Pisces

When the dreams began, they did so with merciful tenderness.

A younger, fresh-eyed you believed they were prophetic visions of a prince, the foresight of a romantic love story that filled you with a dangerous amount of hope. A hope accompanied by longing for that breathtaking moment where you would finally meet. In the beginning, they were benign, and the croon of a lullaby and wistful wonder would follow you into the waking world.

That naive innocence gradually degraded with each dream. As you matured, the grotesque intensity of them did too. 

There was still the gentle warbling of a lilting accent, the promise of eternal devotion, and the freefall into young love. But it was accompanied with the overwhelming smell of rot, the vivid image of bodies swelling in the sun, and the anguish of being faced with a choice of allowing yourself to be stolen away or having loved ones ripped from you.

Tonight, it’s a mashup of the two. There’s a heavy and hot weight to the air, twisting gnarled roots, an ankle-long tight-fitted kirtle that was outgrown years ago and a novel concern of status. You’re wearing a skin you distinctly recognize as not yours, speaking a foreign language, yet somehow you understand the words falling from your lips.

You met him under the sturdy bough of a sycamore during the wind-down of a festival. Skin dry from the salty breeze wafting from the shore, fingers cracked and peeling. He was a bard. You cannot make out his face.

Never his face.

But the blue of his threadbare linen tunic is dazzling. So is the lilt of his voice as he serenaded you. You feel the stretch of a smile across your cheeks. The syrupy stick of elderberries as you pressed them between his lips. Heard your laugh ringing out at the crass swipe of his tongue over your fingers. Felt the warmth rushing to your cheeks when that laugh alone looked to be his ruin.

You didn’t see him again until you’re married off. Until the scenery shifts with no rhyme or reason, and you’re left standing in the woods in a dress stained with blood and ash. A vague memory of being dragged from the altar by something that can only be described as monstrous. A persistent ghastly image of him that strikes terror through you, though all you ever remember upon waking are red eyes and dripping fangs.

But you’re not awake yet.

The village was burning. Smoke fills your nose, throat, expanding into your lungs. Immediate, violent panic seizes you. Your breath comes in agonizing, painful pulls. A numbness starts to spread up from your fingertips, threatening to bring you under-

A whisper of your name slices through the fog of panic. Not the name of the person you’re inhabiting, no. Your name.

“Where are you?”

You jolt awake in a fit of heaving breaths, shooting up in bed, left with the lingering taste of ash and blood clogging your throat. Chills wracked your body as the sodden sheets twist around your damp limbs. Your pulse pounds heavy in your temples with illusions of suffocation.

A quick, frantic glance at the clock tells you that yes, you only have 20 minutes to arrive at your shift on time. Two were spared trying to calm the jittery nerves that left you trembling, only marginally successful in convincing your autonomic nervous system to calm the fuck down. From your experience, the worst of the panic would abate in the next five spent in a light-speed shower.

This is how it’s been for years. Every night.

Different lives. Different experiences. Different selves. But they all had one dread-inducing thing in common. The same fuckass nightmare demon that plagued your piteous attempts at rest.

When tentative diagnoses and logical explanations failed, you took to researching what bleary remnants you could recall from your dreams. The creature’s face could never distinctly be made out, but you caught a few terror-filled utterings of attributed names.

Nightwalker

Vampyr

Even a Nosferatu at some point, but you chalked that up to an active imagination bleeding into your slumber after a horror movie binge.

Because of this seemingly unprecedented haunting, you’ve never been one for the romanticization of vampires. You needed reliable sources, not sparkly, religious-coded bullshit that muddies your research. Not to mention the many discrepancies in the lore that make the truth as elusive as the face of your demon. In a Hail Mary attempt to feel safe, you ensured a steady stock of garlic, crosses you got a sweet deal on at the antique store, and a mix of silver and iron items strewn around your house.

Settling in a small town has the benefit of putting your mind at ease by providing a consistent sea of faces. A cozy cabin bordering the outskirts made for a perfect spot to anchor down. You had wrapped up the welcome mat that came with like it had cursed your mother, roughly disposing of it in a manner befitting personal betrayal. If you wanted the presence of a blood-sucking leech, you’d have gone skinny dipping in the creek behind your house. The same effect without the trepidation of blood-soaked dreams and piss-poor sleep.

You’re not necessarily a true believer in the supernatural, but the protective measures you have accumulated over the years alleviate your troubled mind for reasons you can’t explain.

Your roommate was as decent as they come. Charming until he opened his mouth, and then that charm was ruined forever. But you both stayed out of each other's way, said all of five words to each other annually, and split the responsibilities and the rent. It just so happened that your roommate had also been your kind of crazy, if in a different flavor. He was into survivalist, apocalyptic-style bullshit, and had no problem crafting you your own nail-infused bat after an inebriated, vulnerable confession about your troubles.

For that, you considered him a damn near best friend until a week ago, when he skedaddled right off to greener pastures. Left behind a note barely a sentence long and a glaringly obvious lack of payment for the month’s rent. It smarted just a little, though your bank account smarted more, and occasionally the thought of seeing his car wrapped around a tree on the way to work makes you feel better.

The lack of warning stung for several reasons; the most pertinent was that he knew you were out of a phone after the landline to the house was found cut, though he assured you an animal chewed it. Your own cell was awaiting repair from a fatal crack when you were shoved in a drunken altercation at your job.

And so paranoia became a familiar friend along with faulty memory and constant fatigue.

That means it’s not worth losing sleep over (ha) when your belongings fail to turn up in the place you vaguely remember laying them. But when you begin to notice an uptick in the phenomenon, a certain possession appearing where you definitely don’t remember putting it, or going missing altogether, your mind has enough ammunition to fabricate a manner of explanations, each one more upsetting than the last.

A picture of you and your childhood pet vanished off of the out-of-commission mantle. The only evidence it was there to begin with was the pristine clearing among the dust. And then, more alarmingly, clothing started to disappear. You’re prone to misplacing an item or two here or there, but there’s only so much time that passes before they turn up.

And you don’t have that many pairs of underwear to begin with.

You curse your roommate again, it becoming a daily mantra at this point as you prepare your worn-out body for another tiring shift.

It’s fitting that you meet him on a day as dreary as your dreams. Rain fell in thick sheets, mist curling around the bases of aged architecture, rising against the asphalt like steam. It painted a lovely, tranquil view, one of the redeeming qualities of this dead, small town.

You approach the bar you tend with little enthusiasm. The building hails as the town’s crown jewel, standing proud and apart from the crowded nestling of the adjacent buildings.

You breeze in, make your apologies to your coworker who waves you off with a flick of her hand. There hasn’t been a full house lately and no one sticks around town long besides the old timers. If you haven’t been so out of whack, you would have noticed the man at the bar watching you, and had been for some time.

Time sluggishly passes as you serve drinks.

The consolation that usually comes from the pacifying, dimly lit area is nowhere to be found tonight after your nightmare. Each sensation seems to wear down your already high-strung nerves, pulling you back into that moment of panic-stricken terror. 

The hum of a ceiling fan and noticeable absence of a working air conditioner makes your skin slick with sweat. The permanent aroma of cigarettes and alcohol congest your throat, reminiscent of the phantom ash and blood you were hacking up this morning. The tumultuous sounds of revelry ramp up as the night goes on. More than once your trembling hands overfill a few drinks.

At least the rowdier bar-goers haven’t been seen for some time. You make an effort to be friendly enough to the customers, but the occasional, normalized harassment you’ve undergone would’ve sent you over the edge on a night like this. A murder charge definitely would’ve been in your future.

The monotonous swipe of the rag over glassware goes without conscious supervision. That dream still lingers in the back of your mind, digs its claws into your shoulders and amplifies the weighted pull of your limbs to the earth. It’s a constant effort not to shuffle your feet, but it’s a battle mostly lost as they’re leaden with the weight of fatigue.

“I think that one’s as spotless as it’s gonna get.”

A melodic drawl from the far end of the bar top pulls you from your trance with an irksome abruptness. You blink, eyes cut to a man you vaguely noted in your periphery since the beginning of your shift.

The ambient lighting curls around the angles of his face, handsome features toggling between accented and concealed whenever he adjusts his position. He meets your gaze with a seemingly sympathetic one, steady until he nods at the cup you’re holding.

His eyes glisten in the warmth of the light but they’re dark, discomforting in a way that has your grip tightening around the glass.

They’re leagues better than the beady, blood-slick ones that haunt your nightmares, but you’re still not a fan of these. There’s an emptiness to them, cold and prying and knowing, like they’re picking you apart without you having to say a goddamn word.

You blink again.

“That it is.” You offer to top off his drink as you get to working on the counters, but he politely refuses.

From your margin of view, you note his eyes seem to track your movements unabashedly. You pretend not to notice, it’s not your first time dealing with a scenario like this, and observe him as subtly as you can.

Although he was well-dressed, his dapper clothes carried a worn, lived-in appearance. The discernible smell you clocked earlier was revealed to be emanating from him. He had an earthy, musky scent that carried a faint metallic trace — not exactly pleasant, but you’ve smelt worse. A gold chain sat at the base of his neck, vanishing beneath his button-up as if weighted by a pendant or something with similar heft.

At some point during your sly examination, you notice his nostrils flaring slightly when you walk close enough. That has you pausing, second-guessing if the shower you took before work was another fevered, hyper-realistic hallucination. And yikes, wouldn’t that be karmic if you were judging this poor man and his coppery aroma when you yourself reeked of sweat and insomnia. Said sleep deprivation clouds your decision-making, and you not-so discreetly take a whiff of yourself.

Not one for subtly either, apparently – he clocks it immediately and begins damage-control, stuttering out appeasements.

“Oh– no, miss. You smell real nice. Woodsy. Sweet.”

You can’t say the same to him, but you’d been using the scent of coins and desperation as a grounding sense whenever thoughts of your nightmare reared up. So you guessed you owed him an only slightly apprehensive pleasantry, “Thanks.”

He perks like a flower receiving a plethora of water after a nasty dry spell, apparently taking your response as a go for conversation, and excitedly prattles on.

“Oh, it’s a gift of mine. Could’a been a sommelier, if my heart weren’t set on music.”

He gets a hum in response, but he’s still staring at you, and you feel more than a bit pressured to offer a stilted effort to converse with him.

“Maybe one of those airport sniffer dogs.” You muse. He does give off a feral energy. Kind of reminds you of the stray cat that comes around your house once in a while. Sweetly imploring for scratches until he decides halfway through that your hand is the enemy.

“Woof, woof!” The man chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll have to consider that if my passion doesn’t work out.”

You take some pity on him, eyes roving over the gradually emptying bar and the rustic clock above the pool table. It’s a while before your shift ends and admittedly, your curiosity has been tickled. “What kind of music do you play?”

He brightens like you just handed over the keys to the bar and open-access to the register. This man must not have an extensive social circle, evident for several reasons beyond questionable hygiene and his ardent interest in remaining here.

“Folk, mostly. But I dabble in just about anythin’. Say, you have live music here?” His eyes flit to the radio behind the counter, an almost distasteful glint in them that vanishes when they return to you. “I would love to offer my talents.”

“Sometimes. You staying in town long?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes ma’am. There’s just-” His face twists slightly, and you come to the weary conclusion that this man has a thing for dramatics, “just one little hiccup. I’m lookin’ for an affordable place to stay. Money bein’ tight and all.”

Something in the way he says it makes you pause. This whole conversation felt off to you, though you can’t accuse him of any ill-intent without sounding paranoid. This chat between the two of you feels as though he’s fishing for something; a pervasive theatricality wound through his every word.

“There’s an inn.” You politely ramble off directions, pointing out the obvious solution.

There’s an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, if you blinked you would’ve missed it. Not the answer he wanted to hear. It’s unnerving as much as it is vexing, but you tolerate your job and well-being, so you go for mitigation.

“Let-uh, let me hear something! Can’t promise you anything until I talk to my boss, though.” The rag gets abandoned behind the counter in favor of you leaning against it on your elbows.

Just like that, whatever tension was in the air dissipates. He amps up the prior enthusiasm, along with what some could refer to as charm, and pulls a hard case you never noticed from seemingly thin air, but really just under the counter top.

“Oh, you - wow. You really came prepared.”

“Sure did!”

It’s a banjo. Not what you were expecting but it oddly suits him.

He gets up with flair, brandishing the instrument like a fifth limb. And then he’s singing, a voice so dulcet and infatuated that it calls to your beleaguered soul. He had knelt for you, kissed your hand in a respect designated for royalty, unfitting of you. The echoes of it hum on your skin as you listen, enamored. You want nothing more than to find salvation in those fluctuating notes, those honeyed words offering no reprieve, voice going hoarse upon mentioning your beauty-

You flinch slightly. The striking familiarity of this scenario to the one in your dream makes you queasy, and bile with the incriminating viscosity of blood fills your mouth.

