#black!fem!reader

"i'm so sorry in advance," you murmured for the tenth time, turning in the passenger seat to look at michael. "my cousins have no boundaries, mikey. if uncle troy asks you for a loan, you tell him no."

michael just offered you that warm, soft smile, as he reached over to squeeze your hand. "it's okay, baby. i promise you i'll be fine."

taking a deep breath, you finally got out of the car. you led him through the front door, the screen door letting out that familiar creek. inside, the house smelled like vanilla and sweet tea. your grandma was parked in her usual spot in the living room, completely locked into her soap operas. she didn't even look up from the tv screen, just waved a hand vaguely in your direction saying her quick hi’s and hellos.

the real action was out back.

through the large windows, you could hear the muffled thumping of a bassline. your jaw nearly dropped when you realized the speakers were blasting "rock with you." out on the patio, your aunts and cousins were dancing, red solo cups in hand. michael’s eyes lit up, a soft chuckle vibrating in his chest at the sight.

bracing yourself, you pushed open the back door and stepped out onto the grass, still holding michael’s hand tightly.

"is that my baby?" your dad shouted over the music. he was standing by the massive black smoker grill, spatula in one hand, wearing a faded apron.

"hi daddy!" you called out, letting go of michael for just a second to wrap your arms around your dad's neck, breathing in the comforting scent of charcoal and hickory smoke.

as you pulled back, the rest of the family started wandering over, drinks in hand, ready to inspect the new boyfriend. "daddy, everyone... this is my boyfriend, michael," you said, stepping back to stand beside him.

"hi everybody, how's it going?" michael greeted, his voice soft and polite as he offered a gentle wave.

at first, the reaction was standard. your aunts swooped in for hugs, asking how the flight was, completely running on auto-pilot southern hospitality. aunt kaye didn't even look at his face, just patted his arm. "you look a little skinny, baby, make sure you get you something to eat before you leave here —"

she stopped. the gears started turning. the music seemed to fade into the background as silence dropped over the yard.

"wait!" your cousin marquise shouted, freezing mid-sip in his lawn chair by the edge of the pool. his eyes went completely wide, and he choked on his capri sun, coughing violently. "nigga is that michael jackson?" he said shaking your older brother awake.

every single head snapped back toward michael. a collective gasp echoed across the lawn. you let out an internal groan, burying your face slightly against michael's shoulder.

"no fuckin way," someone whispered.

"you're joking."

before anyone could even process it, your mama rushed past everyone, sprinting straight into the house. a minute later, she came flying back out the back door, clutching a vinyl copy of off the wall. she marched right up to michael, holding the album cover directly next to his actual face, her eyes wider than saucers.

she looked at the album. she looked at michael. she looked back at the album.

her mouth dropped completely open. she smacked a hand right onto your chest, glaring at you with pure shock. she shouted your full name, her voice booming over the yard. "and you didn't think to tell me?! i cleaned this house in a raggedy t-shirt and no wig, and you brought michael jackson into my house?!"

"i literally tried to!" you protested, throwing your hands up.

"you said he was in music! i thought you meant on the street or something!" she yelled, before immediately turning back to michael with a bright, overly sweet smile, completely changing her tone. "hello, michael, baby, welcome to our home."

michael couldn't contain his amusement. he threw his head back, laughing softly at the family dynamic, before naturally sliding his large hand around your waist, pulling you close to his side.

once the initial shock wore off, the southern hospitality kicked into overdrive. your mama completely took over, dragging michael toward the patio tables. she practically forced plate after plate onto him, insisting he try her homemade peach cobbler and the greens.

