. Brat’s don’t get to act that way and go unpunished for it. Besides, if you really wanted to be mean, you’d just walk away and go to bed. You could. You could leave her here, in a puddle of her own arousal. You probably should. But, you wouldn’t. Looking over her face slowly, you linger on the blush on her cheeks, on the way her eyes keep on growing heavier and heavier from lust. She was so pretty like this, all needy. But you liked seeing her moaning more.

“( Y/n )..” 

“Begging won’t help you, Remi.” You scold, “You’d do a hell of a lot worse to me if I was acting the way that you are.” 

“But, this is different⎯” She argues in a whiny voice, but you cut her off.

“Is it?” You raise a brow, “Don’t act like you wouldn’t already have me bent over the couch and ass all raw from slapping me.”

Opening her mouth up to argue again, you raise your brow higher, letting her dig a deeper hole for herself. She knew that it was the truth, deep down. If you acted even a fragment like how she had been, your ass would’ve been raw by the time the sun rose up. Stopping herself at the last second, you chuckle at the look on her face, begrudging defeat. Tightening your grip on her throat again, you slip your other hand down her stomach, feeling it trembling under your touch. Stopping at the button of her jeans, you fumble to remove it by yourself, roughly yanking the button free. 

Jolting as you unbutton her jeans, you press your thigh against her crotch, keeping her from moving anymore. It was a lot harder doing this with one hand, but you weren’t about to let go of her throat. Clumsily unzipping them, you take your time pulling them down, leaving them pooled half way down her thighs. The sight of her underwear bringing a smile to your face. The once pretty scarlet red now a dark maroon from how wet she was. God, you wished that you had a camera to take a picture of this. Remi this wet just from a little choking and kissing.

“Look at all this.” You mock, “Talking a big old game, acting like a total brat and you’re fucking ruining those panties of yours. You like when I slap you around, huh? Like when I remind you that I can just as easily top you, turn you into a whiny little bitch.” 

“Stop.” She argues, tightly closing her legs to keep you out.

“Open those legs for me, princess. Or else, I’m gonna walk.” You threaten, pulling your hand away abruptly. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” She glares, her embarrassment melting away as desperation takes over.

“Open them.” You order, voice a little more stern than before.

Flushing an even brighter pink at your stern order, she surprisingly complies without complaint, spreading her thighs for you. Smugly smirking at her obedience, you slip your hand in her panties, still not removing them completely. You wanted her to sit in her wetness a little longer, feel humiliated just a little longer. Peeling the damp fabric off her folds, you swear that you could hear a low squelching sound from it, lewd and embarrassing. Biting back a whimper, you drag a finger through her folds, playing with the wetness that oozed out of her like a waterfall. 

Biting hard on her bottom lip, you smirk deeply at the sight, you could feel her body vibrating underneath you. Adjusting your other hand on her throat, you flick her clit, earning a strangled noise from her. Rubbing your thumb over her swollen clit, you trail your fingers further, the further you reach the wetter it gets. You barely resist the urge to mock her. Slowly pressing in your pointer and middle finger in, she tenses up instantly at the girthy stretch of your fingers, clenching hard around them. You could barely curl them, trying to find her g-spot.

“Please..” She whines, her hips bucking for more.

“You gonna cum already?” You mock, “Just barely put my fingers in, haven’t even moved yet.”

“You’re so fucking evil!” 

“Evil enough for you to want me to stop?” You snort, watching her face shift instantly.

“Don’t you fucking dare, I swear I’ll rip out your fucking throat⎯” 

Narrowing your eyes hard at her threat, she tries to get in your face, her fangs bared like a wild dog. Pushing her back against the wall by the throat, you sharply curl your fingers upwards, thrusting your fingers roughly. Moaning loudly at the rough pace you set, you chest your chest against hers, giving her throat occasional punishing squeezes. Not enough to make her lose her breath, but enough to make her uncomfortable. Thrusting your fingers in and out fast, you watch smugly as she blinks back hot tears of pleasure, your hand already beginning to ache. But, you push yourself through the minor discomfort. It would be worth it in the end.

Bucking her hips with each cruel thrust of your fingers upwards, you want to mock her, to mock how desperate she was to finish as quickly as possible. But, you refrain. Instead, you just take in every moan, every buck of her hips, every fluttering of her lashes as she barely manages to keep her eyes open. Shifting your hand between her thighs, you clumsily rub your thumb over her clit, ruthless circles that you know would push her closer to an orgasm. Digging her nails hard into your shoulders for support to keep standing upright, you hiss as she manages to break the skin, bloody crescent moon shapes appearing. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” You purr, “Can feel that little tremble in your breathing.” 

“So close.” She nods, face heating up the closer she gets.

“Not even been doing this for five minutes, think that’s the quickest I’ve ever gotten you to cum.” 

“Please, just stop torturing me!” She wails, “I’m sorry! I’ll fucking behave, just please!”

Tilting your head down, you nip at the side of her neck with your teeth, trying to leave some marks behind. But, the skin keeps healing before you could even get close to it. Stupid vampire fast healing bullshit. Grumbling under your breath, you curl your fingers one last time, earning a high-pitched wail from her. Your ears ring from the sound. Gushing all over your fingers, you coax her through her orgasms, her hips jerking and twitching involuntarily. Gradually slowing down your pace, you give her swollen clit one last rub, watching her shudder violently from the overstimulation. Slowly pulling your fingers out, she winces at the sudden empty feeling, pouting. 

“There we go..” You coo, “So pretty when you cum, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” She huffs, her voice shaky.

“Aww, don’t be like that, Remi.” You chuckle, licking your fingers clean.

The familiar un-naturally sweet taste of her on your tongue. Licking some sweat off her top lip, you chuckle at the sight, enjoying that post-orgasm glimmer in her. Pressing a teasing kiss onto her lips, she huffs against your lips, lightly pushing you away. Rolling your eyes hard at her reaction, you sharply walk away, deciding to deny her any more attention for the rest of the night. If she wanted to continue to be a brat, you’d just let her sulk. Your hand was aching and the temptation of your bed was more pleasing than trying to finger the brattiness out of her…again. 

“Goodnight.” 

“What the fuck?!” She shrieks, “That’s it?! You’re not going to even top me properly?!”

“Nope, brats don’t get those kinds of privileges. Be grateful that I even let you cum.” You argue, shaking your head. “Besides, I’m sleepy and wanna go to bed.”

“What the fuck?! No! You get your ass back here and top me properly! You haven’t even used the strap yet!” She complains, hot on your trail. “( Y/n )!”

-----

The mark sits just below your collarbone, dark around the edges and tender in the middle, slower to fade because you’re younger than him and your body still remembers hurt longer than his ever seems to. 

He heals clean from nearly anything, but you don't. Not as fast, anyway, which means every bite, every bruise, every place his fingers dug in too hard stays painted on your skin for days, and he gets off on it.

“Still got me on you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging beneath the mark..

You’re supposed to be getting dressed, but your slip hangs loose around your hips, one strap slipping down your shoulder, and Remmick’s standing close enough that the cold of him seeps into the warm room. 

The sheets behind you are wrecked—twisted, damp with sweat, a faint rusty smear where he’d bitten you while he was buried to the hilt, and the memory of how the mark got there comes back meaner than it ought to: his mouth at your throat, his hands hooked beneath your thighs, his cock buried deep while he bit down and groaned against your skin like your blood and your cunt were both trying to kill him.

The first pull of his mouth had made you clench so hard he nearly cursed into the wound, and he’d laughed after, breath ragged, hips grinding into yours as if he wanted the bedframe to remember too.

His fingers move from your collarbone to the bruises on your waist, tracing each mark with a slow attention that makes your stomach tighten. 

His fingers slide from your collarbone down to the bruises on your waist—dark, perfect prints where he’d held you down and dragged you onto him over and over. A darker bite curves over the swell of your breast from when he’d gotten greedy and sucked while you rode him. His mouth curves when he finds another faint mark high on your inner thigh from when he’d had his face buried between your legs, tongue fucking your hole while two fingers worked your clit until you came so hard you shook.

“Remmick,” you warn, though it comes out too soft to matter.

He lowers his head and licks over the bite, slow and filthy, tongue dragging thick and wet across the sore, broken skin until your breath catches and your thighs twitch. You can feel the heat of it, the way he tastes the dried blood and hums like it’s the best thing he’s had in his mouth all night.

“Don’t start scoldin’ me,” he says against you, hand sliding beneath your slip without hesitation. His cold fingers find the slick mess between your legs immediately. “Ain’t my fault you mark so pretty.”

That’s a lie so bold it almost makes you laugh, because he had spent half the night trying to see how much of himself he could leave on you. He’d fucked you into the mattress with one hand pinning your wrists above your head, muttering praise and filth against your mouth every time you squirmed beneath him. Every time you tried to quiet yourself, he’d kissed you harder, demanding to hear what he was doing to you.

Remembering it must show on your face, because Remmick’s nostrils flare, and his hand climbs higher between your thighs, two fingers sliding through the wet heat of you with zero resistance.

His smile turns wicked the instant he finds you wet. “All that from me lookin’?”

You reach for the front of his trousers instead of answering, palm closing over the hard shape of him, and the pleased sound he makes sends a thrill through you. His forehead dips to yours, while his fingers drag through your cunt with lazy, confident strokes, circling your swollen clit until your knees weaken and your hand tightens around his cock

“Thought you were proud of yourself,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, catching your mouth in a messy, open kiss, tongue sliding against yours like he’s tasting the words. “Proud enough to do it again.”

He gets you back onto the bed without any ceremony, shoving your slip up around your waist and spreading your thighs wide with hands that already know exactly where they left bruises. His cock is heavy when he frees it, flushed dark and leaking steadily at the tip. He groans low when he drags the thick head through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing your entrance before he pushes in slow—achingly slow—so you feel every ridge, every vein, the way your cunt has to stretch wide around him all over again.

The stretch pulls a shaky, broken sound from your throat. His eyes flick back to the bite under your collarbone as he sinks deeper, hips pressing flush to yours until he’s buried to the root, cock pulsing hot inside you.

“Still so sore… still takin’ me,” he rasps, voice rough with satisfaction. 

You dig your nails into his shoulders as he starts moving, deep and grinding at first, each thrust waking the ache in the bruises beneath his hands. He keeps kissing the marks, licking over them with filthy, open-mouthed drags of his tongue, whispering how pretty you look with his mouth all over you; how badly he wants to bite you again just to feel you tighten around his cock.

When his teeth graze the old wound, your body gives him exactly what he wants.

Remmick curses into your neck as your cunt clamps down around him, and whatever patience he has left breaks apart. His hips snap harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the room, the bed creaking violently under you both. His hand locks tight around your thigh, fingers digging into the bruise he left there, and he fucks into you with his eyes gone black and his mouth hovering over the bite like he’s fighting the urge to tear it open again.

“Let me see what I did,” he breathes, dragging his thumb over the mark while his cock pounds deep. “Let me see you wear it.”

You come with his name breaking soft and ruined against his mouth, your body tightening around him until his rhythm turns sloppy. Remmick follows with a low groan, spilling into you deep, hips grinding as he presses his face into the marked-up curve of your neck. 

Even after, he doesn’t move away. He stays buried inside you, licking lazily at the bite as if he means to keep it tender. When the room starts to pale at the edges, he lifts his head, eyes dragging over the fresh flush rising beside the old mark.

“That one,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over it with awful pride, “might be prettier by tomorrow.”

He gives one last, lazy roll of his hips, pushing his cum deeper into you, and smiles against your throat like he’s already planning exactly how he’s going to mark you again tonight.

I

London, 1599

Some say if you dance with the devil, he might follow you home. That may be true, but so was what your Grandame always told you: “Once the devil gets a good look at you, he’ll never forget your face.” And isn’t that worse than being followed? The real horror is of being seen, and known, and remembered. 

You didn’t believe in the devil. Not really. Not in the way the Mortals did; the horned imp with cleft feet and fangs and a curling tongue. Mortals saw darkness everywhere, dark magic, evil intent, when the truth was so much simpler: there was nature, forces seen and unseen, life and death. No good, no evil. Only power, only energy. Of course, alongside that, there were people and beasts, plants and fish and spirits, and there were beings like you, existing on the faultline between the physical and the intangible, the magical and the mundane. 

That was the true dichotomy. Mortals and the Others; shape changers and bloodsuckers and spirits and witches, like you and Grandame. 

These things all coexisted together, cluttering the rocks and plains of the earth, entirely distinct from the Mortal concepts of good and evil. That being said… while the devil may not exist, while dark magic might be the paranoid mutterings of Mortals afraid of what they didn’t understand, evil was real. It existed in Others, as much as it did in man. You just hadn’t looked it in the face before. Not until that night. 

September in London. The summer hadn’t released its sweaty hold on the capital yet, and the heat remained in the dusty, stinking air long after the setting sun dyed the skies umber. The river was putrid and brown, lapping lazily against the south bank and the oars of the wherrymen, smelling of ripe decay.  It would be another rowdy night, though Bankside knew no other kind. Barely six and the taverns were already full to heaving, punters pressed sweatily against each other above their cups; the brothels rang with screaming laughter, raucous singing and tinkling music. In the alleyways between the ale- and pleasure-houses, brawlers and lovers alike tangled together groaning amidst the trash heaps, beset by rats. The streets were dust choked and dry in the drought, the only moisture to be found was in the gutters; standing water, piss and spilt beer, inching in yellow streams towards the river. 

At the bear baiting the people’s champion, a ferocious black-furred beast named Stormcloud Ned, swung his paw at one of the bloodhounds tormenting him and split the creature’s spine in two with one clean strike. Its vengeful litter-mate leapt at Ned’s throat and ripped out a lump of hairy flesh the size of a child’s skull. The watching crowd roared: the sport was good, and Ned kept things interesting enough to bet on. Their stamping feet in the stands sent ripples through the blood-clotted sand dusting the floor of the pit. Bankside had built itself a colosseum, and in the bear had forged itself a gladiator. Until it would inevitably die, and another poor beast would be brought in in chains to curry favour in blood and broken teeth. 

For yourself, you had pursued other entertainment for your afternoon off; less cruel, but no less bloody. A trip to the theatre. Another trip to the theatre - this playhouse was newly built this spring and you were already a regular. You swallowed the plays like bread and honey, like the roasted nuts the vendors sold outside for a penny. It was a portal, a stifling, sweat-stained portal, to other worlds. Tonight’s fare, bloodsoaked, tragic, dramatic, and funny by turn, was The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. You’d stood amidst the Groundlings slackjawed and wide-eyed as the two hours’ traffic of the stage whipped by, blind to the shifting mass around you, their smells, their gasps and whispers. There was just you and the tale, the boys in their robes and painted faces, their voices flowing like wine over the crowd. When real pigs’ blood poured from their doublets during the fight scenes, you were close enough to the stage for some to spatter your face, and you shrieked in delight. At the final bow, the applause was so raucous it drowned out the Beargarden next door. You hollered and cheered with all the rest, screamed for an encore, for the playwright to come onstage and bow, and clapped so hard the deepening sky was fractured into a thousand tiny pieces between your stinging palms. 

The walk back along the river passed quicker than the walk to the theatre earlier that afternoon. Your mind was reeling with the tale, with treason and violence and prophecy and plot. You recited your favourite parts to yourself, lips moving around borrowed words. 

The fault, dear Brutus, isn’t our minds but in… no, that wasn’t right. Hold on. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in ourselves… 

You wished you could command a room like the actors did, even without magic. You imagined spreading your hands wide and speaking words that a hundred people would hang upon. 

Of course, it would be a tough sell. Women weren’t allowed on the stage. And even if you were, you could never remember all the bloody lines. 

The fault, dear, Brutus…is not… in our...something… but in… something…

No use. You had to hope the meter would click, that later the line would come back to you. The only other option was waiting for the piece to be performed again (which was never guaranteed, the censors came down hard on new plays, banning offensive ones after one performance), or keeping your eyes peeled for a pirated version that some quick-scribbling thief had copied out during the performance to sell for a profit later. Though those were never entirely accurate. 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our…hearts?

Dusk was falling now, and the city was still so hot, so loud. You stepped down onto Green Walk, your boots sinking into the stinking river-wet marsh. It was a lawless part of the city, and not safe for those who could not defend themselves without a knife or a well-timed hex. But you were armed with both, and had no fear of anything but the stink of the mud on your skirts and the wrath your Grandame would bring down on your head if you were really late, and the labour had started in earnest before you got back to Mistress Phillips. She was an illustrious client, the wife of a wealthy merchant. She’d been complaining of birthing pains all morning, begging to push, but Grandame had held firm. Drawing her head conspiratorially close to yours while you both stood at the fire laying out fresh towels and linens to use later, she muttered: 

“She’s barely ready to pass a blueberry, let alone the babe. Nay, it’ll be a few hours yet. Get thee out of doors for a while, come back at eventide. Before seven bells, mind you!” You nodded, and left the Phillips’ house calmly, with all the dignity you could muster. But inside you were dancing jubilantly. Freedom! If you hurried upriver, you could get a ticket for The Globe! Grandame knew where you were headed; where you always went, if you could afford a ticket. She didn’t mind. She’d winked as she sent you away. 

She’d mind that you were late, though. Eventide, she’d said, and it was eventide now: the stars were just pricking through the dusty reddish-mauve of the deepening sky. 

Stars. 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

“YES!” Your smile flashed in the dusk, your shout disturbing an owl. It shrieked; a shrill puncture in the sweltering dark.

You were still beaming as you made your way up to the house, as you kicked the foul-smelling marsh dirt from your boots and rubbed fruitlessly at your muddied skirts with a handful of moss torn from the garden wall. You swung the knocker, greeted the Phillips’ maid, and traipsed past Goodman Phillips with barely a nod, back up the stairs to Mistress Phillips’ chambers, where a reedy moaning was slipping through the gaps around the door. Being a midwife allowed you certain privileges; a wage, of course, and a way to use your power discreetly and in service of the most vulnerable and needy; but more excitingly, it enabled you to strut past the master of any house into a room he feared, into the secretive space of women and apothecary, into the birthing den, where women’s word was law. 

Mistress Phillips was labouring properly now, the sheen of sweat on her brow gelling her pale hair to the pain-crumpled flesh. Grandame was easing her onto all fours on the bed, rubbing firm, soothing circles into her spine, encouraging her in a low voice. She looked up as you entered, her silver eyes flashing. 

There you are, you luskish pigeon! What time do you call this? Eventide, I said! Her voice rang clear in your head, like a church bell heard across the river when the air was especially still. Coven mates could speak telepathically like this, use it for channelling spells and murmuring incantations nonverbally. Grandame mostly used it to talk without being overheard by Mortals, who thought her a woman of few words simply because they could not hear her. 

I’m sorry, Grandame.

“Boil some water, and help me get her into the birthing stool,” she said aloud, as the voice in your head added: I’ll give you a flea in your ear later, girl. She wasn’t angry, not really. Just exasperated. This job was easier with two, especially if magic was needed to ease things along, which, given Mistress Phillips’ slow travail, was likely. You did as Grandame directed, easing Mrs Phillips onto the stool and setting the kettle over the flames to boil. You ground willow bark into a paste with a pestle, brewed raspberry leaf tea, and prepared tinctures of shepherd’s purse and yarrow flower in sight of the labouring mother, while Grandame silently performed her spells at her back. The secrecy was vital, or you risked your magic being outed. And to be outed was to court witch hunters, persecution, and death on the scaffold. 

A midwife was already a suspicious figure, and one who walked through the world like Grandame did? Six feet tall, wire-haired, silver eyed, broad shouldered and strong despite her advanced age? A satchel of herbs and homemade concoctions at her hip and ancient magic in her bones, so vibrant even the Mortals could sense it even if they couldn’t give it a name? Even if countless babes were saved by virtue of being helped into the world by you and Grandame, it would not save either of you if an accusation of witchcraft came your way. Your Coven had learned that the hard way in Berwick, nine years before. 

When Grandame tired, you would take over. A tag team of witchcraft, magic volleyed back and forth across the branches of a genealogical tree. Hours. Contractions. The dusk deepened into bistre darkness. The moon rose. The temperature did not drop. Both you and Grandame were sweating as much as Mistress Phillips, who was desperate and bad-tempered with exhaustion. 

“It must be a son,” she moaned. “My husband wants for a boy, to take over his business. He has no use for girls. You must deliver me a son! It must be a boy. It must-!” 

You couldn’t keep the irritation from rising inside you, brushing up the inside of your sternum like the barbs of a stinging nettle leaf. So often, you heard these words; or worse, the whimpered apologies of a mother still bleeding on the birthing bed, presenting a newborn girl to her husband. The reign of King Henry and his thwarted prayers for boys may have passed into the golden age of Queen Elizabeth, but nevertheless; her subjects wanted boys, boys, an army of boys to carry on after their fathers. What about the girls? You always wondered. What do they carry on? What do they inherit? Where do their legacies go? 

Grandame knew you too well; she caught your eye again and gestured you behind Mistress Phillips to support her shoulders. It was a vital role, but also an invisible one: your distaste at her words would be concealed. As would your spell, the incantations whispered in the mind, strengthened by Grandame’s voice in your head; the beam of power unfurling from you into the labouring woman’s spine, unfurling like lotus petals, blooming… the spell took root and helped the baby turn, giving Mistress Phillips strength to bear down again. Grandame moved forwards, and took the woman’s hands in her whorled old ones, and didn’t once flinch when she squeezed. 

Between you, you supported Mistress Phillips, now transformed into a primal being of survival and pain. Blood. Pressure. A keening wail, rising like wolfsong. And then: a cry. Young Master Phillips emerged into the world. Grandame caught him, wailing and red faced and wet, and cut the cord. She handed him to you to bathe and swaddle him while she attended his mother. This done, and the babe cradled against his mother’s breast, Grandame straightened up with the agility of a much younger woman and crossed the chamber to open the door, calling in Goodman Phillips to meet his son. The relief was palpable on the merchant’s face. 

Grandame joined you at the fireside, where you were gathering up the tools of your trade; the scissors, the paring knives, the linens, the vials of tinctures and herbs and potions, the mortar and pestle. The hare pelt that had been wrapped around Mistress Phillips’ belly to promote a speedier labour. The geodes and runestones in their protective pouch. All went into the worn leather satchel. 

Was it a good yarn, at least? Grandame’s voice, smoky in the mind. You dared a glance at her, found her smiling wryly into your face. You grinned back, dipping your head to her shoulder briefly.

–Wonderful. It was a new one by the young man. Master… Shakespeare, I think he’s called. He’s fantastic. Almost as good as Master Marlowe was—

Ach, Grandame tutted, and she kissed her teeth aloud. You and your Master Marlowe! If you like him that much—

What you should do, you didn’t find out. Grandame’s words, whispered directly into the brain, were stalled by the sound of knocking downstairs. 

Grandame looked up, her silver eyes suspicious. You wondered what she’d sensed, and let your own instincts probe the house, the sharp edge of the sound as a second round of knocks punctured the air. 

“Where’s that Agynes?” Snapped Mistress Phillips, furious at the intrusion into the warm serenity of her new motherhood. Her son squalled at her breast. “Stupid girl! She’ll be dreaming over the stove again, the halfwit–” More knocking. 

“-Go see to that, child,” murmured Grandame, and you nodded, glad to escape the stifling heat of the chamber for the equally stuffy hallway. You descended the stairs, collecting a candle to guide your way, and approached the door as another round of knocking commenced. Still no sign of the maid. You seized the wrought iron handle and opened the door.  

It was a man, bathed in the sputtering glow of the taper in your hand. He was standing close, too close to be polite; framed in the doorway, halfway between the dark without and the light within. His eyes, glittering in the candlelight, fixed on you and held your gaze unflinchingly, even as he bowed politely and greeted you in a clipped, courtly English voice. It settled in your stomach like stones. Something about his voice, his carefully chosen words, his manner, reminded you of the actors on stage. 

“My lady,” he choked out, sweeping his cap from his head and wringing it in his slender, white hands. “I have to throw myself on your mercy. I beg you - implore you - for charity.” 

“Why?” you asked hesitantly. “What’s happened?” 

“Sanctuary,” he begged. “Please, madam. Sanctuary, I beg you. I was attacked on the road by the river there, on the marsh. By robbers. They’re still out there! I barely got away! If they find me—!” 

In the folds of your skirt, you clenched your fist, felt your power thrumming in the hollow between your palm and your fingers. A hex, a warding spell, a defensive curse? You weren’t sure yet. But that voice was like silk fraying over a blade. Smooth, cool, and with a lethal undertone that chilled your blood. He was solidly built, handsome and well dressed in unusual clothes; a high necked yellow jerkin and a pale doublet beneath to match, the quilted fabric patterned with gold darts. He was dripping with yellow, the same hue as saffron flowers, and with gold: a chain at his throat glinting in the candlelight, rings on every finger, tipping the hem of his ruff. 

“You’re well dressed for having just been robbed,” you said, bluntly, and the stranger stilled like a snake willing to strike. You realised that he had not blinked since his eyes found your face, a realisation that made you want to run and hide. He put you in mind of the witch hunters that had descended on you in Berwick. They knocked politely at first, too. 

“It’s like I told you. I barely got away. But they’re out there still, and won’t just take my money. They will slit my throat as soon as catch me. Here—“ he slipped his rings from his left hand, and held them out to you entreatingly. The gold caught the candlelight as his eyes did; gleaming and glinting. “Take these, as payment for your hospitality. Please, sweet lady. Grant me sanctuary. Save my life! Let me in.” There was a desperation in his voice that his eyes did not reflect. “Let me in!!”  

His mantle, a defiant yellow gold around his shoulders, brushed the dusty earth as he dropped to his knees before you, fistful of gold still outstretched, straining against the threshold as though a pane of glass stood between you. He was the picture of vulnerability, of supplication, of weakness, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the suspicion, the chill of dread that had taken root in you. Instinct. The jangling nerve-endings of your power, sensing another, an Other. 

A vampire. 

Of all the Others who shared the shadows with you, of all the faefolk and the immortals, vampires were the only ones Grandame feared. That alone was enough to instill terror, even though you had never met one. Until now. 

“No.” You whispered, drawing backwards, away from the door frame, away from him. “No. No–!” You threw up your hands, palms pulsing with the feverish energy of every protective ward you knew to reinforce the threshold, fingers flared wide and crackling with power. The vampire’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring at the smell of ozone; the sour, electric kick of magic in the air. 

“Oh,” he breathed, and his full lips curved into a terrible grin, as though he really saw you for the first time. “Oh, I see…” 

You dug in your heels, braced all your might against the intrusion of him, cold as steel between the ribs and toxic as hemlock in the mouth. With a shaking hand you reached for the pouch at your hip, made by Grandame: portable protection, sealed with the sigil of a witches’ knot. A bag of magic-charged salt and powdered eggshell, ground rosemary from the kitchen garden you kept, crumbled balsam soaked in frankincense; all to charge your shielding spell, the incantation clamouring in your head and hot on your lips. The vampire watched with a sly, hungry sort of interest, totally unphased at the display of your magic. His ears were pricked for your racing pulse, the tang of your sweat and fear budding against the hum of your magic in his nose. Still his lips wore that terrible curl. 

You tore the pouch free and upended it, dusting the threshold, grounding the spell, reinforcing the ward. Desperation made you bold. You smeared your sweaty fingers through the powder and scrawled sigils on the doorframe that glowed faintly in the deepening darkness.  The vampire’s eyes glossed over the powdery line between you, up over the shaky symbols you’d drawn, onto the plains of your body, the thrumming palms of your hands and the curve of your throat. They lingered there a moment, then climbed up into your face, staring deep as though inspecting the bottom of a pool. For a moment, there was brittle, electric silence. 

And then he laughed; a cold, arrogant sound, a single bark on the balmy air. 

“Ara,” he chuckled, the clipped accent slipping, vowels lengthening melodically. “Ya dote, I’m scarlet for ya. It’ll take a lot more than that to hold me back, once I’m in there with ya, darlin’.” Before you could reply, the parlour door behind you swung open with a clunk.

“How now, Miss!” cried the maid, her heavy footfall breaking the chill silence as she advanced up the hall towards you. “Why have you answered the door? ‘Tis not your place!” 

“Goodwife Phillips was angry you couldn’t be roused, so I came instead,” you said without looking at her, your gaze caught in the trap of those strange, glittering eyes. You steeled yourself as Agynes reached your shoulder, staring confusedly at the scattered dust on the threshold and the mess of daubed shapes around the doorframe, before volleying between you and the vampire. 

“-Who is this?” 

You replied: “A stranger,” as the vampire yelped: “-A friend!” 

He had transformed once more into the timid, fearful Englishman. Still on his knees, the stranger turned to Agynes, fixing her with that stare, that beseeching, desperate need writ large on his pale, handsome face. Agynes was a rosy-cheeked girl of nineteen, a village girl freshly arrived in London for work, heart ripe like a peach ready to be torn apart with sharp teeth. You saw her soften towards him, saw the shiver of sympathy pass through her.

“Please, sweet lady,” he gasped, clasping his hands supplicatorily beneath his chin. “Grant me sanctuary. I was set upon on the road, attacked by robbers. I have told your Mistress of my trouble, but her heart is hard–” 

“-She’s not my mistress,” Agynes blurted out. “Goody Phillips is in childbed. This is just the midwife. She cannot dictate who comes into my Master’s house, and who does not.” You spun to stare at the girl, shellshocked; your movement sent the flame of your taper dancing and the light shifted over the stranger’s face. In the rapid shift of light and shadow, the strange glitter of his eyes became a glow: a pure bloody red. Terror licked its icy tongue up the nape of your neck and into your spine. 

“Aye, but you are kind,” the vampire said gently, his voice full of honey. His lips were glistening and wet in the sputtering light. “What’s your name, chuck?”

“-Agynes,” the girl replied, charmed, her cheeks flushed. A weight dropped into your guts like a stone; she’d softened so readily for him, presented her creamy throat up to the snap of his jaws. “And this is—” You gripped her shoulder, cutting her off and turning her roughly toward you. Agynes grunted in surprise. It was mere superstition on your part, carried over from your dealings with the faefolk, but you believed it nonetheless. Names were powerful. You did not give over yours easily. 

“Stop,” you spat. “He is not what he seems. He’s dangerous. He lies–!” 

“Agynes, show mercy,” the vampire’s voice came again from the threshold, turning the maid’s head. He had risen to his feet again, two spots of dust on his pristine pale hose. “I am  but a humble soldier of the queen, landed from Ireland this morning. The men who attacked me were Irish - supporters of the rebellion no doubt, sympathetic to their countrymen in revolt against the Crown - and they would have killed me if I hadn’t gotten away–!”

“-Ignore him, Agynes,” you groaned. “Think. He’s a soldier? Where is his sword, his scabbard? His clothes are strange. He has gold, but was robbed? He was attacked down by the river, he says. But his clothes are clean. Look at his shoes! Why are his shoes clean, if he walked in the marsh?” You held up the hem of your own dress, still dark with mud from your own walk by the river. Agynes looked, but your words didn’t seem to land. “Agynes!” 

“-Agynes! What’s all this clamour?” You jumped, and Agynes did too: Goodman Phillips was himself descending the stairs, and behind him - you could have cried with relief - was Grandame. “Who knocks?” 

“A gentleman, robbed on the marsh, begging for our help,” Agynes said. She fixed you with a pointed stare. “He is a soldier, a hero who fought in Ireland on behalf of the Queen. But he has been denied aid, barred from your door. By her, a guest of your house.”

You ignored the barb, stared back up the stairs, into the face of the Grandame, pleading, begging inside your head. She nodded stiffly, her mouth a grim line, eyes on the threshold. Goodman Phillips had reached you. He looked the stranger over cynically, and hope flared in your chest.

“-You served in Ireland, sir? With the Earl of Essex?” 

“-Aye sir, at Curlew Pass. The Earl himself gave me leave to return to London, after our defeat to the rebels.” The stranger’s voice was calm, smooth and cool as a stone. The affected desperation he had shown you had melted away. When his eyes met yours, which they did often, they were sly and smug. 

“-He was robbed on the Green Walk, attacked by a band of Irish sympathetic to the rebel cause!” Agynes cried. 

“-So he says,” You snapped. “I didn’t see any roving bands of Irish on the Green Walk earlier. I don’t believe him. Sir - don’t let him in!!” Goodman Phillips turned on you, incensed. He was a big man, bigger than you, bigger than the stranger, and his rage was blustery. 

“-Unfeeling wench! Where is your Christian charity, to deny a member of the Queen’s army sanctuary into an Englishman’s home?” You could have snarled in anger. Your voice, when it came, was brittle as a snapping branch.

“You stupid old fool! Can’t you see he’s not what he seems! You cannot - you must not let him in! He’ll kill us all!!” 

“Granddaughter.” Grandame’s voice was heavy as lead. She stepped forwards, seized your shoulders.  “You have overstepped yourself, to speak to Goodman Phillips thus. We must take our leave. Now.” 

“But–!” You gasped, but she cut you off. 

“Now. The babe is delivered, Goodman Phillips has paid our fee. Our work here is done.” 

“Aye, I think that is for the best,” Goodman Phillips said loftily, and you glared at him. He didn’t notice, turning instead to the stranger. “Come in, sir. Any servant of the Queen is welcome here.” The words passed over you like an icy wave, humming with power. The meagre protection the threshold had provided melted away like snow in July heat. Your own spell faltered, flickered, died. The sigils around the doorframe were mere pictures now, their glow dying; the line of salt across the door just powder, dust to be swept away with a broom. You opened your mouth, raised your hands once more to defend, to ward, to protect—

Let go. There is nothing we can do. Grandame’s voice rang clear and commanding in your head, stopping you in your tracks. We must get away, save ourselves. 

-NO!!! I won’t leave them!!

Grandame’s eyes flashed at your retort. She seized your shoulders roughly, and as her hands connected with your body you felt the heat of a spell, compelling you forwards. She was the leader of your Coven, the font of your power. You were powerless to resist her. 

In the doorway, the stranger was grinning at you, directly at you, and his teeth were white and sharp. 