The man goes to pause, more than a little troubled by your reaction, and something like disappointment dawns on his face. You wave a hand, expression hopefully conveying the ‘it’s nothing’ you can’t ground out. Hopefully you passed it off as a bad case of acid reflux.

You shake your head slightly to rid yourself of the nausea and the residual blur cast over your vision. Now’s not the time to detach from your surroundings, and the poor dude only wants a gig. He’s just a flamboyant little guy, with no blood stained claws or grisly teeth. Get it together.

At least he’s playing a song you know, previous theatrics bleeding into his performance in a way you should’ve anticipated. His persistent efforts chip away at any lingering solemnity of yours, breaking you down until your laugh rings out in response to a few of his eccentric animations. He basks in the attention, is encouraged by it, if his increased vigor is anything to go by. The little blip in his performance seemingly slips both of your minds.

When he finishes, you applaud in a manner befitting a standing ovation. His excessive personality is contagious in his performance and successful in pulling you from your anxious, sleep-deprived funk.

“Thank you, thank you!” He accepts the praise humbly, executing a graceful bow that drags another giggle from you.

“That’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Once again, alarm bells ring in your head as that look creeps across his face again, a deceptive quality to otherwise earnest words. “Really? Ain’t that somethin’.”

The red flags he’s raising are put on the back burner as you two get to talking about music, the man - Remmick, he introduced himself as - displays a formidable intelligence of all facets of the topic, including ones broken off as subsequent tangents. At some moments it’s difficult to remember this man is a stranger, but damn is he disarming. Enough so that you allow minute aspects of your life to bleed into your answers until closing time creeps up on you.

The silent, ever-present skepticism rears its head when he stays after your last call announcement, after you begin cleaning up for the night, and after you give him a not-so-subtle hint that he’s welcome to go try his luck at the hotel you mentioned.

For a moment, you think he’s going to push the inquiry until he bids you a kind, if a bit crestfallen farewell.

Odd fellow.

—

The next day passes without the odd encounter at your work. You think you’re in the clear, until a knock at your door alerts you that your relaxing night is about to be rudely interrupted.

And of course it’s this fucking guy. All the land on God's green earth and he lodges himself nicely up your ass in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

You sigh, resting your forehead against the door with exasperated disbelief. Just your luck, truly. With a glance at your roommate’s innovative weapon in the corner, you reckon your chances of taking him are pretty high. He’s not exactly imposing, and the threat of him is mostly limited to talking you into a coma, so you open the door with no small amount of irritation.

“Look who it is!” His eyes widen in astonished recognition. Too quick. Too counterfeit. 

“What are you doing here?” Wariness has your response low and curt, displeasure ringing out clearly in your tone.

“I heard tale that a vacancy has opened up. Straight from the horse’s mouth.” His hands slide into his pockets, feet shuffling with beguiling innocence. He’s not fazed by your tone. In fact, you’d say he looks thrilled at your visible disturbance.

“…Wouldn’t that be me?” You’ve only informed a few people about your roommate jumping ship, but intel around here circulates like blood in the goddamn body. For all your chatting the other night, you took care not to broadcast that you were living on your lonesome now to an unusual newcomer. Damn loudmouths.

He laughs long enough for it to be awkward (yeah, even more awkward), shaking a finger at you like you had told him the first joke he’s heard all year. You don’t join in.

“I guess so! But no. Just word of mouth, y’know. Small town. Nice people.”

That last bit feels pointed. You get a feeling it’s a subtle dig at you. He looks right into your eyes as he says it, smiling, but forgoing his animated expressions to drive the point home. Silence stretches between the two of you and he clears his throat.

“Well, today is your lucky day, darlin’!”

Something tells you that you two have wildly different concepts of luck, seeing as Remmick is cheesing like a strange man at your doorstep is something you should be particularly enthused about. One that still smells like coins.

“Why.” Distrust pours off of you in waves.

“Rentin’ a place on your lonesome in this economy.” He shakes his head at the ground, face pinched as if the idea offends him. “And findin’ good housemates is as scarce as hen’s teeth. But! Here I am. Ready to offer you my company and my money.”

He says that last part conspiratorially, like your panties are supposed to drop at the mention of cash. Maybe pop out a tit or two. The confidence in his pitch has your mind bending over backwards trying to figure out when you were dropping hints that you’d love sharing a house with a man that checked off all the boxes of serial killer.

“What makes you think I’d be a good housemate?” 

“Why, from our chat at the bar! I can tell we’re similar. You like music-” He recites with raised eyebrows in a see how close we are expression, “And I, well, I happen to be a musician. We’ll get along real well.”

His convincing points seem to start and end there, but Remmick fucking beams at you. It’s as if he’s conversing with an old friend instead of someone he met days ago. You want to chalk it up to him being a friendly fella, but a nagging feeling tells you to be on your guard.

At your silence and more than likely suspicious expression, his brow creases. Doe eyes widen in a way that threatens to break into a pout, appearance ranging from a pathetic please be my friend to a more intense why don’t you love me. A true performance so dramatic it was painful. You nearly wince.

“Can you stop with that look?” You barrel on as his mouth opens in slight offense. “You’re acting like I kicked your puppy, man. Look, these things usually take interviews. Deliberation. Not drop-ins in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t recall being offered an interview when we met the other day-” His tone and countenance suggest that you’re the one being unreasonable, here.

“Are you kidding! You think I’m going to take roommate applications at my work? At a bar? With someone I just met?”

“I reckon we’ll be thick as thieves come the end of the week. I swear on my Mama, God rest her soul.” Remmick clasps his hands in prayer to emphasize his plea.

You have half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, and maybe his Mama too. 

“How about I give you my- shit.” You ignore his eyebrows shooting up at your vulgarity. There’s no working phone for him to have the number to, not that you’re particularly eager to share it with him, but you’d like to wrap up this conversation in the foreseeable five minutes. “How about you come back in a week?”

His hands slowly lower, dejected. He grimaces, hissing through clenched teeth as he prepares an answer you know will piss you off.

“How about somethin’ on a more immediate timescale?” 

“How about no.” You give him the best mean-mug you’re capable of, and he relents. 

“Then I’ll be on my way. But I’ll be around town, just in case you change your mind.” The show he’s putting on is truly impressive. He throws on a polite smile that conveys his disappointment, nodding to himself as he strolls away at an unhurried pace you know is fabricated, because this man is nothing but a ball of energy.

Your heart squeezes a fraction, but one quick gander at the situation in its entirety curbs any scraps of guilt you have. 

—

Remmick’s melancholic departure would be a lot more impactful if he wasn’t back the next night, claiming his shaded barstool in the corner, and you tell him as such.

“Y’know, your dramatic exit doesn’t hold as much weight if you just come back the next day.” You attempt a mirthful jibe, if only to kill any hard feelings that may be festering. He does know where you live, after all.

Thankfully, Remmick doesn’t seem to harbor any, because his demeanor enlivens at you making conversation with him, and he plays into the repartee with wit of his own.

“I held off long as I could. Gave you time to cool down...” He says that last part gingerly, like you being unaccommodating was the result of an unpleasant mood. 

“It’s not even been a full 24 hours!” You blurt, more than a bit incredulous.

“What can I say? Just can’t keep away from you.” His eyes flick over you, flirty, yet fleeting enough to be respectful for an action that’s more lecherous than not when performed by other customers. The dazzling smile he gifts you after helps more than a small amount. “Y’know, there was a time when women would find it flatterin’ to have a suitor.”

“Yeah? I can find ten of you at the gas station, so.” 

“Alright.” Remmick smiles a little too wide for a joke that was more than a half-truth, hand raising to clutch his pearls with a slight scoff. “Why’re you single then? That sunny personality?”

Ouch. He had a few half-truths, too. Though his good-natured ability to take a joke is contagious, so you figure you can play into the one at your expense as well. 

“Burns too bright, man. They can’t handle this.” You raise your eyebrows, shrugging in a ‘what can you do’ fashion. You hope the unsaid you can’t either rings out just as clear.

“I bet.” He stares at you, a crooked grin and that thoughtful intensity back on his face.

You hum, shaking your head as you go to serve someone else and ignore the way your skin burns with his eyes on you.

—

You should have expected the misinterpretation of your attempted friendliness.

That tick you had to pull out of your arm one afternoon should’ve been taken as the foreshadowing it was, because it accurately summed up the next few weeks. They pass like a fever dream, with varying, conflicting emotions to match.

You’re wary, sure. But Remmick doesn’t strike you as the typical tail-chaser, and nothing untoward has happened in your conversations besides the pleading to let him come live with you.

The look in his eyes does set you on edge, often triggering goosebumps erupting on your flesh when you just feel them on you. It’s not outwardly lecherous, though you have caught a hint of that, too. Several times when he thought you weren’t looking.

While the general populace was mostly cordial, there’s a few times where you’ve been on the tail-end of some seedy-as-hell looks that have you clutching your keys between your fingers on the way to your car. Once or twice things have gotten physical, but the miscreants responsible haven’t come by the bar for some time. A little before Remmick breezed into town, actually, with his banjo and comely smiles.

All that said, you could do worse in terms of admirers. It is a reasonable classification to make, because Remmick comes around your job and home like clockwork, as if he had all the time in the fucking world to pester you. He is frustratingly patient with your dismissal, unlike you.

You feel like a broken record as you rehash the same talking points with thinly veiled irritation.

No, Remmick, this is not your porch. No, Remmick, it isn’t acceptable to play banjo in a stranger’s yard at 2 a.m.. No, Remmick, you can’t live with me.

The bizarre image pops into your head of you parenting him with the No, David! storybook, a round-eyed Remmick sitting criss-cross on your porch, chin resting on closed fists, ooh-ing and aw-ing at the appropriate moments. Soaking in absolutely none of the pertinent lessons you’re trying to get across.

It’s fair to question whether he’s playing with a full deck here, given the amount of times you have to hold his hand through the explanation that he is a strange, strange man, and that just because you share a similar taste in music and films, it doesn’t indicate a compatible roommate arrangement. Though you’re fairly certain he was lying about sharing your taste in movies, anyway, because he couldn’t name a single plot point of one when you pressed him further.

Unfortunately, you begin to acclimate to his Remmick-ness the longer you’re around him.

It helps that Remmick has shown up on a few occasions with gifts that are…actually welcome. Scarily accurate to your current, unmentioned interests and needs. And because you’ve made the mistake of accepting one of his offerings, the walmart-brand sugar daddy he fancies himself as (yes, the one that begs to live with you) persists until you threaten not to open the door to him anymore.

Despite your best efforts to corral your foolish emotions, his affection and attention are more than welcome. Affection and attention, period. Full stop.

He’s not alone in his gift giving, because one day you find yourself offering him something in return: a few fragrance oils you have a fondness for. You tell yourself the thrill that comes with that has a psychological attribute that lies in loneliness and a lack of romantic experience, and has nothing to do with the primal satisfaction you get when he begins to smell like you.

Anyway, it’s more for your benefit than his. You can tolerate his natural, pine-scented musk, enjoy it on a good day, but those metallic whiffs you got occasionally had to go. Of course, Remmick’s ecstatic, like he usually is when you give him the time of day and you had no qualms finding a way to stifle his happiness. The one you land on is to inform him that he reeks of pennies, and you come to the heartbreaking discovery that he thinks he smells great, mouthwatering even (his words, mind you). You accept that the two of you will have a dissenting opinion on the matter.

That becomes a recurring theme in your relationship.

—

“It’s going to be hard to fight off rumors of my suitor when I have a man that’s constantly at my work.” You greet him with one night, taking a slow gander at the styrofoam cup he snuck in. “And don’t say it’s for the beer.”

“Nothin’s stoppin’ you from confirmin’ those.” Remmick’s lips close innocently around the straw. Outside beverages are against policy, but his rebuttal was that he needed all his money for a room after you denied him yours, and you waved him off before he could beat that dead horse. The alternative was a shift without Remmick, which would be peaceful if a little boring. He also quickened the closing process by helping you clean, so you let him keep his contraband. 

“I’m not sure how to interpret that.” Your heart skips a beat, and in a rush of bashful delusion, you’d say his eyes glanced towards the malfunctioning organ.

“Interpret it any which way that pleases you, darlin’.” His smile is complacent with a deliberate amount of irreproachability.

And if a grin of your own splits your face as you turn to grab a glass, that’s your business.

—

Remmick is a bit of an old soul. You clocked that from your first conversation, one you used to attribute as overwhelming, but now seems performative and stifled upon comparison with your current nocturnal chats. In the late hours of the night, his mask slips and he doesn’t take care to organize his words with his usual methodical precision. 

There’s times where you sit together in easy, cordial silence more revealing than some of your discussions. You, lounging on your swing with mellow contemplation as you study him, furtive. And Remmick, perched on a step with an elbow propped up on the porch, pen between plush lips as he ponders his scripture. The creak of the wood as he shifts to document a sudden thought, the scratch of his pen against the parchment.