"now, michael, i know you're famous, but if you don't eat at least two plates, my feelings will be deeply hurt," she warned, loading up his plate with enough starch to feed a small village. michael, always polite, took small bites and practically melted, praising her cooking up to the heavens, which only made her beam with pride.

out on the grass, your little cousins—none of them more two apples tall—were practically vibrating with excitement. they kept tugging on michael’s shirt, begging him to show them how to moonwalk. despite his usual shyness, michael didn't mind one bit. he kicked off his loafers and spent a good half hour giggling, patiently breaking down the footsteps on the concrete patio while the kids stumbled around like newborn deer trying to copy him.

your dad eventually pulled michael over to the grill. while showing him the proper way to flip a slab of ribs, your dad launched into a massive, animated rant. "see, michael, the media won't tell you this, but the government puts chemicals in the tap water to keep us compliant. and don't get me started on the moon landing. you know about the industry, you see the truth."

michael just stood there holding a paper plate, nodding along with intense concentration, looking genuinely fascinated by your dad's wildest local conspiracy theories. you weren’t sure you’d ever seen michael eat a rib, like, ever…

across the yard, you were completely cornered. your aunts and younger cousins had bombarded you against the fence, whispering furiously.

"what is it like dating him?"

"how do you even handle that lifestyle?"

"is his hair soft? it looks soft."

you just looked across the yard, watching michael patiently listen to your dad while your little brother tried to high-five him. a soft, tender smile tugged at your lips. "when we're together, it's none of that flashy 'king of pop' mess," you told them softly. "he's just my michael."

by the time the sun went down, casting a deep orange and purple glow over the southern sky, it was time for michael to leave. you were staying for a few more days, but he had to get back to cali.

out by the driveway, the cicadas were buzzing loudly in the trees. bill was standing discreetly by the running car, waiting to take michael back to the airport. uncle troy was currently trying to pitch bill a pyramid scheme by the front fender.

"everyone loved you. thank you for coming, mikey," you said, wrapping your arms comfortably around his neck, looking up into his dark eyes.

"you don't have to thank me, baby. i had a wonderful time," he murmured, his hands finding your waist, drawing you into his space. a sweet smile broke across his face. "everyone's so funny."

"no, everyone's so embarrassing," you laughed, shaking your head.

"i love you, applehead. call me when you land," you whispered, leaning up on your tiptoes to press a warm kiss to his lips.

"bye, michael jackson!“ your little brother's voice suddenly shattered the quiet moment, echoing from the front window of the house. a split second later, you heard a muffled smack as your mama tapped the back of his head.

"boy, shut up!"

the two of you broke the kiss, turning your heads toward the house. sure enough, the entire family—including your grandma, who had finally abandoned her soaps—was bunched up against the living room window, their faces pressed so hard against the glass their noses were flattened, trying to spy on the goodbye.

the second they realized they'd been caught, there was a frantic scramble of shadows as they all tried to dive out of sight, someone knocking over a lamp in the process.

you couldn't help but giggle, hiding your face into michael's chest as his soft laughter rumbled against your cheek.

“It just won’t come off.”

The words came out thin. Frayed. Barely louder than the hiss of the water hammering against marble.

You scrubbed harder.

The bathroom was enormous—vaulted ceilings, white-veined marble climbing every wall, gold fixtures gleaming through the thick steam like dull halos. A place meant for quiet luxury. For long baths and soft robes and someone pouring wine while you sank into warm water.

Now it smelled like copper.

Now it smelled like you.

Your hands shook as they moved over your skin again, nails dragging, scrubbing, scraping like you could peel it away if you just tried hard enough. The water was far too hot—scalding, really—but you barely felt it anymore. Your new skin drank the heat greedily, nerves lit up too sharply, too alive.

Everything was too alive now.

Every scent.

Every sound.

The drain gurgled below you and the noise alone made your stomach twist. You could hear the pipes in the walls. The hum of electricity in the sconces. The faint, distant whisper of traffic outside somewhere beyond the estate walls.

And beneath all of it—

The smell.

God.

It clung to you.

Metal and salt and something darker, richer. The thick, iron tang of spilled blood worked itself into your lungs until you thought you might choke on it.

You scrubbed harder.

Your reflection blurred in the fogged mirror across the room, a ghost of yourself—hair plastered to your temples, eyes too bright, lips trembling. Your knees were planted hard against the marble floor of the shower, the stone biting cold into your skin while the water burned down your back.

You couldn’t stop shaking from the memory.

An awful, awful thing.