“A shame, sweeting,” he said silkily. “I should have liked to know you better. Pray, what’s your name?” 

Your jaw was locked by Grandame’s spell, not that you would have opened your lips in response anyway. You did all you could, and spat at him. 

He laughed and stepped aside, bowing gallantly and bidding you goodnight as Grandame pulled you over the threshold. He stepped in behind you, scuffing the line of salt with the heel of his boot. Agynes closed the door with a snap in your face. The last thing you saw was the flaring ruby red gleam of his eyes, boring into your face as though committing every line and curve to memory. 

Grandame dragged you home, deaf to your protests. She didn’t release you until you passed the threshold of your own narrow cottage, the tiny one-up-one-down abode that had been home since you arrived in London. It was built flush to the northern bank of the Thames, near to the wherry steps and the stinking docks at St Katharine’s. It was poky and damp, but had a small kitchen garden and a modicum of privacy. Privacy meant solace, but also safety. For all you yearned for friends, for the companionship you lost with your Coven and your sister, when danger pressed close to the nape of your neck you were grateful for the dark, sombre cottage you shared with Grandame. It was warded from the foundation to the chimney flue, and perhaps the most magically fortified place in London. But your thoughts returned continually to the chill that passed over you as the threshold’s protection at the Phillips’ house evaporated.  

Grandame scarcely let you through the door before setting you to work reinforcing the wards, grinding up bones and eggshell and salt crystals into a powder, tearing wild garlic flowers from the stems until the entire cottage hummed with the stink. She dictated your moves from where she stood, hunched over her battered Grimoire reading aloud while your cat Greymalkin weaved between her feet, the faintest tremor in her voice the only thing betraying her fear. 

“I didn’t realise there were vampires in London,” you ventured, smearing your streaming eyes with your sleeve. You’d moved on to garlic cloves now, ripping them from the bulb and grating them up small. The smell was permeating your pores, stinging your eyes.

“They’re rare. But they can be anywhere. Like rats. There’s always one closer than you think.” Grandame’s voice was grave. 

“Couldn’t we have told them? The Phillipses? Warned them, or—?” 

“It’s no use, child. Speaking of monsters to the Mortal folk will only invite their eyes on you.” 

That word stuck out to you: monsters. As though a vampire was a baser being than yourself, as though their violent existence rendered witches closer aligned with mortals than with them. As though a mortal wouldn’t put both to the fire, vampire and witch alike. 

“…They’re like us,” you mused. Grandame spat on the ground in disgust, her fingers fluttering around a sigil to ward off evil. When she spoke, it was venomous. 

“That creature is nothing like us.” You swallowed, cowed. 

“I know. I… I’ve never seen one before, that’s all. I didn’t expect—”

“Thank your lucky stars you’ve not seen one, girl. I saw you back there; you would have stood your ground, and wouldn’t have left without a fight. But trust the wisdom of my years. I have seen a vampire take down a coven of ten, singlehanded. They cannot be stopped, nor slain. Only slowed down, and evaded.” Grandame kneaded her forehead with an aged fist, her knuckle bones straining against the papery flesh like knots in the bark of a tree. “It is a point of pride that you’ve never seen one. It means I have protected you well. But I will not lose you, not as I lost thy mother, and thy sister. And our coven-sisters in Berwick, and all those before, lost to the fires, or the noose.” Her eyes gleamed, wet with unspilled tears. In her six hundred years, she had seen so much loss. So many of your kind lost to paranoia, fanaticism and hatred. So many killed simply for what you could do, slaughtered by those who were too wrathful in their fear to attempt to understand. Her next words were gentler, had softened in her mouth. “Thou art brave, child. So brave! But you have forgotten an important rule. A witch ought never be alone. You cannot fight things yourself. Sometimes all you can do is protect your coven, and run.”

Those words would echo in your mind many times over the following days.  When the gory scene at the Phillips’ house was discovered the following day; the entire household slaughtered, their blood soaking into the floorboards and witchmarks around the door. When the shiver of terror at this grisly discovery rippled outwards, over London Bridge to the City and along the banks of the Thames to Wapping. When the eyes of your neighbours and clients became cold, stony, suspicious. When the whispers reached you that, as the last people to see the Phillips family alive, the wise old midwife and her granddaughter were now suspects.  On the morning when the heat finally released its grip on the city and the air held the first delicious snap of autumn cold, when the constables and armed officers came for you and Grandame, they echoed once again. Should you have run, both of you, as you had from Berwick? 

You saw them coming up the lane, peeped them from the window and hollered for Grandame; mortal men armed to the teeth, toting bibles and warrants, with a baying crowd of your neighbours assembling behind them. There were so many of them, as though they expected a legion of darkness to reside in the tiny cottage. Perhaps if they’d come ten years ago, they’d have found it, and been made to pay for their invasion; your Coven had once been twelve women strong. But the witch hunt at Berwick had claimed more than half your number and many innocents besides, and the plague six years prior had claimed your mother and sister, and now that left only you and Grandame. Scarcely enough to channel a spell strong enough to summon up a rainbow, let alone a fearsome tempest. There were so few witches left now; so many lost that you wondered how many covens remained at full strength. And yet the Mortals feared witches still.

You tore around the cottage, sweeping the tools of your craft into hiding places, or directly into the banked coals of the stove to burn. You hollered for Grandame again, shooed Greymalkin out the back door, a whispered prayer cast over his sleek body that he would melt into obscurity and anonymity among the strays that gorged on fish guts at the docks. You were bundling Grandame’s books into the stove, now a hearty blaze, when she appeared on the back doorstep, coming in from the kitchen garden with a spade in her hand and fresh dirt on her skirt. She said nothing; merely squeezed your shoulder and shook her head as the door crashed in. 

You acted on your rawest instincts, and fought like a cornered bear at the baiting, scratching and foaming and screaming. The officers dragged you bodily from the house, wrenching your hands behind your back so you couldn’t cast a single spell nor shield your ears from the accusations hurled at you by your shrieking neighbours. 

Witch! Murderer! Babe-killer! Lover of the devil!! 

You let their screams wash over you, weightless as sunlight, and kept struggling, pulling against your restrainers, desperate for freedom, for flight, for a glimpse of Grandame. 

The constables tore the cottage apart for evidence. Every bundle of herbs, every tincture, every almanac in the house was vilified. Some unlucky officer scorched his hands pulling half-burnt books from the stove. The herb garden was trampled into pulp beneath their boots, your midwifery supplies tipped out and shattered against the kitchen flags. No sign of Greymalkin. This small relief offered a shred of comfort you could cling to until Grandame was dragged onto the street. 

They pulled her roughly from the house and threw her to the ground, no respect for her wisdom or care for her age, and you roared and spat with rage at the sight. Grandame didn’t say a word, didn’t flinch, didn’t react. She seemed unafraid. Eerily calm,  in fact, and her eyes met yours in perfect serenity. It didn’t soothe you. The constable announced your charges to the waiting crowd, who cheered with glee at the apprehension of two witches in their midst, the instruments of the horrible slaughter at the Phillips house. You  argued, screaming your own defence, naming the vampire as the true killer. You may as well have been whistling. No one was listening to you. 

They bundled you and Grandame into a waiting carriage, and drove you directly to Newgate prison. There, you were crushed into crowded cells, tortured, stripped, starved and interrogated until your trial, where a sallow-faced justice of the peace charged you both with witchcraft, heresy, and murder, and sentenced you to death. 

Newgate, cramped and stinking and festering as it was, became a kind of chrysalis around your body. Like a caterpillar, once you entered it you could never return to what you had been before. Over the months that followed, you began to consider your life before that night at the Phillips’ house as a kind of dream; a foreign country, a half-forgotten wish. Had you really once been a trusting, smiling girl, who ran up Bankside to watch the shows at The Globe? Had you really readily entered mortal homes to help them when they were labouring and vulnerable? Had you really held their babies when they were fresh-born and innocent, eased them gently into this world only for them to grow up and bare their teeth at you, spit at you, hunt you down like a hare? It all seemed so inconceivable, so obscenely naive. You’d had a strange fantasy of performing on stage. 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings. 

Autumn set in. London’s palette transformed from sunbaked bronze and topaz into a slick wash of grey and silver and brown. The stench of the city remained, sharp and tangy on the frosty air. Soon it would be Christmas, then New Year, then a new century. You wondered if you would live to see 1600. 

Grandame, who had seen six new centuries dawn at least, was stonily quiet throughout your incarceration; both in spoken words and in the private chamber of your mind. She was holding up well, painfully thin and more aged and frail-looking than she had ever appeared, but still vital, vibrant, strong. You had no idea what you looked like, and hadn’t seen your reflection in months, but you hoped you mirrored her strength. 

At night, you would lay curled together on the straw, manacled by the ankles to the wall.   Grandame would sleep. You would chase escape plans around your head, knowing they were futile; without your tools, beaten and tired and cold and starving, your magic had weakened to a barely-discernable humming in your marrow. You’d tried a hex on the cruellest guard, and barely ruffled his hair. The sense of powerlessness was so fathomless, you’d thought you would drown in it. Hopelessness settled around you like tar, thick enough to smother when the sun went down. Around you the other condemned prisoners snored and wept and coughed, warm wet sounds amplified by the cold stone of the cell’s walls. There were six other “witches” in the cell with you, all condemned to die, all Mortal and without a speck of magic in them. They were as innocent of the charge of witchcraft as you were of the charge of murder, and the injustice of it made you feel as though you’d swallowed lead shot. You watched the moon wax and wane and wax again through the barred slit of a window near the ceiling.  

The morning of your execution was grey and cold. You were woken at dawn from an uneasy sleep, where you had dreamed once again of the vampire, of blood and sinew, of the glowing red eyes in the handsome pale face, of the sharp-edged smile and the stray curl of dark hair falling over his forehead. Inexplicably, the dream made your guts writhe like snakes, and you were considering this when the cell door opened; the sneering turnkey and a posse of guards entered the cell and ordered you to your feet. 

“Oh God,” you moaned. “Is it time? Is- is it–” You twisted against your manacles, desperate for the familiar warmth of your magic simmering beneath your skin, for the comfort of knowing you could defend yourself. None came.

Grandame seized you firmly, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug: her silver eyes were burning, her face set and powerful. For the first time in days, she spoke. Her voice in your head was like birdsong, like raindrops on the roof tiles after a drought, so blessedly welcome after her silence. 

Courage, child. Courage! Don’t make them a gift of your fear. 

You gulped thickly, and promised aloud, your lips moving against the wiry brush of her filthy hair. The guards had to prise you apart.

The gallows at Tyburn were surrounded by a braying crowd, the square where they stood still swaddled in the early-morning mist. It had been specially adapted to execute up to twenty-four condemned at once. Death en masse, without discernment. They called the frame of the scaffold the Tyburn Tree, and soon you would hang from its branches like overripe fruit, like bunting on Beltane.

It was November, and the nights had lengthened, greedily swallowing up the daylight. Though it was almost eight bells, the sun had scarcely risen, its weak light barely penetrating the veil of grey cloud and silvery mist. You were shivering with cold as you approached the scaffold, and it made you ashamed. You had promised to show no fear, and now you seemed to tremble with it. The watching crowd would gorge on your terror like crows, a delicious morsel before the feast; the death of an accused witch, the triumph of good over evil. 

Beside you, Grandame was still, her eyes on the gallows as though daring it to take her life. You didn’t have to wonder if she was afraid. Of course not. She was resolved. You felt a swoop of hope, enough to make you giddy. She had a plan. You could see it prickling in her silver eyes, tensing the corners of her mouth, tugging them downwards. Her posture was still straight as an oak tree, despite Newgate’s attempts to fell her; no amount of beatings could bow your grandmother, no Mortal torture could crush her spirit, and this gave you strength. You drew back your own shoulders, stiffened your spine, angled your chin to mirror hers. You repeated her words to yourself, over and over, as you and your fellow condemned were forced onto the scaffold and roughly placed before the dangling ropes that would take your life. Don’t make them a gift of your fear. Don’t make them a gift of your fear. Don’t make them a gift of your fear. 

“Grandame,” you breathed, as the Justice approached, flanked by a priest, and began reading off the charges of the women on the scaffold. She was beside you, her wrists bound before you as yours were. “Grandame, what would you have us do?” 

She did not answer, but smiled reassuringly, glossing her eyes over the simmering crowd, the gallows, the grey-faced priest and the droning judge. He had reached the elderly woman beside you, bowed with exhaustion and sickness and years of starvation in the pits of Cheapside. 

“-Mistress Margaret Baker, you are accused of the capital crime of thievery, that you did steal from Goodman Geoffrey Arundell a silver cup…” 

“-Grandame? What do we do?” It was becoming harder and harder to mask your terror. What was the plan? How would you escape?

“Aye, guilty,” wheezed Mistress Baker. “I pray the Lord have mercy on my soul…” The crowd cheered, the Justice scoffed.

“Grandame–!” 

“-And finally,” The Justice stepped in close, blocking your view of Grandame.  His breath was wine-sour as he bellowed your name to the jeering crowd. 

“-For the capital crimes of witchcraft and murder! You stand accused of the slaughter of Goodman Thomas Phillips, his wife, Mistress Elizabeth Phillips, and his unbaptised babe, newly born, for usage in your dark magic rituals! You did then slaughter the Phillips’ maid Agynes Perrot, and drained both her and the Phillips family of their blood, feeding it unto your familiars and the dark demons that you draw into this world with your evil! You did leave behind witchmarks on the door as part of your ritual, and–”

“-No!” You cried out, unable to listen to any more. “No, no! We didn’t! It was him–” The Justice didn’t even falter, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. 

“-How do you plead?”

“NOT GUILTY!!” You screamed. “Not guilty! We didn’t, we would never–” Your words were swallowed whole by the roaring crowd. Someone threw a rotten apple; it exploded against the wooden frame of the gallows, spraying juice and brown-red flesh everywhere, like viscera. The Justice raised his hand, waiting for the shouts to subside before he continued, his voice icy as the misty air.

“-You are sentenced this day to die, by hanging.” He stepped away, moving onto Grandame to read her charges, deaf to your cries. Panicking now, you strained against the bindings at your wrists, casting your eyes over the crowd for an ally, for a shred of kindness. There was none; the watching crowd were bloodthirsty as hounds, jeering and shouting to see witches and murderers and petty thieves put to death. Between the hostile, snarling faces filling the square before the gallows, standing in the alleyway beside an alehouse crammed with spectators for the occasion, you caught sight of a flash of yellow, dulled by the swirling mist.  

It felt as though the trapdoor beneath you had already fallen away. You tried to keep it in sight, to see the face, to know for sure if it was him, if he’d dared– 

“-How do you plead?” the Justice droned on, his nose inches from Grandame’s face, still proudly angled upwards as though she were the Queen, as though the gallows were a throne and all of us beneath her.

“Guilty,” she replied, simply. 

Your head snapped to the side as though the rope had already pulled taught around your neck. The flash of a yellow cloak vanished from your mind as quickly as it had from your sight. Your head and heart were full of her now, of Grandame, stood tall and ancient and unafraid before the noose, her voice calm and ringing on the air as though she was alone in the square; as though you weren’t screaming for her in your mind, begging her to stop.  

“I am the very witch who did threaten the Queen’s cousin, King James of Scotland, in Berwick these nine years’ hence. I did summon up a storm to drown his young bride on her voyage across the sea. I did commune with the devil. I did send my familiars into the town to spread pestilence and wickedness. I did curdle milk and smother babes. And when King James hunted me down, I did escape justice and curse his lands, fleeing to fair England to spread my Master’s mischief here!” Grandame was grinning broadly now. She was enjoying herself, enjoying the bizarre yarn she was weaving, a pack of lies and sensational tales to whip the crowd into a frenzy. It was working; the Justice and his guards had lost control of the spectators, who were howling like wolves, crowding the scaffold, throwing rubbish and insults. Your fellow accused were shuffling uncertainly, the priest had gone pale. And you - you were desperately trying to quiet Grandame, to stop her tirade, but one look at her silver eyes and you were frozen. She dropped her voice dramatically for the continuation of her tale. The crowd, still broiling with fury, leaned in to catch her every word, as transfixed by her as you were. 

For a moment, you were back at The Globe, and instead of a painted boy on stage reciting his lines, it was Grandame; she commanded the square like an audience, like the hero of an epic play, and you were more awed by her than any of Master Marlowe’s plays or Master Shakespeare’s soliloquies. She was electric. 

“I flew into your stinking cesspit city on a stormcloud, and set to my wicked work. I poured poisons in men’s ears, stirred up malice and violence. I soured women’s hearts, sowed bitter sickness in their bellies. I summoned up the great plagues, sending souls to the grave for my dark master. And this very September, I did slaughter the entire Phillips household, did drain their blood for my dark and demonic rituals. I did leave witchmarks around the door to mock the sanctity of their home; did offer up their souls to the devil! It is true, I am guilty, and I have no regrets!” 

The crowd erupted in fury and terror, but Grandame wasn’t done. “My granddaughter is innocent! I killed her mother with plague, and imprisoned her, cursed her to do my dark bidding, all against her will! She was not with me that night, and when I did summon her to the bloody scene she did weep and pray. There isn’t a drop of magic in her - her soul is so pure it burns me!” 

What are you doing?! You begged desperately, as tears carved tracks through the grime on your cheeks. You said a witch should never be alone! You said we had to protect the coven!    

She turned to you, acknowledging you fully for the first time since the prison. 

I am. 

She lifted her bound hands, and twisted them against the ropes, releasing a pulse of magic you felt in the buds of your teeth. It emanated out like a wave; knocking the priest to the ground and making the Justice drop his scroll, buffeting the faces of the shrieking crowd and cracking the windows of every building on the square. The nooses dangling from the scaffold whipped upwards like kites on a stiff breeze. The magic pressed harder, making your ears pop and your eyes burn, churning the grey clouds above and channelling swirling patterns in the mist. There was a crush at the entrance of the square as the spectators tried to escape. Grandame’s voice rang in your mind, calm and true:

It’s all alright, my darling. It’s all alright. You remember what I told you? Sometimes you cannot fight. Sometimes all you can do is protect your coven, and run. Leave the first to me, and the latter job is yours. 

The guards recovered first, and reacted violently. They threw Grandame to the ground and pummelled her with their fists and boots as her magic wavered and strained. The priest was next, bellowing prayers through pale lips. And you: you were screaming her name, begging, howling, fighting, crying so hard you scarcely noticed another guard loosening your binds as the Justice directed everyone but Grandame down from the scaffold as she was dragged back to her feet, back to the noose. And yet she was still calm, still proud, still straining to stand straight and tall. 

NO, GRANDAME!! NO! NO!! PLEASE–!! 

Go back to the house. Gather what you can, tend my garden, and go. He saw your face, that thing, and he will come for you again. You remember what I always say about the devil? You must run. Her eyes were on you, her voice urgent and strong in your head even as they tugged the noose around her neck. I  love you. I love you. I love you. I lo–

The trapdoor beneath her opened, and the wave of her magic dissolved as soon as her life was extinguished, leaving a stink of ozone in the air strong enough to burn the back of your throat. All around you was calamity and terror, and yet you were numb: your eyes fixed on the limp form at the end of the rope just visible beneath the scaffold, and a silence like you had never known in your head; dark and cold as the open maw of a grave. 

Your pardon came, heavy as lead, unwelcome as a wolf at the door. Every other woman on the scaffold that day was granted a stay of execution until the following morning, because the square had descended into chaos that the guards nor the Justice could quell. As for you, Grandame’s performance left the authorities in no doubt that you were a victim of witchcraft and possession yourself.  They returned you to Newgate in a covered cart with the rest of the condemned, and sat you in a small private cell behind the guards’ mess hall. A guard was posted at the door, and he stared at you unashamedly through the bars. The priest entered, prayed over you, left again; you sat mutely through it all, completely numb, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. The sun had risen high in the sky and begun its descent once more towards darkness before the door opened once more, and you were formally set free. The pardon itself was somewhat anticlimactic - a roll of parchment marked with the seal of the Chief Justice, a final clatter as your manacles were removed, and the squeal of Newgate’s barred gates swinging closed behind you. You were free. And for the first time in your life, you were utterly, completely alone. 

The telepathy of witches, which had been there since before you were born - sacred, comforting, warm - had fallen silent. Where before there had always been the flickering presence of magic, of other spirits attuned with yours, now there was only cool, lonely silence. 

Grandame was really gone! It was unimaginable, irreconcilable. It was as though the entire world had inverted somehow; as though the colours had faded to greys, or the earth and sky had swapped places in her absence. Thinking of a world without her knocked you sideways; you leaned into a wall. Her horrible final moments. Her final words. I love you. 

Who were you without her? Where would you go? What would you do now? It was sundown. You had no home, no family, no Coven. You were alone, as witches should never be. Your powers were weak and your body weaker still. All you wanted was to go home. Why? Home was an empty shell now. But it was yours, and Grandame’s final instructions had been clear: Go back to the house. Gather what you can, tend my garden, and go. 

You closed your eyes, rolled your head back against the rough plaster of the wall. Why did Grandame want you to tend to her garden? She knew as well as you did that the cottage was likely destroyed, vandalised, looted, and unlivable, the garden burnt and earth salted. You could never return to living there, even as a free woman: your neighbours wouldn’t allow it, and to try would incite violence. You couldn’t work as a midwife. The corruption of a witchcraft accusation would cling to you like tree sap. Whichever way you looked at it, your life in London was over, returning to the cottage was pointless, and tending to the garden was downright fanciful. But it was Grandame’s final instruction. 

You pushed off the wall and painstakingly walked from Newgate back down to the river with your head bowed, terrified that someone would recognise you. No one did. The Londoners streaming around you at Blackfriars and on the road that sloped down St Andrew’s Hill to the river barely noticed you were there. An innocent woman died at Tyburn, not the first and certainly not the last, and the city bustled merrily along as though your world hadn’t fallen apart. Grandame was dead and London lived on unchanged: stinking and noisy and careless. You pulled your tattered cloak tight around yourself, flinching when someone walked too close. 

Your footsteps were slow and leaden with pain. You stopped frequently, your bruised, aching limbs trembling under your weight after weeks in shackles and enduring the beatings of the guards. You descended the wherry steps and climbed into the boat with difficulty. The wherryman had to help you, handing you aboard as though you were a much older woman. You stared blankly into the brown Thames, knuckles blanched as you gripped the railing of the boat as it trundled back to Wapping. 

As expected, the cottage was a gaping wound. It had been vandalised, its windows smashed, door daubed with curses and spattered with rotten fruit and shit. You forced the door and picked  your way across the carpet of shattered glass and clay pots littering the floor, sidestepping the overturned table and chairs smashed to matchsticks. The cottage, once full of warmth and humming with magic, was cold and hollowed out. You found yourself collecting whatever relics of your former life the looters hadn’t stolen or destroyed: the chipped mortar and pestle, a dented copper cauldron, a pewter cup. Carved bone runestones, scattered over the kitchen flags like broken teeth. The small spade that Grandame had been holding, that final day, when she came in from the garden before the constables kicked in the door. 

You thumbed the wooden handle thoughtfully. Tend to my garden. She’d had mud on her skirts that morning. Something fluttered in your chest, something warm and enticing that felt like hope. You hurried outside, dropping to your knees in the churned up mess of weeds that was once Grandame’s immaculate kitchen garden, and hacked at the ground with the spade. 

The dusk was deepening to nightfall. You had to light a candle and return to the garden, digging fruitlessly for a while before you were rewarded with a dull clunk under the spade, spreading up your forearm as you struck the earth. You tore up clods of dirt with your fingers when the spade was too slow, eventually pulling up the small wooden chest that had once been kept beneath Grandame’s bed. It was engraved with runes, anointed with protection spells, and under your hands it glowed with warmth. Its clasps were wrought iron and very heavy, but they popped open easily as you tried the lid. The smell that rushed up at you was so familiar it brought tears to your eyes. Grandame. Grandame, condensed into an essence. Rosemary. Frankincense. Lavender. Mint. Rose petals. Pine resin. Old paper. The slightest whiff of ozone, the ghost of old magic.  The contents of the box were tightly packed. Grandame’s Grimoire. Her satchel. Stubs of enchanted candles. Her silver ring, which fit perfectly onto your thumb. Pouches of herbs. Seeds and dried cuttings, enough to grow a garden of your own. There was enough here to start again, to rebuild, to continue living the only way you knew how; as a witch, even if you were coven-less and weakened, exiled and alone. Grandame’s final act took on new meaning, as did her quiet stoicism for the duration of your imprisonment. It was a sacrifice. She knew she would not survive it, knew that the Mortals’ suspicion and fear and vitriol demanded blood, and at Tyburn, she offered hers up. It was not merely for safekeeping that she buried the box, a witches’ toolkit. It was insurance, preparation, a promise already kept. From the start, she was accepting of death. She was protecting her coven. She was protecting you.

You sat for a while silent and still, filling your lungs with the smell of her as your tears flowed freely down your cheeks. The night air was full of noises from the riverbank; footsteps, the shouts and snatches of songs from a nearby tavern, the muffled steps and voices of workers returning home, the din from the distant wharf, the yowl of a cat. 

It was only when footsteps approached behind you, too loud to be from the wherry steps, that you were jolted from your sobs. You spun quickly, upending the box in your haste to stumble to your feet. There, leaning against the garden wall with Greymalkin in his arms, was the vampire. 

Your first emotion, burning white-hot and ferocious, was rage. 

“YOU!” You spat, venom bubbling in your throat. The vampire didn’t respond straight away, merely drew his slender fingers over Greymalkin’s sleek black head in a deft, firm stroke. Greymalkin wriggled, shedding dark hairs over the yellow jerkin, and you stared in exhausted, furious astonishment. Your words stumbled in your throat. “You–! You–” 

The vampire’s eyes, glittering as they had before, slipped from Greymalkin up to your face. His eyebrows quirked, as if to say take your time, and your already simmering blood ratcheted up to a boil. There was no space for fear, only your thundering rage. “Give me my fucking cat!” The vampire’s lips curved; you recognised the lethal angle of the arc from that first meeting, from your dreams every night since.

“Ara,” he exclaimed, his voice melodic and accented as it had been the last time you spoke privately. “He’s quite happy here with me. I won’t do him any harm.” A beat; silence crackling in the bitter air. “I don’t mean ya any harm either, sweeting.” You scoffed, the sound sharp and ragged in your throat. 

“Oh, really? You expect me to believe that, you repulsive creature? My Grandame is dead, hanged, because of you! I was locked up, tortured, starved, because of YOU! After what you did to the Phillipses?” The vampire, who had been half-heartedly listening while scratching Greymalkin behind the ears, looked up.

“-Who?” 

You ground your teeth in fury, your hands shaking at your sides as you curled them into fists. Your blood was up, your humours bubbling. Deep inside, barely a quickening, the tiniest flicker of magic awoke. You tried not to react; tried to fan the spark into a blaze without drawing his attention. Your body was weak. Your magic dulled. But you still had fight in you yet. 

“The Phillips family. You killed them, and ate their baby.” Your voice was trembling now, vocal cords raw from crying and unspent rage. Greymalkin twisted in the vampire’s arms, sensing your distress, and your attention snapped to him. “-Greymalkin, come!” 

The vampire’s brow furrowed slightly. You could see his grip tighten around the cat’s sleek body as he stroked him again, his voice thoughtful when he eventually answered. 

“...Ah. Aye, I did do that. But see, I only do what I have to, to survive. Ya can’t blame a man for not wanting to starve.” You spat on the ground in disgust. 

“You’re no man. Grandame was right. You creatures are nothing like us. You’re foul. You’re a parasite! You’re a filthy baby-murdering monster—” The vampire snorted, laughter burbling in the space between his nose and his mouth, and your temper splintered, sending a crackle  of energy to your fingertips. “—Don’t you dare laugh at me! And GIVE ME MY FUCKING CAT!” He shrugged, smile still curling his lip, and released Greymalkin, who leapt nimbly down from his arms and gave a satisfied little shiver on reaching the ground. Bizarrely, he was unafraid, and settled down on the ground between you and began to preen before slipping behind you into the ruin of the cottage. You stared after him in disbelief as the vampire began picking at the black hairs on his doublet. 

“It’s funny you’re so attached to them, sweeting. The Mortals I mean. They’re mayflies, here for a blink and then they’re rotting in the ground, good for nothing but fuel for us, and they hate you. But here you are calling me a murderer. They’re the murderers. They strung up the old woman, not me. And I’m sorry. Truly, I’m so sorry for it. I wish I could’ve gotten to her first. I was there, you know? At the hanging. I wish I could’ve helped her, could’ve spared her the—”

“I know you were there, you loathsome fucking cockroach. I saw you from the scaffold. You’re hard to miss with that hideous fucking outfit you have on.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? I dyed the mantle myself. Did it the old way, the way old fat King Henry outlawed for us. But where’s he now? In a vault somewhere, rotten. And where am I? Or any of my people? Alive and fighting and holding onto the old ways. Like you.”

“I’m nothing like you,” you spat, though his words had stirred up something in you, buried deep in the murky pond of two centuries of memory. The Saffron Ban. The old King had outlawed yellow, and forbade the dyeing of cloth with saffron, convinced that the colour was a symbol of independence, of defiance against the Crown. But only in Ireland; the land he was determined to subdue, home of a culture he was desperate to crush. 

The yellow. The voice. The slippery way he wove his true heritage into the lies he spun on the Phillips’ doorstep. “You’re Irish then. I knew that was nonsense about the Earl. You didn’t fight at Curlew, for or against the Queen.”

“Nahhh, ‘course I didn’t!” he chuckled dismissively. “Sure, I’m Irish, but I don’t go back too often as of late, not with ye Sasanachs carving it up. I’m hardly after fightin’. Here now, what would I go and do a thing like that for, pet? What good’s a battle for me?”

“Easy pickings for a carrion bird like you, I’d imagine.”

“Ah, ye dote. Only when the sun goes down. And by then the blood’s all dried up. I like my meat fresh, when I can get it.” Bile rose in your throat. The Phillipses were fresh meat. Agynes was fresh meat. The baby was fresh meat. And so were you. You couldn’t take it any longer - the surface tension of your reunion had to rupture. 

“You’re here to kill me?” Unbelievably, the vampire looked flabbergasted. 

“Kill ye? No, no. I don’t want to kill ye, pet. I want to ask somethin’ of ye.” You scoffed as his words landed. 

“You really think I’d give you anything? After everything you’ve done?! You ruined my life!! I wouldn’t piss on you if your ugly fucking cape was on fire.” Your heart was hammering now, loud enough that he could surely hear it. His eyes were fixed on yours, glittering gold and scarlet in the glow of your taper, which was burning low. You eased your weight onto your back foot, inching painstakingly back to the shell of the cottage. Some wards remained, a threshold too, and that might be enough— 

“—ah, ye aren’t too friendly are ye, sweeting? No matter. I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other. And all I ask of ye is a little favour. An exchange really. Ye give me somethin’, and I’ll give ye somethin’ back…” Your guts twisted, hot and heavy as stone in your belly, the way they had when you’d woken up from dreams of him, of the sharp toothed smile held at bay by the threshold. You retreated back a little further, inch by agonising inch, glaring at him with fists clenched as you tried to coax the crackle of power thrumming there into something strong enough to shoot at him. You knew you would probably only have the stamina and opportunity for one blast: you had to make it count. The vampire took your silence as consideration, and continued. 

“—See, what I need is a rare thing, and it occurred to me a while back that a witch might be able to get it for me. But there’s not so many of ye around these days, is there? There’s not so many of my kind, either. And my people, my real people? Ara, they’re all long gone, sweeting. Just like you, all alone now, hm? And see, this house stood empty after they came to get ye, so I know you’ve no Coven kickin’ about. Shame. Ye must feel awful lonely, up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger; a ring that once sat on Goodman Phillips’ pinky glittered there. “-But I can help ye. See, witches aren’t the only ones connected to each other. Our kind, Others, we’re not supposed to be alone, are we? We need… fellowship. Community. Friendship. I can give ye that, and ye can give me my people back. Should be easy enough.” You realised with a start that he had advanced as  you had retreated; he nudged Grandame’s Grimoire with the toe of his boot. “There might even be some spells in this book here.” 

Does he ever shut up? You thought numbly, even as his words permeated your skull. His voice was lilting and entreating and honey-gold, slipping over his slick lips. His face, a broad, handsome face, was open and smiling; a tempting face, a vulpine face, a placid freshwater pool that concealed a whirlpool just beneath the surface. He stepped forwards again, his eyes flaring in the candlelight. You had stopped breathing. He hadn’t blinked since he entered the garden. A string of drool, viscous and milky, slipped down his chin. You spun on your heel, dropped your taper,  and made a break for the house. 

He was faster, and caught your wrist in a vicelike grip, before you made it two paces, spinning you effortlessly into his chest like a dance partner. You struggled, aching bones straining against his grip as the chill memory of your arrest submerged your brain in icy adrenaline. They’d caught you. They’d dragged you hands behind your back, so you couldn’t summon a spell. They’d taken you away, and beaten you, and killed Grandame. You would not be trapped again. You kicked out, striking him hard in the side of the knee, and twisted into him as he buckled, breaking his grip on your wrist. You were running before the heat of his palm could leech from your skin into the cold air; the same air that rushed past your ear as the bulk of the vampire’s body collided with yours, his boots hitting the earth with a thud as though he had jumped. Or just landed.

His arms encircled you like vines, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. Every hair on your body stood on end, your skin bristling, and a shrill gasp tore from your throat. 

“Shh sweeting,” the vampire purred, his voice like a noxious gas. “You don’t have to struggle. Don’t cry…” You ground your teeth together so hard the enamel squealed. Your own voice, when it came, was a hiss, fracturing as you writhed.

“You don’t–tell–me– what to do!– You– creeping– crumb of shit!” Your elbow, the joints sharpened by starvation, drove into the thick plain of his torso beneath the ribs, and as he grunted in surprise you spun against him again, slipping out of his arms and driving a fist into his nose as you turned. The impact ricocheted from your knuckles up to your underarm, the sensation of bone striking bone flooding your gut like nausea, but you struck again. The vampire was winded, but caught your fist and wrenched it back against your wrist almost to the point of snapping the bones; in wild desperation you lashed out with your free hand and clawed down the length of his face with your fingernails. The scratches you left behind were wet and red and angry, and little half-moons of his flesh were bedded in under your nails as you ripped your hand away. But it wasn’t this that made him scream, his cry puncturing the air like the shriek of a fox. 