There’s something familiar about him, yet he’s entirely unique to you. You’ve certainly never had a man dancing a jig on your porch late into the night. You’d wish he’d take that shit somewhere else, but, okay, he’s not bad. Pretty damn good, actually. And maybe you’re a bit sore because you feel the equivalent of a female bird, mesmerized by his impressive stamina and bones that are seemingly made of rubber. It’s all well and good until he tries to rope you into his antics.

“Dance with me.” He says, tone soliciting after he caught your intrigued stare over the pages of an abandoned novel. He extends a hand and wiggles his fingers alluringly.

“Tempting as that is, no.” You savour his petulant response. He must feel a bit more dramatic than usual tonight, because his arm falls heavily to his side, clearly peeved.

“That's your favorite goddamn word, isn’t it?” 

“One of them. Want to hear some others?” You huff, book thumping as it hits your lap. His responding sigh is all suffering, like this isn’t a hell of his own making.

“As long as they’re for me, darlin’.”  

—

A month passes and giddy expectation stains the hours leading up to each shift. You waited as long as you could to inform him that he did, in fact, get the gig. Just to see how long he’d stick around on his own. Remmick reacted with the fervor you expected, hands clasped to his chest in gratitude despite it being out of your hands. Sarcastically, you asked if he was pleased.

“I sure am, honey. Now I get to bother you on a frequent basis.”

“Already being done, I promise.”

—

On another night, you’re riding a nice high after finding your roommates stash of weed. You guessed a few clothing items was a more than welcome trade if this was the pay off. Hell, you’d ship him more pairs of panties if he let you keep it. But he would no doubt be back once he realized the gold he left behind, and for a moment, you seriously consider fighting him for it. You could, the kid was a noodle and at one point you had a steady streak of arm wrestle victories over the last pack of ramen. Those are fond memories between the two of you. Part of your annual five-minute interactions.

And now you’ve made yourself sad, wading down memory lane while you’re inundated with raw, unprocessed emotions. 

No one had ever stayed long. Romantic or transactional, last roommate not included. Not after nights of waking up screaming, with sheets soaked in sweat and terror. It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass about it. You’ve tried therapists — hell, even a few charlatan dream analysts on a reddit thread — but the gas money for travel got progressively less worth it when the night terrors didn’t diminish, only persisted vehemently.

It’s stifling. Maddening. Lonely.

But the cannabis helps, because for now, you’re hazy and hyper aware of every sensation that draws your attention, with less than half of them managing to keep it. It’s fine. It’s great, in fact.  Not to mention the potential of the blissful absence of dreams, or at least the memory of them come morning. 

Normally, a knock at the door while stoned will send you into rubber-room paranoia, but you know who it is. You know that knock, have heard it nearly every night. It’s your friend. Remmick, who was keen on wasting his own time for the simple purpose of wasting yours too. 

Tonight, you throw open the door with too much enthusiasm and pretend to nurture his demented idea of living together. He presents a hard-fought case, with potent impenetrable reasoning you find yourself nodding along to. Fortunately, you know better from your dreams, and promised yourself not to make any hasty inebriated-adjacent decisions after…the last few times.

And he’s talking about family now. You think it’s a bit of an odd topic to transition to when-

“... a damn shame how individualistic society’s become-”

The desolate realization hits you that you have never seen Remmick basked in full sunlight. Now that is a damn shame. A true tragedy. How those lustrous eyes would glitter, the LED glow of porch lights a poor match for the golden radiance that would wind around those dark curls of his. Those short, damp curls, brilliant shades of chestnut and auburn set aflame. How soft would they feel beneath your fingers-

“You listenin’ to me?”

You hum noncommittally. You need to get him into the sun.

“We need to get you in the sun.” You propose, butting into his draining spiel to pay him a very generous compliment.

Oddly enough, Remmick responds as though you’ve threatened to neuter him right then and there. Honest-to-God flinching back from you.

“...Why?” The slow stretch of the word in his pretty accent rings out into the night.

“No reason.” You shrug, finding a new aspect of his face to appreciate. The pull of his brow towards his hairline put those large eyes of his on display, providing an ample view of those perilous, dark beauties. You can see a prominent fang amongst cute, packed teeth, not at all like those dreadful ones in your dreams. Wait, why is he gaping at you-

“...you know somethin’?”

He looks incredibly suspicious of you, like you’re the oddball here.

“Not really.” You shrug, relaxed if slightly confused. Not exactly an unfamiliar phenomenon when you get high. Nothing to be alarmed about. Remmick doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “What were you saying?”

He cautiously pursues the train of thought you gracefully interrupted, tentative at first and still staring at you like you’ve grown two more heads. Soon enough it picks up full speed as he drones on, if a bit hesitant to outright allude to the selfishness of your actions like before.

He has you questioning if you were toeing the edge of too high, but the room isn’t spinning and there’s no perceptible sensitivity that accompanies a green out. Maybe your roommate’s shit was laced-

“…fellowship…family.”

The pronunciation of the last word gives you pause, the southern cadence falling away to something your head goes foggy trying to place. You fumble with your train of thought before offering up a solution that, in your humble opinion, is a damn good one.

“Look… there’s a community center in the next town that hosts some cultural nights you can go to, a Renaissance Fair or Comic-Con, maybe is what you’re looking for… I can give you the email-”

“No, no, no, that’s not-.” He sighs, hand making to pinch the bridge of his nose before he abandons the action, opting to settle his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “Thought small town folk were supposed to be friendly.”

Maybe it’s the ridiculous situation you’ve found yourself in, maybe it’s the weed but you can’t help it, you laugh. 

It’s abruptly loud, and harsh, and you’re gawking at him with a toothy grin and eyes that are probably bloodshot. All highly attractive. But one look at Remmick wouldn’t confirm the revolting wince you’d expect to find.

At first, he looks shaken, and your head spins when you take in the wistful, tender look he doesn’t attempt to keep off his face. And then, because he’s keen to see how far he can milk it further with an exaggerated, southern drawl, he carries on.

“But you,” He shakes a finger at you disapprovingly. “You’re meaner than a goddamn rattlesnake.”

You’re still giggling as he critiques your absent hospitality, pulling a plethora of recent examples you’ve armed him with out of thin air. Ticks each one of them off on his fingers and then holds his palms up in mock surprise to show you he’s run out. You wave a hand at him to stop, cheek pressed against the wooden panels of the door and split with an uncontrollable smile.

He beams back at you, faux indignation gone, and you’re dazed momentarily.

He looks so, so handsome when he smiles. So enraptured and pleased and drawn inexplicably to you. The authenticity of this look more or less confirms the weary suspicions you had about the genuineness of his previous ones. Those primitive survival intuitions claw through the dumb-struck haze clouding your senses, and you go to bid him farewell in your usual rattlesnake fashion.

“That lets me know I’m doing something right. Away with you,” You halt the closing of the door to throw in a saccharine, “please,” complete with fluttering eyelids.

Remmick seems desperate (when is he not, really) to keep up the hard-fought, genial momentum. In his haste, and with your absent cognitive faculties, the delivery of his next words is poor and easily misconstrued.

“Wait, wait, you gonna give me some?” He cocks his head, brows raised in mock sternness. 

“...Pardon?” You force your eyes to narrow at the assumed proposition. Now that was forward, and more than a bit slimy considering your altered state. You’re still flattered and slightly interested, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You reek like a muhfuckin’ skunk. You holdin’ out on me?” 

“Oh.” Ah. Right. 

You pluck the joint from where you stashed it on the ashtray, fiddling with a lighter and taking another hit yourself to irritate him. He wiggles his fingers out threateningly when you blow smoke in his face, muttering he’s gonna run out of toes to count on, too. You gingerly hold the joint out to him, careful to avoid his touch more than the burning tip, and he takes it between pinched fingers.

It's an instant regret for the rest of the night, because now your slutty mind has a fresh image to mull over. Remmick, with a J dangling from his lips, glowing tip battling a gust of wind as he strums a tune. Remmick, smoking and performing with a molten fluidity you’re jealous of just as much as you want to jump his bones for.

No. Hasty. Decisions. While. High.

You reprimand yourself with your full, government-issued name. It’s still a mighty effort to bite back the “come on in, partner!” you want to chirp at him, accompanied with an arm thrown wide to welcome him into your home. Take the tour straight to the bedroom. 

Strangely, extraordinarily, he doesn’t press the issue tonight. Bids you farewell with a good-natured ‘get on to bed’, complete with an authoritative eyebrow quirk and a raised pointer finger. You raise a finger of your own in return, laughing as he mentions something about ‘ladylike’ and a ‘mind your manners.’

__

You braved the journey to work the next day with only mild brain fog and an intimate amount of fatigue.

“There she is. You alright there, party animal?” Remmick greets you from his normal spot, fond amusement coloring his tone at your slightly disheveled appearance. 

“Please, I’m gonna live forever.” You joke, and something strange happens to Remmick’s face then. What was meant to make him crack one of those charming grins seems to drain him of energy. In a second, he looks haunted, or something of the like, eyes going unfocused for a brief moment. 

“Lord willing.” He smiles, but it’s contrived.

Even stranger, you feel something akin to…misery, is an apt description for it. It’s low-grade but tenacious. It makes you contemplative, makes you abandon your usual taciturn behavior. You glance at his hardshell case propped against the counter.

“Encore of ‘The Killing Moon’?” You give him your best smile.

His answering one is blinding.

—

When you retire that night, you dream a scenario so wildly different and obscure from your usual that your head spins trying to understand it.

You still retain some lewd memories before the indecent moment you jumped into. There’s a spike of elation at the thought of him coming back for you, at the praises and cherishing confessions lyrical on his tongue. He loved you, he told you so and he promised to do so for eternity-

Him, him, him.

Him, who? You want to ask, but the blissful thrall of love lulls you into pliant submission. Turns out you don’t need to, because the next thing you feel are strong, steady hands lifting your skirts to expose you.

“You look real good like that, baby.”

The one kernel of reason you retain latches onto that familiar cadence, but it’s quickly drowned by the voice shushing you and a bombardment of sensual gratification. The next few scenes flash by in rapturous succession.

You’re on your knees, face smushed against the mattress, pillows and sheets displaced from his devastating thrusts. That intoxicating, earthy smell of his engulfs you in willing delirium. Large, cool hands massage your thighs, roaming up and up until they’re settled nicely on the arch of your back, tilting your hips up to further present you to him.

Something tepid and sopping drips onto you, sliding through your folds. It feels so good, but you want to see him. You love him, and you need to see him.

Words fall from your lips — yours, dream-you, you don’t know — but you’re begging.

And he was never one to deny you anything.

The image shifts in the disjointed way dreams do. You’re enveloped by the fluff of a mattress, legs spread wantonly and in between them, is Remmick.

He’s pretty, or at least this conjured image of him your debauched mind created is. His length is thick, uncut and leaking against you, hips inching to-and-fro to glide against where you need him.

And oh, do you need him. You’ve never needed anything more.

“Then let me in.”

—

You return to the waking world, winded and warm and drenched in sweat and — oh God. A fucking wet dream? About a guy you met barely a month ago?

Admittedly, the relief from the traumatic nightmares feels so sweet you could sob.

And you do. You set aside a short period of time to weep like a babe before your shift. Then you dry your eyes, collect most of yourself with only your dignity and sense missing, and the realization hits that you have to face him.

It’s not like you did anything wrong. For all your hoping and pleading with whatever is listening to have one peaceful night, you never could have guessed this was in store for you. And it’s not like he would know, so there’s absolutely no reason to feel any guilt.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you prepare for work like you’re heading to the hangman’s noose. You tell that to yourself again as you contemplate the accuracy of those dreams. 

Would he be sweet with you? Take his time? Your subconscious sure seems to think so, since it’s already assigned him the role of service top in your wildest fantasies. But what if it was rough, feral as he fucked those so-called manners of his into you-

All too soon you’re behind that counter, that intense reverie consuming your coherent thought, looking every which way but his. Remmick’s chatting your ear off about something or other, and you mutter revealing little half-replies. The similarities of his voice and the one your depraved self delightfully calls on makes you lightheaded. You have a hard time looking him in the eye, but when you do, the glass in your hand damn near dive-bombs to the floor.

He’s staring at you. A proud glint in his eye and too damn smiley for your liking. Smug, pleased, and reeking of satisfaction.

He knows. Your traitorous mind squeals. No. There’s no way-

“Huh?” You blurt, elegantly.

“You goin’ for employee of the month?” He lifts his head from where it was propped on a hand to nod towards the glass you’re polishing, a repeat of your first conversation. That close-fitting shirt of his revealing every flex of his well-built back that’s curved over the counter. The more time you spend with him, the more apt the comparison of him to the street cat becomes.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well.” You mumble, and while he’s been sympathetic about your confessions of sleepless nights up until this point, it seems to be the worst thing you could’ve said.

If anything, his smile widens. Head flops back on his hand, eyes impish as he just stares. He halts fingering the rim of his drink to drum a tune against the counter top.