His face kept appearing the moment you blinked.

Not Remmick’s.

The other one. The man from the street.

Kind eyes. Gullible eyes. The kind that softened when he smiled.

You saw it again.

The moment he realized something was wrong.

The confusion first.

Then the fear.

Then—

Your stomach twisted violently.

You clutched the edge of the shower bench, knuckles white.

“I didn’t—” Your voice broke. “I didn’t mean—”

But you had.

Your new teeth had known exactly what to do. Your body had known. Your hunger had known.

And above it all—

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Patient.

Go on now, darlin’.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Remmick hadn’t touched him.

Hadn’t needed to.

He’d just stood behind you in the foyer, one hand resting warm against the back of your neck like a man steadying a nervous horse.

His mouth near your ear.

There ya go.

The memory made your stomach drop.

That’s it.

The praise had been soft.

Gentle.

Proud.

Show me what I made.

You gagged, the sound raw in your throat.

The water kept pouring down.

Still, the smell wouldn’t leave.

Still, the weight of it clung to your skin like something alive.

You were different now.

Changed.

It had only been days, but the world had already sharpened into something unbearable. Every scent was louder. Every heartbeat within range felt like a drum pressed to your ear.

You could still hear the man’s pulse sometimes, echoing faint in your head like an afterimage.

You curled in on yourself.

Then, the bathroom door opened.

The sound was so quiet, but it didn’t matter.

The room changed the second he stepped inside.

Remmick took over any space he walked into.

The air thickened with him in it, something warm and slow-moving through the steam. Even the light seemed to shift toward him.

Your head lifted slowly.

He stood in the doorway like he’d belonged there.

Dark slacks.

Suspenders hanging loose from his shoulders.

White shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the strong line of his forearms.

His hair was still slicked back neat despite the late hour. A gold chain caught faint light at his throat.

And those eyes—

Blue at first glance.

Red glowing underneath if you looked too long.

Remmick’s gaze settled on you kneeling beneath the shower.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just watched.

Slowly, his head tilted.

“Well now,” he murmured at last.

That voice, again.

Low and syrup-thick.

It coated your brain like honey.

“Ya made yourself a mess.”

Shame hit you so hard your shoulders folded inward.

“I tried—” Your throat tightened. “It won’t—”

He stepped forward.

Shoes slow across marble.

Each step deliberate.

Agonizing.

Steam curled around him as he reached the edge of the shower.

You froze.

Remmick crouched down beside the glass partition, resting one forearm on the marble ledge like he had all the time in the world.

“Darlin’,” he said softly.

The word slid through you like oil.

“Look at me.”

You did.

You always did.

His gaze moved slowly over you—the trembling hands, the angry red skin, the faint streaks still clinging stubbornly along your wrists and collarbone.

And then he smiled.

Not cruel, not exactly.

Pleased.

That was the look that settled over his face. Quiet and satisfied, like a man admiring something he’d been patient enough to grow himself.

It made your stomach turn.

Remmick stepped fully into the shower.

The water soaked through him in seconds, white cotton clinging to his frame, turning translucent where it stretched across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen. It should’ve looked ridiculous—leather on wet marble, clothes ruined—but somehow it didn’t.

It looked intentional.

Like everything he did.

Like this.

You shrank back on instinct, your spine brushing the slick tile behind you. “You don’t—have to—”

“Mm,” he hummed, cutting you off easy.

His hand found your jaw again.

Not rough.

Never rough at first.

Just heavy. Certain. Tilting your face toward him like you were something delicate he didn’t trust to hold yourself upright.

“Now why would I leave ya like this?” he murmured.

His thumb dragged slow along your cheek.

You flinched.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

A faint smile touched his mouth, softer than before, but no less knowing.

“That all too much for ya?” he asked, voice low, almost sympathetic. “World gettin’ loud?”

You swallowed.

Nodded before you could stop yourself.

Remmick’s eyes darkened—absent of concern. You knew this look all too well.

With interest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember that part.”

His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers spreading wide, anchoring you there.