It was Grandame’s ring. It had scorched his face, leaving behind a furious, swollen weal. He reared back, but you struck again, seizing his head like a ball and forcing the ring flush against his eyesocket. Agony made him clumsy, shock slowed his reaction. He dropped your wrist and you scrambled backwards to the house, tripping over the threshold and catching yourself on the doorframe, spinning around in panic. It was only by the moonlight and the glowing coals of his eyes that you could make him out; he was clutching his face, one eyelid sagging as another weal swelled the flesh. Blood dribbled from the wound, running down his cheek like tears. His expression, what you could see of it, was murderous. 

You brought your hands together, funnelled the energy crackling between them into a beam of power, and threw everything you had behind the hex you lobbed at him. It caught him between the throat and the shoulder, a sizzling brand that cauterised the flesh, and he roared again, charging forwards against the threshold, colliding against the barrier.

The handsome mask he wore had degraded; melted, like beeswax. His face had contorted, grown waxy and hollow; the mouth was pooling with saliva and lethal with rows of narrow, white, razor sharp fangs. His hands had gruesomely lengthened, fingers lethally sharp and tipped with claws. The eyes burned, red and terrible. For a moment, you faced each other; chests heaving, eyes flashing, Immortal forms on full display. The darkness beyond the garden was suddenly splintered by howling dogs and angry men; your confrontation was drawing attention. 

“Go,” you snarled, your entire body trembling with the effort of standing. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go now. LEAVE!” 

The vampire, still staggering against the heft of your spell and the burning weal on his face, let out a crackling, rasping laugh. He probed his face with a clawed hand, inspecting the damage. 

“Ah, sweetness. Ye didn’t have to do all that. See, I’d have made it so you never felt grief again. I’d have taken all your pain…” 

“No one could do that,” you replied. “Certainly not you.” 

“Suit yourself,” he hissed, pulling his hideously engorged hand from his swollen, sizzling face. “I’m sure you’ll be quick to beg me, next time we meet.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” you  snarled. He just laughed. 

“Sure there will, ye dote. I like that waspish sting o’yours. And remember, I have a favour to ask ye.” He spread his arms wide and bowed theatrically, inclining his head to best show the ruined, blistering side of his face, grinning broadly all the while; when he straightened up, he smoothed out his mantle and pulled his doublet straight with a flourish, before turning on his heel and retreating up the garden the way he came. His monstrous form melted away as he walked; the claws retracted, the hands shrank. On reaching the gate he called out once more, taunting and smug, over his shoulder. 

“I’ll be seeing ye, sweeting. The name’s Remmick, by the way.” 

Taglist: @postmodernbeing , @autumnsymphony , @dxmurewrites , @afraidoflittleauldme , @a-rome-of-ones-own , @amoeba-dreams , @leosbones

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The house sat at the dead end of a gravel road, hemmed in by pine trees that swayed black against a bruise-purple sky. One porch light. One window glowing yellow upstairs. Cicadas drilled their summer racket into the dark and somewhere a hound bayed at nothing.

Remmick stood at the tree line with his hands in the pockets of some trousers that didn't quite belong to him.

He tilted his head, listening past the cicadas until he caught two heartbeats inside that house, one thudding slow from slumber, the other quicker.

He smiled and his teeth glinted.

‘Two fer the price o' one, that'll do nicely.’ He thought to himself.

He'd been hungry since dusk, gums aching and jaw twitching while he stalked the highways and the truck stops.

The lock on the back door wasn't even that strong. He pressed his palm against the wood and felt the threshold push back, now just two soft mortal animals breathing inside, ripe and unguarded.

“Kyle! Is tha’ you?” Your voice reached his ears, mild curiosity mixed with a hint of disinterest.

Remmick stayed in silence while listening to your heartbeat across the room, going from a small spike given by a surge of surprise to slowly calming down and reaching a normal rate.

“Come on in, wha’ you’re wait in’ for? Could have swore I spotted some wolves outside this mornin’…” you mumbled the last part wi’ an hint of annoyance.

Could you have really wished tha’ the other person in this house had met said beasts?

The old vampire, who now stepped through the invisible force that would have had him locked outside, had his interest spiked up.

The kitchen smelled like cheap beer and he moved through it without making the floorboards groan, steps silent as cat paws. The living room was dim, old TV still on, throwing blue light over a sagging couch.

He paused at the staircase and listened upward, slow heartbeat was up there in the bedroom, snoring, even.

Pathetic.

Someone steps inside his residence and he doesn’t even have the sense to investigate.

The other quick heartbeat was closer, down the hallway and behind a half-open door, where amber lamplight spilled across the hardwood.

Remmick padded toward it, drawn like a moth to light.

He stopped just outside the doorframe and looked in.

You were sitting on the floor in front of a low bookshelf, knees folded under you, a paperback open in your lap while wearing an old t-shirt soft from a hundred washings, collar stretched out from lots of use and baring one of your collarbones.

Loose sleep shorts and bare feet, hair mussed from running your hand through it while your lips moved a little as you read.

The lamplight caught the side of your throat, vein there pulsing visibly, a pretty blue line under skin Remmick suddenly wanted to taste more than anything he'd wanted in a hundred years.

He went very still as the hunger didn't go away but deepened and twisted into something that hadn't been there on century of being alive.

Observing the way your bottom lip dragged between your teeth and how one of your hands rested on your thigh, fingers idly stroking the skin there without you even noticing.

"Well, fook me sideways," he breathed.

Killing you would be a waste.

There were better uses for a mouth like that.

His blue eyes turned red as his gaze caught a framed photo on the wall displaying the handsome lad in front of him with another man extremely close.

Claws began to replace the fingers of his hands as he looked back over his shoulder at the dark stairs where your boyfriend was up there, snoring, unaware. Some sour-breathed lump of a man who got to come home to this every night and probably didn't even notice what he had.

Probably rolled over and went to sleep without touching you.

Remmick could smell the loneliness on you from across the room.

You were starved and you didn't even know it.

A slow, mean smile spread over his mouth.

"Oh, lad," he whispered to himself, "we're gonna have ourselves a long night."

He turned and went up the stairs first.

The bedroom door creaked as he spotted a broad-shouldered individual sleeping shirtless.

Remmick stood at the foot of the bed and considered the easy kill by just opening his throat and being done with it.

But he'd already decided to be cruel tonight.

He moved fast, one hand clamping over the man's mouth as the other dragged him bodily out of the bed by the hair.

Sad man came awake thrashing, a muffled roar against Remmick's palm, fists swinging at empty air.

Remmick took a punch to the ribs and laughed.

"Easy now, big fella," he crooned, dragging him toward the door. "Yer in for a treat. Don't go ruinin' it."

The man got an elbow loose and swung and Remmick caught his wrist and twisted, bones popping with ease thanks to his supernatural strength and your boyfriend screamed into Remmick's hand, tears springing up in his eyes.

"There," Remmick said, almost gently. "Now we c'n talk."

He hauled him down the stairs and his feet thudded each step, dragging while kicking weakly.

Remmick was smaller than him by a head and yet handled him like a sack of potatoes as he brought him into the living room, dumped him on the floor and before the man could try to crawl, Remmick was on him again.

A knee in his back, hands at his arms, a length of telephone cord ripped from the wall already in his grip.

He bound the boyfriend's wrists behind him so tight the rope-burn started bleeding right away, then his ankles before hauling him upright by the hair and throwing him into the wooden chair in the corner.

A swipe of his clawed hand left deep marks on the man’s naked chest until the man was a trussed-up roast staring at him with bulging eyes.

Remmick stepped back and admired his work.

"Cozy?" He asked satisfied right before hitting him with a backhand that snapped Kyle's head sideways and split his lip wide open.

The man spat blood and started to shout and Remmick hit him again, harder.

By the time he was done, the boyfriend's nose was crooked and weeping, one eye was swelling shut and his teeth were stained pink.

He sagged in the chair, wheezing.

"Now," Remmick said. He bent down so they were nose to nose and his eyes had fully crimson around the edges. "Yer gonna sit there an' be a good lad. Watch an' when I'm finished, I'll do ye the kindness o' makin' it quick. Y'hear me?"

The addresses man made a noise that wasn't a word.

"Grand," Remmick said. He patted the man's cheek, scooping a bit of iron liquid and licking it with his tongue, grimacing at the stale taste.

He stood up and turned toward the hallway. "Now, where's tha' pretty lad got to."

You'd heard the noise and you'd already stood up, paperback dropped and heart kicking hard against your ribs while halfway to the door where the phone was when the door pushed open and Remmick was right in front of you.

He was lean with a sturdy built behind the blood-soaked shirt, damp dark hair curling against his forehead.

"Hello, darlin'," he smiled at you maliciously and you bolted without even thinking, ducking past him into the hallway. You got three steps before his hand closed around the back of your neck.

One second he was in the doorway, the next he was behind right behind and he lifted you up onto your toes with a single one hand, walking you into the living room like a kitten carried by the scruff.

"Don't be like tha'," he was saying, mouth right at your ear, breath strangely cold and stinky of iron. "I just wanna get to know ye."

He shoved you into the middle of the room and you went sprawling.

When you scrambled up, the first thing you saw was your boyfriend tied to the chair, bleeding, one eye swollen and looking at you with such a desperate animal panic that your stomach dropped clean.

Remmick caught you around the waist and pulled you back against his chest the second you tried to go towards Kyle and free him.

He was cold and strong, an arm across your abdomen that bent you back against him like you weighed nothing.

"Uh-uh," he tutted against the flesh of your cheek and he fought with himself to not take a bite at how delicious you smelled. "He's not the show tonight, sweetheart. You are."

Long pale fingers spread across your throat, thumb under your jaw while tilting your head back against his shoulder so you had to look up at the ceiling.

You felt his nose drag along the line of your neck as he inhaled.

He was making low pleasant rumbles while you were breathing in short, panicky bursts. Across the room your boyfriend was making a muffled, awful sound, kicking his bound feet against the chair legs.

"Please," you got out. "Please don't, please—"

"Shhh, shhh, shhh." Remmick's lips brushed the shell of your ear. "Tha's not the word I wanna hear from ye yet. We'll get there."

His hand on your abdomen slid down, past your navel and over the soft cotton of your sleep shorts. He cupped you through the fabric, palm flat, fingers curling and your whole body locked up in a horrified jolt.

"Oh, would ye look at tha'," he purred right before turning you around in his arms easily and now you were facing him, hands settling on your waist and his face was right there in front of yours.

He was handsome in such a blasphemous way that it made your skin crawl.

High cheekbones, a mouth that turned up at one corner with sharp fangs in sight, up close his eyes were too red.

"Now, sweetheart," he said. "I've a question an' I want ye t' answer me honest. Can ye do tha'?"

You didn't speak, couldn't actually.

"When was the last time," he said, dragging one thumb along your cheekbone, "tha' fella over there made ye feel good?"

You made a small wounded sound.

"Hm?" Remmick tilted his head. "I'll wager it's been a while. I c'n smell it on ye all tha’ sadness." He clicked his tongue. "Sad an’ wasteful."

Your boyfriend was shouting through the gag of his own swollen mouth now, a guttural, rage-soaked howl and Remmick didn't even glance at him.

"It's alright, pet," he murmured. "I'll see to ye proper."

Right after he kissed you, mouth landing on yours and prying it open with the press of his tongue, cold as the rest of him when it slid against your warm one.

He held you up with his hands at your waist, tasting heavily of iron and his teeth scraped your lower lip sharply from the prick of fangs.

When he pulled back you were dizzy, lip bleeding and he licked the smear of red off his own mouth with slow satisfaction.

"Mmm, sweet."

He walked you backward, your bare heels skidded on the rug right before your back hit the wall and his body pressed into yours, all that lean cold weight pinning you. He was hard already, could feel him through his jeans, a thick bulge against your hip that made your stomach flip with a sick, confused heat.

"Look at him," Remmick said.

You shook your head.

"Look at him, sweetheart." His hand came up and gripped your jaw, turning your head until you were facing the chair and your boyfriend's good eye was wide and wet. He was struggling, ropes biting into his arms, chair scraping the floor. "Yer gonna keep yer eyes on him while I do this."

"Please," you whispered.

"Tha's not the word."

His other hand caught the hem of your t-shirt and dragged it up, cotton scraped over your nipples and you shuddered while he made a low pleased sound at the back of his throat. He pulled it over your head and let it drop, air hitting your bare chest and your nipples drew up tight.

"Ahh, would ye look at tha'." His knuckles dragged down your sternum lightly. "So handsome"

His mouth went to your neck open-mouthed, wet thing sucking bruises up under your jaw, dragging fang-tips along the artery without breaking skin and you couldn't help the noise that came out of you that sounded too much like a moan.

Across the room your boyfriend made an absolute strangled noise of fury.

"Oh, he heard tha'," Remmick said, delighted. "Good lad. Make tha' noise again fer me."

He bit down lightly to break enough skin for fat beads of blood to well up and your back arched off the wall into him. He sucked hard and the way he moaned into your skin was obscene.

"Fookin'… y'taste like ye were made fer me." He pulled back and both lips sharp teeth were red almost of the same tone eyes his eyes were, the iris swallowed up in it.

He looked drunk and feral-hungry while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.

"Down," he said.

“Look… please just let us go—“ He pushed your shoulders and you slid down the wall to your knees, hardwood cold under your kneecaps as he stood over you, undoing his belt with a bit of goofy difficulty from using one clawed hand while his other was still in your hair.

"Yer gonna keep watchin' yer fella," he said. "But yer gonna do this with me first, hm? Open."

The belt clinked, button on his jeans popping and the zipper rasped down.

He shoved his jeans and shorts down over his hips in one motion and his cock sprang up against his abs, slapping your face once free.

He was huge, quite pale and veined heavily, head flushed an angry red that didn't match his color anywhere else. It curved up against his abdomen, longer and thicker around than your boyfriend's. A bead of clear precum hung at the slit from how excited the monster hovering above was.

"Open," he said again, Irish lilt music to your ears as your mouth watered against your will as he made the wet top kiss your sealed lips tauntingly.

When you opened your mouth with shame burning your face and chest painfully, he first dragged the head of his cock across your lips, painting them slick before sliding the head onto your tongue and holding you there.

"Suck."

You closed your mouth around him and sucked and the long, broken Irish swear he let out was almost worth it.

He let you have him slow at first, working just the tip, tongue laving the underside, lips stretched wide around the flare of him as he stroked your hair, almost tender.

"There ye are," he murmured. "There's a good lad. Look at how y'take to it."

You couldn't help the glance you gave the chair where your boyfriend had stopped struggling and staring at you with a look hollowly.

"Aw, he doesn't like seein' tha' mouth wrapped 'round somethin' that ain't his. Tha's fair, I wouldn't either, if it were mine to lose."

Then he pushed deeper, head of him hitting the back of your throat and your eyes welled up immediately, head smacking the wall behind and your hands flying to his thighs to push, but he was solid under your palms and didn’t budge, letting you choke and breathe slightly through your nose so you could adjust.

"Easy, pet. Y'can take it." His thumb traced the bulge of himself in your throat from the outside, marveling.

"Yeah… y'were made fer me."

He pulled back and let you suck in a breath right before pushing in again, deeper this time and holding.

Pulling back and pushing, rhythm patient yet cruel and his cock made your jaw ache around it, every time the head pushed into your throat you felt your eyes water and nose running while your own cock started to swell against the front of your shorts.

You didn't want to be hard but he was hitting some place in your brain that had been hungry for years and the obscene, full feeling of him in your mouth was making your thighs shake.

His eyes had drifted down between your legs and his mouth curled in a slow, knowing grin.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed. "Would ye look at tha'. Yer gone all hard for me an’ I've barely started."

He pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop and a long string of saliva connected your lip to his cockhead till it broke and dribbled down your chin. He wiped it off with his clawed thumb and pushed the sharp tip into your mouth and you sucked it without thinking.

Delighted, he laughed.

"Up. C'mon." He hauled you to your feet by the arm and walked you to the couch, bending you over the back of it, bare chest pressed into the worn upholstery so that you were facing the chair where your wet faced boyfriend, with tear-tracks cutting through the blood, was restrained.

His good eye fixed on you and unable to look away.

Remmick hooked his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts and dragged them down.

He bared one cheek of your ass and made a soft, pleased noise, letting the shorts fall around your ankles and he ran his hand reverently up the back of your thigh, over the curve of your ass before squeezing.

"Beautiful. Fookin' beautiful, lad."

You felt his cool palm part there and you squeezed your eyes shut.

He gather the endless amount of drool that pooled inside his mouth and traveled down his chin.

Some drops splashed on your naked back as his thumb pressed against your hole, slick and cold, circling and rubbing it as he worked the viscous solution into you with his thumb, then with two fingers followed by a third, his other hand stroking up and down your spine.

His fingers were in you now, three long and cold things crooking against a place that made you jolt and let out a noise you immediately hated yourself for.

Your boyfriend's face crumpled.

"There it is," Remmick said. "Tha's what's been goin' untended, eh?"

He pressed it again and again, working his fingers in deep and dragging them out before shoving them back, your hips started to move without your permission, pushing back against his hand and a hot mortifying flush ran up your chest.

"Tha's right, lad. Yer body knows what it wants even if yer head don't." He crooned and pulled his fingers out.

The thick blunt head of him press up against your slick opening.

Before he pushed in, he leaned down over your back and reached out, hand closed on your wrist, guiding it toward his face. He pricked it on his fang and a sharp gasp traveled all over your body.

He smeared the blood thick across his palm, mouth closing around your thumb and sucking with a low rumble in his throat while reaching down between your bodies and slicking himself with it, hand wrapped around his cock.

It was hot now thanks to your blood, almost feverish. It went into you slick and strange, a buzzing, electric warmth that made your insides flutter as he pushed in and the blunt head spread you wide as you cried out, nails clawing at the upholstery.

Your boyfriend lurched in his chair and Remmick groaned, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.

"Oh fook, lad, yer tight."

He pushed deeper inch by inch, very slick but you still felt every ridge and vein from the thickness of him.

The stretch burned and ached as it went on and on. Just when you thought it had to be all of him, more went in as he kept feeding it into you, hips inching forward and cock splitting your walls as you bit down into the upholstery to keep from screaming.

His hips finally met your ass to indicate he was fully seated, pulsing inside you in a heavy throb that seemed to fill your whole pelvis.

It made you feel both impaled and rearranged.

He held still and let you breathe, kissing and lapping with his tongue the back of your neck.

"Sweetheart, the rest is just fer ye."

He pulled out dragging every inch and sparkling sensation that made you whine, all before pushing back in.

On the third thrust he angled himself and hit your prostate just where his fingers had found, your whole body lit up absurdly.

You sobbed not only from pain, cock throbbing between your stomach and the back of the couch and every drag of him inside you sent a pulse of positive feedbacks through you nerves.

His thrusts deepened and the slap of his hips against your ass got louder as he fucked you slow and deep and he made sure every stroke dragged across that spot, tears were running down your face now but so was something humiliating you couldn't stop.

Your boyfriend, with his split lip and his ruined eye and the ropes biting into his arms, was watching and his face had gone past horror into something blank but you couldn't look away from him because you'd been told not to.

Being observed was making it worse… and better.

It contributed to your cock leaking against the couch in a steady drool that left a wet patch on the fabric.

"He's never had ye like this, pet?" Remmick murmured at your ear, riding your orgasm slowly.

"Stop," you choked. "Stop, please—"

"Stop?" Remmick's voice was a sweet thing. He thrust deep and you sobbed. "Y'sure tha's what y'mean, lad?"

He hit that spot again and ye whined.

"Cause yer prick is sayin' somethin' different. Y'see this?" His long and dangerous hand came around to wrap around your cock and you nearly came right there with the way you leaking thick and steady over his fingers.

So hard it hurt.

He stroked you lazily in time with his harsh thrusts.

"Stop's not the word," he whispered. "C'mon now. Try again, use yer pretty voice."

You couldn't and he fucked you harder and the head of his cock was hammering your prostate with every stroke, your knees were buckling, only his hand on your hip was keeping you up.

Somewhere in the middle of it, in the dazed humiliated dark of your own head, the thought of how this red-eyed monster using you was so much better than your boyfriend.

It crept firmly and got stronger the more he fucked you.

Not like the restrained man who got on and off in five minutes, never asked what you liked. Your boyfriend, who hadn't touched you in two months and didn't seem to notice. Remmick had been inside you for ten minutes and he had already found every nerve you owned and pulled noises out of your system you didn't know you could make.

Some sick part of you was grateful and you hated yourself for it.

He drove into you hard as deep as possible and you cried out.

"Y' just figured out tha' yer fella over there hasn't been doin' his job. Yer just figured out tha' an’ I'm givin' ye what he was supposed to."

"No—"

"Don't lie to me, pet." His hand left your cock and came up to your jaw, turning your face so you had to look at the chair again and meet that hollow staring eye. "Look at him an' tell me I'm wrong."

You couldn't make a sound, your throat had closed up and Remmick made a sound of soft, satisfied wickedness.

"Tha's what I thought."

His mouth found the side of your neck and his fangs went deep, a hot punch of pain that bloomed instantly into more pleasure.

While you felt him drink in avid pulls as he drank, his hips kept moving, large cock always hitting your prostate.

You came untouched, your cock spasming and spilling all over the back of the couch in long thick pulses, your whole body wrung out into one shaking knot. You made a noise that might have been the red-eyed monster drooling on the wound he made on your neck.

Across the room, the chair scraped as your boyfriend was making an awful sound.

Remmick pulled off your neck with a wet gasp, his lips and chin smeared red as he kept pumping himself into you and faster, clawed fingers digging bruises into your hips before he was coming too with a long curse in a language you didn't know, cock pulsing inside you so deep you felt it in your stomach, hot and endless, filling you up until it leaked back out around him.

He stayed in you, bent over your back and panted against your shoulder, his cool body finally a little warm, hair damp against your skin and drool traveling down your back.

"There," he breathed. "Tha's a good lad."

He pressed a kiss to the bite mark on your neck and it throbbed.

"Y' did so well fer me."

You were shaking, tears running into the upholstery and you couldn't tell anymore which part of you was wet from what nor could you look at your boyfriend.

Remmick pulled out and you whimpered at the empty drag of it, cum and blood running out of you down your thighs. He looked down at the mess he'd made and a quiet, pleased sound rumbled in his chest.

Then he turned and looked at the chair, your boyfriend had gone very quiet, head hung and shoulders shook.

Remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across his jaw while walking over.

"Darlin’," he addressed you without sparing a look at your messy state. "Here's the question."

His thumb traced your bottom lip.

"D'ye come with me, or d'ye stay here?"

You didn't answer but your hands had crept up without permission and curled themselves into the front of his shirt.

"Aye," he murmured. "Tha's what I thought."

He bent his head and kissed you, mouth tasting like iron that you were sure you’ll need to get used to.

Suddenly Remmick full vamp-speeded towards your boyfriend, harshly pulling at his hairs to expose his neck before driving his fangs there, taking a big chunk of flesh and bathing his head in the geyser of artery’s blood for a millisecond.

The other type of hunger that first drove him here took over as he drank everything the body below was spraying at him until said person stopped emanating muffled ugly noises.

Weakly you had turned around to not see the second Remmick’ fangs sank in the flesh and atrocious screams of pain echoed inside your ears.

It took one blink of an eye to see Remmick right in front of ye, clawed hands gripping your waist an’ pullin’ your weak body into his sticky warm one, mouth tinted in crimson liquid engulfing your own and parting your lips for an avid kiss, his tongue immediately breaching in and cradling your own as a purr rumbled from his throat into your open mouth.

Too slow.

Too loud.

Too much dew to slick the soles of your feet as you ran from death.

Through dense thickets and towering trees, there wasn’t an end in sight. Lost, but still moving. You had to keep moving.

You weren’t going to make it. You were. You weren’t. It didn’t matter. You had to try.

Because if you stopped, that was it.

Your ragged pants grew into chest-bursting gasps—unused to pushing yourself this hard—whipping past trees and fallen branches and thorny brush. The night was eerily silent (or perhaps it was you that had gone deaf?). All the animals must’ve hid themselves away by now, much better at being prey than you were. Here, the only breathing thing left in these woods was you.

Because that thing surely didn’t breathe. Not like you did.

Uneven ground caused your ankle to twist and slip. You cried out, but carried on. It was all you could do.

You ran just as fast, if not faster, the adrenaline keeping you afloat. But you could hear him getting closer. If you slowed, he would kill you. If you stopped, he would kill you.

Just on the edge of hearing, a steady thump, thump, thump bounded down the path. You remembered his breathy laugh in your ear, the mocking, the wild look in his eye. He was a daemon, or maybe just a beast—coming straight for you.

Hah. Hah.

It wasn’t your fault.

You clawed through leaves that crowded the way. You urged your body to go faster, move lighter, survive, survive, survive.

It was all you could do.

But it still wasn’t enough.

He had gotten too close, too fast. How did you not hear it? The creature in the shape of a man pulling your desperate form back by the thin fabric of your night gown. Curling his arms around your torso like a steel cage. His mouth parted next to your ear as he pulled you against his chest; scaring you half to death with those wet, jagged teeth sticking out like spines.

“No, no, no, no, no… please, please!—” You tried to twist. Almost strangling yourself with the force at which you pulled and jerked away. But his hold was absolute.

You could feel his warm breath steam across your cheek. Sighing something pleased now that you’ve both had a good run and some liveliness in your bones. But it was over now, and hush, shhhh, it’s okay, you’ve lost.

You expected him to tear your throat out, or perhaps strangle you and feast on your organs; your mind coming up with more and more terrifying ways this was going to end.

But no, he did something unexpected instead.

He forced your head to the side and kissed you.

“Mmph!”

His tongue prodded deep with endless drool falling into your mouth. He laved over teeth, tongue, and the silky sides of your mouth, until there was nothing but him, him, him. It was a viscous, uncomfortable thing. Devouring your lips and pressing into the depths of your mouth like he wanted to bury himself inside and never be removed.

It was humiliating, it was gross, it was warm.

You felt so warm. A little voice in the back of your brain told you something was off, but everywhere he touched grew hot. A spreading, blooming fuzziness that seeped into your muscles and made you feel oh, so soft.

“Hm! Mm, oh…” Your struggles faded with the static in your bones. Not because you wanted to, but because you couldn’t control the use of your limbs anymore. Which was more terrifying than if he just killed you.

He groaned, animal-like and pleased at your compliance. Letting his grip soften, letting his kiss turn sensual and firm. You could make out a growing hardness pressing into you from behind, and, with disgust, you could recognize the slow, thick movements of him grinding into your body.

He let you fall to the ground. Grunting and satisfied with the toxin taking hold. Your body completely limp, muscles unresponsive and tight as he moved you the way he wanted. Pulling your knees up, pushing your face down, spreading your thighs to make room for himself behind you.

His too long, too bony fingers dug into the dirt beside your waist. Panting and sighing as he pushed himself against your thigh. You could feel his clothed cock rub back and forth onto you, stroking himself into a fever. Whining as he grasped your hip, curling over you to gain leverage, humping your leg like if he didn’t he’d die.

You weren’t dumb, you knew what he wanted, but that didn’t mean you were ready for how it felt.

That strange warmth clouded your thoughts, made it hard to think. But it was like each nerve had been massaged and heightened to the point his touch on you started to feel good. You started to sweat. You couldn’t move, but a whimper still escaped your lips. His rubbing on your leg feeling like a warm hand on your cunt.

Your face was pressed into the dirt; you tried to move your fingers, even an inch, but all you could manage was desperate twitching as he pressed up on your leg.

He shredded your night gown with ease and in his haste he nicked your back with his claws.

You waited for the pain, but it didn’t come.

In fact, it didn’t hurt at all.

As the blood bubbled from the cut all you could do was moan.

Exposed. Frozen. And open—your cunt begging to be filled. It was all he could do to free his cock fast enough, pushing into your sensitive entrance with a growl.

You could hear him snarl above you—possessively digging into your hips, drawing blood with his claws, licking and mouthing at your shoulder blade. His tongue on your back brought a sharp jolt straight to your clit, his spit turning the spot sensitive and tender. So good that when he bit in, you came with a surprised, choked gasp. Cunt squeezing and milking his cock as he drove in faster. You heard him gulp and swallow before lapping at the wound. That warmth pushing into your veins and making it feel so, damn good.

Your whole body was a living nerve, sweating and feverish and sensitive. Every touch felt like a thousand, every groan amplified a hundred times in your ear. You could feel another orgasm quickly approaching as he bit and soothed, bit and soothed, all while driving desperately into your core.

Your second peak was just as intense as the first time, if not more so. Gushing wetness over his cock and making him laugh and growl in equal measure.

“Mine,” was the first word you’ve heard out of him all night. Repeating it like a brand, mine, mine, mine.

Quick and easy, he flipped you over. Spreading you out again. Pushing back into your dripping cunt. Indecent sounds filling the quiet night air as your pussy swallowed him over and over again.

You weren’t even allowed to cry, helpless as you were. The most you could manage being a slight twitch of your brow.

Your head lolled off to the side, and in your madness you thought you saw the vacant eyes of your ma and da staring back at you. He had killed them, this beast set on ruining you. Charmed your sleepy parents and killed them right in front of your eyes, before looking at you, stepping aside, and just daring you to try and run.

You knew now, he only did it to play with you some more. Perhaps make his meal taste sweeter with an adrenaline high.

It didn’t matter, not now, not when he sucked your bare breast to feel all your muscles grip him tight. You could feel another wave, as impossible as it was, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your nipple it crested. Your body giving another spasm of wetness and clenching that had him burying to the hilt.

When he broke the skin of your breast, you think you came again, but you weren’t sure. All the pleasure and peaks blending together until your mind gave under the strain.

He took your knees in his hands, pressing them up and up and up until they strained next to your head. The angle hitting even deeper than before as he kept you there.

“Please…” you tried to stutter out, but your vocal cords wouldn’t respond. Stop. More. Harder. Ruin me, hit me, bleed me, bleed me, bleed me.

Your whole body convulsed, less of a body and more of a mindless, pleasure-filled puddle. A soft, wet, clenching thing for him to fuck and eat and fill with sensation. As your fifth (or maybe seventh?) orgasm hit, that was all you were: Sensation. Your body trying and failing, to give anything else. Running out of steam, out of blood, out of mind.

He nuzzled at the tender flesh of your throat—bite marks littering your entire body, blood leaking into the soft Earth—and with one final thrust, he latched onto your neck and pumped your body full of his spend.

A ridge at the base of his cock started to swell, his grinding turned to pushing you back and forth as he locked himself inside. If you had any capacity of mind you would be horrified, but in this moment all you could think about was how good the stretch felt. Plugging you up and fitting you together. A warm, comforting weight after an endless burn of friction.

He drank from your sweet neck, making your head spin and your vision give out. Your eyes fluttered closed—head completely empty—as you wallowed in a body ruined. But you didn’t know, couldn’t know, that he would wait for you to wake to do it all again.

Filling you up, making you cum over and over and over, until it took. Until you swelled up nice and pretty for him.

But for now, he would let you rest, laying his head on your body, curling and purring around you while he plugged you up. Taking in all the comfort your body could provide.

And… you remember how that same man did something that silenced the gaggle of frat guys who’d whistled in your direction. How he’d caught you by the elbow before you tripped on an upturned sewer grate. How he led you to your porch without you having to tell him the house number.

At your door, it was impossible to miss the look of devastating and unabashed want that passed over his handsome face, the shiver it sent across your skin. Part of you wondered just what kind of want it was. (The other shouted RUN.)

You could've invited him in. (You didn’t.) He could’ve killed you. (He didn’t.)

All good stories have to start somewhere.

-

It began, as everything does, with blood.

A night out with a few girls from your program. One too many cosmos. Your half-drunken insistence of it’s fine, really, I’m just around the corner. Heels low enough to be walkable but high enough to make the busier sidewalks a challenge. That little voice in your head whispering that drunk cigarettes never count.

So you’d stopped, feet aching, and lingered a moment in the back alley behind some dive bar.

There’s - thank God - that loose cig at the bottom of your bag, the novelty four-leaf clover lighter you got as a gag gift last Christmas. You exhaled, slowly, pushing the smoke out in a tight ring, idly thumbing at the blistered ink of a new tattoo.

The dark city hummed with life.

Just a few feet away, you watched as students lumbered up and down the street, some red in the face and some too wasted to get one foot in front of the other. Someone blaring dance music from a car window. Honking and sirens. A drunken shouting match.

And behind you, a faint cry followed by the crash of a metal trash can.

You turned.

You shouldn’t have.

The ground was wet, though it hadn’t rained in days. The light from the road - the streetlamps, the passing headlights - couldn’t quite penetrate the shadows beyond, nothing at all past the milk crates and overflowing dumpsters.

The glowing red eyes were, however, quite visible.

Your stomach dropped.

The man stepped forward. You couldn’t see all of him, not yet, but the crimson of blood and the ivory of too-large teeth were unmistakable.

“Shit,” he drawled. Everything about him rang false. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

But you were too drunk and confused to manage a coherent reply. He took that as some kind of permission and inched closer, reeking of iron and wet earth. Still, you stood your ground.

“S’pose that puts us at an impasse.”

“Why’d you sound like that?” is all you could think to say, your gaze flitting between pointed teeth and burning irises.

“Like what?”

“Like a… like John Wayne. I don’t know.”

He cocked his head. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

“You some kinda vampire?”

“Shit, what gave it away?”

You nodded over to the limp pair of legs still twitching behind him.

“That was rhetorical, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed.

“You gon’ run?”

“No.”

“Shame. I like to chase.”

“I wouldn’t get far in these shoes.”

And the vampire actually laughed - full-throated, good-natured.