“What?” You press.

“Nothin’.” He chirps, which tells you that, yes, there’s something, “Have a drink with me.”

“No,” You reply, immediately. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What's gotten into you? You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

He gets to his feet, and for a stupid moment your heart lurches, afraid he’ll leave. But then he reaches behind the bar top to pluck up a shot glass that you just finished cleaning.

“Hey.” Your eyes dart around, but no one pays much mind to the two of you. It’s the tail-end of another slow night.

“Hey yourself. Drink with me.” He fixes you with those puppy-dog wonders of his. Seriously, he must’ve been mastering that look for years. An A+ student in Manipulations 101. Because you seem to have a hard-on for bad decisions, you grab a bottle of vodka and pour the both of you a double.

You down it in one go, the drink burning a path from your throat to your belly. Remmick hoots and hollers and you swat at his arm, missing entirely when he leans back.

“Look at you. Hair down, all carefree. You look real good like that.”

The vodka nearly claws its way back up your throat as you choke.

You look real good like that, baby.

“Y’alright?” His tone sounds genuine, concerned with a hint of amusement. You focus your eyes anywhere but his, and unfortunately those lustful bastards land on the open collar of his shirt.

“What’s that?” You nod to the chain there, amongst a smattering of chest hair.

He looks a little peeved at his words of concern going ignored, which delights you, but those expressive eyebrows go up and he playfully jerks as if there’s a bug on him. Plays stupid. “What’s what?”

“Your chain, babe. Your chain.” You snort at his antics, but the reveal of the ring as he pulls it up and over his shirt sobers you. “Oh.”

You had noticed a ring on his right hand before. A simple gold band wrapped around his ring finger; the spitting image of the one he just revealed to you. The one he wears around his neck dangles until his palm closes around it, easily dwarfing it in a way that reveals it’s meant for much smaller fingers. Your mouth goes dry. Remmick’s eyes dart towards your chest where it feels like your heart’s halted with your breath. Just as you remember oxygen is a necessity, he fills the stunted silence with a bemusing chuckle.

“Ah, this? I’m holdin’ onto it for someone.” His fingers grasp it with a tenderness that nearly has you grinding your teeth down to nubs. The delicate web of veins in his hand flex as he caresses an inscription on the inside that’s concealed to you.

“Is that…for a friend?” You joke, weakly.

“You can say that, yeah. A dear friend. Just waitin’ to give it to her is all.” Remmick ducks his head with a smile that is both sentimental and entertained.

Spikes of unwanted jealousy eat away at you. They revamp every time you see that stupid chain, each glint in the light a lacerating taunt. You feel nothing short of wounded for reasons that are baffling and arbitrary.

The mood shifts for the rest of the night. Or at least, yours does. You’re unintentionally short with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, he brightens in response to the change in your behavior, and you wonder what it conveys to him. You’re internally lamenting over a bruised ego, and Remmick’s keen to prattle on about the state of modern music and the lack of allure it brings to the table. All while you’re trying not to have a meltdown that would put a three-year-old’s to shame.

“-and now it’s just ear-candy, no substance worth mentionin’-”

“Can you get to the point?” It always fills you with a bit of sadistic satisfaction when you manage to irk him the way he does you, but it’s extra rewarding now.

“I’m fixin’ to!” He gives you an accusing look that says and this is why you’re the problem. “If you’d just- oh!”

He throws his hands up in sudden remembrance. Then goes to dig around in his pocket. Curiosity piqued, you abandon some of your sulk and lean slightly over the counter to catch a glimpse.

“Forgot. My down payment for the room.”

“What room-” Your incredulity cuts off when he produces an odd-looking gold coin.

“For when you say yes. Uh-uh, doesn’t have to be now! Don’t get started on me,” he says, sternly.

Sure enough, your mouth had opened to retaliate. You slap away the wagging finger in your face and sigh, examining the engravings on the coin. You’ve seen it somewhere before, but now you’re drawing blanks.

“And this is some kind of currency? I thought you said money was tight...” You look up to see a contemplative Remmick, gazing at you like the sun shone out of your ass. “What?”

“It’s the solid gold kind, darlin’.” He nods to the coin, unhelpfully ignoring your other inquiries altogether.

“I don’t believe you.” You shrug, extending the ‘gold’ piece back to him. “And even if I did, if it’s anything my landlord can’t immediately go off to buy booze with, he’d take me out back and shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, now that you have me to protect you.” Remmick doesn’t say it like a joke. It should piss you off, or make you uncomfortable, but you cherish what his odd segue reveals.

“Sure.” You laugh, foul mood lifting slightly. He still wants to stay with you. Still chooses to be here with you. “Start helping me clean up.”

“Yes ma’am, y’know I can’t deny you anythin’.” He says, smug and charming as he hops enthusiastically off his barstool.

You’re halfway through conjuring an unimpressed response when the words sink in.

He was never one to deny you anything.

You whip around to gape at him in a manner that would have him poking fun at you for the rest of the night. Instead of the gloating grin you expected, you stare at the expanse of his back, whistling as he begins to wipe down tables.

—

Remmick had a rudimentary understanding of personal bubbles. He wasn’t necessarily touchy – was more than respectful in that regard, actually – but he had a proclivity for standing and/or walking too close for comfort. More than once he’s bumped into you from a lack of maintaining appropriate stopping distance. You figured it was an effort to drive you crazy, because he always seemed to know when he did something that made your heart race, if his pleased little noises were anything to go by. As for your heart racing…

The delicious images you have been waking with throw you straight into a drunken stupor. Afflicted emotions from your dreamstate follow you, bleed into your interactions and infect your sense of reason until you’re never not smiling at him. 

He frustratingly remains a gentleman despite his boyish flirting. So the first time his fingers are the ones to initiate contact and he freezes, as if debating some intricate meaning of the gesture, you roll your eyes and leap on that opportunity like fucking spiderwoman.

“No, that’s–it’s okay. Seriously. Hold my fucking hand, Remmick.”

He glows, and you get the feeling you just settled a timeworn decision for him.

For all his expressiveness, he’s never touched you. You understand why now. It’s like a dam burst, indomitable and perpetual. Now, his hands seek you out almost habitually; winding around to rest on your back, offering a playful elbow in the illusion of being a gentleman (you know he’s not, much as he says so), and, most devastating in effect, the gentle hand laid on the nape of your neck, a final, grudging squeeze before he surrenders you to the impenetrable residence that is your cabin.

Suffice to say, there is undeniable mounting tension between you two.

It’s there when you share the trivial matters you agonize over (to lessen the severity of other, far less trivial matters) and he hits you with astute advice and a kind, “Stop worryin’, huh?” 

And you do, because his worn, calloused palms shuck off your shoes after a tiring shift, thumbs digging into the arch of your foot draped over his lap with doting attentiveness. 

It’s there as the two of you are slumped together on the porch swing, leaning closer and closer until your forearm rested languidly on his shoulder, legs tossed over his thighs. You’re antsy with the dizzying proximity of him, weary fingers going to toy with that chain you have a strange penchant for, occasionally slipping and grazing the length of his collarbones. He shivers, hums out a soft ‘don’t stop’ whenever you pause.

He pretends not to notice the top view of your plush, warm breasts, and you pretend not to notice the budding erection under your knees. It’s a long while before you can convince yourself to move, limbs cozy and listless. 

It’s shortly after that, and by shortly you mean that very night, you realize you may be in too deep. 

You threw on a film in an attempt to convince yourself you’ve attempted other activities besides brooding. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, because you find yourself wondering about Remmick’s thoughts throughout it. You guessed right that he wasn’t a big movie-watcher, though he seems perfectly content to listen to you prattle on about them. Therein lies the issue of wanting his thoughts on a score, wondering what jokes he would make during, and planning conversations and taunts based on those things.

For all his silliness he is wickedly intelligent, often spinning a cursory topic into a long-winded conversation lasting well into the night. Before, the days were long and the nights were endless. Now…

You blink and your shift passes. You catch yourself more and more frequently wondering what he would think about a movie, a book, a song. He’s burrowed himself into your head, clawed his way into your veins so that you don’t even dream of monsters anymore. Just him.

That night, you’re fighting restlessness with negligible results. Remmick, unbidden and evocative, infiltrates your mind and brittle peace without being physically present.

You sigh. Count the water stains on the ceiling. Count them again.

“Fuck it.” Your fingers slip past the hem of your underwear, past your puffy folds to where you’re ripe with need.

You get yourself off while envisioning a particularly vivid scenario of Remmick and his dexterous hands. Those large hands that always seem to be active, whether they’re rapping on the counter, fussing with that gold coin, or twiddling in the air as he talks like he’s playing a pretend instrument. Your enamored recall takes a debauched turn when that imaginary hand dives into his own trousers, this time, half-mad with lust as he watches you come undone.

As you lay there panting, left with the remnants of his name lingering on your tongue, your heart squeezes at a blinding truth.

You want him.

And as long as Remmick had a place in your life, you’d want him.

—

The spare key bites into the flesh of your palm, metal teeth of it grounding you as you mull over a scripted dialogue to go with your presentation. You had stared at it for all of ten seconds this morning, feigning deliberation of a decision you had already made. After scraping the tape containing your roommates name off the bow, you coated it in a layer of red nail polish, a favorite hue of Remmick’s.  

When you enter the bar, you don’t notice him in his usual spot, but he sometimes likes to be sneaky and startle you, so you’re not worried. You’re not ashamed about last night’s finger-bang, either. Maybe it’s the anticipatory thank you for making me your roomie sex you’re betting on, knowing his control would fray and snap with one sign that you’re interested. Let you tell him so at the bar, and he’d probably take you right there over the counter.

You serve drinks in a haze, attention split between the pouring and deciding if you should hide the key in his drink, proposal-style. You can see him laughing in your head, those cute, jagged teeth of his on display. And then the two of you would go home, fuck, watch Netflix, maybe fuck some more, all while you make fun of his less-than-impressive repertoire of films. It’s a concrete plan.

You’re a bit sad that the running gag of him permanently stuck on your porch is coming to an end. It made you feel like a teenager, sneaking around in an experience you never got to live. You find solace thinking of the future domestic moments you’ll share together, eagerly keeping an eye on the door.

Only he doesn’t show. The next hour goes by, and you feel like a dog waiting by the door for her owner.

—

Remmick doesn’t come by that night. Nor does he come visit you at your shift the next day.

Or the next one. And the next one.

His silence is more than a little alarming, a phenomenon as unnatural as the clouds pissing blood rain. He wasn’t meant to vanish. He was meant to sing and strum and park himself on your porch after an already tiring day. And you were meant to gripe and sneer and tell him to get lost, all while anticipating his next visit. You had begun to count on it.

And you miss him more than you’d care to admit.

The annoyance he provided served as a balm to the mundane droll of daily life. That’s all it was. Chatting with him, arguing with him. Admittedly, you were lonely, and he listened.

Remmick listened like every word of yours was sacred.

But he had no obligation to you. Nor you him. Perhaps whatever fleeting infatuation that caught his fancy finally ran its course, and he’s probably off chasing skirts in another town. You wished that thought wasn’t as devastating as it was.

You carry on, of course, like you always do with a shift in mood prominent for someone who knows you better. Your coworker notices and even the frequent patrons catch on, but they choose to remain silent while their pitying glances are anything but.

You’re nearly reconciled with the fact that you’ll end up alone when the soft, flowing twang of a banjo reaches you a few nights after his disappearance. Your heart lifts, stupid, foolish hope setting you alight. And then the rage hits. Your eyes roll so far into the back of your head they threaten to stick there, and then you’re yanking the door open to spew out,

“So this is what you’re doing? Taking up residence on my porch again?” Your tone is laced with condescension.

“Where else am I supposed to be?” No added flair. Just blatant truth. He barely looks up at you from his place on the rickety swinging chair, rusty creaks slicing through the melody that irritates you for all kinds of reasons. 

There he is. The object of your affliction and affection. He’s cloaked in dense shadows but you can still make out the trace of purple, bruise-colored circles under his eyes and skin that’s a bit paler than usual. The distance between the two of you seemed to affect him, too, with even his indelible mood notably drained by your absence. The charismatic demeanor and energy you know and love him for dampened. It tugs on your heartstrings, as it’s meant to, but you can’t find it in yourself to comfort him, not when you need that comfort yourself.

“It ain’t polite to st– y’know what, nevermind-” His eyes lift when no barb is thrown his way and you must have overestimated your ability to remain composed, because his face drops further with concern. “What’s the matter?” 

Damn him. Damn him and his wide, disney-princess eyes that see far too much. You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain steady just yet.

“C’mon, honey. What’d I do, huh?”  He slings the banjo strap over his shoulder, setting it down haphazardly as he rises to approach you. His prized possession, thrown aside when faced with your distress, with the mere presence of you. 