“Everythin’ feels sharper,” he went on, tone easy, conversational, like he was talking about the weather. “Smells stick. Sounds echo. Can’t outrun it, no matter how hard ya scrub.”

His gaze dropped—slowly—down your body.

To your hands.

Still trembling.

Still streaked.

“You’re fightin’ the wrong thing, darlin’.”

You shook your head, breath catching. “I can still feel it—”

“I know.”

The words came quick this time.

Firm, but not dismissive.

Confirming.

Which was so much worse.

Remmick stepped closer.

Too close.

The heat of him cut through the steam, a different kind of warmth entirely—denser, heavier, something that pressed in instead of wrapping around.

His hand slid down your arm again, slower now. His fingers followed the faint lines of your veins as he traced the map he’d memorized.

“You’re holdin’ onto it,” he murmured. “That’s why it won’t leave.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your wrist.

Right over your pulse.

It jumped beneath his touch.

He smiled.

“There it is,” he said softly.

It wasn’t triumph.

Recognition was the word you’d been searching for.

He’d been waiting for that exact note to surface in you. The crack where something human still tried to name what was happening, even as the rest of you leaned toward him.

He didn’t rush after that.

That was the worst part.

Remmick took his time the way a man admires something delicate before deciding exactly how to handle it. His hand stayed firm at the back of your neck, not forcing, just holding you in place as he leaned closer—slow enough that you could see every detail unfold.

His mouth parted.

And this time, there was no mistaking it.

The fangs weren’t subtle anymore. They weren’t tucked away behind charm or softened by that easy smile. They were there—fully bared, sharp and gleaming, lengthened into something undeniably monstrous. The water didn’t wash them clean. If anything, it made them glisten more, catching the light in a way that made your stomach tighten.

He was drooling.

Not a trickle. Not something you could politely ignore.

It was excessive. Thick. Strands of it clinging to his lower lip, gathering at the corners of his mouth before slipping free and vanishing into the torrent of water cascading over both of you.

You could see it.

Even through the steam.

Even through the heat.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow.

For a second—just a second—you thought he might bite you.

The thought came uninvited, unwelcome, and yet it landed with a strange, desperate clarity. Pain would be clean. Immediate. Something you could understand, something that might cut through the noise in your head and the weight still clinging to your skin.

You wanted it.

The terrible realization of it all.

Remmick’s eyes flickered—subtle, but there. He saw it. That tiny shift in your breathing, the way your shoulders tensed not in retreat but in anticipation.

His mouth hovered closer.

Closer.

The fangs brushed your skin.

They didn’t puncture.

Just grazed.

A light scrape along your shoulder where the skin was already raw from your scrubbing.

It stung.

Wasn’t enough.

And then—

He licked you.

Open-mouthed and unashamed, his tongue dragging slow and broad across your skin, following the faint traces you’d failed to wash away. The sensation was overwhelming—heat layered over heat, the steady burn of the water mixing with something slick and invasive.

You flinched hard.

A sound caught in your throat, halfway between protest and something else you refused to name.

It was wrong.

God, it was so wrong.

The way he did it—no delicacy, no attempt to soften the act. Just the full press of his mouth, his tongue moving with a purposeful rhythm, gathering what remained and replacing it with something that felt heavier, thicker.

His saliva clung.

It didn’t rinse away like the water did. It smeared, spread, left your skin feeling coated in something that wasn’t yours.

Your stomach twisted.

Your fingers curled against his chest.

“Stop—” you tried, but it came out thin, unconvincing.

Remmick didn’t stop.

He shifted slightly, angling your arm, exposing more of your skin to him. His tongue followed, slow passes that bordered on methodical, like he was undoing your frantic attempts at cleansing and replacing them with something of his own design.

His fangs scraped again.

Another sting.

A shallow drag across your collarbone this time.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t even acknowledge it.

If anything, the faint hitch in your breath seemed to draw him in further.

The water poured down, relentless, but it couldn’t keep up with him. Wherever he touched, the sensation lingered—warm and slick and entirely his.

You should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve fought harder.