“Oh, you liked that…” you mumbled, straightening, leaning against the bricks for more support. By some miracle, you hadn't dropped the cigarette and so you permitted yourself another drag. You blew it at him. His eyes flitted shut.

The thing about academia is that once you’ve devoted your life to eating, sleeping, and breathing your chosen discipline, it’s just about impossible to ever really stop. Those questions are always working in the background, a hum so quiet you can sometimes forget it’s even there.

But it is. It always is.

And your chosen discipline just so happens to be folklore.

Now, there was no way to outrun this guy, nor were you even getting a punch in before he drained you dry. Not many options on the table, not unless you could summon a silver dagger out of thin air. So fuck it: if all you could do was talk, maybe you’d survive the night.

And… well, some research for your monograph couldn't hurt either, could it?

“Let me ask you something.”

“Why should I?”

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

“That right?” he laughed, eyes crinkling with something almost fond in them.

“Sure seems it. Be a shame to kill me just yet.”

“Alright,” he grinned, and the teeth were wrong. “I’ll bite. What’d you wanna know?”

06/09/95 : #001

The vampire lounges across from you on a dark velour couch that probably cost more than a year’s rent. His thighs are splayed wide, one ankle resting easily over the opposite knee.

He’s dressed better than he was the other night: a pricey leather jacket that seems softened from years of wear. Faded white t-shirt. Jeans. Loafers. (No more bloodstains, in any case.)

All the light in his home is artificial. No overheads - nothing so tacky - just a few candles and low-hanging lamps that cast a golden hue over the room. A dozen false suns to make up for the one he can’t have. The windows are tightly sealed with blackout blinds. There’s a scent like incense in the air, an old one… something that recalls prayer and antiquity. (That, and Drakkar Noir.)

“Can I start?”

“By all means.”

“Alright.” You hit the button on the tape deck and it starts to whir. “9 June 1995, session one. Please state your name.”

“Remmick.”

“Your full name.”

“Only name that matters.”

You roll your eyes, only briefly and not even a full rotation - but he catches it. Cocks his head.

“Somethin’ funny?”

“Nothing. One name, you’re like Madonna.”

He laughs, teeth flashing white.

You clear your throat. “Where were you born?”

“North of Ireland. Town ain’t there no more.”

“Alright. So how old are you?”

“Very.”

This, really, is the question you’ve been dying to have answered.

The idea of living long enough to see empires rise and fall, to see wars started and ended, to see the world move through its infinite many stages… For a historian like you, there’s no greater fantasy nor sharper jealousy.

But when he finally mutters “Must be comin’ up on a thousand,” you nearly drop your pen.

“One thousand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles, slowly, like the sudden shock on your face is feeding him. “Don’t believe me?”

“No, I do, I - but, that’s just a very big number.”

“As I said.”

“Can I ask…”

“Ain’t nothin’ out of bounds, sweetheart.”

“Do you remember it all?”

“Broad strokes, big things - y’know, Easter Rising, Napoleon, Al Capone. The rest, it's just bits n’ pieces.”

“And ho-”

“My turn. Question for a question.”

You swallow your retort. “Alright. Sure.”

“What is it you're lookin’ for?”

“What do you mean?”

Remmick leans forward, both feet planted on the soft Persian rug underfoot, leans in so close that you catch the glints of red buried in the soft blue of his human eyes.

From a distance, he’s handsome. Up close, he’s a vision. There’s a dusting of reddish stubble across the expanse of his sharp jaw. A tiny gold ring in his ear. Eyelashes nearly as long as yours.

“I mean, what is it that possessed you t’come after me, honey, askin’ all these questions?”

“Curiosity.”

“What, you gon’ take what I give you and pen a bestseller? You fixin’ to be the next Anne Rice?”

“No.”

“No? Really? Just… curiosity.”

“I write about folklore.”

“Yeah?” His voice hangs, soft. It envelops you. “What kind?”

“Vampirism as metaphor.”

He barks a laugh.

“Metaphor? Baby, I’m sittin’ here plain as day.”

“And… as a moralizing tool, a holdover from pre-Christian society. Make girls behave, make ‘em too scared to leave the house, fraternize with strange men.”

“That what I am? A strange man?”

“Well. I wouldn’t exactly call you normal.”

He lets that sit for a moment, potent and hungry.

“Nah, y’ain’t wrong,” he speaks suddenly, leaning back. His arms stretch lazily across the seat of the couch. “But I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to fraternize w’the likes of me, anyway.”

“Is that a threat, Remmick?”

“No threat,” he says, and it’s so casual you nearly believe him. “Just fact.”

“Alright. Fine.” You decide to shift gears. “That accent doesn't seem very Irish.”

“Been here a while. Comin’ up on, oh, I don't know, ‘bout a hundred years?”

“Here as in New Orleans?”

“All over. Came through Ellis Island n’just… followed the wind ‘ever it took me.”

“But why here? Why Louisiana?”

He taps a finger against the velour. “I like it.”

“That’s all?”

“Couldn't say. Just feels right. Feels old.”

“And -”

“Ah. My turn.”

You sigh. “Go on.”

“No boyfriend?”

“What?”

He lifts his palms to you. “Or girlfriend. I don't judge.”

“No. Neither. And how would you know that, anyway?”

“Well, I been watching you since that night and I ain't seen no one comin’ or goin’ - no one you been fixin’ to fuck, anyhow, if you'll pardon my French.”

You eye him.

It’s obvious the man's looking for a rise: he wants you flustered, blushing, or else angry, off-kilter. But you know men, even ancient ones, and this is the oldest trick in their book.

“Maybe I fuck with the curtains closed,” you offer, voice neutral.

“Maybe.” He smiles like he doesn't believe a word of it.

“Why does it matter?”

He shrugs, unaffected. “S'pose it don't.”

The standoff is interrupted by the beeping of your watch. You hit STOP on the tape deck.

“Y’got somewhere t’be, sugar?”

“Seminar. I’m giving a lecture.”

He sniffs. Nods slowly. “You’ll be back?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah. You will.”

06/12/95 : #002

“How do you hunt?”

Remmick’s eyes go wide.

Today is grey. Overcast skies. Intermittent roiling thunder. It’s so gloomy that he’s actually left the curtains open a fraction of the way, cracked the window onto the stormy street below.

You sit across from him in the plush chair you’ve come to think of as yours. A half-empty bottle of vintage cabernet sits between the two of you.

“Ah, darlin’, now that’s some nasty work, what I do in the dark. You really wanna know?”

“Yes. Do you pick your targets beforehand or is it opportunistic? How do you lure them in? What is it that excites you, exactly: the hunt, the kill, the blood…?”

“Christ, Dr. Scully,” he laughs, incredulous. “Make it sound like yer huntin’ down the damn Son of Sam.”

“Well, you are a serial killer. No?”

“Alright,” he says, tight. “Sure. I kill.”

“So-”

“Nah, one question at a time. Makes you seem bloodthirsty, otherwise.”

“Fine.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “How do you choose them?”

“Stragglers. Tourists. Assholes. Anyone not liable to trigger a manhunt.”

“Alright. And then how do you get them alone?”

“Well,” Remmick says, “I can be very persuasive.”

He leans forward.

The room tilts.

There’s something all-encompassing in the way he watches you, the way he traces the veins in your neck with his eyes, drags that same gaze up and across your collarbone. It’s as though he’s seeing through your skin, right down to the bones and marrow.

He eyes you like a meal.

The cast of his skin is warmer in this light, not quite as pallid as last time. There's a gold to it, bouncing through the red and brown of his stubble, of his brows, of his disheveled hair. His teeth, when human, are a bit crooked, a bit sharp. Something low and awful hums in your belly.

You can’t find it in yourself to panic.

The rational half of your mind is sounding the alarm, pumping adrenaline through your system in an attempt to force an escape. But… it isn’t enough, not against this. And as he sits there eyeing you, enjoying you, you think back to the manuscript you found in the university archives last fall, some supposed firsthand encounter back in 1931:

It was the strange magic of what he was, that’s what called to me. He was a creature designed for seduction, for the gentle erosion of boundaries. That’s how he lives. That’s how he hunts.

Thank God for the tattoo on your hip.

That little patch of ink stands like a dam between you and the vampire making your blood sing. It’d been the product of another one of your drunken escapades last month, a little five-pointed star that kept coming up in the literature as a sigil of protection. Better safe than sorry, you’d thought, sitting in that tattoo parlour three martinis deep while some girl from your methodology class rubbed soothing circles into the palm of your hand.

You’ve never placed much faith in it - it’s not like you’d actually believed in any of this stuff - but right now, it grounds you like a cold glass of water in the middle of a bender.

Remmick’s breath fans across your cheek - sweet, minty. His gaze is fixed on your mouth, the way you nibble at your lip like a nervous tic, how you hitch a little breath when his pupils blow.

“Seduction.”

You mumble it like an accusation, but there's no real weight to it.

“Could call it that. Yeah.”

“What is it, then, pheromones? Mind control? Black magic?”

He laughs a little. Pulls back, like the show's over. “Why does it matter how I do it? Call it whatever you like. All I know’s that it works and it works pretty damn well, don’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” His brows go wide. “Sugar, if I hadn’t stopped when I did, you’d be slidin’ clean off that damn chair.”

Your cheeks burn with the shame of the truth. “Well. I guess we’ll never know.”

“Shame.”

“Okay.” You straighten your spine - shake it off, settle back into your body. “What is it about the hunt that excites you? You told me the first night that you enjoy the chase. Is that what it is?”

“Sure. I like that part. Little too much, maybe,” he begins, cat eyeing mouse. “But it ain’t only about the excitement, darlin’, not really. It’s more about… the satiation. Yeah.”

You nod up at him, a silent plea to continue.

He takes a swig of wine. Gestures to it.

“You know I cain’t eat? Not food. Lil’ liquor here n’there, but no meals. And sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don’t. Some days, all I wanna do is lay out in the sun like one of them cats you used to find hiding way up in the parapets.” He pauses, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much. “So, see, I ain’t got much to keep me satisfied.”

“And it’s the blood that does it?”

“That and the performance, baby. Followin’ folk down them alleyways, choosin’ the right things to say, readin’ their bodies, what makes ‘em tick. Gets electric when I turn it on - but then, you already knew that.”

You ignore the taunt. “It’s sexual, then?”

Remmick whistles low, rubs at his jaw. “Shit, darlin’, you call ‘em like you see ‘em.”

“Nothing’s out of bounds. That’s what you said.”

“Oh, sure. But I’m an old-fashioned man, see, and I’m wonderin’ whether it’d be decent of me to share those particulars with an impressionable young lady like yerself.”

“It’s just research.”

“Oh, it’s a lot more n’that.”

“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Don’t bother me none.”

“So tell me.”

“Alright. D’you know that I’m about as hard as a fuckin’ rock by the time I’m done drinkin’?”

Your stomach drops. He doesn't stop.

“Wanna hear how sometimes I gotta toss ‘em aside, limp as a doll, and take care a myself right there in whatever fuckin’ hovel I’ve found myself in? See, it’s an excess of blood darlin’, hot blood, and I am but a man.”

“A-alright. That makes sense.”

He sits forward on the divan, quick and bold. Leans across the table and in towards you.

“No. It don’t. None of it does. ‘Cause I cain’t enjoy life in half-measures, baby, not like you with yer two cosmos - three if you’re feelin’ naughty - or whatever toy I’m sure you got hidden under your pillow. An abomination like me’s got two options: suffering or ecstasy. And, as you can imagine, I do tend to lean towards the latter.”

“It’s an addiction, then.”

“It’s a mode de vie, baby. I am what I am.”

As if on cue, your watch beeps.

“Thank you for all that detail.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ll see you next week, Remmick.”

The vampire is still as a statue as you rise, as you collect the writing materials scattered across the dark oak coffee table. You drop them all into your satchel without ceremony, without rush but without delay. You’ve revealed too much of yourself today. Shown too many weaknesses where propriety is concerned. He got to you.

And worst of all, he knows it, too.

“Bet you’ll be thinkin’ about this one all night,” he taunts.

“Probably,” you admit, tone flat. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But it’s…”

“It’s…?”

“It’s in my nightstand. Not under my pillow.”

“Alright.” He rubs at his jaw. “Yeah.”

07/08/95 : #006

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Please.”

You take a heaping bite from the apple and set it down in your lap. He watches as you chew, the grinding of your jaw, the way you lick up the sweet juice collecting at the corners of your mouth.

“Couldn’t stop for lunch. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What would happen if you took a bite?”

“Of you?”

“Ha ha.”

“Ah, nothing. Just tastes bad.”

“Huh.” You grab another bite, scanning quickly over your notes. “Okay. So…”

“Why don’t you let me ask a few, just for now? Finish yer lil’ snack.”

You nod your consent, eyes narrowing in curiosity. He runs with it.

“You ain’t been afraid of me since the first night. Why’s that?”

“Who says I haven’t?”

He points to your heart. “Her. Too steady. Always has been.”

You shrug as you chew.

“And since I’ve spent the last two weeks detailin’ all the nasty shit I’m liable to do,” he continues, “I know you know I ain’t exactly safe t’be around. So… what? You think you ain’t in danger? Think you’re special?”

“I think,” you say, wiping away the last of the juice and setting the core onto a spare notepad, “that you find me interesting. Or entertaining, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I think you’re lonely. By your own admission, you’ve got no coven. You’re alone in the world. So… I imagine it feels good to share these things with someone, to think you’re impressing a pretty girl who can’t do anything but sit here and play nice. That’s what I think. Am I close?”

“Ain’t you bold.”

“I am.”

“Silly me. Here I was, thinkin’ maybe it was somethin’ to do with the pentagram on your ass. Am I close?”

You freeze.

“What, you thought I didn’t know?”

“I didn’t care if you knew.”

And he can hear your heart, hear the way it stutters, so he knows it’s a lie but all he says is: “Hm.”

“Can’t blame a girl for using protection.”

“No. I cain’t.”

“You’re wrong, though. It's my hip, not my ass.”

“My apologies, angel. Why don't you bend over, show me just how wrong I am?”

You roll your eyes.

“Tell me, though, what exactly you think that lil’ ink is doin’ for ya.”

“I…”

“’Cause sure,” he starts, “I can feel it in the room w’me and, sure, maybe my charm ain't hittin’ quite as strong as it's meant to, but I could rip your throat out before you even open that pretty mouth to scream. Ain’t no ink could stop me. You get that?”

You swallow. “I’m aware.”

“So… why the hell d’you keep coming?”

“Because I want to know things. And… well, everyone dies eventually. If I die here, then that’s just how it is.”

“Everyone, huh?”

You sit in the silence a moment. No one blinks.

Your gaze flits down to his mouth, to the pink of his lips and the crooked smile just barely visible. He isn’t even doing his witchy thing and yet all you can think about is crawling into his lap.

“In the end,” you manage. “Yes. Everyone.”

He nods.

“Come with me next time.”

“Where?”

“Hunting.”

He says it like that, like it’s a totally reasonable thing to offer.

“You’d let me?”

“Yeah. I want you to.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

07/15/95 : #009

“ - and you gotta bite down hard, ‘cause if you don’t, if you mess around in there, well, then, now you’ve got yerself a stain too big to write off when the cops spot ya. You gotta move in the shadows. Y’ain’t meant to be noticed, y’understand? Visibility, that’s what gets you killed. Ain’t garlic. Ain’t silver. Visibility. Now, you see this, sugar?”

Remmick holds the thrashing out-of-towner by the collar, digging a knuckle into the exact part of the neck that protects the carotid. He brings his free hand up to cradle the base of your skull, directing your gaze. You peer down at the man’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the tears in his wet eyes.

“Yeah. So it’s gotta be right there or else you’ll make a big mess of it?”

“Exactly,” he coos, rubbing a soft thumb over the nape of your neck. “Smart girl. Right here.”

And then he bites.

The man tries to scream but it’s too late, too wet, too gargled. You avert your eyes. The guilt in your stomach roils. Are you an accomplice now?

You tell yourself that your presence changes nothing. You tell yourself that Remmick would be out to kill tonight regardless of whether or not you joined him. That this poor tourist would still be dead.

The only difference between action and inaction is a clear conscience.

The vampire sucks at the man’s neck with a bacchic, frenzied hunger. The blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth, victim of his own animalistic greed. He takes it all at once: no hesitation, no moderation. It’s awfully gory. The wet tear of flesh, the squirt of red…

You’re too horrified to really process anything except the strange rush of want bubbling low in your stomach. It’s the only emotion that manages to cut through the fear, through the shame and guilt of participating in what you’ve witnessed here.

The body is drained. It hits the concrete with a thump. Remmick wipes his mouth.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

And then you notice he’s hard.

You don’t mean to look down. It’s just - well, it's not exactly inconspicuous.

He follows your gaze. It’s visible even in the shadows, the tenting under his leather belt. He grins slowly, fangs gleaming in the low lamplight.

“Ah. Well, I told you, didn’t I?”

“You gonna take care of that?” you ask, voice just a little too high. “Or are we done here?”

“What, baby, you don’t wanna?”

“No.”

“Alright, sweet girl,” he laughs. “G’on, then. I’ll see you in a bit.”

You nod, turning on a heel, careful not to step in any of the pools of blood.

From behind, there’s the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the ground.

-

Remmick reemerges in a collared shirt you’ve never seen before, the ends of his hair dripping with water. When you crook a brow in confusion, he nods over to the little pond by the edge of the woods.

“Ew. Really?”

“Well, I ain't about to walk around all painted like a Jackson Pollock. Visibility, remember?”

And then he wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you into him. His body is cold - though from the water or the vampirism, you aren’t quite sure.

“Please tell me you washed those hands.”

He tosses you the little bottle of sanitizer gel from his jeans pocket. Before you can stifle it, you’re laughing. That draws a smile from him - not a teasing one, not a smirk, but something much warmer. More honest. He looks down at you like he’s pleased.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Good hygiene’s my utmost priority, angel.”

He pulls you in closer, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re so touchy. I thought you took care of your little problem.”

“Little? You wound me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Nah, alright, it’s just that it’s always the lone men that catch people’s attention. Makes ‘em jumpy. Better t’have a pretty girl at my side after the cops get here. No one’ll suspect a thing.”

“What does it feel like?”

“What?”

“The blood. Does it make you stronger? Give you superpowers?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “Only, I’m feelin’ real good, like I wanna do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like taste you.” You stiffen. He sighs. “Relax, darlin’, I didn’t say kill.”

“Sorry Nosferatu, I can’t justify a turtleneck in July.”

“Why should you? F’anyone comes at you sideways, just tell ‘em your boyfriend’s a real freak.”

That elicits another laugh from you, real and loud and clear. It’s got him preening.

“How long did it take you to get used to it?”

“Drinkin’ blood?”

“Killing.”

He slows a little. You wonder if you’ve toed the line too far.

“My life ain’t like yours,” he says, finally. “Never was. Didn’t take me turnin’ into… this to kill a man.”

“No?”

Remmick clicks his teeth. “Baby. I was born in the Dark Ages. Death’s always been nippin’ at my heels, just waitin’ for me to trip up.”

“Oh. I… Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Ain’t all bad.”

“Good.” You hesitate a moment. “So, what now? We just stand around, waiting for the police?”

“Nah. Now, we go find ourselves a real drink.” He beams as your brows furrow. “Lucky for you, I got the best joint in town.”

It’s field work. Participant observation. Ethnography, even.

You run through the list of anthropological buzzwords like you’re trying them on for size, contorting them until they fit the situation you now find yourself in.

The music in here is very loud, so loud it rings in your ears, so loud it catches in the hollows of your throat.

And Remmick’s got you by the waist from behind, rubbing heavy thumbs into your hips, gripping tightly at them like he thinks you’re about to bolt. Bodies are everywhere. You’re pressed into him, drink in hand, trying very hard not to spill it.

His hand crawls up your forearm, completely covers your own, and brings the glass of gin to your lips.

“Drink up, baby,” he says into your ear. “Need ya to feel how I feel.”

“Blood gets you drunk?” you shout back.

“Somethin’ like that.”

So you down the drink and swear it’s your last of the night.

He wasn’t lying - this really is the best joint in town.

It’s not one of those yuppie gastropubs that the New York Times writes about where the drinks cost more than the minimum wage. It’s also not like the dive bars you and your peers frequent, those little holes in the wall where the booze is cheap and the floor is sticky with unidentifiable liquid.

No, this place is a living, breathing thing.

Remmick moves you like water. Guides you right and left, nudges you where your feet need to go. You like it like this, like not overthinking it. No thinking at all, really.

He spins you like it’s second nature to him. That’s a thousand years, you suppose, one thousand years of finessing every possible social skill. How many girls has he spun like this? How many has he fucked? And how many has he drained dry?

Then he digs his hands into the flesh of your hips, just over the hidden tattoo.

“I like this lil’ thing. I’ve decided.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that?”

“’Cause I feel you drippin’ all over me and I know it ain’t ‘cause you been compelled.”

You stumble on the beat, trip a little into him. He steadies you.

“Remmick.”

“I mean that. Ain’t gotta run circles in my head, ain’t gotta wonder if it’s me or the magic: I know you want it.” His hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. “I’m a very bad man and you want me anyway. Bet you’d let me do it right here, huh?”

And maybe it’s idiotic but you arch into him anyway, letting the curve of your spine melt into the broad expanse of his chest. He brings his arms over yours, hugging you from behind, holding you where he needs you to stay.

“You would. I know it. And if you weren’t so drunk - fuck, I’d do it. Let all these freaks watch.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Nah, we ain’t talkin’ about fair. Not like this, not when your body’s singin’ like she needs me to shut her up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually. But… shit, I think I like this better, knowin’ you’ll be up all night with an ache so deep you cain’t even name the place it’s hidin’.”

“Bring me home, then. I’ll find that toy.”

He laughs against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of it. “Oh, now that, I’d like to see.”

“Too bad. You can’t come in, can you?”

“Not yet.”

“Boo hoo.”

He nips at your ear and you squeal. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”

“Hm. You really won’t fuck me tonight?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then go get me another drink, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

07/19/95 : #010

The air is heavy today.

A sudden chill hangs over the city. It might rain, it might not, but the humidity’s so high it hardly matters. This day wasn’t made for hard work or expending energy.

And yet…

One step through his door and you’re already struck by the supercharged air between you, something like voltage - sizzling and humming just below the visible. He sits across from you, nearly unblinking.

You drink the wine, slow, like the heat in your cheeks could possibly be attributed to the alcohol. To warm you up, he’d said, eyeing the way you shivered in your sundress.

The interview is a short one.

Neither one of you can concentrate. No one addresses what happened at the club.

“Man on the news said there’s a storm on the way.” You offer it like an olive branch, some boring factoid to distract from the way his eyes wander. “Said it's a big one.”

“Hm.”

“Can't believe I walked here.”

“Shit.”

“You aren’t worried?”

“Not in the least.”

Silence.

You flick off the recorder.

“I can’t use of any this.”

He shrugs. “Just makin’ some small talk.”

“I probably should’ve stayed home.”

“How’s that?” He seems almost offended.

“If there’s a… storm.”

“I got candles.”

“You got food?”

“Not unless you don’t mind joinin’ me for eternity.”

“So no.”

You nod. Outside, a crack of thunder rings out.

“Alright. I’ll drive you home, angel.”

“What about the sun?”

He casts a glance up at the slate-grey sky as if to say, what sun?

“Right. Okay. Thank you.”

Remmick watches you.

You know that look, know what it means. You’ve been on the receiving end of it a hundred times in your life, both wanted and not.

It’s not the way a vampire eyes a meal, but… more like the way a man eyes someone he wants to taste, something he wants to devour.

You know he can hear the erratic beat in your chest. You know he can tell from all the way over there how wired you are. You know he’s picking up and cataloguing every hitch in breath, every tiny shift in your thighs, every time your eyes dart to his mouth.

You can’t take it anymore.

-

The rain comes down as a sheet just as you reach the top step of your porch. Fumbling around for your keys, you momentarily forget there’s an apex predator just over your shoulder with his hands dug into his pockets like there’s nothing strange about any of it.

The lock gives with a click and you swing open the door. “Thanks again for the ride,” you call over one shoulder, dumping your work bag by the welcome mat.

“No sweat, sugar.”

“D’you wanna…?”

Remmick stills. “Wanna what?”

“You know.” It just slipped out - but you realize, quite immediately, that you really do mean it.

“That’s so sweet of you, angel,” he says. “But...”

“What?”

“Your name ain’t on the deed. Is it?”

Something cold shoots down your spine.

And then he walks in.

You step back.

“That’s my bad, sugar. I didn’t even think to check. Who owns it, then?” He shuts the door behind him - slow, easy, like nothing’s gone terribly wrong.

“The university.”

He crooks a brow.

Nods.

“So. What d’you want me to do, then? Want me to go?”

“No.”

“You’re shakin’.”

“No - yes, I don’t know, I… But I don’t want you to leave.”

“Alright. Won’t budge.”

“Just… You can follow me.”

It’s like a twisted reimagining of that first night, how you led him through the streets of the dark city praying he wouldn’t snap and rip your throat out. You hear his steps behind you, measured and even, the creak of him on the stairs. The lamps flicker as the rain hits the roof.

But you wonder something.

It’s true you don't own the place. Technically, you’re just renting. And technically… the only place in this house that could kind of be considered yours is the bedroom, the bright one with the bay window overlooking the tree-lined street below.

Now here's a research opportunity.

With a few feet to go, you dash through the door to your room and stumble over the threshold.

Remmick growls, not far behind and -

Nothing.

You wait a beat. Two.

He hasn’t followed because he’s still in the doorway, his figure backlit by the lamps downstairs and casting a long, black shadow onto your carpet.

“Sorry, Rem. Just wanted to test something.”

“I see that.”

“You really can’t…?”

“I cain’t.”

“You’d need me to say it, then.”

“I would.”

You nod.

And reach over to your nightstand.

A flick of the switch and the toy buzzes to life. Remmick bangs his forehead into the doorframe. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Nope. Just wanna see you sweat a little.”

You settle just in front of the doorway, shift your legs apart, letting them fall open from the knee. Slowly, you move the toy up and down your thigh. You’re soaked. He can see it.

He snarls, nails biting into the wood of the frame.

“What? Think you could do better?”

“I get it,” he grits out. “I teased you - I'm sorry, alright? You want me to fuckin’ beg?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Please, alright? Please, I’m - sugar, I need you. I need you t’let me make it up to you. Cain’t do that from all the way out here, can I?” He presses forward, as far as he can get, straining the barrier between you.

Your hand hovers over your core, just inches from where you need it most. “How long’s it been since you had to beg for something? Since you couldn’t just take it?”

“Sweetheart, I - please, I can smell it on ya, it’s all over you n’I - I need it.”

“You’re so pretty when you whine, baby.”

“That’s sick.”

“So are you.” You can’t hide the crack in your voice when the toy makes contact. “Shit, Rem - I wish it were you. Bet it’s big. Bet it’d fit just right.”

“Please.” He falls to his knees, holds up his hands in a mockery of holy prayer. “Anything you want, angel, anything. Just put that fuckin’ thing down and lemme in.”

All he can do is watch as you writhe, still clothed, chasing the feeling as you teeter on the edge.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

“I cain’t fuckin’ watch this. Please.”

One flick of the wrist - you know it - and you’ll come. Just one. It’s now or never.

“You gonna eat it, Rem?”

“Yes. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’m gonna eat it.”

“And then you’ll fuck me good?”

“So good you won’t walk for days.”

“Come in, then.”

And the space between you closes.

The toy is on the other side of the room before you can even switch it off. His mouth is on yours, licking into you like the flavour is what he craves. One hand comes to squeeze at your tit, sharp and possessive. You gasp into him.

“Don’t you ever do that again, baby,” he spits against your teeth. “Y’understand?”

“Won’t,” you manage. “Just get to work.”

It’s another minute before his mouth finally leaves yours, before he’s ripping the dress clean in two and letting the pieces fall unceremoniously to the floor. He kisses down the length of your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, the valley of your breasts, all the way down to your core.

You half-expect him to tease you right back, to draw the whole thing out - bt he doesn’t.

He eats it in a fury, like he’s exacting a punishment. Your fingers weave into his soft, ruddy hair, start tugging at the roots like you could possibly control his motions. Remmick hasn’t even bothered to drag you to the bed, to find you a pillow, to even angle you over the plush carpet just over to the right - no.

You’re doing this right here… and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The dig of his hands into the flesh of your thighs, the way he's got one arm locked across your stomach so tight you can't even buck your hips, the wet sounds barely audible over the crackling thunder and howling wind -

Between all of that and the half-abandoned orgasm you nearly achieved, it takes no time at all for him to shove you over the edge into ecstasy.

You scream. He laughs.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ toy could do that,” he mutters into your thigh, pressing wet kisses into the soft skin of it.

“I need more, Rem, I need - holy shit.”

“I got you, sugar. Lie back, now, lemme do what needs doin’.”

Remmick crawls up over you. There’s a surprising tenderness in how he moves, a distinct attention to keeping his weight even, to giving you enough space to breathe.

“What’d you think, baby, think it’s big?” he mutters between kisses, between the wet stripes he licks across the flushed skin of your neck. “Think y’can take it?”

“Y-yes, I - shit - I can.”

“That’s good, sweet thing, ‘cause I’m gonna make it fit, n’you’re gonna lay right there and you’re gonna thank me for it. Ain’t that right?”

You nod furiously, whining at the feel of canines scraping at your skin. He nips at your breast - not enough to break the skin, but enough to make you keen into him. All the while, his hands roam the length of your bare body.

“Speak up.”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl.” He nuzzles into the slope of your neck, inhaling deep. You claw at his shirt, some faded old band thing that smells of expensive aftershave and iron-rich rot. He understands, pauses his attack, peels it off and over his head.

And then he’s right back where he was, colder than the night and far more beautiful. His skin burns with a strange ice, overwhelms the sticky humidity of the room and the flushed heat emanating from your every pore. The world is made perfect in his expert, ancient hands.

“You let me in.” He mumbles it into the flesh of your stomach - an accusation, yes, but laced with adoration. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t make you. Nah, you did it ‘cause you wanted it. Wanted me.”

“Obviously,” you gasp. “Fucking obviously I wanted this.”

He laughs, soft and airy.

“I know, baby. She -” he runs a finger against your core and you keen - “has made that very clear.”

“Please, Remmick, would you just - I can take it, I’m ready, just - fuck, please…”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, even now, even as he’s rocking back and forth over your bare body, grinding his clothed self into you. “What, y’ain’t so bold now that y’need some cock, huh?”

His blunt words leave you clenching around nothing.

You swallow. “Fuck you.”

“You can, if you ask real nice.”

“I got mine already, Rem.” Your voice cracks as the head of him catches against you. “You gave it to me, remember? And if you want yours, you’d better get on it.”

“Aw, there she is,” he coos, grinning against your mouth. “Dirty girl. Silly girl, playin’ with fire, survival instinct of a fuckin’ pebble.”

“Shut up.”

Remmick reaches down to undo his zip. Tosses his belt aside, the leather sliding through the loops and the buckle meeting the hardwood with a heavy clank. You lower a hand to feel him and he slaps it away.

And then he’s moving against you again, feeling his way through the combined wetness between your bodies without ever breaching it.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he starts. “Is this what you been hopin’ for? Whole time, sittin’ there across from me all pretty n’breakable, pokin’ and proddin’ at a thing so old it cain’t hardly remember what it means to say please… What, you kept comin’ back just hopin’ I’d get you under me? Get you squirmin’, just like this?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and then buries himself to the hilt. You scream. He makes a sound like choking.

“Rem, you’re so - fuck, just slow down -”

“Nah, baby,” he counters, pulling himself out just to push in again. “I can take it, Rem, I’m ready - ain’t that what you said? Ain’t that how you begged? See, I’m just givin’ my girl what she wants.”

My girl.

You whine at that, clench down around him, and he groans.

“Oh,” he spits. “Y’like that? Like bein’ mine?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, I-”

“Good, ‘cause that’s what you are.” He hisses it, his hands coming to land on either side of your face, digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze. “You been mine, sugar, since the first night, since them college boys looked at you like a meal n’got their throats ripped out for their trouble.”

Your eyes go wide.

“Aw, you don’t even remember, huh?” He laughs in your face. “Poor baby’s just lucky was me that found her in that alley and not one of them.”

“Rem-”

“Mine.” He hits you with a cant of his hips that shoves you forward. “Say it.”

You drag your hand from its resting place on his bicep, from the five little indents in his pallid skin, and bring it to rest in his hair. You tug. He snarls.

“Yours,” you whisper, drawing his lips down to meet your own.

“Goddamn right.”

“Because you’re mine.”

“Fuck.” It’s almost a whine. “Oh, angel - fuck, that’s right, just like that - so fuckin’ perfect, so fuckin’ - “

He reaches down to the nub between your legs, chases that same pattern with his thumb as he had with his tongue. You cry out, grip on his shoulders so tight that the tips of your fingers start to tingle.

“Just like that, baby, go on - one more. Know y’can, know y’wanna.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Shit, angel, could be fuckin’ armageddon outside and I wouldn’t stop. Not when I got you like this. Not when you’re cryin’ all over me like a fuckin’ whore.”

All you can babble is his name, rising and falling, swelling and bursting.

“I’m gonna - “

“Oh, you goddamn better.”

So you do.

Remmick doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you the briefest second to acclimate, to ride it out, to come down from the peak. He’s still bucking and moving, still chasing his own high.

What can you do but lie there and take it? What can you do but grab at his mussed hair, coo soft words of praise in his ear, tell him how good he is to you?

“Sweet girl,” he pants, pressing wet kisses across your face, down your neck, in your hair - anywhere his animal body takes him. “You let me in. Let me… let me in again. Ins - lemme come inside, yeah?”

“Inside,” you whine, eyes screwed shut. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Please.”

So he does.

“You’re mine, baby,” he groans, kissing softly at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck. All mine.”

“I’m yours.” You brush a loose lock of hair from his eye. Drag him down again for a deep kiss - slow, filthy, indulgent. “You know that.”

“And I ain’t talkin’ about a fling, angel, ain’t talkin’ about you’re mine up ‘til you get your degree n’get the hell on outta Louisiana. Nah, this here’s forever, sugar, for life. Get that?”