“It’s just…you’re back.” You groused, and it didn’t come out as monotone and unaffected as you meant it to. The silliness of your reaction is made apparent by the sudden realization that it’s only been a few days, and here you were, acting like a grieving war widow. Surely it had to be longer than that, right? Were you that starved for companionship? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

He seems to read a hell of a lot into your silence, or maybe spots the tears burning behind your eyes because he gingerly grasps your shoulders, rubs soothingly down to your arms.

“Darlin’, you thought I left you. Aw, no.” His eyes squeeze shut, as though the idea of that causes him physical pain. He tugs on your elbows to uncross the limbs folded protectively around yourself, pulling you closer until he can encompass you in his embrace. At first, you go rigid, and then the weight of the past few days catches up and you melt against him. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not your keeper.” The orneriness is zapped right out of you, his rocking hold a balm on the distress you’ve accumulated in his absence. Remmick hums – a forlorn, amused little noise – and nuzzles your head softly. Too softly. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had in years. I care about you. So when you left- I just-” 

“Shh. S’okay. I know, darlin’. I missed you too, baby.” His voice was low, murmuring platitudes into your hair that shouldn’t have been soothing but were.

Tucked into his embrace, you’re able to envelop yourself in his usual aroma; the aromatic scent of rosemary oil, fresh pine, and those cloying traces of copper. Subtle, faded, as he attempted to mask it in his normalized routine of freshening up for you. It’s instinct really, that has your eyes cracking open to narrow at nearly imperceivable, spackled stains around his collar. Dark.

Your heart pitches violently, plummeting to your feet as the blood drains from your body. You don’t react outwardly, and that’s what does it, because Remmick halts his swaying and tenses around you.

“Somethin’ wrong?” His words are terse, the warmth and solace they previously offered distinctively absent.

“No. Nothing.” The response that leaves you is pure impulse. You want nothing more than to tell him what’s wrong, so he can fix it like he always does. The idea of it, though… feels unsafe.

Remmick’s grip tightens, almost uncomfortably. Possessively, like you’ll be torn from him at any moment. He hums in reply to your answer, unsatisfied.

That roaring desire you had to see him is all but snuffed out. Your jovial, warmhearted Remmick is somewhere else. This man that’s holding you in his arms is a stranger. Even as he ceases your beginning movements to extract yourself, as he shifts to press a silky kiss to the side of your head. His lips linger a bit too long. Hands hold you a bit too tight.

His shift in demeanor gives you whiplash. He could have detected your hesitation but… you were calm, externally. Could he sense the pound of your heart from close proximity? There’s no other way-   

A heavy, sharp realization settles into your bones, one your mind hasn’t yet caught up with. Refuses to. Intuition and limerence battle for precedence. You don’t ask where he’s been, and he doesn’t offer. He doesn’t even ask to come in that night.

You think of that key the whole time, but you’re hurt. You’re hurt and angry and that suspicion of him that’s lain dormant is now making its rounds while that rage is still fresh.

—

Maybe it’s triggered by the off-kilter, fragility of your mindstate, but the peaceful nights cease just as abruptly as they began, the nightmares returning with a wicked vengeance.

It’s fitting that it begins with a feeling of betrayal so heavy it sits in your belly like a stone. Your other senses catch up, each one thrown at you in a dizzying, desperate effort. Bleary flashes of viscera on cobblestone, a chest tightened with ruinous grief and a throat burning, raw from screaming.

A man is in front of you. The one that had whispered such pretty lies in your ear, had promised you forever and everlasting pleasure as you rode him in the back of a carriage. Only this time, his face wasn’t barred at all from view or memory. He was there. In front of you. Red eyes, fangs and all.

Remmick.

This wasn’t- he wasn’t- no.

No.

You felt the world tip on its axis. Your heart rattles against your ribcage, shattering at the betrayal that spans across lifetimes. Your consciousness struggles to grasp the situation in its entirety, the reluctant friendship and trust you built with this man pulled beneath your feet. Someone’s screaming — dream-you, you realize. You’re too far gone into the wounding treachery that you struggle empathizing with getting fucked-over by the same man, and unsuccessfully wail back for her to shut the fuck up, she’s hurting your throat.

You’re such a goddamn fool.

Of course it’s fucking him. Hands in his pockets, casual, collected like he isn’t standing over what you can’t see is a corpse but somehow know is. A viscous pool of blood surrounds the body, displaced as broken hands move — it’s fucking moving, that’s not possible- but your incredulous suspicions are confirmed when he manages to get to his feet. It’s a man, jugular torn to shreds, skin hanging in ropes from what you can see is from a brutal mauling. His eyes find you, entirely unconcerned with the proximity of his killer, and what was once sweet hazel morphs into something purely animal. No, not just a man, your friend-

“No, no. Don’t look at that.” A disembodied voice cuts through the terror. Guiltily, almost but more so desperate.

There’s no flash of light, no dramatic indications before the environment alters. What was once solid ground becomes sturdy wood pressed hard against your back, underneath your thighs, contrary to a softer, calloused touch holding them open. What the hell-

“Look at me.”

Your eyes fly open, you were unaware that you even closed them. If the previous dreams pulled you in with shaken, inexperienced hands, this one was adept with a hardened intensity that left you bound to the memory. Anchored to your surroundings in a way you never were in the others. Every sensation more vivid. And then the reason for the changes became apparent.

The voice that haunts your dreams—Remmick (your adoring lover, your new self unhelpfully supplies) on the floor in front of you. He doesn’t look at you right away, busy taking in the new setting like you were. Then his eyes are on you. Those scarlet, piercing eyes-

“Ah, hell. It was supposed to be a different one.”

You’re in some sort of shack. Fuzzy so that you know it’s still a dream, but corporeal enough for you to retain the previous terror and newfound understanding. What-

“The hell?” The recognizable southern drawl finishes for you and clucks his tongue. “C’mon now. You’re a lot sharper in person.”

It’s him, your mind screams. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

It’s Remmick’s hands that are on you, holding you apart. Him knelt between your legs. And that’s-

Oh God.

That’s you around his mouth, covering the beard he adorns in this version of him. You can feel the slickness at your center, still feel the ache and used condition you’re in.

“Remember. It ain’t all bad.” A soft, soothing kiss presses into the corner of the knee thrown over his shoulder. “Remember, baby.”

You awake with his laugh ringing in your ears, but it’s all wrong.

Your movements are fuzzy, detached, though it’s not unusual for you to still feel disoriented upon waking.

Alarm bells should go off when you sit up, fingers sliding through the blankets like parting water. But your focus remains on the fact that it’s your blankets, in your room, your house. Instead it hits you as you walk through the doorway and straight into the kitchen, the hallway failing to manifest in your dream state. The jarring inconsistencies of dreams are all too familiar to you, but not your autonomous lucidity. Something is different this time.

And then, to solve that mystery, Remmick’s there, sitting at your table and strumming his banjo with infuriating nonchalance.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Figured you wasn’t gettin’ the right idea of me. Meant to show you somethin’ a bit more virtuous but I’m still gettin’ the hang of this myself.” Never-mind the fact that he doesn’t sound the slightest bit apologetic, but the smarmy smile kills any lingering authenticity. He ducks his head with feigned bashfulness, “And that particular scene is one of my favorites.”

Unbidden thoughts arise at his shameless admission. You can’t be sure what time period that was unless you ask — you won’t — but the few palpable senses available in your ‘dream’ offer some hints. The musk and sweat you felt clinging to your skin from the trek to the cabin being a memorable one. Toiletries and frequent baths must’ve been a luxury.

But one of his favorites?

Pure, unadulterated fury bubbles at him, for his pitiless deception, and you, for your mindless trusting and the consequences that came with it. He had gotten into your head. Literally. And you might as well have opened the door for him.

He was a dirty pervert. Slimy, smelly, little man. You tell him as such in a shrill shouting fit, trying and failing to pick up objects for throwable ammunition. He does nothing but stoke the flames of your anger when he laughs, positively delighted, holding the banjo out as a shield when you approach him.

“Didn’t mean to, on my Mama!”

“Stoptalkingaboutyourmother!”

In an attempt to rip the instrument from him and bludgeon him with it, your hands pass through like an apparition. His chortling rings out — he’s damn near giggling, this ancient creature — and it’s resonating through your head and the ethereal space around you.

“How are you– how long could you do this?” You accuse and cease your attempts at picking a fight. Whatever this is, whatever he is, he clearly has the experience here. You can’t pluck a goddamn string let alone play a tune like he did. If you were to wage war, there’s no doubt he would have the upper hand.

“Now this,” He breathes, breathless from laughter (do vampires need to breathe? That’s what he is, right?) and looks around the spectral surroundings with his usual theatrics, “-this is a fairly recent development, courtesy of our meetin’.’’

It’s pure indignation when you huff through your nose, unable to feel the breath or the act of it. You’re you, at least. It’s your own skin you inhabit in your slumber for the first time in years. For all intents and purposes, it’s as normal a dream can be if you ignore Remmick.

“Well I’d be much obliged if you just- fucked off out of my head.” You can’t hurt him physically, but mocking him makes you feel better.

“No can do. Now all’a that-” He clucks his tongue and gestures in a way that references the nastiness of the previous memories, looking put-out like he doesn’t hold a shred of responsibility for them, “I can’t control. But that invitin’ little reminiscence, that I can do.”

“How charitable.” You grit out through clenched teeth. He hums in agreement, either missing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it entirely. “But I’d rather not think of you at all.”

“That just ain’t true. You liked ‘em well enough the past few weeks. You call for me.” He states, back straightening, arm slinging smugly over the neck of his banjo. Looking satisfied as a bird preening its feathers for his mate, like what he just said wasn’t offensively untrue.

You table the information with all of your newfound knowledge to digest later.

“I sure as hell don’t. Call for you to stay out of my fucking head, maybe.”

“Now I won’t lie, your… guarded behavior at first made me think you weren’t interested. But after I sent those sweet little remnants, I knew I still did it for you.” The words are dirty – though the look he’s giving you paired with that lazy smile, mouth parted slightly is affronting in and of itself. 

The truth out in the open appears to make him giddy, non-existent soul unburdened and whatnot, but he seems to come back down to Earth in that moment. His smile doesn’t fade, but the intensity does. He stares at you, seeming content to just take you in, only to drop the mother of all confessions.

“I’ve waited lifetimes for you. Endured loss, destruction, atrocity,” His accent wavers towards the end with something you’re familiar with. Devotion drips from his voice. “-just to find you. To be here for you when you come back.”

And just who’s responsible for that loss, that atrocity, you want to yell. Remmick senses your fury, of course he does, because he’s staring hard enough to cut through you. Your descent into wrath and despair radiates off of you in waves, permeating the ambience of the dreamstate. He sighs, adopting a pitying expression and trying his shitty hand at consolation.

“You’re bein’ misled-” 

“Yeah,” You scoff, tone acidic and filled with scorn. “Big time.”

He shakes his head, weighted and resigned like you’re a misguided soul. Switches tactics from beguiling long-winded confessions to something more vague and preachy.

“We were meant to be from the very beginning. Everythin’ else was just noise.”

That … sounds as ominous as you’re beginning to expect from him. Definitely not the romantic, panty-dropper line he meant it to be. You can tell, because there’s always an undercurrent of frustration when the tools in his arsenal fail to woo you. It’s no different now.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He looks at you like you’re going to disappear.

“You did. For a long time.” Remmick responds to the part you didn’t say aloud, his pleading expression carefully crafted to appeal to your sympathies. It fails.

You burn, feeling violated and betrayed and you’d like to slip into sweet, blissful darkness and not come back up.

“Leave.”

His eyebrows lift, but he makes for the door. Head down, but no true remorse on his face. That bastard is smiling.

“See you tomorrow.” He throws a nod and a grin over his shoulder.

“You absolutely won’t-”

The door slams behind him, his laughter still reverberating in your skull.

—

You email your boss and tell them you won’t make it to work the next day. Then the next.

Mercifully, Remmick doesn’t show. He seems to be taking his role of a good, upstanding vampire seriously, because a mob doesn’t show up to your house to arm you with a torch and pitchfork and recruit you for the hunt.

His time must be occupied by something else that distracts him from razing a town. It’s not hard to guess what that ‘something else’ is, because he perseveres with a vengeance now that the other shoe has dropped, and the dreams persist in their relentless entirety.

Their relentless, vulgar entirety.

You’re not in your body, pelted with emotions that aren’t yours but that’s nothing new. What is new is the chain around your neck, ring cool against a flatter chest, a strange appendage between your thighs—You are in your bed though, the same salacious warmth pooling in your belly, filled with such need, yearning, you just want the scent of her to last a little longer-

The scent of you.

Woodsy. Sweet.

He’s thrusted you into his dreamstate this time. It wasn’t enough that he pervaded your waking thoughts, your slumber, but now has somehow accessed your memories, knows the layout of your room, your belongings.