But your hands stayed where they were, braced against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms. Your body betrayed you in smaller ways—your breath coming uneven, your skin reacting to every pass of his mouth like it didn’t know how to separate disgust from something far more indefensible.

Remmick knew.

He always knew.

He paused—not pulling away completely, just enough that his mouth hovered a breath from your skin. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Or smelling it.

That faint shift.

That change in your core.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

A quiet sound left him—almost a hum, low in his throat.

His hand at your neck tightened just enough to ground you, to keep you from retreating into yourself completely.

When he moved again, it was slower.

More deliberate.

His mouth found your shoulder once more, but this time the motion was almost… patient. Less frantic, more certain. Each pass of his tongue felt intentional, claiming rather than simply cleaning.

As if he was marking over what had already happened.

Replacing it.

Rewriting it.

The disgust didn’t leave.

It sat heavy in your stomach, coiling tight.

But it tangled with something else now—something warmer, something that made your pulse feel too loud in your ears.

Remmick didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t need to.

The way his breath shifted, the subtle press of his mouth, the faint scrape of fang against skin—it all spoke for him.

He lingered there, close enough that you could feel the shape of his smile without seeing it.

And when he finally spoke, it was barely more than a murmur against your damp skin.

“Mm.”

That was all.

But the way he said it—

Like he’d found exactly what he was looking for.

The understanding of it sat heavy in the air between you, thicker than the steam, heavier than the heat pouring down your back. Remmick didn’t move right away. He stayed close—too close—his mouth hovering just off your skin, breath warm, damp, alive with something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

His hand never left your neck.

Not once.

It had settled there so naturally you almost forgot it wasn’t supposed to be—fingers spread wide, thumb resting just beneath your jaw, holding you upright without asking, without needing permission. It wasn’t forceful in the way violence was forceful. It was… inevitable. Like gravity. Like something you couldn’t reason your way out of.

Your breath came uneven.

He felt it.

Remmick drew back just enough to look at you properly. His head tilted slightly, studying you the way he always did when he was deciding something—eyes slow and calculated, dragging over your face like he was memorizing each flicker of resistance before it disappeared.

The red had spread.

You saw it now—clear as anything.

His pupils were blown wide, the blue swallowed whole by that deep, glowing red you’d only ever seen when something buried inside him slipped closer to the surface.

Hunger.

Your stomach dropped.

“Open,” he said.

No softness in it.

Not even a drawl curling around the word to make it easier to swallow.

Just flat.

Certain.

You shook your head before you could think.

It wasn’t a real refusal. Not the kind that held weight. Just instinct. Just something inside you trying—failing—to push back.

Remmick didn’t react.

Didn’t sigh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t threaten.

His fingers lifted from your neck and moved to your face, hooking lightly at the corners of your mouth. Not pulling. Not yet.

Just resting there.

Waiting.

“Open,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Worse, somehow.

The steam pressed in around you. The water kept falling, hot and relentless, but all of it faded under the way he was looking at you now. There was nothing rushed in him. Nothing uncertain.

He would wait.

He would get what he asked for.

The realization slid down your spine like ice.

You opened your mouth.

“Opened” was generous.

But it was just enough for him.

Remmick’s fingers slipped inside, slow and deliberate, pressing past your lips like he’d done it a hundred times before. The motion was controlled, careful in its own way—but there was no gentleness to it. No hesitation.

He pushed deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a sharp gag catching in your throat as his fingers pressed further than you were ready for.

Remmick’s mouth curved.

A low, quiet chuckle vibrated against the space between you.

“Better,” he murmured.

Not praise.

Not quite.

But it landed like it.

You made a small sound—protest, maybe—but it got lost around him, swallowed up, turned into something softer than you meant it to be.

He didn’t remove his hand right away.

Let you feel it.

Let you adjust.

Or struggle.

It didn’t matter which.

When he finally drew his fingers back, it was slow—dragging, intentional, leaving behind the ghost of the pressure, the lingering warmth that refused to fade.

Your lips parted again, breath catching.

Remmick didn’t give you time to recover.