“Your life or mine?”

“Why not both?”

You both look at each other, then, properly. The red’s almost dissolved from his iris. If you squint, he might just be a handsome man like any other, all hungry hands and slick words. You wonder what he sees in you - something fragile to cradle, some sweetness to indulge in.

There's something very human in the way he watches you, how he hangs on whatever words might next leave your lips. Like he knows what he wants to hear. Like he's terrified he won't. Like any of it matters to a creature older than God.

“Bring me to bed, please.”

With a kiss to your forehead, he’s pulling himself from your body, shushing you as you wince. Wordlessly, he lifts your sore frame from the floor as if you weigh nothing, carrying you up and over to the king-size mattress laying unused only feet away.

“I mean it,” he says, drawing your body up against him. His fingers play in your hair, scratch at your scalp. “I could give you forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I don’t know. Did you choose this?”

“No. But you could.”

“You think I’d be happy?”

“Think I could make you. Yeah?”

“You’re probably right.”

“Yeah.”

“D’you think I’d also get horny after drinking blood?”

“Goddamn, I hope so.”

“Pervert.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Y’know, I’d like to turn thirty first, I think.”

“What’s so great about thirty?”

You laugh. “I don’t know. I just want to.”

“Alright,” he mumbles into your hair. “When’s your birthday?”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 2026, NOW.

Tucking in the last of the research papers into your binder, the sound of snickering catches your attention, your eyes lifting up. Lingering towards the doors of the lecture hall were some guys, their eyes flickering between you and each other, a mix of condescending and mocking looks on each of their faces. Your gut churns, feeling sick as they all snicker as they look at you. It felt like you were in high school all over again, being mocked by the popular kids for not fitting their stupid idea of ‘normal’ and ‘cool’. Zipping up your messenger bag, you reach for your phone, sending Remmick a quick text to pick you up as fast as possible. You didn’t want to be around them any longer than needed to be. Frat guys can be real obnoxious dicks sometimes.

Tightening your grip on your phone, you speed walk towards the door, hoping to pass by them without hassle. Please just ignore me. Please just ignore me. Making it halfway past them, you tense up as they shift around, blocking the door completely. Clenching your jaw tightly as they block the way, you try to brush past them again, but they don’t budge. They only puff up their chests, making themselves bigger. It would be pathetic if it wasn’t for the fact that you were alone with them. Resisting the urge to glance at your phone and spam Remmick, you take a step back, anxiously looking for some other exit in the lecture hall. An emergency exit at the bottom of the steps, but there were too many of them and you would not make it there in time. 

“Yoooo! What does that mouth do, ( Y/n )?” One of them jokes, motioning with his hands like he was sucking someone’s dick. 

“What?” You furrow your brows, lips curling down at the joke.

“Oh, come on, we all know that you don’t have a gag reflex.” Another pipes in, making you flush in anger at the crude insults. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

“Dude, everyone saw it! Fucking Grandpa fucker.” He pipes in, making your face fall.

“You saw what?” You question, barely restraining your anger.

“The video.” He scoffs, the words sending a jolt of anger within you.

“What video?” 

“Seriously?” He scoffs, “The one on Pornhub.”

The sound of his scoff only triggers your growing anger. There was only one video that you knew it could be. But, you kept that on your laptop in a folder with an unassuming name. There was no fucking way that it could end up on Pornhub. You wouldn’t upload it. Nor would Remmick, he couldn’t even send text messages half the time. Letting out a booming laugh at your face, you lose your control of your anger, dropping your bag on the floor. Grabbing a handful of his shirt, you throw him against the nearest desk, the chair kicked away in the scuffle. This better just be a bunch of frat boys being dicks for fun and not true. 

“What fucking video?” You press, voice trembling as you force it to not raise.

“Woah! Woah!” 

“What the fuck?!” 

“What fucking video on Pornhub?!” You repeat, hearing the door of the lecture hall open. “Answer me, you little trust-fund shit!”

Grandpa fucker? Gag reflex? Flushing a bright shade of pink at the insult, you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You knew why you would be called that, your relationship with Remmick was public. He looked older than you, and he was, but no one knew the truth about what he was. So it was easy for them to think otherwise. But, no one had ever had a problem with it before. And the comment about you having no gag reflex? No one. No one knew about that other than Remmick⎯and he knew that you’d force feed him liquid silver if he ever dared to mention that fact to anyone, whether it was jokingly or not. 

Tightly clenching your jaw, you shift in place, trying to process what he was saying. Everyone saw. What the fuck did that mean? You never had sex in public. Sure, maybe kiss with Remmick or a cheeky little squeeze of your butt whenever you had to leave for lectures. But, you both saved that kind of stuff for home or the backseat of your car after night lectures. Remmick respected and loved you far too much to let anyone see you in such a vulnerable state. He’d drain them dry and leave their corpses so mutilated that the police would call it the work of a serial killer. So how the fuck did they know that you didn’t have a gag reflex?

“You saw what?” You question, barely restraining your anger.

“The video.” He scoffs, the words sending a jolt of anger within you.

“What video?” 

“Seriously?” He scoffs, “The one on Pornhub.”

“What fucking video on Pornhub?!” You repeat, hearing the door of the lecture hall open behind you. “Answer me, you little trust-fund shit!”

“( Y/ n ), what’s going on?” The familiar sound of Remmick’s voice cutting through the tension.

What’s going on? A bunch of dicks were claiming that your sex tape was leaked online. That's what's fucking going on, Remmick. Clenching your jaw tightly as none of them answer you, you shove him harder against the desk, holding back from actually hitting him. This was already enough to get you put on academic probation. If you put your hands on him for real, you’d get expended and some police charges on you. Staring at you with wide eyes, he holds his hands up in innocence, accidentally brushing against your breast. Remmick growls lowly at the sight of his hand grazing your breast, standing up a little straighter and eyes narrowing in on the frat boy like he was his next meal.

“There’s a fucking video of us online, Remmick.” You sharply turn your gaze back onto the frat guy, “What fucking video? Answer me or I swear to god I’m gonna shove my foot so far up your ass, I’m gonna make you my fucking puppet.” 

“The one on Pornhub! It’s like got your full name on it, ( Y/n ) ( L/n )!” He blubbers, making your eyes narrow at the information. 

“My name?” 

“Yeah, it’s got like your picture and everything on it! Like⎯Like your full name and a picture of you from your social media!” He nods, looking genuinely scared of you. “It’s your account!”

“I don’t have a Pornhub account, asshole. What the fuck are you talking about, huh?” You scoff, narrowing your eyes harder at him.

“But, it’s got like all your details and stuff on it! I swear! Just look it up!”

Looking over his face for a hint of a lie, you can’t find any, and that fact only angers you more. He wasn’t lying. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Letting out a sharp breath through your nose, you release you loosen your grip on him, tears of embarrassment bubbling up in your eyes. If he was telling the truth and it seemed like he did, that meant there was a Pornhub account that had your name and information on it, and apparently your sex tape with Remmick. What. The. Fuck. 

“Get the fuck out of here!” Remmick shouts, “Or I’ll fucking run you over with my porsche!” 

“If you’re fucking lying, I am going to ruin you⎯” You start, but the frat guy cuts you off.

“I’m not! It’s all over Pornhub’s front page!” 

Front page? Shoving him away roughly, you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, using the pressure to keep your tears at bay. You would not cry, because what if this was just a fucked up prank? These assholes had created a chart rating a bunch of girls before, this wouldn’t be beneath them at all. Scrambling to get away from you, you watch the three of them rush out of the lecture hall, practically jumping over them like they were cartoon characters. Covering your face with your hands, you struggle to not cry, a mix of mortification of it being true. 

No one would take you seriously now if that was true. You’d be the laughing joke of your class now. God, they might even expel you for this. One of their star pupils on Pornhub’s front page, fucking her older boyfriend. You’d be blacklisted from the industry. All your hard work. All the months of studying and mulling over research papers. All the times you had to brush him off in place of working. All the stress. All the tears. All the late nights. All of it was for nothing now. All your hard work just…fucking gone and discredited in an instant.

“Love..” Remmick whispers, his face falling at your tears. 

“What if it’s true?” You question, your mind spiraling to the worst.

“How would they even get it? It’s on a flashdrive.” He argues, “He was probably toying with you.”

“I don’t know. But, he said that he knew that I didn’t have a gag reflex. How the fuck would he know that? He could’ve said so much more, but he chose that! He could’ve said something about my boobs or something!" You argue, hiccuping as tears start to roll down your cheeks.

You wanted to believe him, really. But, you couldn’t. There were a million other things he could’ve said, something about your breasts or your ass. Maybe even a remark about you doing some kinky sex position. But, he chose such a weird thing to focus on⎯gag reflex. Shaking your head as more tears fall, it took everything in you to not sob out loud. It was humiliating, and you dreaded pulling up Pornhub to see if it was true. Remmick could barely use his phone half the time, so getting him to do it for you was not gonna happen. Letting out a soft sigh at your tears, he limps towards you, pulling you into his chest. Pressing a gentle kiss onto your forehead, he wraps an arm around your waist, letting out a low hum to try to soothe you. Why was this happening? Why to you?

“Hey, hey, I’ll find who did this.” He coos, wiping away tears with his thumb.

“Remmick⎯” 

“I’ll kill them all, I promise.” He argues, “Doesn't matter if it's true or not, or some fucked up prank of theirs. Nobody makes my girl cry.”

»»»»»» [ Naughty College Slut Rides Silver Fox Boyfriend ] ««««««

✧ 2:39 ─────────〇─────────────────────── 15:01

“Look at her, the prettiest fucking girl I’ve ever seen.” Remmick chuckles, clumsily adjusting the camera lens to zoom in on your face. “Gonna make her my wife once she gets her Master’s degree.” 

“Shut up!” You blush, playfully swatting at him and the camera.

“What? It’s the truth.” He snickers, narrowing his eyes in focus as he tries to zoom out.  

“The truth?” You roll your eyes, snatching the camera back from him.

The sight of your boobs takes up most of the lens, before it slowly zooms back out. It shows the entire midsection of your body, the soft curve of your stomach down to the stretchmarks on your upper thighs. Handing him back the camera, you push back tousled strands of hair from your face, watching him take setting up too seriously. He was acting like this wasn’t just an amateur sex tape that the two of you were making, like this was top Hollywood shit. Propping the camera up on the dresser, he flips the screen to be able to see what was in shot, tongue poking out from his lips from intense focus. Fumbling with the lens to get a clearer shot, he steps back, eyes narrowing to see how it reads on the lens. Frowning softly at how blurry it looks, he presses a button in defeat, the lens automatically adjusting itself.

“Yeah, the truth.” He nods, smiling as the screen finally captures the perfect shot. 

“Whatever.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Nuh-uh, don’t start that attitude shit with me.” He scolds, clicking his tongue. “I’m not about to throw out my back cause I need to punish you.”

“Fucking Grandpa over here.” You mock, flicking at his greying hair with your hand.

“You don’t seem to complain when I’m balls deep in you⎯” 

Flushing a bright pink at his crude comment, you scramble to cover his mouth with your hand, embarrassed that he would say that on camera. It’s not like anyone other than the two of you would see it. Though, still, it was embarrassing to hear. Nipping at the palm of your hand with his fangs, you jolt at the feeling, pulling your hand away. It wasn’t hard enough to pierce the skin, but it still left a red mark behind. Shooting him a scolding glare for the nip, he smugly smirks at you, uncaring about the scolding. You should’ve put on some silver rings to gag him with. Next time. Next fucking time you would.

“Come here, pretty girl.” He growls, dragging you onto his lap roughly. 

“Remmick⎯” You huff, annoyed as he drags you onto his lap.

“Come to Papa.” 

“Grandpa, come to Grandpa.” You correct, rolling your eyes hard.

“Ha ha ha, so funny.” He mocks, “You should go on tour.”

Opening your mouth to counter back, he smashes his lips roughly against yours, silencing your words before they get the chance to roll off your tongue. Letting out a muffled moan into the hungry kiss, you melt into it instantly, tangling your fingers into the silvering strands. The drag of his fangs against your bottom lip sends shivers down your spine, the thrill of danger looming over you. He could bite you.

He could turn you right here on camera⎯have the moment memorialized for years. God, that was so fucking hot. Digging his nails into the fat of your hip, he roughly forces his forked tongue into your mouth to taste the sweetness on your tongue. Tugging hard on his hair,  he lets out a strangled moan against your lips, the boner between his legs throbbing. You could feel a second heartbeat there.

“Don’t tease.” He mumbles against your lips, trying to shimmy himself free of his boxers.

“I like seeing you pout, it’s cute.” You argue back, breaking the kiss slowly. 

“I like seeing you moaning, but you’re keen on denying me that luxury.” He argues back, shooting you a cranky look. 

Touché.

"Shut up."

Resting a hand on his chest for balance, you lift yourself up from his lap, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. Bucking his hips up to try to make it easier to remove them without having to get up, you roll your eyes hard at his laziness, lips curling down. Yanking them down his thighs roughly, you trail your eyes down his chest, shamelessly ogling him. The light sprinklings of silver hairs that lead down to his happy trail. The broad thick muscles covered with scars from battles a lifetime ago. Your handsome little knight, all ready for the taking⎯your taking. 

“You’re staring at me, sweetheart.” He smirks, chuckling lowly.

“I’m sight seeing.” You joke, letting the waistband slap against his skin.

“I got something you can see.” He motions to his crotch, making the smile on your lips fall.

“Don’t ruin the moment.” 

“I’m not ruining the moment, brat.” He argues, shooting you another cranky look.

Good. You liked him cranky, made things so much more fun. Opening his mouth to counter back, you grab the waistband of his boxers, pulling them a little lower. His thick cock slapping against his stomach as you finally free it. The tip flushed a deep red and already leaking pre-cum. Letting out a shudder at the cool air on his exposed skin, you chew on your bottom lip, eyeing the throbbing knot at the base of his cock. You could already feel the stretch from it and you hadn’t even done anything yet. It’d hurt⎯deliciously so. But, you’d force yourself to get used to it because in the end it would be so fucking worth it. The feeling of being so full of him. 

Huffing impatiently as you drag on, he bucks his hips up, the head of the cock slapping against your inner thighs. Shooting him an unimpressed look at his impatience, you put a little more weight on his chest, knees already beginning to ache. Ugh, you seriously needed to work on your cardio. Trailing his hands from your waist, he lets out a huff as you don’t do anything, slapping your ass hard in punishment. Jolting at the painful sting, you slap him across the face hard, the palm of your hand stinging just as much as your ass does. Letting out a smug chuckle at the slap, he stares at you through his lashes, forked tongue flicking out to drag over his fangs.

“Come on, ride me.” 

“No foreplay?” You mock, flashing him a fake pout.

“Since when have you ever needed foreplay with me?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Since I started letting you knot me.” You counter back, “Maybe I want foreplay. Maybe I want to be doted on.”

“Then sit on my face, and I’ll give you all the love you deserve.” 

Letting out an involuntary giggle at his words, you couldn’t stop the giddiness that bubbled in your gut, a blush spreading on your cheeks. Dirty old dog. If you weren’t already on top of him, you’d be twirling your hair and kicking your feet right about now. Grinning widely at your reaction, he reaches between your thighs, rubbing the oozing head of his cock between your folds. Slapping the head against your clit, you shudder at the friction, chewing hard on your bottom lip. Lifting yourself up a little higher, he slowly presses the head of his cock in, letting you slowly ease down. Choking on a moan at the stretch, he bucks his hips upwards impatiently, pushing another inch in.

“That’s a good girl, dove.” He groans, his voice strained with barely contained.

“Remm⎯” 

“Shh, let me make you feel good, sweetheart.” He coos, his chest flexing with tension as he forces himself to not thrust up completely. “Fuckin’ need to make you feel good.”

Gritting his fangs tightly in restraint, you dig your nails into his chest, slowly easing yourself further down. A thin layer of sweat glistening on your skin at the intense stretch. It burns, the lack of foreplay coming back to bite you hard in the ass. Shifting uncomfortably, you arch your back softly, trying to find a position that would ease the burn. But, it doesn’t work. You could still feel the burn from it. It was practically in your fucking throat at this point. 

Catching your discomfort, he reaches up to grope and knead at your breasts, flicking your nipples with his fingers to try to distract you. A weak attempt., but the thought was there. Taking a sharp breath in through your nose, you shift again, slowly easing yourself further down until you could feel the coils of his pubic hair against your thighs. His knot one hard thrust from pushing inside of you. You wanted it, but god, you couldn't handle it right now.

“Next time⎯” You start, but he cuts you off.

“Foreplay?” He winces, cringing at your discomfort.

“Yeah, we’re doing fucking foreplay or lube or something.” You stiffly nod, “I don’t care if you suffocate from how long I sit on your face, never doing this again without something.” 

“Kinky.” 

“Not even close to what else I’ll have in mind.” You huff, shifting on top of him.

Smugly smirking at your words, he trails his hands down from your breasts, softly rubbing at your hips to soothe you. Letting out a shaky breath, sweat trickles down your brow, your legs trembling pathetically. Never a fucking again. Slowly forcing yourself up, you take a sharp intake of air at the strain it puts on your haunches, your nails digging hard enough to pierce his chest. Hissing in pain, he slowly starts to thrust up into you, the slow drag of his cock inside of you sending a shiver down your spine. Meeting his thrusts halfway, the burn slowly melts away as you find the right angle, a moan involuntarily escaping your lips. 

“Remmick..” 

“That feel good, sweetheart?” He coos, “Finally found the right angle?” 

Damn fucking right, only took forever. Throwing your head back in pleasure, you start to bounce at your own pace, the obscene slaps of skin filling the air. The burning between your thighs and on your legs easing up. Darkening as the tension in your body finally melts away, he props himself up on his elbows, smashing his lips against yours in a filthy kiss. His forked tongue and fangs nipping and devouring your mouth like it was his only way to salvation. Dragging your nails hard down his chest, he moans pathetically against your lips, hips bucking up desperately. Your lungs burn the longer you kiss him, aching from the lack of air and cardio. Begrudgingly breaking the kiss for a breath, you pants heavily, a string of saliva connecting to both of your lips.  

“So fucking pretty for me.” He teases, licking his lips clean.

“Shut up.” You blush, embarrassed by the sweet words.

“So fucking pretty when you ride me like the bratty slut you are.” He keeps going, “Gonna put a baby in you, gonna do it on camera so we know the exact moment I made you a Mummy.” 

Blushing a brighter pink at his words, he suddenly flips you over without warning, your back hitting the bed hard. Hooking your legs over his hips, he uses the leverage to fold you in half, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that special spot inside you with each hard thrust of his hips. Punching out moans from you with each hard snap of his hips against the back of your thighs, you choke on a moan at the deep angle, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

Drooling at the sight of your face, one hand snakes down to rub tight circles on your clit, the other shoving his clawed fingers curling around the side of your head. His thumb slides and hooks past your lips to pry open your mouth, making you gag around them. He smirks smugly, thrusting harder as you try to spit out his fingers. Clicking his tongue scoldingly, he spits in your mouth, some saliva managing to miss. It lands on your cheek, making a further mess of your face. 

“Need to make you a Mummy, fucking need it.” He babbles on, too pussy-drunk to really notice what he was saying. “Need to carry on my legacy, spent too many years doing it alone.” 

“Please⎯” You whine, words gargled around his fingers.

“Need to fill you up, please let me knot you.” He begs, his pace flattering as he mentions knotting.

You swear your brain goes numb at his words. Knotting? He wanted to knot you? You wanted it⎯No, you needed it just as he did. It made you feral at the thought of him filling you up, of being stuck underneath him until his knot finally unswelled. Letting out a pathetic whimper as you don’t respond, sweat drips down his forehead, his body trembling as he battles against the urge to knot you. No matter how much he’d crave it, he’d never do it unless you let him. Nodding your head in agreement, he goes still for a second, the icy blue of his iris slowly turning an alluring scarlet. 

Pressing his fingers harder against your tongue, you gag around them, drool smearing down your chin messily. Digging your nails into his back, you stare at him through your lashes in lust, waiting in anticipation for this next more. You clench around him, stomach bubbling up. Growling lowly as you clench around him, he grips onto your hips, lifting your legs higher on his hips. The awkward angle sends a pinch down your spine. Hiding his face in the crook of your neck, he thrusts into you hard and suddenly, stealing the breath from your lungs. The bed creaks under the force of his movements, the sound of your wet, sloppy fucking echoing off the walls.

“Gonna knot you so good.” He growls, “Gonna make you a Mummy.”

“Fuck⎯” 

“God, you’d look so pretty.” He sobs, pulling his fingers out of his mouth.

The heat in your lower gut returns, burning a thousand times harder than before. Sweat trickles down your forehead, your body jerking involuntarily at each torturous thrust of his hips, nails digging painfully into his scalp. Struggling to resist the urge to cum, you whine and whimper at the building pressure in your lower gut, wanting to keep going. Choking on a breath, he thrusts hard, the familiar burn of his knot pushing in making you tense. Even with how wet you were, it didn’t matter. The human body was not meant to take a knot, it was un-natural. 

“Shite.” 

“Please⎯” You beg.

"Not gonna fucking last long if you keep this up, lovely."

"God damn it, stop fucking teasing and knot me already, Remmick." You snap, losing your patience with his blubbering.

Bucking his hips pathetically at your words, you arch your back as your orgasm crashes down on you suddenly, vision going white. It was like being shoved into ice cold water after sitting in a hot tub. Helping you ride out the waves of pleasure of your orgasm, he grinds down against you, the friction of his pubic hard burns against your throbbing clit. Biting down on your throat hard, he thrust on last time before tensing, drool leaking from the corners of his slack mouth as he finally cums. Collapsing on top of you like a dead weight, you wheeze as the air is knocked out of you, a lingering burn between your legs as his knot swells. 

A sickening wet squelching sound fills the air as his hips jerks forward, pushing more cum inside of you. Staring up at the ceiling in a daze, you try to snap back to the present, but your mind still feels fuzzy. You could feel some of his cum ooze out from around his knot, sticky and slowly trickling down your inner thighs. If it wasn’t for him being on top of you, you were sure that your stomach must have swollen up from how much you had cum in you. Cringing at the feeling of his hot sticky skin pressing against you, you try to push him off just enough, knowing that he can’t exactly go too far. 

“Still alive?”

“Barely..” He wheezes, face all red as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Careful, Grandpa.” You wheeze back, “Can’t exactly grab an inhaler for you.”

He doesn’t respond, staring into space for a moment before letting out a pathetic wheeze. Tiredly rolling your eyes at his, you run your fingers through his hair, pushing back the sweat soaked strands from his face. Really, it should be the other way around, where he was doting on you. But, this was to be expected from your old man. He wasn’t a young knight anymore. Purring softly as you scratch his scalp with your nails, he blinks slowly, almost looking like a lizard with the slow blinking. Looking over your face softly, he diverts his eyes to the dresser, staring at the camera.

“Is the camera even on?” He questions, squinting softly.

He had been watching you for a while.

The longer he watched you from the shadows, the harder it got for him to keep his distance.

You were so enchanting. He loved the way you smiled; it was like seeing the sun again after centuries of darkness and moonlight. Your sweet laughter was a balm to his weary heart. You were kind to everyone, even towards the people in town who leeched off such kindness.

Remmick was always quick to deal with such people. How dare they take advantage of someone so sweet? No matter, though, as they made for easy meals.

He found where you lived and would stop by every night to watch you sleep. Even in slumber, he found you utterly enchanting. You looked like an angel—your hair strewn across your pillow like a halo, your expression serene. You were surely dreaming the sweetest dreams to be sleeping with such peace on your face.

And then there was your body. Your blanket draped over your body just so, allowing for him to see its curves and contours from the window he spied from.

You must be so soft and warm under there. Remmick groaned softly at the thought and slipped one hand into his pants. He wanted to feel your warmth beneath his fingertips so badly.

But feeling the warmth and softness of your body as you squirmed and writhed under him in pleasure? Even better.

Remmick placed his forehead against your window as the movements of his hand became more frantic, chasing a release he wasn't even fully aware he was chasing; he was so caught up in this thoughts and fantasies. His eyes started to flutter, and he bit on his bottom lip to stifle his whimpers as he felt himself get closer and closer to the edge.

You were a virgin. He knew you were; he could smell it. He wanted to be the one to defile you. He wanted to be the one to introduce you to the carnal pleasures of the flesh.

He wanted to be the one to take away your innocence and replace it with filthy pleasure you would crave from him and him only.

Remmick pulled his hand out of his pants, breaths soft and heavy, looking down at the sticky mess he made all over his hand. His mouth couldn't help quirking into an amused smile at the sight. It was amazing how such an innocent, little thing like you could have him feeling like a desperate animal in a rut.

You had no idea of the effect you had on him as you continued to peacefully sleep in your bedroom.

Quietly, Remmick left a small smudge of himself on your window, a silent claim on you, and a promise he would come back to collect you.

You were his to collect and claim, after all.

And he would, once he had everything ready for you.

It was time.

Remmick was once again standing outside your window as you slept, all soft and warm in your bed. His eyes trailed down to the smudge he left on your window, as they had done every time he came to watch you. You must not have noticed it since it was still staining your window, but he wondered if you would even know what it was if you had spotted it. Probably not, he concluded; such a thing was surely outside your area of expertise as something so precious and innocent.

He gently tapped on your window, just enough to rouse you from your slumber. His red, glowing eyes reflected his delight as he watched you stir. His vampiric hearing allowed him to hear the little noise you made as you stretched your limbs and slowly sat yourself up in your bed.

"Huh…?" you mumbled into the darkness of your bedroom. You rubbed both of your eyes with your hands, wiping away the sleep clinging to your eyelids. "What was that noise?" You stretched one more time once you had rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and then focused your attention onto your bedroom window.

You shrieked at the sight of a strange man with glowing, red eyes standing right out your window.

As he watched you pull your blanket over yourself to hide, it occurred to Remmick that his supernatural appearance would have been especially startling to an innocent, little thing like you, and he couldn't having you fearing him. You wouldn't come to him if you feared him. He needed to rectify this.

"No, no, no. Don't be scared, sweetness." Remmick placed both of his hands on your bedroom window as he pressed himself closer to get a better look at you, watching you as you continued to hide underneath your blanket. He spoke gently, each word meant to soothe you. "I'm not here to hurt you."

When you didn't come out of your hiding spot, Remmick knew he had to try harder to coax you out. He recalled the bookshelf in your bedroom and focused his attention on its contents. Among the trinkets and knickknacks was your collection of fairytale books, which held what he knew would be the perfect thing to lure you out from under the blanket.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said again to reassure you, his eyes trailing back to where you hid under your blanket. "I'm your handsome prince, sweetness."

His words hung in the air for a moment, but Remmick didn't wait with bated breath. He knew you would come out of hiding, and he had to keep himself from grinning wickedly in victory as you slowly emerged from under the safety of your blanket.

Your interest in fairytales fit such a sweet, innocent creature as yourself. Remmick found it as adorable and endearing as he did naive and childish, but he certainly wouldn't tell you that. If anything, this interest of yours was what he just what he needed to meet his own ends, so childish or not, it had its uses.

He would be willing to be your prince. If it kept you where you belonged, if it meant he could possess your entire being and taint you, he would become just like those fairytale princes. He would slip into the skin of a fairytale prince and indulge each childish fantasy of yours.

Just so you would remain his most precious possession.

Remmick offered you a charming smile as you padded softly to your bedroom window. He felt a thrill run down his spine as he watched you open your window, your delicate hands resting next to his on the windowsill once the barrier between the two of you was removed. His eyes trailed up your hands to take in the delicate, white nightgown you wore, appreciating how it looked on your body.

"You're…my handsome prince?" you asked, hopeful disbelief lacing your soft murmur. Your eyes trailed over Remmick, and he knew you were harboring some doubts about him being your "handsome prince." It was a surprise; he had expected you to just go along with him, yet here you were scrutinizing him, attempting to reconcile a handsome prince with eyes that glowed red in the dark like a monster's.

Smart, innocent, little thing.

"I know I must have…frightened you," Remmick said, speaking slowly, carefully watching your expression. "But it's me, sweetness. Your handsome prince, come to whisk you away." He gently placed his large hands over yours. He felt you stiffen under his touch, and your eyes widened ever so slightly, but the moment left with the same quickness it arrived with. You relaxed, and you let your hands be held by a man claiming to be your "handsome prince." It was a tentative acceptance, one Remmick fully intended to use to lure you into his possession.

"My handsome prince," you repeated softly, speaking more to yourself than to the man standing outside of your window and holding your hands in his. You repeated those three words again to yourself, even softer than before, as your eyes trailed over the man again.

He most certainly did not look like the princes from the fairytales on your bookshelf; the ones you had adored ever since you were a little girl. Aside from his glowing, red eyes, he was a little unkempt—his hair slightly mussed and hints of stubble along his jaw. He was dressed plainly in a faded blue shirt and dark pants held by suspenders.

He was very plain as far as handsome princes went, as well as unusual due to his eyes.

But as much as they had startled you earlier, now that you had gotten a better look at them, you were finding the stranger's eyes more pretty than frightening. They were like glowing rubies, and those glowing rubies were looking right at you. They were seeing you.

"What's your name?" you asked in your little voice, much to Remmick's delight. It was a sign of interest in him. You were nibbling at his lure like the good girl he knew you were.

"Remmick," he replied smoothly. He gently lifted one of your hands and placed a kiss atop your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. The sight of you becoming so flustered, eyes widening and cheeks reddening, was delightful. Remmick couldn't help grinning as he continued to charm and woo you like a fairytale prince. "The name of your handsome prince is Remmick." He placed another kiss atop your knuckles, his grin widening as your free hand shot up to cover part of your blushing face.

"Remmick," you echoed, your voice softened by the hand covering part of your face. "Remmick, my handsome prince."

"That's right," Remmick encouraged, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. He noticed a light forming in your eyes, and he knew you were starting to smile behind your hand. You were starting to accept him.

"I've been waiting so long for you," you breathed, slowly lowering your hand and daintily placing it over Remmick's. "I…I've dreamed of you coming for me."

"And I'm here now, my princess," he assured you. "I've come for you."

Carefully, Remmick helped you out your window. He had to use all of the restraint in his body to keep his hands from exploring you. A true fairytale prince wouldn't be so lascivious so soon, and he wanted to savor defiling you.

He would wait for now.

You were so cute the way you fell into his arms as soon as he placed you on your feet. He felt your arms wrap around his chest and gently squeeze him, as if you were afraid he would disappear, and you rubbed your soft cheek affectionately against his chest.

"Do you have a carriage?" you asked, looking up at him all wide and sweet. "Do you have a castle?"

Remmick couldn't help chuckling. You were really into this fairytale stuff, and the way you went along with his "handsome prince" bit pretty quickly endeared him even more than he already was to you.

It made sense how easy it was for people to take advantage of you.

But Remmick wasn't taking advantage of you.

He was your handsome prince, and he was here to whisk you away.

Just as he said.

"A carriage, I don't have," he replied, wrapping his own arms around you so he could scoop you up, eliciting a sweet, surprised yelp from your pretty, little mouth. One arm supported your back while the other held your legs beneath your knees. "But don't worry. My princess will get to enjoy being carried by her prince."

Your delighted giggling filled the air as Remmick started to walk with you in his arms.

"As for the castle…" Remmick continued, his voice trailing off as he thought about how to answer without spoiling too much for his little princess. "Well, let's just say it's the perfect place for a prince and his princess to become lost in their own little world."

"Just you and me?" you chirped with a smile.

"Mhm," Remmick hummed, giving you a slow nod and a kiss on your forehead, which made you giggle and smile and blush even more. "Just you and me, my darling girl."

Forever.

You were unsure how you felt about having an abandoned chapel as your castle.

Chapels were sacred places, but as your handsome prince carried you inside his "castle", you noticed it was stripped of anything that made it a chapel. There was no cross. There was no pulpit. The two pews that were left were pushed up against one of the walls.

Various pelts and blankets lined the flooring. Some were draped over the two pews along the side, making their hard wood look more comfortable to sit on. Clusters of candles dotted the pelt-less parts of the wooden floor, their dim, flickering light illuminating the small space. The smoke wafting from their flames mixed with the musty smell of the chapel's interior and the faint scent of bunches of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling. Every window was covered by a pelt, effectively blocking out the outside world.

"Welcome home, my princess," Remmick murmured, his breath gently tickling your temple as he placed a kiss on it. You heard him kick the chapel doors closed behind him, his hands still occupied with carrying you like a precious treasure.

"I know it's not something from out of your fairytales," he continued, carrying you towards where you imagined a preacher once stood to address his congregation, "but I made it warm and cozy just for you." He leaned his head down to nuzzle into your hair, taking in a deep breath of your soft, sweet scent. "I wanted my princess's new home to be comfortable for her."

"Thank you," you murmured softly, shyly curling into yourself as you felt your cheeks heat up. This was all strange and surreal, yet you remembered your manners, which Remmick found adorable. You were so polite even as you were stolen away.

But was it stealing if you went with him willingly like a good girl?

"Of course, my princess," Remmick smoothly replied.

He carried you towards a large pile of furs and blankets and placed you atop of them, handling you with a care and reverence you didn't know another person was capable of showing. Your hands gently ran over the pelts and blankets as Remmick arranged them around you, making you comfortable. Each one was soft and felt nice against your skin.

"This is where we'll sleep, my darling girl," Remmick told you, now sitting next to you. He placed an arm behind you, a silent invitation for you to lean against him, and he was delighted when you did. "A prince and princess should sleep together, shouldn't they?"

"Yeah," you shyly replied, still all flustered and feeling like you were dreaming. You hid part of your blushing face into Remmick's shoulder, now looking forward to falling asleep in your handsome prince's arms, certain you would have the best sleep by his side.

Remmick was also looking forward to sleeping together with you.

In a way that had nothing to do with sleeping.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Remmick pulled his arm away from behind you as he stood. He noticed your soft lips form into a frown at the loss of his touch, but he would rectify it quickly. He was pleased to feel your eyes watching him as he walked to the two lone pews pushed against a wall of the abandoned chapel; you were interested in what he was doing, and you were eager for him to return.