Like its predecessors, you cannot control what you see or what you feel. And boy, are you feeling a hell of a lot. It’s him that’s rutting against your sheets, hips jerking, cock wrapped in a panty-covered fist, but it’s you that’s now experiencing it firsthand.

Ah. So he’s further invaded your mind and is aware of the item taken by your thieving roommate. And has now incorporated it into this fantasy wet-dream.

The unholy squelch of your (his?) skin sliding against the drool-soaked fabric fills every crevice of the room’s acoustics. Fabric you’ve sunk your teeth into, know the taste of, fabric that no longer smells like her-

You try to make sense of his nonsensical ramblings — now your thoughts— echoing in your head. It’s difficult to focus on anything but the wet rasp of your–his panting against the pillow, the crying, the whining as the heady smell of you fades.

Sweet merciful-

Your teeth ache when you think of her, the spearlike canines elongating when you think about how she looked like a dream lounging half across your lap, half on the seat. The way she touched you so casually, with an ease that you would've been beggin’ for if you knew it’d feel so sweet. How her featherlight touch danced along your skin as if it wasn’t ruinous, as if her putin’ those claws away for once wasn’t the damnedest goddamn thing-

You just know that you can’t be around her yet, not when you’re half-feral with the taste of your favorite girl, can still smell the way she touches herself through the damn door-

“You see what you do to me?”

That was definitely not part of the scene, nor was it in the thoughts you were experiencing. You sever the connection with incriminating quickness and awake, in your bed, your body this time, left with a debilitating headache and blazing guilt.

—

True to his word, Remmick seems to have gotten a hold on this dream-bond thing, because your ensanguined night visions have been few and far in between. You begrudgingly admit, they have been more ‘inviting’, as he puts it, but you feel like the choice between gory tragedy and mind-bending sex is hardly a choice at all. Not when they conclude so softly, with the two of you lying together, sweaty and sated, side by side and melded together as one being.

He’s been sending you to a specific one, lately. A lifetime lived of adultery, tender defilement, and stolen freedom in its naked entirety. You’ve awoken sneaking through a garden in pursuit of him, only to have him startle you from behind, the novel sight and feeling of his scruff tickling your neck. As the insidious pull of lust creeps down your abdomen, it’ll shift and suddenly he’s on his knees for you, again. It does seem to be a favorite of his; his fingers buried in you, mouth playing your body as adept as he is with an instrument, a leg hanging over his shoulder.

All while you keep an eye out for your husband.

Goddammit, Remmick.

—

The time spent apprehensively cramped up in your safehaven-slash-prison is filled with enough rumination to need at least ten therapy sessions to cover. It’s not as though it’s difficult to put the broken, bloodied pieces together, rather it’s unsettling in the grand scheme of things.

I’ve waited lifetimes for you.

He could’ve slipped you something at the bar. Maybe all that sleep-deprivation deteriorated what was left of your logic and sanity and you were muttering to yourself in a padded cell. You would heavily consider this to be an elaborate prank if those appalling dreams had not haunted you through life.

It makes you recall the recent ones with mortified contemplation. Raunchy visions haven’t been unfamiliar to you for some time, but the frequency of them is worrisome. And if it was him who was responsible for the latter, debauched dreams (and by proxy, the rest), then it was also him after the initial passion-filled sequence, sat at the bar the very next day oozing male pride and looking entirely too pleased to satisfy you.

Ah. So, he did know, then. And enjoyed fucking with you about it. At least you weren’t making that up.

And that one with him in your room, a depraved fantasy of his? Memories stolen from the very source, the enticement of the forbidden fruit that is access to your residence, your bed. This intrusive assessment has you teetering on the edge of insanity more than your self-inflicted seclusion does.

Any blissful reprieve the dreams offer only lasts until you wake, wanting and primed and wet for him. It’s like something has awakened within you, a primordial ache laid dormant until Remmick got his specter-adjacent hands on you. The languid ache of pleasure brought to you years ago, the cathartic satisfaction still burning bright in your bones. And that’s not all that they’ve stirred in you.

Unwelcome emotions have accosted what little peace waits for you in the daylight. You’ve always had a propensity for intense emotion in several aspects of life, but jealousy was an emergent one. You’re not sure whether it’s truly you that’s feeling it. The consequences of your dreams stretch far beyond sleeplessness now, and you often wake up with the residue of intimate endearment and a sharp, pining ache for Remmick. It’s to be expected, surely. He worked tirelessly to dig his way into your head.

But what does that make you? A cheap imitation of his dearly departed? Was he even seeing you, when you laughed and flirted and-

Are you seriously feeling territorial of him towards other women that were…you? 

Alone in your room, you seethed, and cried, and then seethed some more. To date, this was the most contradictory and unique position you’ve found yourself trapped in. Exactly why you’re still thinking of Remmick as a man and not the monster he’s repeatedly revealed himself to be, is beyond your understanding. Perhaps it’s the friendship you’ve built with him over the past few weeks that stains your view of him as a silly, reliable confidant that’s capable of brightening your day without the presence of the sun. 

The sun. 

You recall musing about him in the sun with the consistency of faded dreams. You were high then, busy waxing poetic so the realization and what should have been alarmed suspicions entirely slipped your mind. You had never seen him in the sun. The most crucial, reliable fucking weakness of vampires and he had lured your attention from it like a siren’s call as he sang and danced and bickered with you.

In your defense, the prophetic dreams could’ve been a little more fucking clear. His face should have been plastered on wanted posters in your dreams. 

Unwanted: Fuckass nightmare demon Remmick. Crimes: not worth the waste of paper it would take to list all of them on. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT FEED.

More justification on your behalf is that he has an impressive resume with experience of manipulating young women, and has quite literally made it his full-time purpose in his unlife. The careful crafting of the confusing wet dreams and the pleasure they promised, more manipulation on his part. Probably had a heavy hand in concealing his face from your waking memory, too. Past yous have doubtlessly fallen victim to the cycle, ignoring prescient warnings with similar love-struck idiocy. 

Not-so in your defense, these seductions and betrayals went platinum in your head every night for years. Your past selves must’ve been rolling in their graves, shouting well-deserved insults as they watched you get close to him. Their tormentor. 

Yours.

—

Maybe the isolation and idleness gradually degrades your sense of reason, because when it’s past the point of acceptable call outs, you reluctantly prepare for your shift. Hide a tiny mason jar brimming with garlic juice inside an inner pocket of your jacket, nevermind the fact that it’s sweltering outside and you’re running plenty hot from the misfiring of synapses in your brain.   You rehash the plotted route to your car in your head and exit the house with a wince and a prayer. Every noise is the equivalent of mortar fire.

You’re actively scanning the treeline for a Remmick-sized mound loitering among it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out with a ‘rah!’ The sylvan area provided considerable cover for him to be lurking and if you weren’t borderline hysterical, the idea of him squatting in some moldering branches would make for an amusing mental image. If he were to get the jump on you, you’d at least have the pleasure of making fun of him before you ate it.

You clutch the jar of garlic juice tightly, damn near tip-toeing along the graveled path to your vehicle, and you make it without the expected altercation. Problem was, you didn’t expect to find your tires slashed and sagging sadly into the grit in an accurate depiction of your mental state.

“Fuck!” 

For several reasons, you’re not too keen on the idea of involving police into what you aren’t sure isn’t a mental break. Disregarding the probable incompetence and unskilled assistance you’d receive for the threat of an actual vampire, you’d be the source of gossip for months. Even if this isn’t a figment of your imagination, you have no evidence he committed a crime. Though the psychological warfare he’s committed – in your opinion, was a goddamn crime. Considering the vandalism of your vehicle and several historical accounts of stalking, he was proficient in them.

Half-way during your heated debate with yourself, the skin on the back of your neck pricks. Your heart thuds to a halt. Primitive prey instincts kick in, and you freeze, attempting to detect what you feel is amiss. You take a deep breath to steel yourself, listening.

There. A hovering, sinister presence, two pin-points burrowing into your back. You’re being watched. Hunted. He’s behind you, isn’t he? Or wait, no-

You look up. A buried remnant of vampire knowledge hits you like a freight train. Knocks the breath from you just as much as the sight above you does.

The cold metal stings your skin as you turn the makeshift restraints over in your hands. It’s a stark contrast to the muggy, subdued atmosphere, the biting chill offering relief to restless fingers.

The textile sheaths the harshness of the biting edges; the silk fabric belonging to the previous owners of the homestead you and Remmick are currently occupying. The material wrapped around iron handcuffs you plucked from a particularly nasty lawman Remmick killed and didn’t bother to change.

“I do not need that type’a negativity in my head, darlin’.” was his only explanation, paired with an exaggerated grimace when he came back from yet another unsuccessful hunt. A hunt whose prey he never made you privy to.

All he shared with you was his desire for connection, something with which you concluded yourself early on into your...cohabitation. From your first meeting and onward, he struck you as lonely.

Despite his desperation for family, he’s been particularly choosy as of late. There are two conclusions you have drawn: that your presence and companionship serve as a balm to the ancient wound that refuses to heal, and a comment you made about not being enthused to eventually share memories and a mind with heinous individuals.

You know it’s entirely possible you’re little more than a blood bag he’s carted around, regardless of his charm and dulcet words. Ever since he seduced his way into your home- your life- you’ve served a purpose whether you were aware of it or not. That he hasn’t turned you leaves you under no illusions that he wouldn’t do so when the fancy strikes him.

Those are other assumptions you rarely entertain. That your usefulness in welcoming him into domiciles and remaining a steady source of sustenance is all he truly cares for. There’s also the chance that he’s not being truthful and has amassed a following he won’t inform you of until you’re turned and incapable of protesting.

You don’t like to dwell on those assumptions. You’ll keep your rose-colored glasses on for the time being, thank you very much.

You see it in his gaze sometimes. Feel his trembling frame against you at night, as he often does when being any kind of physical with you. As if it takes everything in him to be this gentle, and it is gentle for what Remmick is. It should scare you more than it does, his restraint a thin wire that barely holds from snapping and ripping you apart. But knowing he’s just as wrecked as you-just in another sense-always has you falling apart around him, pliant and needy.

Perhaps it’s a smitten fallacy, but you get the feeling he feels fondness for you, in his own way.

It shouldn’t fill your head with dizzying affection. Your chest shouldn’t be laden with warmth and hope that you could live out an idyllic life with him.

And yet.

You had never lain with anyone before Remmick. The reveal of his age and erotic pursuits that came with had you feeling naive and virginal. Centuries of walking the earth would indeed give someone experience, especially one as handsome and suave as he is. In the early days of your relationship, he often told you about his youthful trysts just to see you bashfully duck your head, hiding your scandalized amusement in the crook of his neck. “Did a lot of catting around when I was a young lad.” The seduction of married women, preacher’s daughters, and frolicking naked through fields was too much for your sheltered mind.

If past you saw how you lived now, you’d have dropped dead of mortification.

A few months into your relationship, you now consider yourself thoroughly exposed to carnal pleasures. Though when you voice this to Remmick, he laughs, and if he has recently fed, it’s until he’s red in the face.

That conversation usually follows with him demonstrating just how mistaken you are. Every night, you learn more about the pursuit of pleasure, and that Remmick might have a predilection for corruption.

The sky outside begins to lighten, tendrils of light threatening to pour through the askew curtains and snapping you out of your reverie. Bitter uneasiness nags at you when Remmick’s this late, though he often is. If you were to ask him about his nighttime activities, you’d get an absent non-answer. If you were to ask for a romantic night out in the town, it’d lead to a thorough distraction cutting well into the precious hours of moonlight.

The fretting and cast-aside feeling emboldens you to try a more domineering approach to get your point across. The point of how you’ve been there for him, blood, body, and soul, yet you’re not feeling like a priority anymore. If you ever were.

You make your way into the bedroom and look down at the silk-covered handcuffs, weighing your options. A brief image of a bound Remmick, fucked-out and spent sits heavily on the side of the mental scale labeled ‘pros’. On the other side sits another image, frightening but no less pretty, of the consequences that come with a wrathful vampire.

There’s also the chance that the silk will come undone, the possibility of the iron causing him harm. It would be minimal, and he’d no doubt heal after a few mouthfuls of your blood, but you’ll never want to see him hurt.

The creak of the front door interrupts your musings. Your heart rate hastens and you lunge for the headboard, slipping the restraints through the pine slats and concealing them with a rumpled pillow.

He’s home.

Through some prey instinct evolved long ago, you usually sense when Remmick is near before your eyes or ears locate him. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, every one of your senses heightened for that initial touch.

It’s no different now. Though you usually don’t jump as high when his thick forearms sling around your middle.

“Jumpy today. Up early, too.” His lips burn through the straps of your slip, trailing up until he can rest them against the spot where the rush of blood in your neck is strongest.

“And you’re back later than usual. Find another dame in need of defiling?”

It’s hard to put heat behind your words while in his unyielding hold, nose trailing down the side of your neck, suckling at your pulse. He doesn’t seem to hear your words, or more likely, is choosing to ignore them. It’s not exactly uncommon for you to taunt him about his promiscuous past.