His mouth replaced his hand.

At first, it was almost gentle.

Almost.

His lips pressed to yours in a way that might have been mistaken for something soft if you ignored everything else—the fangs brushing against you, the damp heat of his breath, the way his hand returned to your neck with a firmer hold this time.

You froze.

Then—slowly—your body betrayed you again.

You softened.

Just a fraction.

It was all he needed.

The kiss deepened without warning.

His mouth opened wider, his tongue pushing in with a sudden, overwhelming insistence that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t something you could meet halfway.

It overtook.

Consumed.

His fangs scraped faintly against your teeth, a sharp edge that never quite broke skin but never let you forget it could. His saliva was everywhere—warm, excessive, impossible to ignore as it coated your mouth, your tongue, slipping further back in a way that made your throat tighten reflexively.

You tried to pull away.

You couldn’t.

His grip had changed.

What had been steady was now unyielding—fingers pressing firm at the back of your neck, holding you in place with a strength that didn’t need to prove itself.

The world narrowed.

Just this.

Just him.

The sound of the water blurred into the background, replaced by the wet, overwhelming reality of the kiss—too much, too close, too consuming. You felt it everywhere. In your chest. In your throat. In the way your pulse stumbled and raced all at once.

It was suffocating.

It was—

You didn’t finish the thought.

You couldn’t.

Remmick pulled back just enough to breathe.

His lips hovered against yours, breath and spit mingling as his eyes still locked on you with that same unbearable focus.

You didn’t realize how unsteady your legs had gotten until his other hand moved.

Slow.

Unhurried.

It traced down from your waist, fingers dragging along the curve of your side before dipping lower—lower—until they brushed lightly against your thigh.

You tensed instantly.

Your knees drew together without thinking.

He paused, but didn’t push.

Just feeling the resistance.

His thumb pressed faintly against the inside of your leg, testing the line you’d drawn, the boundary you were trying so hard to hold onto.

Remmick’s gaze didn’t leave your face.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth again.

Not amused.

Not mocking.

Something far more patient than that.

His hand remained there—resting, waiting, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make it unbearable.

The water kept falling.

Hot. Relentless.

It struck the crown of your head, ran down your face, your throat, your chest, pooling and slipping and taking nothing with it—not the memory, not the smell, not the way your body had begun to hum in spite of everything.

Remmick watched you.

He bore into every part of your face.

That was where the truth lived.

His thumb shifted—barely—against the inside of your thigh, a slow, testing press that didn’t push, didn’t force, but didn’t retreat either. It lingered there, warm and deliberate, drawing your attention down to the place you were trying so hard to ignore.

Your knees stayed locked.

Your breath didn’t.

It gave you away.

Remmick’s mouth curved, subtle. Quiet. More private. Like he was letting himself enjoy the moment instead of performing it.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice thick with that slow drawl that came out strongest when he was most certain. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t—” you started, but the word came out weak, unraveling before it could hold shape.

He leaned in just enough that you felt it before you heard it—his breath brushing your cheek, warm despite everything.

“Go on,” he said, almost conversational. “Open up for me.”

You shook your head.

It wasn’t enough to matter.

Remmick’s hand didn’t move.

“Darlin’,” he added, softer now, almost playful in a way that made something sharp twist behind your ribs. “Y’know I’m a gentleman.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’d hate to go and ruin that reputation.”

The lightness in his tone—the ease of it, like this was a game, like this was something small—it nearly brought tears to your eyes. It made the room tilt, made everything feel even more unreal than it already did.

You swallowed hard.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “Not here. Not—like this. I can’t—”

Your voice broke.

“I can’t do this right now.”

The words sounded fragile.

He heard them.

Remmick leaned back just enough to see you again, properly this time. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, not in disappointment.

In consideration.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost looked like he might give it to you. That small mercy. That pause you were so desperate for.

His thumb stilled.

His hand eased.

The pressure lifted just enough to make your chest ache with the sudden absence of it.

“Mm,” he hummed, thoughtful.

Then he smiled.

Slow.

Measured.

“Alright,” he said.