Such a good girl.

He knelt and pulled out a small chest hidden under one of the pews. With a click, he opened it and reached inside, carefully taking out something special he made for his special girl. He hid it behind his back as he stood and returned to your side.

"Close your eyes, pretty girl," he told you, the velvet purr of his voice making the command irresistible. You closed your eyes, and Remmick found it endearing as you even covered them with your hands.

Everything you did was so cute.

Precious, precious girl.

And now you were all his.

You felt your prince kneel beside you, feeling glad his presence had returned. You then felt something light being placed upon your head.

"Open your eyes, my princess," you heard Remmick say, his large hands enveloping yours and gently pulling them away from your face. Your eyes then fluttered open to see Remmick pulling a small compact mirror from the pocket of his trousers (unbeknownst to you, it was something he had swiped from one of his victims).

"I made this just for you before I came to get you," he told you, his voice a deep breath, just loud enough for the two of you. "It's something every princess needs." He opened the compact mirror, your eyes widening and your cheeks flushing at the sight of your reflection.

Sitting atop your head was a crown made of flowers woven together. It was made of all sorts of wildflowers you had seen growing in the area, a colorful combination of whites and yellows and purples. It wasn't a crown made of jewels, like the ones the princesses in the fairytales had, but the gesture made your heart squeeze and warm in your chest in a way it never had before.

"Remmick…" you murmured with a breath, placing one of your hands over your heart, feeling it flutter and squeeze inside you. "Remmick, it's…it's so pretty. I love it!"

Remmick smiled. He knew you would love his gift. Innocent souls were easy to please, but their happiness was real and genuine. You looked so darling and innocent as you sat in his bed of pelts and blankets, a crown of flowers sitting on your head and a white nightgown covering your body.

You hugged Remmick, throwing your arms around him as a thank-you for your pretty flower crown. He wrapped one arm around you, the other arm setting aside the compact mirror before embracing you as well.

"Such an affectionate princess," he murmured as you rubbed your cheek against his chest. He tightened his arms around you, hugging you closer, eliminating any remaining space between the two of you.

The mask of the charming prince was rapidly slipping. He needed to feel you quivering beneath his fingertips as he introduced your innocent body and mind to the pleasures of the flesh.

Remmick loosened his grip around you, only so he could look into your eyes as he tilted your chin up with the tip of his index finger. He took a moment to admire the curious innocence in your wide eyes, which he would soon replace with knowing desire.

"You're so pretty, my princess," he purred, each word wrapping around you and making your head feel fuzzy. His thumb gently traced over your plush bottom lip. "Tell me, my lovely girl, have you ever been kissed?"

Your eyes widened and a blush quickly formed on your cheeks, which had Remmick's crimson eyes lighting up in delight. You were too flustered by such a bold question to respond with words, but your reaction was all the answer Remmick needed.

"No, huh?" he mused, his other hand now slowly trailing up your arm, his lips pulling into a grin. "That's okay. It's only right that I, your handsome prince, be the one to give you your first kiss."

"That's true," you mumbled softly with a slow nod, finally finding your voice. You knew Remmick was right. The princess always shared her first kiss with her handsome prince in all of the fairytale stories you read as a little girl. It was a quintessential moment in the blossoming romance between the princess and her prince.

Remmick acknowledged your response with a hum, the sound low and pleased. Both of his hands now cupped your face. His crimson eyes bored straight into yours, suddenly making you feel exposed and seen. Only a breath of space was between your face and his.

"Close your eyes, my princess," he murmured softly, each word tickling your lips. As soon as your eyes obediently fluttered shut, you felt the press of Remmick's lips against yours.

Your first kiss.

It was everything you had ever dreamed of. It was soft and warm, and it made you feel soft and warm, too. Your heart fluttered rapidly within your chest. Your hands remained clinging to Remmick, holding onto him as you relished the experience of your very first kiss.

Remmick could feel your excitement radiating off you in waves with the way your body trembled against him. He even felt your lips form into a smile against his. You were so delighted by your first kiss.

He had made you so delighted by giving you your first kiss.

By some miracle, he was able to restrain himself long enough to give you a first kiss experience from the fairytales. He kept the press of his lips soft against yours. His hands gently cupped your face as he kissed you.

His restraint crumbled quickly as soon as he heard a soft, little noise coming from your throat, though.

More little noises spilled out of you as Remmick slowly slid his hands down your body and moved to your lower back, pressing you closer against him as pulled you into his lap. He parted his lips and experimentally traced his tongue along the seam of your lips. You were such an innocent girl; he wanted to see how you would react to him deepening the kiss.

To his surprise and delight, you opened your mouth and let in his tongue. Remmick groaned, pleased that you picked up on his intentions, even in spite of your innocence. He knew for sure what he was about to do was not in any of your fairytales.

"You're so soft, princess," he murmured against your mouth. He then broke the kiss to look at you, grinning as he took in your heavily flushed face and the way your pupils had blown wide. With your flower crown, you were the perfect image of an innocent maiden experiencing lust and desire for the first time.

"You look like you really liked that, huh?" Remmick teased. He chuckled as you shyly turned your head away from him. He gently grasped your chin so he could make you look at him again. "It's not a bad thing, sweet girl. I like knowing you're feeling good, princess. As your handsome prince, I'm supposed to make you feel good, isn't that right?"

"Y-yeah," you shyly stammered in agreement. Your heart felt like it was about to either fly right out of your chest or suddenly deflate like a balloon from how much it was beating. Your head was swimming from your first kiss and the thing Remmick did with his tongue. You didn't know kissing could include tongues, but you liked it.

"Um…what you did with your tongue…" Your hands started to fidget with one another as you tried, and failed, to ask Remmick about what he did during your first kiss and tell him how much you liked it. Remmick found the way you fumbled with your words cute and amusing. Unable to keep from chuckling his mouth opened in a grin, showing off his elongated canines.

"You liked that, huh?" he finished for you, to which you shyly nodded. "I know, princess, I can tell." He then placed his hands on your waist and tugged you closer against him again. With the way your brows furrowed and your soft lips formed into a slight frown, he knew you were feeling exactly what he wanted you to be feeling.

"Do you have something in your pockets?" you asked with a sweet, innocent tilt of your head.

"In a way," Remmick replied, casually shrugging one of his shoulders. He then leaned in closer, close enough that you could breathe in his words, his large hands staying on your waist to keep you in place. "It's what happens to princes when they really like their princesses."

"Something similar happens to princesses when they really like their princes," he continued. "Can I show you, princess?"

As soon as he saw you shyly nod, Remmick moved one of his hands from your waist and slipped it under your nightgown. Your breath hitched and your body tensed, unaccustomed to being touched in the way Remmick was touching you, but he felt you relax, and gave you a charming grin.

"It's alright, princess," he murmured to encourage you to relax. His crimson gaze held yours as he traced his hand higher and higher up your leg and to your thigh. "I won't hurt you. A prince would never hurt his princess."

Unless she wanted him to, but that would be something he could explain to and show you another day.

He took your slow nod as a sign to continue, and trailed his hand all the way to the waistband of your panties. He used his other hand to gather the skirt of your nightgown and bunch it around your waist, fully revealing your little, pink panties.

Of course you were wearing pink panties.

"I-I think the thing in your pocket moved," you stammered after feeling something twitch beneath you.

"That can happen," Remmick casually replied, his attention more fixated on your panties. They were adorable on you. He tugged and teased the waistband before pulling them down, and was pleased when you helped him take them off by wriggling your hips and moving your legs as needed.

"See this wet spot on your panties, princess?" Remmick said, holding up your panties for you to see, using both hands to show you the wet spot on the crotch part of your panties. "This is what happens to princesses when they really like their princes. Their body starts…preparing for them." He then set your panties aside and bunched the skirt of your nightgown around your waist again. He placed his hands where your thighs met your hips and looked up at you through his eyelids. It was a silent question of permission, which you gave him with a nod.

"The wet spot from your panties came from here," Remmick explained, pushing his index and middle finger through your bushel of hair and running them along your slit. You gasped and tensed, and both corners of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. He knew that was the first time another's hands had touched you in your most sensitive area even without your reaction. Once he was sure he had gathered enough of your slick, he held his fingers up for you to see.

"Wh-what's that?" you stammered out, already sounding out of breath as you settled down from the sudden jolt of pleasure than ran through you when Remmick touched your most intimate area. Your eyes looked over the fingers he was holding up for you to see, but you weren't sure what you were supposed to be looking at. All you saw was what looked like a near-translucent liquid.

"Proof you're preparing for your prince," Remmick smoothly replied. He then licked his fingers clean, groaning and closing his eyes, relishing the small sampling of you. As he opened his eyes once he was finished, he placed his hands on your hips and lifted you off his lap. He set you on top of your shared bed of furs and blankets and laid you back with the same care and gentleness shown to a porcelain doll.

"Wait!" You reached for your flower crown and carefully took it off to set it to the side, all nice and safe. "I don't want my flower crown to get messed up."

Remmick smiled, genuinely feeling a sense of warmth he hadn't felt in centuries as you showed concern for his gift to you. You were such a breath of fresh air for his weary, ancient being. Your innocent concern and all the carnal things he was about to show you made for a delicious juxtaposition.

His pants suddenly felt tighter.

"Now then princess," Remmick said, his large hands gingerly pushing your thighs apart. He watched your expression carefully and stopped spreading your legs as soon as the slightest hint of discomfort crossed your features. His gaze then dropped down to your bushel of hair and he swallowed thickly, knowing you were all slick for him under there.

"I want you to relax," he continued, squeezing and kneading both of your thighs, his gaze returning to yours as he bunched the skirt of your nightgown around your waist. "Just relax, princess. Your body is preparing for your handsome prince, but I'm going to help you along. Make sure everything feels good."

He flashed you a grin, which made tingles run down your spine as you watched Remmick lay on his stomach and settle himself between your thighs, his hands coming to grip your hips. You let out a tiny squeak as he pulled you closer to his face, and you couldn't help but start to wriggle your hips within his grasp.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice all soft and innocent. You lifted your head off the pelts and blankets to see Remmick looking back at you from where he had his cheek resting against one of your thighs.

"Helping you prepare for your handsome prince," he said in reply. He then raised his head and dropped his gaze to your bushel of hair, which he started to part with one hand so he could get a better look at how aroused you had become. "You're new to these things, my princess. I want to make sure you're ready. It's what a good handsome prince would do."

Remmick admired your slick slit beneath the hair. You were such an innocent-looking thing, but you had become so wet just from your first kiss.

Once his eyes had gotten their fill of you, he then leaned down and opened his mouth, dragging his tongue along your slit. He started at your entrance and went all the way up to your clit. One hand kept you bare and open for him while the other kept you steady as you starting writhing around.

"R-Remmick!" you gasped on a broken breath. You heard him hum in reply, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh. The feel of his tongue on you was most definitely foreign, but it was pleasurable. The more you felt him lapping and sucking at you, the harder it was to stay still. Your body didn't know what to do with these foreign sensations and pleasures.

"Just feel for me, princess," Remmick murmured. He could tell your mind was in disarray from your writhing, and while it pleased him, he needed you relaxed. He knew your virgin body would resist him, and the more relaxed you were, the easier it would be for him to take you. "Just feel and relax. Be a good girl and turn off all the thoughts in your pretty head."

Good girl.

You moaned and mewled. Remmick's hand tightened its grip on you in a firm way, but only to ensure you were still enough that he could properly taste and taint you. He squeezed your hip as he circled his tongue around your entrance, the source of the essence he was drinking down like blood from the artery. He then dragged his tongue upwards to your clit to lick and flick it, making this pressure within you build and grow.

You felt like you were about to burst any second. Your hands found his hair and gripped like he was a lifeline. The feel of your small nails digging into his scalp made him hiss softly, and he gave your clit a particularly hard suck between his teeth.

"Remmick!" you whined, back arching off the pelts and blankets. That pressure inside of you finally burst, and it was the most intense pleasure you had ever felt all it once. The feeling came crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You squeezed your eyes shut and let every sensation come over you—from the tips of your toes to the tips of your fingers.

Remmick had to use both hands to keep you still as you experienced your first orgasm. He had you pinned to the pelts and blankets by your hips as he sampled your gush of nectar from the source.

As much as he would have liked to lap up every last drop, he knew your juices would help ease him into your virgin body. With great effort he pulled away from your quivering hips and thighs. He lazily swiped his tongue over his lips, gathering every bit of your essence as he watched your eyes flutter open.

You were beautiful. Even in the throes of carnal passion, you still looked like an angel. You were all soft and flushed and pliant. Your eyes, all wide and innocent just minutes ago, were now darkened and glassy with desire. The way the candlelight caught the slight sheen of sweat on your skin made you look like you were glowing faintly in the dimness of the old chapel. Your lips were parted just so, soft breaths slipping past them as you settled from your first orgasm.

"Don't speak," Remmick said, his voice a soft, rough murmur as he reached over to silence you, placing his index finger over your soft lips the second he saw them part further as if to speak. "You feel good, don't you, princess? I made you feel good."

You nodded slowly, still in a bit of a daze. You did feel good. You felt like you were floating on a cloud of bliss and pleasure, and it was all because of Remmick.

Remmick smiled. He could read you like a book, but it felt good hearing you confirm what he already knew. It gave his ego a good stroke and made his pants feel unbearably tight.

He helped you out of your nightgown, tossing it aside and laying you back down once you were free of the garment, getting a good look at your bare body. His eyes and hands trailed over you. The very tips of his fingers could feel your veins and the blood they carried beneath your skin. You were so soft and warm. You were alive.

It almost made him want to keep you alive a little while longer.

Almost.

Everything that made you mortal would be sacrificed in exchange for eternity.

You would never be free of Remmick, and he would keep you by his side until the end of time.

Forever his princess.

Remmick started to take his clothing off. His suspenders were the first to go, then followed by his shirt, both of them joining your nightgown to the side. You watched him undress from where you lay, unable to keep yourself from staring and blushing. This was the first time you were seeing a man in a state of undress.

"Now, my princess, I won't lie to you," he said, once again laying on his stomach and settling himself between your thighs, "these things can…hurt. It can hurt your little princess body at first." He placed his hands on your thighs and once again spread them open, stopping the second he saw discomfort flicker over your features. "But your prince will take care of you. And you'll be a good princess and tell your prince if he's hurting you, won't you?"

"Yes, Remmick," you softly replied.

"Good girl," he purred.

Remmick gently pressed the tip of his index finger against your soaked entrance. His crimson gaze watched your face carefully as he started to ever so slowly push his finger into you. He felt your body tense before the discomfort changed your expression and he stopped right away.

"You're okay. It's okay." His voice was a soothing, low rumble in the dim light of candles. He pulled his finger away so you could crawl atop of you, his half-naked body covering yours.

"Look at me," he gently commanded. Your brows were slightly furrowed from the earlier discomfort of something trying to breach your virgin entrance, but you didn't look like you were in outright pain, nor did you look frightened.

"Th-that hurt a little," you shyly stammered, remembering to be a good princess and tell your prince if he was hurting you.

"I know," Remmick replied. "Relax. Relax, my princess."

He leaned down to kiss you, his hand reaching down to place his index finger at your entrance again. He swirled it around the edge, gathering as much of your slick as he could for lubricant, then started gently pushing into you. When he felt you tense again, he deepened the kiss and started to slip his tongue past your lips.

"Shh, it's okay," he cooed against the kiss, as if coaxing a small creature out of hiding. "Let me in, my princess. Let in your prince."

You wanted this. Your body's resistance was frustrating. You wondered if these intimate matters were difficult for everyone. This was making you feel guilty and like there was something wrong with you.

"Deep breath right here," Remmick murmured, the sound of his voice dispersing your rapidly fraying thoughts, almost as if he knew you were starting to spiral within your mind. You felt the comforting weight of his free hand as he placed it over your stomach. "Right here, my princess. Deep breath with your tummy." He pulled back from the kiss just enough to watch you inhale, your stomach rising as you filled yourself with air. "Let it out slowly now." The air you inhaled left your body slowly just as Remmick had said.

"You didn't even notice, did you?" he said, the grin on his face audible in his words. A moment of confusion settled over your features before it was quickly replaced by the realization of a new sensation between your legs.

Remmick had slipped his finger inside of you.

It felt strange to your virgin body, but he was inside of you.

"You're such a good princess," he praised, returning his mouth to yours to reward you with a kiss. "I knew you could do it."

"I'm doing good?" you asked, soft and shy.

"You're doing more than good, my princess," Remmick reassured. "You're doing wonderfully."

Your smile was bright in the dim candlelight. You felt relieved and happy. Your arms reached for Remmick and wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer for more kisses, which he was more than happy to give, especially when it distracted you from the hesitation of being penetrated for the first time.

The weird feeling of having something inside the most intimate part of you faded slowly and turned into something more pleasurable as Remmick moved his finger deeply and slowly within you. He would pull out, almost all the way, and then push back into your wet, tight heat, which you could feel was ever so slowly loosening as he twisted and gently curled his finger within you.

"Need to get you ready," Remmick murmured against your lips, teasing his tongue along the seam, eliciting a sweet noise of pleasure from you. "Need my princess ready for her prince." He pressed his thumb against your clit; another orgasm would get you even more relaxed and lubricated for him.

"Remmick!" you mewled, your nails digging into his bare skin as you felt his thumb pressing the most sensitive part of your body. Your back arched, your breasts pressing against Remmick's chest.

"There she is." Remmick moved his finger in and out of you in time with the pressing and rubbing of his thumb on your clit, breaking the kiss so he could watch you fall apart. "Come again, my princess. Come for your prince."

Remmick watched with rapt attention at the expressions your face made while on the edge of ecstasy. The same angelic face he watched night after night peacefully sleep now contorted in pure pleasure—pleasure he was giving you. It took him great restraint not to finish in his pants from the sight.

Remmick gently pulled his hand away from you. He had to keep it together again as he saw the shine of your juices soaking his index finger, a strand even briefly connecting your sopping hole to his hand before breaking. He cleaned each drop from his skin thoroughly with his tongue as you trembled and panted from another orgasm, all hot and flushed and sweaty.

You blinked a few times, your eyes staring up at the ceiling of the old chapel as you took a moment to regain your bearings. You felt like you were floating again, but movement out of the corners of your eyes caught your attention, and you turned your head to see Remmick taking off the rest of his clothing.

Your eyes widened when you saw the very thing you were feeling in his pockets after your first kiss.

You had never seen a man before, so Remmick looked big to you.

Would he fit? He got his finger inside of you, but this…this was much different than a finger. But he helped you take his finger as painlessly as possible. You trusted your handsome prince. A prince would never hurt his princess.

"It's not very princess-like to stare, sweet girl."

Somehow, you felt your cheeks darken more than they already were. You swallowed nervously and met his gaze. The same teasing in his words was also on his face. Suddenly feeling flustered, you turned your head away and curled up on your side, to which you heard Remmick chuckle.

"But I don't mind, sweet girl," Remmick continued before you could stammer anything out. You felt him gently take your shoulder so he could lay you on your back again and look at your flustered face. "You're just curious about your handsome prince, isn't that right?"

"Yeah," you replied shyly. You knew Remmick wasn't truly upset with you staring at him, but it still made you feel better to hear him tell you he didn't mind.

Remmick smiled and patted you on the cheek; you were precious inside and out. He then sat between your legs, parting them to wrap around his waist.

"Remember to be a good princess and tell your prince if he's hurting you," he said to you softly. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips for encouragement and reassurance. "Relax and let me in, my princess, just like last time."

You took in a shaky breath. Another followed, this one coming from your stomach, just as Remmick had you do earlier. You were very nervous, yet also excited. Such intimate scenes were not included in the fairytales you read as a little girl, and though these matters were just barely being introduced to you, you still found yourself anticipating what was coming next.

Remmick was, too. He was going to finally lay his claim on you after so much time spent watching you live your life from the shadows he had been confined to for centuries. He was going to claim your virginity and mortality and bind you to him, making you part of him and his existence of shadows and blood.

Forever.

You squeaked like a small forest creature as you felt Remmick at your entrance, notching himself. He felt you tense and was quick to start soothing and encouraging you.

"Shh, shh, shh," he hushed. One hand held your hip while the other cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing the skin under your eye. "You can do it, my princess. I know you can. Just breathe the way I told you to."

"O-okay," you said with a nod, your breath shaking from nerves and anticipation. It took you a couple of breaths to get your breathing to even out, especially as you felt Remmick rubbing himself up and down your slit, coating his tip with your juices. Each time he brushed over your clit you would mewl and wriggle, his hand at your hip gripping more firmly to keep you still.

"Such an excitable princess," he teased. He notched himself at your entrance again. "Take in a few breaths now, sweetness. Get yourself nice and relaxed."

With Remmick no longer teasing your clit with his tip, you were able to breathe easier. You took in one deep breath after the other, making sure your belly was filling and deflating with air. As you breathed deeply, both of Remmick's hands gripped your hips to keep you steady as he started to push into you.

"Just like that, sweet girl," he murmured, his breath ticking the sensitive skin of your neck. He nuzzled into you and gave you soft kisses as little whimpering noises started coming from your throat. "You're doing so well for your handsome prince. So well, pretty girl." He caught of whiff of the blood pulsing in your veins and bit back a growl, not wanting to scare you as you experienced penetration for the first time. Just the scent of your blood beneath your skin made him want to rut into you like a wild animal, but he knew he couldn't. Not yet. He had to give you the fairytale experience first, and then he could ease you into true carnal depravity.

Once you were bound to him, he would have all the time in the world to show you the wonders of the flesh.

"I…I think I did it," you said aloud, your voice soft as your mind vocalized its thoughts. You glanced to the side and saw Remmick pulling away from the crook of your neck, taking with him the small kisses he was leaving behind.

"You did do it, sweet princess," he said to you. He then gently took one of your hands and placed it between your legs, allowing for you to feel the connection between your bodies. Your eyes widened, and then you started to smile. The innocent pride forming on your face was a stark contrast to the lust glazing your eyes. Remmick didn't feel all the way in, but just the amount you could feel was inside of you was more than enough encouragement. It made you feel braver and more prepared for the rest.

"I'm going to start moving now," Remmick said, allowing you a moment to physically and mentally prepare yourself. Both of his hands took one of yours, placing one on either side of your head and gently holding them down. He loomed over you, his shadow covering you. "Just keep being a good girl, okay?"

"Okay," you softly replied.

Remmick leaned down and placed a kiss against your cheek. He placed one more, two more, and then started to trail them down along your jaw. At the same time you felt him moving his hips. He pushed more and more of himself into you, eliciting a sweet symphony of pained and pleased noises from your throat.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin as he soothed and revered you with his mouth. "It'll hurt, but it'll feel good. All at once." He started to nibble and nip at your neck with each kiss, both pleasuring you and teasing himself for the moment of finally biting you. "Just relax, sweet girl. Let in your prince."

You bit back a whine, the sound getting stuck in your throat. The stretching of your most intimate area hurt, yet you wanted more. It was an interesting paradox you found yourself in. Your want for this intimacy pushed against the pain and fear of it. You felt them pushing and pushing against each other until your desire won in the end and eclipsed your hesitancy.

"Remmick!" you gasped. Your hands tensed and twisted within your prince's grasp, but he easily kept them pinned against the furs and blankets of your shared bed. Your hips wriggled and squirmed, rubbing against Remmick's as he fully sheathed himself inside of you.

"Damn!" he cursed with a soft breath into your neck, keeping his face nuzzled close to the artery pulsing within. "You feel so good, princess. So good." He carefully pulled himself out, just enough so half of him was still inside of you, and then pushed himself back in with the same care. He knew to start with a slow pace, but the temptation to let loose right away was there.

You met each of Remmick's thrusts with soft mewls and moans. You felt him kissing and licking and nipping at your neck again as your body gently moved beneath his, your breasts bouncing slightly against his chest.

"C-can you…can you go faster?" you stammered out between breaths and moans. You were feeling particularly brave now, and Remmick had more than shown he could be trusted with your well-being.

"As my princess commands," you heard him growl softly against your neck. He then started to move faster, pushing in and out of you with more haste. Your request had pleased him greatly and finally allowed him to take you the way he wanted to, and he liked hearing his sweet princess vocalize what she wanted during intimacy. He would make sure to cultivate this over the centuries.

As Remmick picked up the pace of his thrusting, so did the noises coming out of you. More of your moans and mewls and gasps spilled out of you and into the candlelit space of the abandoned chapel. With a whine you let your head fall to the side, resting on your cheek as you listened to the sound of your own noises blending with the clapping of skin against skin.

"Mng! Remmick! O-oh! Remmick!"

The way you cried out his name elicited more growling from Remmick between his grunting and groaning into the skin of your neck. You sounded so sweet. He couldn't remember the last time he heard something that made his spine tingle all the way to its very base.

And your blood. He kept his face nuzzled in the crook of your neck as he took you so he could breathe in the sweet life essence flowing through your body as he took you. You smelled delicious. Even now that you weren't a virgin anymore, your blood still possessed a unique smell that he couldn't wait to taste on his tongue. He started to drool, thick saliva coating your skin, but you were too lost in the carnal moment to notice.

"So good, my princess," he panted, a grunt following. His hands tightened their grip on yours, becoming more firm than painful, keeping your arms pinned. He dragged his tongue along the column of your throat, spreading more of his thick, sticky saliva like a claim on you. "Gods above! You're incredible!"

Remmick's fangs couldn't keep themselves out of your veins for another second longer, and with his release fast approaching, he was going to let all of himself go.

As he bit into your neck, his fangs digging deep and piercing your veins, the mask of the fairytale prince fell away. Remmick revealed himself as the monster under the bed he truly was, but as your pained scream rang through the night, it was far too late for you to turn back. You had handed yourself over to what you believed was your handsome prince, and now the creature beneath the pretty mask had laid its claim over you and tied you to him.

The sounds of pleasure coming out of you quickly turned into pained, fearful whimpers. You struggled as you felt Remmick suckling the blood out of your throat, but he kept you underneath him, his hips thrusting wildly against yours and stilling once a warmth started to fill you.

"Take me," he groaned, his voice mumbled as he spoke with his mouth full of your blood and flesh. "Take me, my princess, as I take you."

Once satisfied, Remmick unlatched from your neck. He pulled away and finally released you, but you felt too weak from blood loss to do anything but lay there as he slid out of you with a wet squelch. Your eyes, now partially closed and dulled, took in the sight of Remmick's bloody mouth, but you were too weakened to recoil in fear and disgust.

"There, there," he cooed softly. He laid next to you on your shared bed of pelts and furs and gingerly wrapped his arms around you to pull you against his chest. "I know you must be scared, but you shouldn't be." One hand started to pet your hair. His other arm remained a tight band around your body to keep you right where you belonged. "You'll be with your handsome prince forever now, my princess." He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Our happily ever after will never end."

You replied with a soft groan. You didn't have the energy for any of this; you were only able to catch a few of Remmick's words in the state you were in.

With his essence inside of you and your blood inside of him, a bond had been forged, one that wouldn't break so easily.

And that's how Remmick wanted it.

You felt Remmick nuzzle into your hair, still petting it gently. "I can't wait to see how beautiful you will look when you awaken." He gave you another kiss on the top of your head, and then another on your forehead. "We'll have all the time in the world together." The hand keeping you held next to him slid down your body and between your thighs, feeling the slick slowly drying there. You whimpered softly and weakly jerked your hips, unable to resist the pleasure he was wringing out of you still.

You suckled happily on one side of the woman's neck as Remmick drank from the other side. The two of you had hunted her down together, and now she served as your dinner for the night.

He was hesitant at first, just like with the idea of you feeding from live prey, but Remmick let you come with him on his hunts on the nights he didn't insist on feeding you his own blood. Every good vampire knew how to hunt, and while Remmick wanted to nurture you into the beautiful, capable vampire he knew you could be the night he found you, he still wanted you as dependent on him as possible.

It made for an interesting balancing act.

"Ahhhhh," you sighed, unlatching from the neck of your shared midnight snack. Your blood-stained lips formed into a smile as you laid yourself next to what used to be a living woman full of blood, all happy and content like a cat after a big bowl of milk.

"Don't tell me you're done already, sweetness," Remmick gently teased, unlatching and raising his head so he get could a better look at you, admiring how lovely you looked with blood staining your skin and clothing, a sight he would never tire of.

"I feel full of blood," you replied with a shrug. "Like a tick."

Like a tick. You were so cute.

But it was important for vampires to remain well-fed, especially newer ones like yourself. You needed to grow in power and strength.

On top of that, a hungry vampire was more susceptible to succumbing to their animalistic instincts, doing everything and anything to get a meal, risking exposure to sunlight and humans. While Remmick would thoroughly enjoy being the one to soothe you from an animalistic state, he didn't want you to experience that kind of mindlessness.

You needed to be fed some more, and Remmick had another idea just as wonderful and perfect as feeding you your ex.

"It's important for vampires to stay well-fed, especially young ones like you, sweetness," Remmick gently explained. He reached over and traced his fingers along your cheek and jawline, and thoroughly enjoyed the way you leaned into his touch. "You need to grow big and strong."

"Well…that's true," you acquiesced. You glanced off to the side as you thought about how caring Remmick was. He always made sure your needs were met, and then some. He was so caring and doting. It always made your heart squeeze in the nicest way how much he wanted to see you grow.

"Come here, sweetness," Remmick said as he patted the ground next to him, wanting for you to join him on his side of the partially drained corpse. "I'll make sure you're all nice and fed, don't you worry."

"I never do," you murmured as you joined Remmick on his side of the corpse, your words pleasing him and making his pride purr. You laid yourself next to him and tucked yourself under his arm as he draped it over you.

Safe and warm next to him, just as you would always be, from now until the end of time.

You watched as Remmick leaned into your shared meal's neck to bite into it again. He sucked, but when your gaze trailed down to his neck, you noticed his throat muscles weren't bobbing and contracting.

He wasn't swallowing.

He was letting the blood sit in his mouth.

Your brows furrowed. You weren't sure where he was going with this, but you weren't left wondering for long.

Remmick had his mouth pressed against yours before you could blink. Your eyes widened in surprise, and your body stiffened for a moment, but you quickly relaxed and let yourself enjoy the feel of your mouths pressed together, your eyes fluttering closed.

You felt one of his hands gently hold and squeeze your jaw, parting your lips. As you slipped your tongue between your lips to tease the seam of his, you felt Remmick open his mouth, and the taste of blood coated your tongue. You swallowed it as you felt it slide down the back of your throat, a pleased groan vibrating through the muscles of your throat.

Was this method of ensuring you were well-fed necessary? No, but you certainly didn't mind.

You were never one to turn down physical affection from your creator.

"So good for me," Remmick murmured against your lips once you had swallowed all of the blood he let trickle into your mouth. "There you go, sweetness. Gotta make sure you grow all big and strong, yeah?"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice a mumbled breath as you nodded slowly. You were in a bit of a daze. Your pupils were blown wide, and you felt hot all over. The intimacy of your creator's touch combined with the natural ecstasy that came with drinking blood was making your head spin.

You could feel the bond you had with Remmick growing even stronger than it already was.

"You want more, sweetness?" He asked gently, his thumb tracing over your bloodied lips. You replied with an eager nod. The needy whine that got stuck in your throat set off something wild in Remmick. He felt it bolt down his spine and spread through his nerves, all the way to the very tips of his being.

You were his to care for. You were his to nurture. You were his.

His.

His.

His.

Your eyes widened as you were suddenly pushed onto your back, your clothing pressing against the damp grass, now sticking to the skin of your back. You watched Remmick intently as he leaned into the corpse's neck to take another bite, once again only sucking out blood to hold in his mouth. Your pupils grew even wider just at the sight. You felt full earlier, but now you suddenly felt hungry, and you needed your bloodlust satisfied again soon.

You needed to grow big and strong, just as Remmick had said.

Remmick soon returned his attention to you, always quick to give you what you needed. From your peripheral vision, you saw him place both of his hands on either side of your head, his legs acting similarly, placing themselves on either side of your thighs. He then leaned down. The moment his blood-filled mouth touched yours, you groaned in bliss and parted your lips, your eyes fluttering shut.

Blood trickled past your lips, into your mouth, and down your throat. You swallowed each mouthful Remmick fed to you greedily. You wrapped your arms around his neck, keeping him close as you took every last drop of blood he fed to you. You felt Remmick's approving hum against your lips.

"Good," he mumbled. He pressed himself closer against your body, leaving not an inch of space between your chests. "So good. Perfect. My perfect vampire." Remmick pulled back so he could look at your face and admire how beautiful you looked. With your mouth stained with blood and your glowing eyes half-lidded and glassy with need, you were an exquisite sight. A creature of blood and beauty all for him.

Him.

Him.

Him.

"Remmick?" You murmured, just barely able to keep your voice from shaking and whimpering with a new lust building within you. "Remmick, I…I-I need…"

"I know," Remmick replied, gently hushing you with a finger over your bloodied lips. The way you whimpered had him biting the inside of his lip hard enough to draw his own blood, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "I know exactly what you need, and it's not blood this time, is it?"

You shook your head. Your tongue slipped past your lips, poking out just enough to give the finger pressed against your mouth a tiny lick. You knew Remmick must have liked the action with how he softly sucked in a breath.

You also felt something hard twitch against your stomach.

Remmick kept his eyes on you as he reached for the arm of the corpse. He pulled down the sleeve of its dress so he could bite down on its wrist and suck out more of its blood to hold in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he suckled, his lips moving in a way you wish was against your skin. An act charged with intimacy and desire, chills and thrills ran down your spine. You could feel yourself starting to shudder from the anticipation of your needs about to be met again.

He carelessly tossed the arm aside once he had enough blood in his mouth, which landed on the rest of its body with a lifeless thump. He was quick to press his mouth against yours once again so he could feed you more blood, this time moving his hips against yours, grinding his hardness against you.

Blood trickled into your mouth as you opened it with a moan. You once again wrapped your arms around Remmick to keep him close as he fed you and ground his erection against you. The sensation made your head spin even more. It was a delicious addition to the euphoria of drinking blood and the pleasure of your creator's touch.