But then he freezes, pausing his tender onslaught on your neck. His head tilts, turning ever-so-slightly toward the bed. He inhales two short, quick sniffs.

You’re not sure what he’s more likely to catch scent of: the musty, metallic odor of the cuffs or the saccharine musk of your earlier activities on the bed, when you were missing him and fantasizing about a confined Remmick.

In a quick effort of distraction, you deftly spin out of his grasp. He allows it with an appraising gaze. It locks onto the nervous bob of your throat like the predator he is.

You grab a hold of yourself for a moment to take him in. His undone suspenders hang by his hips, likely shucked off the second he got in the door. There’s no blood flaked around his mouth and while it’s possible he could’ve cleaned up before meeting you, you get the feeling he had another unsuccessful night. His face never betrays any disappointment, but he has all the patience an ancient being could have.

“Everythin’ alright?” The sing-songy slurring of this accent draws your eyes back up to his face where a preening, smug grin rests.

“Uh-huh.” You reply in an idiotic manner. You’re high-strung at the thought of getting him to where you need him before he discovers your plan. It only takes a brief moment of deliberation to capitalize on the scent he no-doubt smells on the disheveled sheets. “Would you like to have sex?”

His eyebrows damn near shoot up to his hairline. A short, startled laugh bursts from him.

“Al-right-”

He’s halfway through his answer when you hurry to light the candle by the bed as another aroma to throw him off, hand trembling in what you hope passes off as nervous anticipation. Remmick goes to assist you but you wave him off, absently instructing him to settle.

On your way back from ensuring the closed curtains were extra secure, you shuck your nightdress off. It hits the floor in a whisper of fabric and you’re left in nothing but his gold chain around your neck. His skeptical stare at your frenzied return makes you realize it’d be more alluring-and less suspicious-to put on a show for him.

Sure enough, he’s still fully clothed. And staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Why are you still- get naked, please.”

“Are the Sídhe pulling my leg? Or is my girl standing bare in front of me, lookin’ me in the eye?”

Your palms twitch, fighting the urge to cover yourself. There’s disbelief, sure, but you think he’s incapable of not looking at you with debauchery. Dark eyes rove over faded marks that still linger from previous love-making, past the necklace he had draped over you after. It assists your ploy of keeping him distracted and crushes that nagging bit of insecurity.

Just have to keep him occupied.

Despite his questioning, his fingers (are they trembling?) proceed to the fasteners of his button-up. You remain locked in his stare as you reach the bed, slowing your crawl over the mattress for a more sensual appearance.

You feel like a bumbling fool with your heart threatening to burst from your chest, the beat pounding in your ears. You would think your little performance would be nothing but a silly sight if the man you were settling over didn’t gaze at you with riveted awe.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Gorgeous.” He flirts back in that exaggerated southern twang, lips pulled over naturally pronounced canines.

A giddy smile brightens your face, made worse by the way his drops further in blind adoration. It’s the perfect moment to grab his hands, working your way down to his wrists as you raise them slowly above his head. Right to where you want them.

“Oh-ho. What d’we have here?”

A deep, engulfing kiss shuts that mouth of his. He gives twice as much as he gets, starved and full of longing. It’s enough of a diversion to slip those cuffs around his wrists, the ratcheting clicks securing him in place.

He goes still beneath you.

“And we will continue that,” You push yourself up from his chest, grinning like a maniac at the success, “but I wanna talk first.”

“Wha-” You see the deliberation, the flexing of his forearms as he weighed the option of letting you play. More often than not, he’s considerate about his reactions. There are a few moments in your time together when you manage to catch him off guard and elicit a truly authentic response with a drawled quip. Now is not an exception, as his head cocks slightly to glance up at the cuffs, his eyes trailing back to yours in what seems like some genuine bewilderment and a touch of amusement. “What’s this, then?”

You’re caught up at the sight that jumped right out of your depraved daydreams. It takes a moment for you to start the speech you rehearsed about ten times this morning. “When you convinced me to leave everything behind, you promised me the moon and stars. That we’d do all the things lovers do. That we’d go out together. Dinner. Dancing.”

“Which I said verily, but you ain’t leaving this house until you don’t have two fuckin’ left feet-”

“Remmick.” You braced yourself for his jest, his usual method of distraction that’s entirely your fault because of the prospect of it working.

“Darlin’-“ His brow furrows, scrunching his eyes in a tired expression as if this wasn’t the first time you’ve hashed this out, but the tenth. He lazily turns his hands in the restraints, no doubt checking their durability and effectiveness. You watch as he manipulates his countenance into faux patience when he discovers he’s well and truly stuck, like you’re a particularly stubborn lamb he has to explain the concept of slaughter to. “Once I build our family, I’ll bring the dancin’ to ya.”

His eyes flash as a smirk pulls his face back into that familiar lascivious demeanor you’re used to dealing with. “An’ I can get my dinner right here.”

It’s tough to refute his taunts when he says it like that. Tone all sticky with honey and undercurrent scheming. Your irritation at his wants taking precedence over yours again allows you to ignore the latter statement and power through the brief ache between your thighs. “You said that before you ate that lawman-“

“He was an uncouth, prejudiced individual, that one.” Remmick butts in with an affronted look. You snort, choosing to keep your mouth shut about the other bigoted individuals he rectified, historically. “An’ I ain’t like the way the way he was lookin’ at you. Killed three a’ his wives, y’know.”

You didn’t know that, but you don’t sway at the look on his face, soft eyes expectant of your usual approval. “The couple from the farm-“

“They was a bit too sacrilegious for my taste. Pretty sure they was siblings, honey.”

“And that one old woman?“ Remmick pauses, lips pursed and eyes wandering as if he’s struggling with the recollection. You see the exact moment it hits him as he nods to himself and shrugs. “I was hungry.”

His nonchalance stokes the insecurity and spurned virulence you had pushed down from earlier. Instead of facilitating his flippant attitude as usual, you jump to vehement accusations. “Admit that you want me all to yourself. Locked up, bored and alone day in an’ day out.”

In a breath, Remmick’s face darkens, the minute change so delicate you almost missed it. Those prey instincts of yours work overdrive to compensate for your infatuated, simple-minded decision-making. You feel a stab of worry at the idea that something you said offended him that deeply, but it’s gone at the revival of his usual easygoing demeanor.

“So this is how ya show me? By actin’ out?”

Perhaps not entirely gone.

“I’m tryin’ something new.” You tilt your head, angling your chin in what you hope conveys defiance and not clumsy inexperience.

Despite the inconvenienced air he tries to maintain, you see the mirth in his eyes. Like he’s watching you show your teeth for the first time.

“Al-right.” The leisurely drawl is at odds with the way Remmick’s eyebrows raise and lips part in exaggerated disbelief. “Don’t let me stop you, darlin’.”

Metal clacks as the cuffs grind against the bed frame halfway through a gesture of go ahead, then. The slow tilt of his head up to glare at the manacles puts the pale column of his throat on display. A brief, primitive urge of yours is to curve your hand around it, to feel him swallow under your palm in a reversal of your usual bedroom roles. You decide not to push your luck so soon into your game, instead waiting as he settles his irritated gaze back on you, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

You can’t help but smile at how put out he looks. An expressive, pouty face that exudes attitude.

You lean forward with the intention of capturing a kiss from him out of habit, but pause halfway up his chest. His eyebrows raise expectantly, head cocked and the well? is unspoken but very much heard.

“Thought better of it, actually. Best keep outta reach of those teeth.”

“Now darlin’, I am offended-” You dip your head to take a nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue in what’s probably a cheap imitation of the expertise he uses on you. Your hand goes to fondle the other one and you delight in the surprised, desperate little noises you’re able to pull from him.

“And where did you learn that-”

You reach beneath you to grab his cock, smiling at the hiss he lets out and the discovery that he’s already hard and heavy in your palm. He must have enjoyed your little display of dominance, too. Once you line him up, you rut your hips against him, dragging his length back and forth through your folds.

You continue working him with your hand and hips until an earlier nagging thought draws you back, bracing yourself on your forearms, hips lifting and hovering above his groin.

“Ah, wha- hey. That was just gettin’ good.”

“Sorry.” You smile, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “Where’d you go tonight?”

“Where did I- fuck’s sake.” His head bounces against the pillows when he sees that you’re serious. “A speakeasy, in town but off the beaten path. Tried to get in by playin’ a tune. Sounded damn near perfect too-”

“And did you?”

Your eyebrows raise at the silence, taking it for the answer it is.

“So no one in that place was turned tonight.”

“…No.”

Your lips occupy themselves with a kiss to his abdomen to keep from chuckling. Poor thing. Not everyone found your vampire as charming as you did.

You take pity on him and continue your journey downwards, past the sparse hair of his belly to his neglected cock, red and leaking.

Your lips press against the tip of him in a chaste kiss. He shudders, hips jerking slightly. You chance an admonishing glimpse up to catch that darkened look has made a reappearance, though this one is for another reason entirely. It emboldens you to slide your hand from his hip to cup his balls, touch just a tad too light by the way he writhes in your grasp.

Remmick’s pants and hums taper off into a growl that makes you throb.

You have no choice but to ignore your aching clit. Now that you actually have him tied up, chest heaving, at your mercy, you know you’d finish embarrassingly quick.

Your tongue busies itself with the vein underneath the length of him, flattening and dragging yourself back up to the top, paying attention to what draws the sweetest sounds out of him. You’re prepared to make your descent when you notice his hands flexing in the cuffs, wood squeaking worryingly. At first, you’re concerned your handmade cushioning didn’t hold up.

“Your wrists okay?” You take a breath in, scenting the air for the smell of burnt flesh. Remmick lets out a depraved noise at the sight.

“Doin’ just well.” His voice thickening with a cadence that betrays the southern drawl he uses to integrate himself among the locals. “Wanna hold yer hair for ya, love.”

“Nice try. Let me know if you start goin’ up in smoke.”

“How fuckin’ sweet of ya.”

You cut off any further gibes by placing your mouth on him. All those nights with him down your throat have prepared you to take the majority of his length without gagging. You breathe through your nose like you practiced, cheeks hollowing, lips gliding terribly slow. Pure delight makes your heart sing at how far you’ve come, how those ruinous twitches and groans are because of you.

“Tha’s it, a little deeper, love. Go on.”

Forgetting yourself, you go to do just that. It takes an embarrassing few moments to remember your goal. You come off of him with a pop, eye twitching at the gall he has to give you orders.

And that you followed them like a dog, you little slut.

“You’re not in charge right now, mister.”

Molten anger and humiliation swirl in your chest as you listen to him chuckle. His head rests comfortably on the pillows like he’s on goddamn holiday.

“Sure, that’s you.” He pauses as you pull yourself up, hands braced on his abdomen but your stare remains burrowing into him. He hums, mouth ajar and eyes appraising. Then acquiesces. “I’m at your mercy, darlin’.”

You leverage yourself with your knees on either side of his thighs and your hands roaming his stomach, not-so-discreetly pawing at his sturdy core muscles.

You lower and resume your grinding against him. Slow, so slow until you see his jaw tick, lips curling back in a snarl.

His sweaty hair mused, mouth half open as he groans, loud and rasping. His unwavering, starving gaze boring into you. A whimper nearly escapes you at this sight of his swollen biceps, fists clenching and relaxing in delicious torment.

He looks like sin.

The swivel of your hips falter at the show he’s putting on for you.

You return it as best as you can, panting out little mewls as his cock head catches at your entrance. You’re unable to resist sliding down the length of him when he finally sinks in, closing your eyes and letting yourself have this moment. You made sure to make all the pretty sounds you know he’s fond of, sighing and gasping as you took your pleasure.

His own breath stutters, eyes glazing into that enraptured stare that borders on too much.

It’s beginning to get too daunting to look at him. The needy look in his wide eyes. Choked sounds he tries to bite back but can’t. You swore you’ve caught flashes of scarlet, and when those teeth come out, you’ll lose your nerve.

But that hasn’t happened yet.

“That’s it. Tha’s it- what in the fuck.”

He slips out of you and that brittle patience of his wears thin.

Definitely a flicker of crimson hue in those eyes. Before he can throw too much of a fit about it, you power through to your request; the goal you’ve had in mind since the start and had definitely not lost sight of.

“I was thinking we make it a weekly thing. Our date, I mean. I’d like to go back to bein’ well and properly courted-”

“Lemme go.” The chains rattle against the frame in a sharp, worrying tug.

“No.” You hum distractedly, eyes drifting closed lest you lose your nerve. “You’re not havin’ fun?”

“I’d much rather be eatin’ that cunt of yours until I can’t get the taste off my tongue. Until the thought of accusin’ me of not takin’ care of ya’ is fucked out of your head.”

It’s impossible to hide your vicious shudder, toes curling against the strewn sheets. You could’ve came right there if the savageness of his tone didn’t make the gears turn in your head. Your eyes fly open.