Even as you swallowed the last drop of blood, you kept your arms around Remmick, and he kept his mouth against yours, his hips still moving against yours. Neither of you wanted to break contact. Not yet. You both still had some needs to be met.

"That's it," Remmick groaned, the sound almost a growl against your still-connected lips as you started to meet his grinding with your own, matching your movements with his. "Keep doing that, sweetness. Keep telling me how much you need me with your body."

You gladly obliged. You kept meeting his movements with yours, for both your own and Remmick's pleasure. Remmick rewarded you with a slow, firm grind of his hips right between your legs. You both moaned in unison, pleasure shooting through your bodies.

"God!" You gasped, back arching off the ground, your grip on Remmick tightening.

"Nuh-uh, sweetness," Remmick murmured, now moving his lips to your jaw and chin, licking and sucking the skin there. "Just me. Me. Only me. Always. Forever."

You couldn't help squealing when you felt Remmick suddenly bite you, your body jolting underneath his. He bit you in the same spot he did when he first came across you crying and decided to make you his. You were startled by the sudden sting of his fangs, but the surprise and the pain was brief, and was quickly replaced with the same warmth and bliss and rightness you felt that fateful night.

"Just a little, sweetness," Remmick mumbled into your skin, his lips now moving, suckling from you the same way he suckled from the corpse's wrist. He kept you firmly pinned underneath him, still pleasuring the both of you with each roll of his hips against yours. "Let me renew our bond."

"Y-yeah…" you agreed with a pleased sigh. You let your eyes roll back and partially close, your body melting and relaxing. Soft moans slipped past your kiss-swollen lips as Remmick drank from you, renewing your bond and reclaiming you as his; a dark bond tied with blood and teeth.

The friction between your legs swirled with the unique, exquisite pleasure of Remmick feeding from you. When he noticed you starting to writhe under him, your hips bucking up with an urgency, he knew you were close to something momentous.

Just the thought of being the one to bring you hurtling over the edge had his pride purring and growling.

Everything.

Everything.

Everything.

You would get everything from him and him alone.

Remmick growled and deepened his bite, his fangs burrowing further into your skin, pain and pleasure mixing and shooting through your body. The strangled noise that came out of you, something like a moan and a whine, made him shudder. His toes curled in his shoes. He used his hips to push your thighs further apart, giving himself more space to press more of himself between your legs. He wanted you to come crashing down with as much pleasure as possible.

"Come for me, sweetness," he growled, your blood and flesh filling his mouth. His grip on you tightened, using your body to steady himself as he ground himself in short, firm movements, working you closer and closer to your peak. "Come on. Come for me."

Another strangled noise came out of you. When your body tensed underneath his, Remmick knew he brought you over the edge. He quickly pressed his mouth over yours, wanting to swallow down every noise you made as you became lost in the rapture he brought you to.

"Remmick!" You cried out, the sound muffled into the greedy kiss against your mouth. "Christ! Remmick!"

The tension throughout your body snapped. You arched your back as pure ecstasy overtook your senses, your grip on Remmick tightening so much, your nails were left indentations on his skin.

Remmick didn't mind, though; he barely noticed. He was too lost in his own orgasmic-like haze, fangs still piercing your skin. Just hearing and feeling you become lost in the throes of pleasure almost had him finishing in his pants, but he kept himself from finding release so quickly.

Barely.

Just so he could finish in you.

You noticed the hint of an amused smile on Remmick's bloody lips as he unlatched and pulled away from your throat. Your brows furrowed slightly, and your grip on him loosened as he started to sit himself up, his legs still straddling you.

"Something funny?" You asked between soft breaths.

"Christ," he repeated, his smile turning into a grin. "You screamed that as you came so pretty, but there's just me, sweetness." He reached out and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin under your eye as he murmured, "Just me."

You swallowed as you nodded, the delicate muscles in your throat bobbing and contracting. Remmick's pupils dilated at the sight. You were so smart. So smart and good.

He pulled his hand away and started to fiddle with your clothes. You let him, watching the movements of his hands, deft and purposeful. You helped him along by moving as needed, lifting yourself off the ground, wriggling just so.

"There we go," Remmick purred, admiring your bare legs. He reached for your undergarments, which you helped him take off by lifting your hips. He pulled them down your legs and off the tips of your toes. You lifted your head off the ground to see Remmick holding your underwear under his nose, taking in a large whiff of the remnants of your ecstasy. He exhaled a long, satisfied breath, relishing in the proof of the pleasure he gave you, and then dragged his tongue along the stain, groaning low in his throat like a pleased beast.

You felt close to finishing again just from the sight.

"Just as good as your blood," he groaned. He swiped his tongue over his lips before gently placing your underwear aside. His attention returned to you, partially bare and ready to receive, laid out like an offering all for him.

Remmick lifted your legs in his large hands. You were quick to pick up what he wanted and wrapped your legs around his waist, which he rewarded with a pat on your thigh.

"You're so smart, sweetness," he praised. He then reached down and started to fiddle his pants. "So smart and good. My pretty vampire."

"Your pretty vampire," you repeated softly. Remmick looked up from his pants and flashed you a wolfish grin.

You were definitely going to be rewarded for that.

His pretty vampire.

So smart and pretty.

The whine that came out of you as Remmick notched himself at your hole was delicious. He met the noise with a growl, reaching to hold your hips steady as you started to wriggle in anticipation. Your own hands reached up to hold his shoulders to keep him close, which got a chuckle out of Remmick.

"I ain't gonna leave you hanging, sweetness," he reassured you. "Don't you worry. You'll always get what you need from me, ain't that right?"

"Y-yeah," you stammered, your answer quivering as much as you were. You didn't think you could wait another second.

But you didn't have to.

Remmick never made you wait for anything.

Remmick pushed himself inside of you. Before you could get any sound out as your body accommodated him, he sealed his mouth over yours, greedily swallowing down every noise of your pleasure. He didn't break the connection between your mouths until he was sheathed to the hilt inside of you, the both of you panting and moaning, your breaths mixing in the night.

"You're perfect," Remmick purred, his voice a rasp. His hips started to move, pulling in and out of you. Each time he pushed back inside you, he pushed out the loveliest moans from your lips, the loveliest proof of the pleasure he gave you. "You were made for me, sweetness. Feel so perfect around me." His thrusting picked up, his obsession and possessiveness fueling his movements. His grips on your hips tightened, now his turn to keep you close.

But you weren't going anywhere.

You didn't want to go anywhere.

"Made for me," Remmick growled, his voice and thrusts becoming more wild, even as he started panting from the exertion. "Not for that boy. Not for anyone. Me, sweetness. Me." One of his hands moved from your hips to grab you by the jaw with a firm grip. "Say it. Say it."

"M-made for you!" You eked out between moans and breaths and mewls. "Made for you! Made for you! I-I was!" You were starting to babble, your mind going blank. Remmick watched as your eyes rolled back and partially closed. "Made for you! Just you! Just you!"

"That's right," he affirmed, now letting go of your jaw, reaching to grip your hips again. "You're mine, sweetness. Mine."

Remmick felt close. The feeling of release he almost had prematurely earlier returned quickly.

He adjusted both himself and you, nearly folding you in half. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, and elicited even prettier sounds from your mouth. Each audible proof of your pleasure stroked his ego just so.

His eyes, glowing red and bright in the darkness of the night, watched you intently. He watched the way your body bounced slightly with each thrust. He watched the way your eyes fluttered and rolled back into your head. He watched your parted, bloodied lips let out gasps and moans and mewls.

He had turned you into a being consumed by pleasure.

He had turned you into something more.

He had turned you into his.

Remmick came with a snarl, slamming himself against you as he finished. You felt him deep inside of you, filling you with a warmth that spread throughout your body. Tiny mewls came out of you as he rutted into you to ensure you got every drop of his release.

You would take everything he gave you.

"R-Remmick…?" You whimpered. The sound of your little voice was quick to soften his features, his feral, lusty expression morphing into something gentler. He remained inside of you as he leaned down, covering you with his body, his hands gently touching and cupping your face.

"You okay?" He asked, his thumbs carefully brushing over the skin under your eyes. Just moments ago you were consumed by pleasure, and now you looked like a delicate creature with the way you trembled all over. Your eyes, your pupils still blown wide, were even teary. Remmick started to worry he had gotten carried away with you, but felt relieved when you nodded, the hint of a satisfied smile forming at the corners of your mouth.

"Never better," you murmured. You noticed the slight furrow of Remmick's brows, and you lifted your head to close the scant space between your mouths to kiss him, to reassure him you were okay. You felt his hands tighten their grip on your face ever so slightly. He kept your mouths pressed together until he decided to break the kiss one long moment later.

Remmick kept gently stroking and admiring your face as your gaze fell to the side. He noticed the slight frown that formed on your lips, and when he shifted his gaze to see what you were staring at, he quickly saw what had you slightly frowning.

Your shared meal, which was quick to be forgotten in the midst of Remmick "ensuring you grew big and strong", had witnessed the entirety of your passion. It was watching with its dead, vacant eyes, staring blankly at the two of you with how its head had lifelessly lolled to the side.

"Guess we had an audience," you commented aloud. You and Remmick then met each other's gazes and shared a laugh the second your eyes met.

"I feel embarrassed," you admitted between breaths and through your grinning.

"How come, sweetness?" Remmick asked. He carefully started to climb off of you, and you felt him slide out of you with a wet pop. "She's dead. She didn't see anything."

"But it's the fact that it looks like she was watching us," you explained. You took the hand Remmick offered to help you to your feet, and quietly thanked him when he handed you your clothes before continuing. "It's like if a doll was watching us, you know?"

"You're too cute, sweetness," Remmick replied. Your embarrassment of a corpse watching such an intimate act was as adorable as it was amusing. It seemed you still had some humanity left in you, but that was expected since you were such a young vampire. It would take much longer before you would be as nonchalant as himself about these things.

Once you were dressed, Remmick picked you up in one arm, adjusting you so you were comfortably sitting on his forearm. With his free hand he picked up the arm of the corpse, and then started to drag it back in the direction of your home.

"Come on, sweetness," he said to you, enjoying the way your hands clung to his shoulders, "dawn's coming, and we still haven't finished our little meal."

"That's true," you hummed. You trailed one of your fingers up and down Remmick's shoulder, leaning in closer to his ear. "I could go for a bite. And maybe then some."

You felt a thrill run down your spine at the wolfish grin Remmick flashed you.

The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the room, the scent of smoke and lavender mingling thickly in the air. Remmick’s eyes are heavy with want, that dark crimson hue flashing beneath hooded lids as he watches you writhe beneath him. His hands are splayed on your thighs, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you of his strength, his claim.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick and gravelly. His hands move, fingertips grazing the soft flesh of your thighs, up to your hips. “You hide this from me? Hide this perfection?”

Your cheeks flush, hands fisting in the sheets. “I just… I thought…”

“Shh,” he soothes, trailing his thumb along the crease where your thigh meets your core. “There is not a part of you I don’t want to taste… to worship.” His eyes flick up to yours, dark and unyielding. “Understand?”

You nod, breath catching as he leans down, his mouth brushing over your curls. He inhales, eyes slipping shut like he’s savoring the very scent of you. “God…” he groans, voice muffled against your skin. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His tongue flicks out, dragging a slow, deliberate path through your folds, parting you with a patience that borders on cruel. You gasp, hips bucking against his mouth, but his hands are there steady, firm keeping you in place.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice vibrating against you. “Just like that, pretty thing. Let me hear you.”

A whimper spills from your lips as he laps at you, tongue teasing, circling, and then dipping inside with a possessive sort of desperation. His fangs graze your sensitive skin, light enough to tease but never to break not yet. You can feel the cool edge of them, a reminder of what he is, what you’ve given yourself to.

“Remmick,” you pant, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the inky strands. He growls, the sound rumbling against your core, and your body arches, thighs trembling. His tongue flicks against your clit, slow at first, then faster, building a rhythm that has you gasping his name in broken syllables.

His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth. “You’re mine,” he murmurs between strokes, voice thick with possession. “This—” he nips at your inner thigh, the sting sharp and delicious, “—all of this is mine.”

“Yes,” you whimper, legs trembling around his head. “Yours.”

Something snaps in him then, and he growls, the sound more beast than man. His mouth descends on you again, relentless and consuming. You’re panting, writhing, and it’s too much and not enough. His tongue presses against your clit, swirling and sucking, and when his fingers slip inside you, curling just right, you break.

Your body seizes, pleasure bursting through you in hot, dizzying waves. Remmick holds you through it, tongue never ceasing, lapping up everything you give him with a reverence that borders on worship.

He only pulls back when you’re shivering from overstimulation, his lips and chin slick with evidence of your release. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes feral and gleaming. “Not finished with you yet, love.”

Before you can catch your breath, he’s crawling up your body, his mouth capturing yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and sweet, and it makes you moan against his lips. Your body feels heavy and on fire from his venom. You more. You crave more. His hands cradle your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kisses you slow and deep, like he’s savoring every second.

His weight settles between your legs, and you feel him, hard and heavy, pressing against your entrance. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, voice softening, though his eyes still burn with need. “This first time… I want you to feel every inch.”

You nod, eyes locked with his as he presses forward, the stretch slow and aching. He’s not as big as you imagined but you gasp, nails scraping down his back. Remmick’s forehead presses to yours, his breath hot against your lips. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Take me… just like that.”

He moves inch by inch, not rushing, letting you feel the way he fills you, stretches you, claims you. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back as he sinks into the hilt, a low groan spilling from his lips. “Fuck… you feel—God, you feel perfect.”

You’re barely able to speak, lost in the sensation of him, the way he fits so perfectly inside you. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and deep, dragging against every nerve. His hands cradle your face, eyes locked on yours, and you feel the intimacy of it like a brand.

“Look at me,” he whispers, thrusts growing sharper, more desperate. “I want to see you when you come.”

You can barely hold his gaze, the intensity of it making you feel bare and exposed, but you do. His hips snap against yours, pace quickening, and you cling to him, nails biting into his shoulders. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, sucking, and then you feel the scrape of fangs.

“Can I?” he asks, voice rough. “Please.”

You nod, and he sinks his teeth in not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark, to claim. The sensation flares white-hot, sending you spiraling over the edge, clenching around him as your body trembles with release. He groans against your skin, hips stuttering as he follows, his warmth spilling into you in hot, shuddering pulses.

He stays there, pressed against you, his lips ghosting over the bite mark as your breaths slow. Gently, he slips out, rolling to the side and gathering you into his arms. His hands are soft now, tracing gentle patterns along your back.

“You did so well,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “So perfect for me.”

You melt into him, the warmth of his body chasing away any lingering chill. He reaches for a cloth nearby, wetting it before gently cleaning you up, his touch tender and deliberate. It’s almost reverent, the way he cares for you, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

When he’s finished, he pulls the covers over you both, tucking you into his side. His hand strokes your hair, fingertips brushing your temple. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod, burying your face in his chest, heart thrumming with contentment. “Better than alright.”

Your Ma had always told you spring showers brought summer flowers, that the cold earth of the winter would melt away into a warm fuzzy wonderland where life blossomed beneath the sun. Each summer, you would wait before your window, rays of moonlight forcing their way through the cracks in the curtains, and you would listen to crickets orchestrate their song, chirping loudly in their vast lifetime. In the morning, you would do the same to the birds, listening to their own songs of summer. The forest beside your Pa’s house was alive, even if it was only for a short time till winter returned harsher than ever.

You had blossomed in your own ways, and once more, winter returned. Yet it did not leave this time. Your Ma and Pa were lowered into the cold, unfeeling ground and the petals you’d prided yourself on had shriveled with their corpses. You were left the estate, a drab wooden house that looked different now that you were older and had seen wonderlands beyond the forest, beyond the Mississippi Delta.

Chasing stardom in New York led to dead ends and debts carved into your spine, leaving you crawling back to the Delta with empty hands and more alone than you ever were. The funeral was held a week later. You’d been told it was cardiac arrest that caused the grim reaper to come knocking on their door, but something sat wrong within your stomach, twisted and vile as you watched those two wooden boxes into heaps of barren earth.

Returning to that cold, empty house felt worse than death itself. You’d turn the corner of the hallway, expecting to see your Ma’s sunken cheeks curved into a smile, or hear your Pa’s banjo strumming outdoors in the spring heat when it grew too stuffy inside of the home. You were met with nothing.

Two months came and passed, spring bleeding into summer like an old festering wound. The house was the same besides the introduction of your luggage shoved into the corner, discarded and untouched. You remained in the house, occasionally wandering the forest looking for the life that had seemed to abandon it in the years you’d been gone. The days were alright, it was the nights that were deceiving, sorrow worming its way into your heart until you choked upon tears.

It wasn’t until you’d finally run out of those soap scraps you’d been harbouring that you finally brushed the tears from your weary eyes and gathered yourself just enough to pay a visit to the Chow’s shop. Walking through town felt like being a moth surrounded by beautiful butterflies, eyes occasionally flickering to you with concern for your… not so pleasant appearance. The past few months had been rough, and it was showing in your skin, your posture, everything.

You picked up the pace a bit till you had actually reached the shop, stepping up onto that creaky wooden platform as your posture sunk inward, eyes drifting the shop for the one and only thing you desired. The shop hadn’t changed at all in the years you’d were gone, the wooden interior all varying shades of brown besides the small pop of color provided by roses that were no doubt Grace’s choice.

Your hand grasped the paper wrapped bar firmly as you walked around, feeling a sense of success as you turned upon your heel quickly to pay and return to your den of sorrows. Keep your head down, make yourself unnoticeable—like a fly on the wall, that was the plan. Yet no matter how much you could attempt to avoid the world, the world wouldn’t ignore you.

“Now, now, it’s been some time. How ya been?” That familiar twang of Bo’s made him recognizable in a crowd of thousands, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled down at you with thinly veiled sympathy in his eyes. He knew of your Ma and Pa’s funeral, hell, Grace and him had even provided the flowers, but they didn’t come—you didn’t want them there for some stupid reason now looking back. Maybe it was because you wanted your Ma and Pa to have some sort of privacy in their graves, but you knew better—you knew you were too chicken shit to actually ask for help, to reach out, like you’d always been.

“Feel like death’s knockin’ at my own door, but besides that, fine.” You’d expected a small chuckle from Bo—anything, but he remained silent as his faux cheeriness melted into pure sympathy the longer he looked at you. He looked around the shop, eyeing Lisa from across the store—drawing your attention to the girl you’d last seen when she was just a bundle of cloth within her mom’s arms, all chubby cheeks and wishful eyes.

Lisa followed the silent command from her dad, leaving the shop to go grab her mother from the white’s only side of the street. Turning back to Bo, you hadn’t realized how much your face betrayed your shock until he started laughing finally—clear and true as ever. “I remember when she was just a tadpole. Have I been gone that damn long?”

“She’s lookin’ more like her momma everyday, ain’t she? She’s a good kid,” Bo paused for a moment, his posture loosening into something more relaxed. “I like to think we did a pretty good job for the Delta.”

“You did, no one would doubt that.” You sighed out, posture soon matching Bo’s own. “You built your roots here and you raised that lil’ girl with all ya’ could give, Bo.”

“Sometimes I wish I coulda’ just given her somewhere else to live, a kinder world, maybe?—shit, I ain’t even know what I’m sayin’.” Bo spoke in that familiar chuckling voice, a deflection of the deeper meaning beneath.

“He hardly knows what he’s sayin’ half the time, that’s why I handle the hagglin’.” Grace swiped the palms of her hands against her apron, a smirk etched into the corners of her lips. The air in the room lightened instantaneously in a way that caused you to be become brutally aware of the truth that had quietly settled.

Now, you and Grace had practically been school girls together—if that meant getting up to trouble in unholy hours of the night in your early years, before she married Bo. Even though you’d known Bo for less time, you found yourself loving him just as much as you loved Grace. Each time they spoke to one another, even when they were in petty arguments or bickering like they were double their age, there was love, unyielding love.

The hug you’d given Grace was tight, unspoken words bleeding out from the contact as you squeezed—and in turn, she held you just as fiercely. “I’m sorry about your Ma and Pa, sweet pea. How ya’ been?”

“Been alright,” You caught yourself in your lie just as you spoke it, scoffing gently as you corrected. “Well, could be worse. Just been cooped up in that damn house.”

Her eyes traced along your face, taking in your more sunken in state. You hadn’t eaten in some time, ain’t really cared for yourself either. Grace’s brows were suddenly drawn tight as she kept her hands resting gently upon your elbows. “Now that just won’t do, won’t it? You been eatin’? Prolly not, knowin’ you.”

She leaned around you for a moment, catching the attention of Bo as he wiped down glass jars with his rags. “Bo, we still got that catfish ready to be cooked?”

“Now, that ain’t necessary—.”Grace shushed you like she would a child, continuing to talk with her husband, drawing together plans for you right in front of your face and as much as you wanted to hate it, you couldn’t, not when it was practically your best damn friend who was clearly so worried about you. Though, you wouldn’t deny the guilt you felt for taking up Bo and Grace’s time the way you were.

Before you knew it, Bo and Grace had invited you to dinner and you were seated at their table with a plate full of food. You ate it like you were starved, because you were. The evening was loud, not in the way that a juke was, but in the way friends gathered and spoke of the parts of their lives the other had missed. Bo had packed you up a nice bag full of food for you to eat rather than starving, and Grace had already made plans to pay you regular visits and to finally carve those shallow bones of an estate into something you could call home.

The first day of work had been grueling, plows striking against hardened earth as you attempted to make the garden actually resemble itself. The second day was not any better, but soon, they became easier. Each evening and the days when the shop was closed, Grace and Bo would be right beside you, working away at the chipped exterior of that house to find the gold beneath that had once shined so brightly with your Ma and Pa around.

Wallpaper in your favorite shade with flowers splotched across decorated the living room and the couch that had once sat unused was dusted, cleaned, and restored to its original form. After weeks of work, this house—your home, was finally something you could look at without that familiar ache in your chest. You kept the key parts the same, like your Pa’s banjo leaning just against the doorway to the garden, and your Ma’s embroidery mat was delicately draped across the kitchen table, but now it felt like the place was breathing with life after it had been vacant for so long. The walls thrummed with unheard music, the garden seeded with new coming harvest, and the nights stopped being something you’d dread, but instead something you embraced.

Everything was peaceful, the world seemingly in tune for the first in a very long time.

Then, he came.

Spring had bled into summer, and summer into fall. No matter how the seasons changed, the Delta was never truly cold. After a long day of working in the garden, you wanted to spend a bit of time on your porch enjoying the swing you and Bo had just built, a glass of iced tea in your sweaty palm. The sun faded past the horizon, graciously welcoming the moon in its place, and if anyone were to ask you which you’d admired more, you would always find comfort in the quiet solstice that moonlight provided you.

Taking a long swig of your beverage, you hummed to the sound of crickets and fireflies floating through the air. Your legs ached from your days work in the garden, but you ignored their protests just to keep that gentle swinging motion you’d got going. Your eyes had only fluttered shut for a moment in bliss, autumn breeze trancing you until your eyes were forced to open once more. That’s when you first saw him.

A man stood at the front of your gate, white picket fence gleaming in the moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, gaze locked with yours as if he’d been watching us for much longer than you were aware of. You shifted to stand from your seat, a shiver running down your spine as you took a step closer to protection of your home. From the distance, you could see the faint quirk of his lips beneath the surface of his fair skin. Then, he spoke:

“I apologize, I ain’t intend to scare ya’. I was just wonderin’ where that beautiful voice was comin’ from.” He pushed past the gate effortlessly, feet so light against the dried yellow grass that there was barely a noise made with each step of his black shoes. He kept moving forward, kept intruding until he was at the bottom of your porch steps, his head tilted upward to look at you.

You didn’t respond. Your Pa always taught you to be cautious of strangers, double-so for a white man—a white man on his own was the Delta’s version of the devil. Instead, you met his stare with one of your own—cold against those prying eyes of his.

“Name’s Remmick.” He spoke once more, offering his hand up toward you—callouses and bumps on his pale palm catching in the porch light. You took a step back toward that doorway of yours and his expression shifted, something so subtle in the darkness, yet it was there nonetheless—whispering when his voice shouted.

Remmick cleared his throat as his smile transitioned into something more hidden, lips drawn a bit more thin as he shifted onto the ball of his feet, his hands returning to his trouser pockets. “Nice home you got here.”

He leaned a bit, peering past your shoulder, gaze following into the dimly lit living space—fully refurnished with life and comfort, and here you stood just beyond that barrier. Your voice was a whisper as you shifted to block his view a bit, dusty blue eyes locking with your face once more. “Thank you.”

“Nice voice you got when you’s talkin’ too.” That damned grin was back in a flash at the sound of your voice, like he was relishing in just two seconds of dialogue from you.

“Sir,” you cleared your throat. “Now, I ain’t wish to be crass, but it’s awful late and I do believe you got other places to be besides my doorstep.”

You put on that fake, honeyed tone—holding yourself a bit taller just like your Ma had taught you to do when white men passed you on the street. Your eyes finally met Remmick’s for the first time since he’d opened his mouth, both of your gazes matching the other—two people trying to read the stranger in front of them like a book, and failing. Remmick was no longer smiling.

Remmick glanced behind him for a moment, eyes visibly catching on the forest’s edge in the distance. He didn’t breathe as he did so, simply just watched the mossy green earth. Turning back to you, he finally stepped down off your bottom porch step—his smile returning in a more subtle form. “Alright, I can recognize when a missus doesn’t want me ‘round. Can I at least have your name b’fore I leave?”

Your hand on your glass clenched, the air having gone stagnant in that short period of time. Your Pa would’ve cursed you for ever entertaining this man and not shooting him for stepping on your porch in the first place, your Ma would’ve scolded you for being so direct without another man around. Either way, you would’ve lost that battle. Maybe that’s why you told him your name, and he repeated it like it was the sweetest sugar he’d ever tasted on his tongue—like he’d devour your name and you with it.

Remmick’s retreat from your home was slow, pinstripe shirt illuminated by the porch light as he made his way to the perimeters of your fence. The further he walked, the more your shoulders began to release their tension—your body drawn tight like a banjo string and you hadn’t even realized. Your glass clattered onto the porch as condensation made the glass difficult to grip, your concentration on Remmick finally breaking.

“Shit.” Crouching down, you grasped the cup, silently grateful it was already empty. It probably would’ve made your night worse to waste a perfectly good glass of iced tea. When you looked back up from the glass, you had expected to see Remmick retreating back to whatever place he was from—but there was nothing. Your fence swung mindlessly in the breeze, and the longer you stayed there, the more you realized that the crickets had stopped their nightly song and silence seemed to consume everything around.

You cleared your throat as you stood, and you didn’t hum to yourself this time as you moved from the porch into the boundaries of your home. You locked the door and checked it twice, not willing to admit your paranoia but far more interested in staying safe in the end. Hell, you’d even placed your Pa’s old shotgun on the kitchen table, just in case, you told yourself.

You dressed for bed, cleaned up a bit—made sure to close all the curtains and windows and checked the front door lock one last time before finally finding your way to your bedroom. The linens and blankets were warm against your skin, settling you in perfectly, and once you reached across your nightstand to turn off your oil lamp, you had the moon that streamed so prettily through the sheers to guide you to sleep.

Warm light caused you to stir, your voice muffled within your own ears as your eyes refused to open—eyelashes peeling apart hesitantly as your oil lamp flickered. The first thing your eyes caught upon was the moon above, so big and round, staring down at you with its own singular eye.

The next thing you felt was sensation, intense and growing heat between your thighs beneath your nightgown.

Your eyes struggled to break from the moon, but when they had, they immediately found tuffs of brown hair between your legs as two strong hands gripped your thighs—hiking your dress up higher as a hungry mouth latched right onto you. Your mouth parted into a cry, but nothing came out. Your body wasn’t yours to move, you were simply just there—a vessel writhing against a prodding tongue.

Those pale hands gripped your thighs a bit tighter as a deep vibration left the throat of the obscured man’s face, sending a tingle up your spine. You could feel each lick of his tongue along your seeping hot slit, each suck his lips gave to your clit—each sensation building in the pit of your stomach and all you could do was take it. He worked you up so damn good and if you were able to scream, you would’ve been.

Your back arched, heady gasps finally managing to break past your lips. His hands trailed from your thighs, bunching the fabric along them and dragging it upward onto your pelvis. The man’s hands were decorated in veins, skin oddly cool against your own as he continued to devour you. Each flick of his tongue dragged out into a maddening eternity as you were forced to just wait, to give in to that pressure growing between the sweetness of your thighs.

Blistering hot white pleasure began to creep into your vision, legs quivering as your chest heaved as your peak grew closer. The man chuckled, sending sweet vibrations right against where you needed it most. He gave one final suck to your clit and just as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, you jolted awake.

Sunlight was much harsher than moonlight, that was for damn sure. The burning sensation from your dream lasted in the pit of your stomach, and for a moment, you’d questioned if the dream was real. Tugging the linens away from your legs, you found the real cause of that heat—red, hot and angry upon the linens. Shit.

After cleaning and swapping the linens and slipping on your sanitary belt, you’d decided that today would probably be best spent as a day of relaxation rather than in the town. You curled up on your sofa with a book, mind occasionally drifting to the man on your porch step last night, but you were easily distracted by the words on the page.

As the sun leaned toward the horizon, the book was left abandoned on your sofa as your hands found your Pa’s old banjo. The rickety thing hadn’t been played for some time and was certainly in need of tuning, but you tried your best to remember the fingerings of each note—each shift of your fingers producing a new sound and pitch.

You hummed the notes to yourself each time you played a different one, glimpses of your Pa passing through your mind. He loved this banjo, used to play it from dusk to dawn on your little back porch. That man could also sing like hell too, would drag your Ma into his musical antics no matter how much she protested. He taught you everything you knew about music, he was the one who hugged you tightest when you went off to New York.

You thought you were ready for New York, thought you was able to survive the competition and control that came with newfangled stardom. You were wrong, so very wrong. You’d put all your money into your gig, singing late into the night at all-black establishments that could barely stay open on their own terms. The money was shit, but the feeling was amazing.

Then there was one night that changed everything. A white man came into the club you was playing at, called you a star-in-the-making and took you home with him. In exchange for your… services, he set you up with the big man—a man who had power and money in all the right places. You began to play bigger gigs, had your appearance changed from that humble black girl from the Delta into something the white folks in New York could pretend to accept.

It didn’t last long. Turns out, white folk like the sound of a black woman’s voice but don’t like the face it comes from. The big guy who was supposed to be your handler turned his back on you, claiming you’d taken his money and robbed him—utter bullshit spewing from that filthy mouth of his. You were desperate, hungry, and you sure as hell weren’t proud of what you did next.

You took some cash, just enough to buy a one way ticket back to the Delta. That’s when you found out your Ma and Pa had died, as if it couldn’t get any worse. The leftover cash was put into their funeral, and you were back to square one.

Warm, quiet tears fell onto the banjo in your hands, fingers continuing to slowly pluck a tune on that banjo that you could only recognize as your Pa’s song, the one he played for Ma each and every time she would listen. You hummed the lyrics obscurely, unable to fully grasp each word but knowing the meaning deep within your heart where it whispered loudest.

A slow sigh left your lungs as your fingers stilled, the last plucked string reverberating throughout the room, the last note you could remember of the song even if you knew it was incomplete. The silence that followed was careful, floating through the air, delicate as glass.

Then it was shattered. From just beyond your open window, you could hear the gentle strumming of a banjo outside your home—each note confident in a way your rendition hadn’t been. Glancing toward the billowing sheers of the window, you could see that the sun had finally disappeared into an endless black darkness. You brushed off any figment of dust from your dress as you stood, approaching your front door, smooshing your ear up against the wooden structure as you listened carefully.

A man’s voice followed, sweet and smooth as honey: “Love, oh love, oh careless love… night and day, I weep and mourn.”

You don’t know when your hand had grasped the doorknob, all you could recognize was that familiar creek of door hinges as you pulled.

“You brought the wrong man into this life of mine—“

Remmick stood on your porch now, standing tall as his fingers worked the banjo in his hands—its strap slipped across his shoulders diligently. Your hip and shoulder found a comfortable place against the doorframe as you leaned, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him silently—watched the performance he put on just for you.

Those familiar blue eyes of his were locked onto your own, a smirk sprouting onto his face as he sang. He was good, you’d admit that—it ain’t change the fact that he’s on your doorstep in the middle of the damn night.

“For my sins, ‘til judgement I’ll atone.”

There was a beat of silence, then you spoke.

“You’re good,” you eyed Remmick up and down, mentally noting that he was still wearing the same thing as yesterday—still wearing that pinstripe button-up and black slacks. “But that ain’t change the fact that you’re on my porch again, in the middle of the damn night.”

“But you still answered the door for such a late hour, ain’t ya’?” Remmick was almost smug as he spoke, slipping his banjo over his shoulder as his gaze broke from yours to see inside your home once more—the sudden instruction causing you to clear your throat and straighten up a bit.

“That still don’t give an invitation for you to be playin’ at my doorstep, Remmick.”

His expression suddenly shifted to this look of faux guilt, head dipping as he stared down at his feet. “I’m sorry, missus. I know I shouldn’t keep showin’ up here n’ all, but you’re just so… pretty and your home just seems so welcomin’. Can I just come in for a bit?”

Even though Remmick’s lips were formed into a pout and he did a damn good job at furrowing his brows to look like a child caught stealing a cookie, something in his eyes disconnected from the rest of his face—something sinister hidden beneath that innocent facade.

“That ain’t a good idea, Remmick. You know that.” You were blunt, remaining against the door frame as you stared at him intensely.

Finally, something seemed to crack within that crafted porcelain as he met your eyes once more—a twitch in his lip and a dilation in his pupils giving way to something a bit more animalistic beyond the man. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the eye contact communicating enough on its own. You weren’t budging.

“…you can sit on this porch. I’ll bring you some tea. You like it sweet?” Even if you weren’t willing to let him in, you could indulge in this little fantasy—even just for a few minutes.