He- what.

What?

Is that what he’s so pissy about? An imagined blow to his male ego?

Stay focused. Stay. Focused.

“Hmm. Never got my answer.”

His hips spring up in an attempt to continue rubbing against your folds, intent on reminding you what exactly he can give.

“Ah, ah.” You scold, lifting further out of reach and giving his nipple a pull. “Be a good boy, Remmick.”

“Enough beatin’ around the bush. If you’re gonna fuck me, darlin’, fuck me.”

You’re trembling with excitement, but also uneasiness. It makes you feel like when you were a girl, doing something that you knew you’d be in trouble for if you were caught. You’re undoubtedly in hot water now, but the thought of backing down with a lenient punishment is out of the question. Not when he sounds so done in.

It also pays to run on spite and desire.

“Maybe try beggin’.”

Fangs elongate, spittle catching on his lips. Eyes a persistent glow with simmering temper.

…There's something wrong with you, isn’t there? Feeling the way you do about that look?

“You're the one that’s gonna be beggin’ me to stop when I get free a’ these.”

Well, you’re definitely not letting him loose anytime soon. Maybe after he’s nice and spent.

“S’a bit funny. Given the events of tonight.” You explain at eyes narrowed in confusion. “Can’t get in, can’t get out.” Your head tilts to motion towards the outside of the house, then to glance pointedly at the cuffs. A slow smile draws across your face, voice sultry and low. “Can’t get off.”

“Real brave a’ you. With me tied up like this.” Though a twitch of his lips betrays the severity of his tone.

You lift a shoulder, coquettishly fluttering your eyes. You’re not sure what seductive temptress climbed into you, is speaking through you, but you feel on top of the world. You don’t recognize her, but you think you like her.

It seems Remmick does, too. Past the shimmering agitation, you catch a hint of quiet approval. Pride.

That, and he’s been hard as stone since you first got him in those chains.

You go to torment him some more, the tip just barely breaching when Remmick plants his heels on the bed and thrusts up with savage strength. It strikes deep, the ache and shock of it drawing a yelp out of you as your eyes fly open. You flail briefly, having to brace yourself with palms gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, shaking thighs no longer capable of stabilizing yourself. Your breath hitches at the sight you were trying to avoid. Your wide-eyed stare lands on his vicious grin of too many teeth, drool spilling from the side of his mouth.

“Hey!” You stutter, paired with a hard slap on his chest that doesn’t even make him blink.

Fuck, you’re in over your head.

In an effort to maintain control, you scold him. The false, shaky authority nearly makes you wince. “Behave.” His eyes glow red in the dim room, candlelight casting shadows over his face. “Oh darlin’, I am. Believe you me.”

You’re locked onto each other for a moment. A slow trail of your eyes over the spit pooling around his collar.

“Poor thing.” You coo, carefully staying out of biting distance.

Your send your hips back, dragging over his cock to settle on his thighs. His gaze tracks your breasts as your back arches, pulling your hardened nipples over his torso during your descent.

Truthfully, you’re thighs are burning. But you’re not going to allow his disobedience to go unchecked. You allow yourself a small smile at the lowered pull of his brow when you begin to turn around, your face now concealed from his predatory scrutiny.

There’s a change in the air. The life sucked out of it. Everything seems to still.

Your vampire is no longer amused.

Remmick has an almost reverential fixation with watching your face as you lay together. He’s fucked you from behind before, sure, and you felt primitive and dirty and thoroughly taken as he laid claim to you. Even then, he kept your head turned and in his view. Mouthing in some form between kisses and bites hot against your cheek, your neck. Growls and whines in your ear. The look on his face alone was enough to get you to fall apart.

Denying him this was perhaps the worst sin you could commit tonight.

Your hands find his thighs, muscles tensing and shifting underneath your palms. You continue your newfound game, hips sinking back enough to capture the head of him into your opening. You stay shallow, the thrill and tease building the warmth in your belly.

“Hey.”

You persist, swirling your hips, sighing sweetly at the sound of gnashing teeth and frustrated groans behind you.

“C’mere to me.” It’s hard to ignore the acceleration of your heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears. It’s harder to ignore the fact that he can hear it. He’s more monster than man right now but you tune him out as you focus on sliding him through your slick folds.

A sharp, guttural call of your name. The growl behind you catches your breath. Voice distorted by fangs. You disregard it and the warning it imparts as you move with newfound urgency. Maybe he won’t be too upset. Maybe you can get to the door-

You start to cum, cresting over the precipice just as the sharp crack of splintering wood fills the air and shoots through your body like a lightening bolt.

Within the same heartbeat, still-bound hands find your upper back-chilled metal grazing your skin tauntingly-and shove hard, knocking you face-first onto the bed.

The jarring occurrence leaves you winded, enough so that you’re momentarily distracted from the sensory overload of Remmick rutting into you. Linen sheets press and stick to the sweaty skin of your forearms, your cheek. Your hips are in the air, framed by two strong hands.

”Remmi-” you begin to beg, like it will do anything but encourage him, excite his predator instincts.

You have known what kind of monster he is. That he’s capable of such brutality it would be vain to even attempt to understand it. He had been careful not to expose you to any violent depravity, and while you know what you’ve unleashed would be considered merciful in that regard, it’s unlike anything of what you’ve seen in your time together.

Through the immobilizing shock and fear, you absently feel your body coming back down from it’s high, thighs shaking and toes curling. The nerves and awareness of overstimulated skin making itself known and surpassing the score.

“Rem-remmi-fuck!” Mewls and half-formed cries fall past your lips. It takes several heaving breaths to form some semblance of coherence, to enunciate in more than fragmented pleas and whines. “Please, listen, Remmick-”

“Poor thing.” A guttural, deranged voice reverberates in your ear. “I told ya, you’ll beg me to stop. And I won’t, I won’t, not until I fuck you within an inch of yer life.”

A flash of silver crosses over your field of vision, confined hands coming to rest on your front, gripping you close as he fucks you brutally. A hand finds itself around your throat, resting, keeping you against him with a controlled amount of force. The other hand finds your breast in an aching grasp, a sound emitting from you that would have had you hiding your face in your palms a month ago, if he hadn’t fucked any and all decency out of you since then.

Just as your face begins to flush red in an old habits die hard fashion- his teeth sink into the junction between your shoulder and neck.

The initial bite is the equivalent of being doused in ice water. Your heart contracts, fighting each pull into his mouth and losing. Unlike his previous feedings, there’s a feral urgency brought on by the involuntary restraints and cruel teasing. The deprivation of blood and oxygen paired with the sedative-like component in his saliva contributes to a feeling of weightlessness.

Your body responds to his feeding in its usual betrayal. Conditioned to fall apart around the cock pulsing inside you, frenzied movements encouraged by the sustenance.

You sink into the bed. Limbs heavy, formed of the iron you trapped him with except you never were a match for it.

“I know what you like, what you need. Don’t even need to be inside your fuckin’ head for it.” He slows the pace of his hips, thrusts more punctuated but no less ruining than they were.

Remmick’s face is buried in your hair, panting, growling, whining in your ear. He noses along your cheek, breathing in the scent of you-your arousal makes your blood sing-and his own interwoven with yours. It’s enough to cause that feeling in your belly to crescendo into a steady ache.

He releases your throat in favor of barring a forearm around your neck. You gasp, a little mewl escaping you at the rigidity of him. You’re kept flush against the hard contours of his body. The reprieve of arching your back away from him made null by the force of his thrusts, rendering you unable to do anything but sit there and take it. It’s stifling. Terrifying. Your attention split between every sensation until you’re dizzy with it.

Fluid drips down between your breasts, saliva and blood blending into a pink mess. Droplets fall from his maw and stipple your shoulder blades. The scent of his sweat and yours, of sex and musk and warmth. The bedding is already ruined beneath you.

Teeth gnash against your throat, tongue laving up the trickles leaking from fresh wounds, frenetic fangs occasionally scraping them open. That tremble of restraint that’s usually there but amplified tenfold.

Your head lolls onto folded arms to try to muffle your wailing, the sensitivity becoming intermingled with pleasure until you can’t discern between the two.

There’s something about the way he channels the urge of ripping you apart into fucking you; a clemency only you could appreciate.

“Don’t, Rem’ck, don’t don’t-” Meek whimpers sound more like prayers.

“Don’ fuss. Just givin’ me lass what she asked for.” Your battered cunt sucks him in, contracting and squeezing him in a vice grip. “Greedy girl, ain’t she?”

It sneaks up on you, a pooling warmth shot down to your abdomen, through your glistening, puffy clit. Your mouth falls open in a broken gasp, body trembling as you clench around him. Tremors inch up from your core, up the column of your spine until you’re sure you’re going to shatter apart.

When you do, it’s less intense than before but no less devastating.

“That’s it, girl. Fuck, darlin’-“ Remmick draws, his cock bullying its way into your tightening cunt. His voice joins yours in a chorus of breathless moans, each as ravaged as the other.

He throws the both of you onto your sides, the arm around your throat and the sturdy body behind you protecting you from the rough jostling, like he’s the only thing allowed to cause you any discomfort.

His grip on you softens. Palms sticky with sweat and blood slide over your breasts, your hips, to find their home on your quivering thighs.

Coming down from the orgasm is catastrophic. You shift in his hold, unable to do anything but retreat into his body or his hands. The tightening of your cunt alerts you of his cock that’s still heavy inside you, rocking you gently and rejuvenated from the feeding.

He tongues the sweat off of your neck, swirling down your neck and back up until you can no longer tell where he is or isn’t. Your skin is too tight, quivering, aching to be rid of the monster that melds you against him. Your tender mind hopes he’ll keep you in his hold or else you’ll fly apart. He’s the most dangerous predator and the only one to make you feel safe.

Remmick’s making contented little noises as he mouths at you. Warm drool steadily drips on your shoulder, falls down your back. It spreads and sticks obscenely as he tugs you back to meet his chest. A warm tongue laps against your shoulder blades like he’s trying to clean you but only results in a bigger mess.

Suddenly you’re empty, bereft cunt feeling strangely vacant but it doesn’t last for long as you’re maneuvered with little resistance onto your back, face to face with something out of a nightmare.

Gleaming eyes peer down at you, bloody mouth agape and breathing hard like you’re something holy. His stare never falters, like watching you come apart is the equivalent of basking in the sunrise that’s evaded him for years.

He’s somehow still achingly hard as he slides against your clit, shushing as you sputter your mangled protests. The heft of him slipping through your throbbing folds.

The sticky mess between your thighs hinders his frenzied attempt to rock back into you, his cock catching against your opening several times before he sinks home. His hips pick up in a slow, relentless pace. A sob tears from your throat as he moves in and out, raw from the previous times he’s taken you.

“Please. Nuh-“ Your voice catches on a hiccuping sob and a plethora of broken little noises. “No more, please, Remmi-”

“Shh. S’alright. There she is.” The red glow of his eyes somehow adorns a cherishing appearance. No trace of his earlier hostility to be found. Only contentment. Fondness. Comforting the lamb so the meat tastes sweet. Sharp, jagged teeth find your ear, alternating between kissing and mouthing around it. “Me lass.”

His thrusts do not still between the shushing and cooing. Kisses pepper your face in what feels like a desperate attempt of his to cover as much skin as possible, to smother you in him so there’s no beginning or end between the two of you.

You try your best to match them, catching the corners of his lips in an attempt to placate him, show you’re willing to play along.

Mercy, please.

There was no denying him, this time. As if your brief refusal to face him kept him in ravenous desperation for years. He was going to take what he was due.

His hands find whatever softness they can reach, digging into your back, your belly, your breasts, finally landing on your ass. His forehead presses to yours, swaying gently from side to side as he continues to rock into you. Glowing eyes remain unblinking, taking his fill of you as a man starved. This is what you’re used to; the unnerving adoration he has with watching you come to ruin.

Dripping wet lips find yours and your mouth falls open on trained impulse. All you can do is take what he gives, saliva spilling past your lips, coating you inside.

An interwoven jumble of Gaelic and English is snarled into the skin of your shoulder as he empties himself inside you, hot breath imperceptible against your heated skin.

He all but collapses on top of you, reminding you that he was using some restraint when he lay melded against you.

Curly brown wisps cover your bleary eyes that refuse to focus. The events of the night hit you, and a crazed little giggle bursts from your lips. It transforms into a full-blown laugh at the raising of his still-constrained hands, jiggling pointedly in an impertinent request of removal. You absently inform him of the keys in the bedside dresser.

“You could- You could’a got free s’whole time.” You slurred, warm and sated in the grasp of his strong arms. Anxiety quieted now that you have your Remmick back.

”Aye. But you wanted to play, and I wanted to see how far you’d go before ya lost your nerve. “ A kiss landed on the side of your sweaty cheek, his body shifting in a way that caused his softening cock to pull out of you. “You surprised me.”