“No sugar, please. Thank you.” Remmick was polite as he sat down on your porch, waiting patiently like a puppy dog getting a treat. When you returned, that charming facade was back—his hand brushing against yours as you handed him the cool glass, the coolness of his fingertips contrasting the warmth of your own.

Placing a pillow onto the floor, you sat across from Remmick with your own glass of tea. You both took silent sips of your tea, and for once, you weren’t staring down each other. You were staring off at the woods behind Remmick, watching how the trees swayed and how the crickets had fallen quiet once more. It was odd for the woods to be quiet, especially at this time of night when everything seemed to be so alive beyond the world of humans.

“Did you grow up in these parts?” Remmick finally broke the silence with a question, drawing the glass to his lips.

“I did. I even used to play in those woods back there.” You pointed as you took another swig of your own tea. “Used to run around for hours and get lost, then my Ma’s voice would guide me back home.”

“It’s big in there, too damn easy to get lost and turned around. I wonder how many people have gone in and haven’t come out…” Remmick muttered as he craned his neck in the direction of your finger, clearing his throat and taking another drink as he turned back to you.

“You from here?” There was a thoughtfulness that overcame Remmick at your question, like he had to remember where he was from rather than just say it. Your own brows furrowed, watching as words formed on his tongue yet didn’t leave his lips. “Didn’t realize I was askin’ such a loaded question.”

“I’m from around here. Moved a lot growin’ up, made it easy to forget where I was truly from.” Even though he spoke with conviction, the words didn’t feel right leaving his lips, like half the truth was missing.

You hummed out, taking another long sip of your tea. “Must’ve been hard movin’ all the time.”

“That’s awful sweet of ya’ to think of it like that. The further away I moved, the more I forgot those lands. I miss ‘em, but they’re more of just a memory now… a distant dream.” Remmick drawled, his hand coming down to support his weight as he leaned a bit, bicep flexing beneath those pinstripe sleeves and you ate up the sight greedily.

“If you miss it so much, why ain’t you just visit?” The answer seemed so on the nose to remedy this homesickness.

But Remmick was beginning to show he was anything but simple. “It don’t exist no more.”

A quiet ‘oh’ left you at his words, followed by an apology. He chuckled at that, taking another sip of his tea before placing the empty glass beside him. “You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Why ain’t you ever left the Delta before?”

“I did—well, I tried to.” You took a moment to clear your throat, hands smoothing over your dress as your eyes found the fabric, following its simple patterns with the tips of your fingers. “Went to New York for a bit. It ain’t shit but buildings and men lookin’ for their next big star, just to dump them in a week. Then my Ma and Pa died, and I came back home.”

You don’t know why you told Remmick your story, don’t know why it felt so good to either. Maybe you were lonelier than you thought, still seeking for something to fill that aching hole left in your chest. The house had become your comfort, but it still lacked that little pattering of feet, the scent of your Pa’s coffee and the sweet scent of cinnamon while your Ma baked. You found yourself thinking about having someone proper in your home, someone to love and to be loved.

Remmick’s smug and smiley disposition shifted into something more demure, quiet as his brows drew tightly together. “Losin’ your Ma and Pa must be a hurtin’ feelin’. I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause of silence once again.

“I went to New York once,” He watched closely as your face lifted to meet his once again, emotions swirling hidden just within the depths of your eyes. “Bustlin’ city, decent night life… I prefer the Delta. I ain’t meet people like you in New York.”

A giggle bubbled within your chest before you could stop it, distracting you from the ache in your chest as flattery wove its way into your mind. Remmick visibly brightened at the sound of your laughter, egged on by the noise and relishing in it as he took in a deep breath. “You ain’t so bad yourself, Remmick.”

His hand moved to his chest, lips parting dramatically. “Now, I think that’s ’bout the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

Your giggle soon turned into a chuckle as your posture dropped into something more comfortable, genuine. “I can sweet talk too, banjo boy. I just choose to not use it on strangers.”

Strangers. Remmick’s grin widened at the thought, the potential bond forming between you two, even if it was risky. “Well, I find flattery is the best medicine.”

“Keep flatterin’ me and we’ll see if it works then.” You flirted back, smirking to yourself as your head came to rest against the doorframe.

The trees beyond the fence swayed with the night breeze, owls cooing in the darkness. The porch light perched on the wall flickered every few minutes, catching the misty blue of Remmick’s eyes as he spoke. You found yourself drawn to him, taking in each word he said in that sweet drawl. Remmick watched you speak as if you held the voice of angels above, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Time was the least of your focuses the longer he talked, you were tunnel visioned by the man in front of you, and so was he.

Morning birds began to chirp, their noises a reminder that there was more to the world than two people sitting on a porch. You found yourself caught on those magic words as you considered inviting Remmick in for the day, tongue tasting each syllable yet the longer they sat within your mouth, the more foul they tasted. Remmick rose from his position on the porch, hands brushing dirt from his trousers.

“You’ll be back again tonight, right?” You asked, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so eager. But Remmick wasn’t turned away from the invitation, no, he found himself smiling so sweetly at the desperation hidden so poorly within your voice.

“I’ll be here every night ‘til you let me in, darlin’.” The wording was odd, but Remmick had an odd way about him, and nonetheless the sentiment warmed your heart.

Remmick’s feet were light against the porch as he descended the steps, his form completely weightless as he trudged across the grass and toward that familiar white gate. His movement stalled just as his hand came into contact with the wood, neck craning around to look at you one last time before waving.

Your brows furrowed the longer you looked at him in the darkness, saw the way his form seemed just a bit taller—less man and more animal now that he was farther from you, like a facade slipping away. You brushed away the idea, telling yourself it was just exhaustion weighing on you. Mustering up a small quirk of your lips, you waved back to Remmick before closing your front door—locking it securely.

For those few hours you slept, it was like you had never truly fallen asleep. Your conscious was oddly aware of everything around you, aware of each twitch of muscle and the linens against your legs. Your heart calmed, breath evening as you relaxed deeper into this odd slumber. Then you felt it, two hands—strong and heavy as they held onto your waist, the cushioning of the bed dipping behind you.

The hands gave way to arms, tugging you closer and closer till your head was resting against someone’s chest. A man was whispering into your ear in a language you couldn’t recognize. His arms were deceptively cool against your form, chest rising and falling slowly against your back as he continued to hum and whisper—each syllable twisted and falling into the open space.

The language was old, smooth and effortless leaving the tongue. It sounded like a song being spoken, beckoning you to fall deeper into his embrace the longer he hold on. A shiver ran down your spine as two sharp points trailed down the juncture of your neck, your arms and legs twitching as his grip tightened around you. The sensation tickled, tracing from your neck onto your shoulder and back, teasing—testing to see how long you would last before waking.

The man’s lips locked onto your shoulder, placing open mouthed kisses, leaving behind a trail of cool saliva in his wake. The sensation sent tingles down your spine, light and airy—then suddenly sharp, hot blistering pain took its place, two sharp points piercing the skin.

You screamed as you jolted awake, tearing the sheets from your legs as you looked around your bedroom—looking for anything or anyone. Yet it was empty, devoid of sound beyond your breathing. Your hands found their way toward your neck, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed as you quickly found your Ma’s mirror. Nothing, not even a single scratch, was there. It was just a weird, vivid dream.

It was too late in the day to go back to sleep by the time you’d opened the curtains, sunlight greeting you far too happily for someone who’d gotten three hours of rest. The headache that followed you throughout the day was frustrating, but nothing compared to the concern you’d begun to feel regarding your dreams. You hadn’t had nightmares since your Ma and Pa’s funeral, and those never involved a man—never involved a touch so sweet and sinful it made your skin crawl.

You tried to distract yourself throughout the day with mundane tasks, keeping to yourself as you tended the garden. Grace paid you a visit for a bit, remarking how “You looked like you’d just seen the devil himself”. Maybe you had, maybe he had buried his head between your thighs and tasted you and was now following you in your sleep—god, that sounded fucking ridiculous. Regardless, weird dreams didn’t mean shit for reality where you were still busy fixing up the final touches to your home.

Remmick came by that night, and the night after, and the night after that. It became a routine of yours. You slept in, woke midday, spent some time fixing whatever was broken before waiting for Remmick to show up and spending the whole night with him. Subconsciously, you relished in the company he gave—the way he listened, the way he watched, all predatory hiding beneath a fawn’s gaze. You never invited him in, always considered it but never did. And each night when you laid in bed, you’d dreamt of a man holding you, touching you, devouring you whole.

Grace said she wasn’t concerned, but you could tell by the way she visited more now, the way she looked at you as if you dying right before her eyes, that she wanted to say something neither of you were willing to admit. She helped wherever she could, but there wasn’t much to do admittedly with how long you’d begun to spend cooped up in that damned house again.

“A man came into the store yesterday, a white man.” Grace’s brow quirked upward, asking a silent question as she scrubbed at the dishes in your sink.

You were sitting down at the dining table, sewing up a hole left in one of your Ma’s table covers. The thread within your hands slowed as you lifted your gaze to meet Grace’s, expression soon matching hers. “A white man? What’d he look like?”

“Tall, dark, sleazy. Everything New York ‘bout him. He asked ‘bout you.”

Fuck, that wasn’t good. You thought you’d covered your trail from your star days, left that girl dead and buried to resume life here—but you were so very wrong. “Shit, Grace. What’d you say?”

“Said you’d moved. He had that look in his eye though, like a man willin’ to drag someone through hell for answers. You know him?” Grace placed a clean cup onto the drying rack, turning to face you as she leaned against the counter.

“I do—well, I did. Knew him back in New York, is all.” You were quick to answer, too quick for complete reassurance.

But Grace wasn’t the type to pry, not when it came to things like this. You both continued on working in silence, your mind drifting somewhere else entirely—drifting to those woods, to that pinstriped shirt and banjo you’d grown fond of, far too fond for comfort. Grace left quietly from your home, casting you one final look as she pushed past that picket fence into the setting horizon—and something in your stomach soured at the sight. It was like she sensed something you were unable to see.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and once again you waited on your sofa, perched like a bird waiting to hear the crow of its lover. You waited—and waited, and waited. Then, there was a knock on the door.

The sound struck you as odd since Remmick never knocked, always calling out to you in the darkness, but who were you to dictate the right way to visit someone. You’d dressed yourself in your best dress tonight, mentally planning on inviting him in and hopefully having a decent supper together. It felt like being a schoolgirl all over again, rushing around your living room as you brushed away any speck of dust and grime from your dress, if there was any. You lit the candles along the dining table, checking to see if the food was still warm before approaching the door.

Sucking in a tight breath, you gathered all your nerves, grasping that doorknob tightly as a smile etched its way into your cheeks. The hinges creaked as the door swung open, his name beginning to form on your tongue only to die out at the sight that met you. “Remmi—…”

Your old handler stood on your doorstep, cigar between his lips as he looked back the woods near your house. His head whipped back toward you the moment he heard the door hinges swing open, that familiar cruel smile curling on his lips. “Hey, sweet pea. Never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

You began to close the door only for him to block you with his hand, leaning far too close for comfort. The man stunk of cigar smoke and New York sewer, something that never quite washed off no matter how far you got away from the place.

“No, I ain’t.” The words were dry leaving your lips, dragging against your throat as your posture tensed.

He peered past you, his form imposing on you the longer he stood there. A deep chuckle left his mouth, humorless. “Waitin’ on someone? Were you waitin’ on me, sweet pea?”

God, you fucking hated that nickname—hated the way he used it to carve his claim into you even after all these months. That sleazy old bastard still knew how to get under your skin, to dig his fingers into a wound you that had healed and rip it freshly open.

“I was waiting on my husband to come home. He should be here soon.” Lies, all of it, but maybe it would keep him from staying past his already overdue stay.

But that man knew better, took one glance at your hand and knew better. You met his eyes once more before quickly moving to close the door, but he was fast and too damn strong. He forced his way inside quickly, plucking the cigar from his lips and smooshing the ashes against your Ma’s counters. “Nice place you’ve gotten yourself, hope it isn’t all from that money you stole, sweat pea.”

“None of this is your money, ain’t ever been your money. Now, get the fuck out of my home.” You founded the dining table, trying to put as much distance between you and this bulking figure as possible. Your eyes followed him like a prey being chased by a predator, trying to slip from the jaws of something that would chase you till the end. If he was gonna try and kill you, you were going down with a fucking fight.

He scoffed at your words, glancing around your home before looking at you once again. “There’s that fire I missed so much. Listen here, I got two options for you, sweet pea. You can either pack it all up tonight n’ head back to New York with me, and I’ll work ya’ ‘til you pay back every damn cent you took. Or…”

The man didn’t even need to finish as he reached into his suit jacket, a click resounding as he turned off the safety to his gun.

Returning wasn’t an option—it had never been an option. You knew better than that, knew that going back to New York was a death sentence dressed up in glamour. So, you were left with only one choice.

The dish you’d spent an hour on went flying across the table, shattering into the man’s face as the food came splashing onto the floor. “Shit!”

Your feet pounded against the floor as you rounded the table, heading straight for the doorway as his hands scrambled towards his face, then toward you. Pushing past the threshold of your door frame, the once gentle breeze whipped against your face so intensely—the balls of your feet bouncing against the porch steps.

“You fucking bitch!” The man’s steps weren’t far behind as you ran, stumbling into the forest haphazardly. Your feet slipped and caught upon moss, but the consequence of falling was far less than the consequences of being caught.

Your lungs ached, legs burning with each pounding step as your form weaved between trees and branches. In the past, you’d known this forest like the back of your hand, but in the darkness, it seemed much more sinister, twisted and all-consuming. Rounding a tree, you’d stopped to catch your breath—chest heaving as your once-nice dress was now torn and stained at the hem.

The forest was silent all around, no crickets chirped, no owls hooted. It was agonizing, brittle silence. You prayed this forest would protect you—keep you hidden and tightly wrapped in its mossy arms from the predator that was changing you, but the forest had a funny way of protecting people, of hiding them.

A branch snapped beneath weight just a few feet away, goosebumps riddling your skin as you turned to run—only to feel a hand snap around your arm and pull you back. You opened your mouth to scream, but another hand quickly covered your mouth. Bark dug into your back as Remmick stood in front of you, crowding your body with his own as you stopped struggling—his eyes not on yours, but on your handler who stumbled by a few trees over.

When he finally looked at you, there was something different in his appearance—something distinctly wrong. Frothed drool dribbled down his chin, his eyes no longer than misty shade of blue but blood red. His nails were sharp upon your arm, prickling blood unintentionally—but just the scent alone caused his nose to flare hungrily.

“Get inside.”

There were no questions needed to be asked as Remmick released your arm, your form stumbling back through the woods. As you ran, you glanced back to Remmick one last time—watching as the moonlight streamed through the trees and caught upon his form, and that’s when you truly saw him. That animal hidden in human flesh was no longer pretending, talon-like nails protruded as his tongue dragged across razor teeth.

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes the longer you ran, bile sloshing in the pit of your stomach and soon exiting through your mouth. You dry heaved as you push past the white gate of your home, now tarnished with blood. A blood curling scream left the trees, your heart leaping and squeezing in your chest—but you didn’t stop moving, never stopped until you past the boundaries of your home, slamming the door shut and locking it.

The waiting had been the worst part—waiting to find a savior or the devil at your doorstep. You swept and scrubbed the floor, the actions so mundane for someone whose mind was far from their body. You scrubbed, and scrubbed—working your hands till they were raw as blood trickled down your arm. Silence consumed your home, consumed you with it.

The sight of the food on your dinner table, the broken promise of a night you were supposed to have, made your stomach sour and clench. Fear gave way to anger as you swept all the food into a trash bin, tossing the plates into the sink and scrubbing at the dishes till they were spotless—lacking any memory of the ordeal, just as you wished you could do.

You scrubbed the counter where he’d smooshed the cigar, wiping bitterly as the ash stained and carved a permanent marking into the wood. Fucking asshole—fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your manic cleaning was broken by the gentle sound of humming beyond your door, a foreign language sitting upon unseen lips—the same lithe tongue spoken in your dream. Remmick was here. Your hand rested upon the doorknob, arms ready to accept the fate beyond the door—but something in your brain made you pause. You didn’t know what Remmick was, but you knew he wasn’t human—knew he a creature of the night, something dangerous, something sinister.

You backed away from the door as Remmick called out your name from the other side, his voice soft, too soft. The shotgun in the closet found its way into your hands, loaded as you swung the door open—taking aim at the man you’d once considered your friend.

Remmick stared down the barrel, a dry laugh leaving his bloodied lips as he stared at you. He looked at you as if you even prettier this way, full of scorn, scared and shaking in front of him, like he wanted to devour you whole right then and there. He was smeared in blood that obviously wasn’t his, shirt ruined as one of his suspenders hung loosely off his shoulder. “Ain’t no need for that, pretty thing.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You raised the gun, feeling hot tears well in the corners of your eyes and escape down your cheeks. “What the fuck are you?”

That facade he’d embraced was long gone now, replaced by this thing—replaced by what he truly was. Remmick didn’t respond, simply lifting his claws into the air almost defensively as he smiled down at you with his fangs poking past his lips.

You cocked the shotgun, a sharp glare crossing over your face.

“I’m your Remmick, darlin’. Always have been.” Your Remmick, how fucking rich. “That man won’t be botherin’ you anymore. Won’t be botherin’ anyone anymore, really.”

Remmick spoke like what he’d done was mundane—like it was an average occurrence through his week.

“Shut the fuck up, Remmick!” You screamed finally, shoving the barrel of the gun toward, aiming toward Remmick’s head with shaky hands. “I thought we was friends, real friends. What the hell are you? Why the hell would you hide this from me? Jesus—fuck!”

Remmick cooed in that familiar drawl of his, but it wasn’t charming this time—far from it. “We’s still friends, darlin’. I’m yours… just like you’re mine. Why don’t you lower than gun and let me come on in?”

His clawed fingers slowly grasped around the barrel of the shotgun, inching it away from his face as he stared down at you—near quite breaking eye contact as his crimson eyes burned into your face. His tongue dragged across his lips at the sight of your tears, drool beginning to slip out at the corner of his mouth again. Fuck, you looked just as pretty when you cried.

You knocked his hand away from the barrel quickly, aiming it once again as your brain continued to try and convince you to hate him—to blow his brains out and move on with your life.

But that ache in your heart was louder.

“…come in.” You whispered out, dropping the shotgun to the floor roughly. Your mind wanted to hate him, wanted to despise what he was—but your heart had known for a long time that Remmick was far from normal and part of you loved him for it.

The first step he took beyond that barrier felt like glass shattering, the world tipping the moment he was fully inside your home—here, with you, covered in blood. The grin he had on his face was almost childish, like he’d just received candy and gotten a pat on the head.

You didn’t speak to him, just gestured for him to take a seat while you turned your back, dipping a towel in a soapy water concoction.

“Pretty home,” Remmick hummed as he looked around, slipping his suspenders down to his waist before claw-like fingers began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt slowly until he had fully peeled away the fabric to sit in his undershirt and slacks. “Ain’t as pretty as you, though.”

For someone who just had a gun held to his face, he still managed to flirt like you were the next hottest thing.

Wringing the towel out, you handed it to Remmick, his fingertips brushing against the softer palm of your hand and there was a slight hitch in his breath at the contact, like he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time—waiting to touch you, to carve himself into your bones and make it his home.

“You’re hurt.” You didn’t like the way the words came out so pitifully, like you were genuinely concerned for him even when you should despise him. He was a murderer, a monster.

Your hands moved before your mind had fully processed, fingertips pushing up the side of his undershirt to reveal a gash left in his side from what appeared to be a bullet. It was weird that Remmick wasn’t reacting to the pain, but honestly there were a lot of weird things that happened tonight so you didn’t even have the mental bandwidth to question.

Instead, you took the towel from Remmick’s hands, fingers finding their place along the plane of his abdomen, cool flesh settling against the warmth of your own as you dragged the towel along the bloodied wound. You could feel the way his flesh expanded and contracted, feel each vibration in his chest as he let out a mix of a scoff and laugh.

“You’re too good for me, darlin’.”

“I know.” Your response was snippy, quick as you wiped one last time before stepping away from Remmick—but his hand caught your wrist before you could reach the water bucket, grasping firmly.

Your head whipped around to look at him, to fully look at him—taking in the blood, the mess, and goop. Admittedly, those red eyes were what hypnotized you the most, the way they watched you—took in each change in your facial expression and yearned for more, begged for more. His claws released your wrist, slowly making their way to your face.

The tingling sharpness on your jaw felt perfectly contrasted by the gentle nature of the touch, so light as if he was scared to draw blood. Your knuckles tightened around the towel, pale bloody water pattering onto the floor going unnoticed. Your breath was hitched, caught within your chest the longer he touched, but fuck, you knew exactly where you wanted him.

One hand found its way to his shoulder, tracing along the fine tuned muscles, tracing each ridge and bump of cool skin beneath your fingertips. The space minimized in seconds, the contact of lips so light it felt like a feather had brushed you. Your stomach clenched at the contact, mind doing backflips while your heart thrummed in a frenzy.

Remmick didn’t wait to go back in for a second taste, opposite hand finding its place on your hip as he gently guided you down into his lap. Your legs parted, making room for Remmick to slot himself perfectly as his lips consumed your own. The second kiss was different, full of hunger and need that lasted centuries.

The rag in your hand was thrown somewhere you couldn’t see, the hand instead finding placement in his hair—fingernails scraping against the nape of his scalp. Remmick’s mouth parted in a mixture of a whimper and a groan, tongue swiping across your own looks in search of acceptance.

The hand on your hip held firm, tilting your pelvis as it began to rock you up and down the curvature of his cock. You broke the kiss in a gasp, giving Remmick his opportunity as his tongue began to explore your mouth greedily. The sensation was suffocating, clouding your brain as your hips began to rock on their own, matching the rhythm Remmick had set.

“You’re so sweet f’me, so precious.” Remmick whispered into your lips, hands dipping into the arch of your back as your pebbled clit languidly dragged right against his slacks. You weren’t the only one aroused either, his cock swelling within its confines with each buck.

You nipped at the his bottom lip, a high-pitched gasp leaving your lungs as Remmick’s fingers tweaked your nipples through the fabric of your gown. “I ain’t sweet all the time.”

Remmick shook his head, dipping his head into the juncture of your neck before licking a wet stripe up the flesh. “No, I bet you ain’t. Neither am I, darlin.”

He punctured his words with a mean nip at your jawline, just enough to make the skin red and puffy. Slick gathered between your legs, dripping through your panties like sacred honey. You rocked your hips faster, feeling that burning sensation beginning to form in the pit of your belly, desperate and hungry. Your hands perched on Remmick’s shoulders, breathless whines leaving your gasping mouth as you chased that precious peak.

Remmick’s eyes were trained on your face, that annoyingly smug smirk plastered across his lips. He watched as your brows furrowed and your legs began to tighten, clit bumping against his hardened tip so beautifully it made you want to cry. He watched as you worked yourself to the crest of that peak, only to rip it away from you.

“Ah, ah, ah…” His arm suddenly wrapped around your torso, lifting you up as you released a strangled pant. Remmick laid you down on the kitchen table, using those perfectly veined hands of his to languidly bunch the fabric of your dress along your thighs, teasing you.

“Remmick—.”You wanted him, needed him to make you feel so good again. Felt like you’d die without it. “Shh… sweet thing, I’ve got you. Let me treat you proper.”

One hand splayed itself across your hip bone, the other resting onto your inner thigh as Remmick used his food to pull a stool up to the table. The wooden thing creaked under his weight, shifting till he was sat with his face hovering between your thighs. Remmick’s eyes were a bright red now, full of hunger as saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the counters.

The hand on your thigh finally moved toward where you needed him most, tracing light circled just below your clit—allowing the slick to build on the tips of his fingers before pulling them away, slotting his middle and index past his lips with a heady hum of approval.

“Fuck, you taste as good as you smell.”

You were quick to lift your hips, removing your panties with a bit of assistance. Remmick pocketed them before returning to your altar, watching sweet dripping wetness leak from your slit all the way down onto the table. A needy moan broke past your lips, hips writhing against the table in search of friction.

“Sh… I got you. Let me pray before my meal.” Remmick propped his elbows on the table, fingers intertwining as he whispered words you couldn’t quite hear. “Amen.”

There was no warning before he lunged into your cunt, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness. You released a startled cry, hands darting out toward his hair. Remmick moaned into your lips, hands grasping your thighs and hiking them onto his back as he devoured you from the inside out. Your hands were tight in his hair, a whine breaking past his throat as he ate you out intensely.

Your hips lifted for a moment but Remmick was quick to push you back down with his hand, wanting you to sit pretty and just take what he was giving you. His lips squelched against your cooze, tongue slipping lower until it was prodding against that first ring of muscle.

“Remmick—oh, fuck!” The sensation was foreign as his tongue exploded your crevices, thrusting and working you so good. His nose rubbed against your clit, pressed just right and you clenched around him. Remmick was a messy eater, sucking loudly, groaning into your cunt like it was the best meal he’d eaten in centuries. Your fingernails scraped against his scalp as you gasped, legs squeezing around his head and threatening to suffocate, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, it only spurred him on as he released your thighs.

One hand planted itself on your pelvis, thumb swiping mean circles across your clit as his mouth pulled away. Remmick slowly brought his middle and ring finger between his lips, tongue swirling around his digits before he removed them, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to his fingers.

“Take a deep breath for me, darlin’. You’s a little tight, and that just won’t do.” He lined his fingers up with your entrance, pushing past that first ring with little resistance. Remmick cooed at the sight, watching his fingers disappear while you writhed against the table, back arching as your mouth parted into a breathless moan at the intrusion. “That’s it, you’re doin’ so good. So good f’me.”

Remmick gave an experimental thrust of his fingers, testing the way you stretched and moaned before starting to curl them in a careful rhythm. He listened to each moan that left you, finding that spongy spot that made you moan loudest in seconds. You released those brown locks, hands finding purchase on the table as you propped yourself up—watching as Remmick dove right back into your cunt.

He suckled your clit, tongue swiping across that precious nub while his fingers rubbed right against your g-spot. The combination of sensation sent your brain into a frenzy, body shuddering as you got worked up fast and hot, your moans and gasps becoming desperate and whiny. Your hips bucked into Remmick’s face and he groaned right back, sucking harder till the dam in the pit of your belly broke. “Wait—let me catch my breath—oh, fuck… fuck!”

Your back arched, hips bucking wildly as Remmick’s free hand came to hold your thigh against his face, stubble rubbing deliciously against the tender flesh. You wailed into your orgasm, vision blurring as you pulsed with life. Remmick sucked on your clit till you sobbed, pussy weakly pulsing around his fingers as everything became all too much.

“That’s my girl.” Lifting his head, he withdrew his fingers from your cunt, covered in your orgasm. Remmick was quick to lick up his fingers, cleaning the mess you’d made with a delighted hum. He patted your thigh, rising from the stool as he began to fiddle with his belt. Your brain was scrambled, frothy from pleasure and one hell of an orgasm—but that still didn’t stop you from trying.

Your hands found Remmick’s shoulders, attempting to push him down onto the table with you. “Let me ride you, least I can do.”

Remmick chuckled, a flicker of something sinister crossing over his face as he pushed your hands away, the belt falling to the floor with a thud. “Maybe next time, darlin’. I’ll be takin’ you nice n’ proper, as proper as fuckin’ you on the table can get.”

With that, he guided your back onto the wooden surface, placing your legs comfortably around his waist as he unzipped his pants. Your eyes greedily took each movement in as Remmick pushed down his boxers just enough for his cock to spring free, bobbing out of its confines. He was thick, a singular vein lining him all the way down to the base where a thick patch of dark brown hair peaked out. Fuck, that’s what you were going to be taking, made your stomach clench and your pussy pulse.

“You’re massive… holy shit.” You whispered out, a gentle scoff leaving Remmick’s lips. Remmick spit into his hand, sliding saliva up and down into a gentle pump on his cock before lining it up with your entrance.

“It’ll feel real good, darlin’. So good you’ll be screamin’ f’me. Just breathe.”

You followed his words, taking in a deep breath only for that air to be punched out of you a moment later. Remmick pushed forward, his tip splitting you open painfully. You tensed, legs squeezing his waist as your face bunched up in a pained groan.

Remmick’s thumb traced tiny circles across your clit, cooing and whispering words of encouragement until you’d adjusted a bit, tension seeping out of your body steadily. He continued this process, inching in until he was fully sheathed, that delicious hairy patch grinding against your clit as his mouth perched itself on your pebbled nipples. Remmick sucked diligently, fangs grazing every few seconds before switching to the next until your chest was coated in his saliva. “Fuck—you’re so damn tight.”

You felt full, unbelievable full. Each breath was full of Remmick, each sound was full of him. You shuddered at the sheer size of him, prodding each spot in you like it was nothing. Your chest heaved, rising and falling as your eyes remained wide as you adjusted to him just a bit more, allowing his cock to imprint itself inside you.

Remmick placed a kiss on your collarbone, followed by one on your cheek. Pulling his face an inch away from yours, he whispered. “You ready, sweet thing?”

The slightest movement caused him to slip deeper into you, a weak groan leaving your lips as you stuttered over the words. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

You didn’t need to repeat yourself as he caught your lips with his own, hips rolling experimentally. You whined into the kiss, his cock pressing into you greedily as your hands grasped the table desperately. Remmick matched your sounds with ones of his own, whining and gasping against your lips with each thrust. The more he moved, the more you were able to adjust—soon finding yourself relaxing into the sensation, pussy contracting and pulsing.

“I’m gonna—haah—gon’ move you a bit.”

Remmick’s hands dipped under your thighs, unlocking them from around his waist before placing ankles onto his shoulders. He leaned forward and the stretch was almost immediate, his cock somehow piercing a completely new part of you. A garbled noise left your lungs, eyes snapping down to where you both met so beautifully.

Remmick gave a singular rough thrust, a snarl forcing out of his mouth, animalistic and raw. His fingers dug into the fat of your hips, dragging you into him as he began to rut into you—fucking you into the table. Your hands left the table quickly, nails scraping crescents into his biceps as they flexed with each thrust.

“Remmick—oh, my… god. I can’t—ngh!”

The stretch was overwhelming, each spot inside you being scraped bare as Remmick pounded into your walls, tits bouncing as your back arched.

“You can—shit—you will.” One hand planted itself on your pelvis, applying just the right amount of pressure so you could feel him dragging against your walls from the inside out.

“Feel that? Feel me fuckin’ that pussy, fillin’ you up? Fuck—haah… you’re squeezin’ the life out of me.”

You clenched tighter, pulsing as your eyes rolled shut—mouth opening in silent moans and broken screams. Remmick leaned forward, a glob of spit forming on his tongue before plopping directly onto your pussy. His thumb caught the saliva, smooshing it against your clit in mean little circles.

Your legs spasmed instantly, tightening and milking around his girth. Remmick released a strangled whine at the sudden tightness, his unoccupied hand grasping your tit tightly.

“You gon’ cum? You gon’ let go all over me, yeah? Fuck—fuckin’ do it. Show me how good I can make you feel.”

Your vision blanked as your body shook, legs spasming on his shoulder as your pussy clenched so tight Remmick swore you’d break his dick. Your lips parted in a scream, breathless and high-pitched. Remmick didn’t stop moving, rutting into you as his whines turned into snarls, hands moving to dig into the fat of your hips in a bruising grip.

“Mmph… oh, fuck—take it, darlin’.” He released one final moan as he ground his hips against yours, balls drawing tight before he burst within you—cum spilling into your pussy and plugging you full. Remmick collapsed on top of you, sweat coating both of your forms.

The room grew silent except for your mutual gasps for breath, your eyes prying open as your hand gently played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Remmick placed mindless kisses along your jaw, hands softening their grip.

Slowly, Remmick pulled out from your spent entrance—his seed and your arousal leaking down your thighs and onto the table beneath. His eyes caught the concoction, a distinctly smug smile crossing over his face. “You did so good for me, darlin’. Let me clean you up.”

You hummed, completely blissed out that you couldn’t even register Remmick’s head between your thighs until he was already tonguing your slit again. He ate you messily and quickly, sucking and prodding as you whined and attempted to push his head away only for him to suck harder. You felt that stinging hot sensation build within your core once again, mumbling pleas leaving your lips as tears brimmed your eyes from overstimulation.

Remmick gave one final suck to your clit, sending you right over the edge of that cliff and into deep waters as you came for the third time. Your body convulsed, legs spasming as you gasped for air like a fish out of water. You were spent by the time the orgasm subsided, and Remmick knew it—wouldn’t let you live it down as he smiled down at you like he hadn’t fucked you into this.

The brown haired man rose from his spot, disappearing from your vision for a moment before returning with blanket. His movements were gentle as he guided you, gently reaffirming how good you were with each touch of his hands on tender skin. Soon, you bundled in the blanket, guided to the sofa and curled into Remmick’s form like a lap cat.

“You can fall asleep with me, darlin’. You did so good, took me so well.” Remmick cooed into your ear, red eyed watching the way your eyes were slowly fluttering shut.

“I don’t wanna fall ‘sleep yet… not yet…” A vibration left Remmick’s chest as he laughed at your sleepy sex-induced delirium.

“That alright. Talk to me then, tell me ‘bout what you want, what you need.” Remmick’s hands stroked down your back and side rhythmically, his words whispered into the top of your head as you lolled against him.

You hummed out tiredly, thinking for a moment as your eyes closed. “I want… a picket fence house on a hill… the sound of a banjo all the time, the fresh scent of cinnamon wafting through the halls… two kids, one that looks like you and one that looks like me… and… and…”

And you were out cold. A smile wedged its way between Remmick’s lips as he listened to you speak, to you dream about a future with him—a domestic life filled with love. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that would never happen, but he was willing to pretend that life was a possibility for now. Just like he was willing to pretend like your handler finding you was a coincidence, and that Remmick hadn’t led him here to you.

Remmick wanted to be your everything, your life, your love, your death. So what if a few people got caught in the middle? If it meant that each night you’d be curled up like this in his arms, he’d do it again and again. Just to keep you here with him.

Forever.