The word settled over you like a false promise.

“Just this once.”

Relief hit you too fast.

Too deep.

It made your shoulders sag, your breath rush out in a shaky exhale you couldn’t quite control. Your knees loosened—not opening, not yet, but no longer braced so tightly shut.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t rush you.

Didn’t need to.

He waited.

And that patience—God, that patience—did more than any force ever could.

Because now it was you.

You who moved.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Your legs eased apart.

Just a fraction at first.

Then more.

Each inch felt like something slipping, something giving way inside you that you weren’t sure you’d ever get back.

Remmick’s expression changed.

The lack of subtlety alarmed you.

The restraint broke into something brighter, wider—something that showed teeth, showed hunger, showed the full, unfiltered satisfaction of a man watching something unfold exactly the way he knew it would.

“That's my girl,” he murmured, and you knew he caught the corner of your mouth twitch in response.

The words hung there, low and approving, wrapping around your spine like smoke. His hand didn’t waste the opening. It slid higher, fingers parting the slick heat between your thighs with a certainty that made your breath snag hard in your chest.

You bit your lip.

Remmick’s mouth was already on you again—wet, open presses against your jaw first, then trailing lower, scattering kisses along the line of your neck like he was mapping territory he’d conquered long ago. Each one landed heavy, saliva-slick and unhurried, his lips dragging just enough to leave your skin gleaming under the falling water. The heat of him everywhere. Breath ghosting your ear. Fangs grazing faint, teasing threats that made every nerve scream alive.

“Goddamn,” he breathed against your throat, voice rougher now. “Look at ya. Soakin’ for me already.”

His fingers found you.

Two of them pressed in slow—inch by burning inch—stretching you open with a precision that reminded how well he knew this part of you. Knew the exact angle that made your hips jerk. Knew the rhythm that turned resistance to ruin.

You clenched around him on instinct.

Tried to hide it.

Failed.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, echoing louder than the water in your sharpened ears. Everything was amplified. The slide of his fingers inside you felt like lightning—wet, obscene sounds mixing with the shower’s roar, your own pulse thundering in your temples, his scent flooding your lungs. Cedar and smoke and something darker, primal, overtaking every sense until there was no room for shame.

No room for anything but him.

He chuckled low, the vibration humming against your collarbone where his mouth lingered, sucking a mark that would bruise just right. “Tryin’ to play coy, darlin’? Ain’t workin’. I feel that little flutter. Ya love this.”

His thumb circled your clit—slow, firm circles that built pressure like a storm gathering. In. Out. Deeper each time, his fingers curling just so, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You hated it.

Hated how he played you like an instrument he’d tuned himself. Every twist, every press, pulled euphoria from you in waves you couldn’t swallow down.

Your hands fisted in his soaked shirt.

Pulled him closer.

“Remmick—” It came out broken, a plea wrapped in protest.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

His free hand stayed firm at your neck, thumb stroking your pulse like he was counting the beats racing under his touch. His mouth moved again—kisses peppering your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye where salt mixed with water. Wet. Messy. Stealing every inch.

“That’s it,” he praised, fangs nipping light at your earlobe. “Take it so pretty. My perfect girl, openin’ up just like I knew ya would.”

The words sank into you, hot as the water scalding your back. His fingers thrust deeper, faster now, but still controlled—twisting on the outstroke, crooking to drag against your walls, thumb relentless on that bundle of nerves. Pleasure coiled tight, insane and overwhelming, your new senses turning it into something unbearable. You could hear your own slickness, feel every ridge of his knuckles, smell the sharp tang of arousal cutting through the steam.

You tried to bite it back.

Tried to keep your hips still.

They bucked anyway.

A whine slipped free—high, desperate, nothing like you.

Remmick's mouth found your neck again, sucking hard enough to mark, tongue laving over the spot before kissing lower, open-mouthed and dripping. “Hear that? That’s you, darlin’. So wet for my fingers. Actin’ like ya don’t want it, but this pussy’s tellin’ tales.” He teased, voice a rumble you felt in your bones. Another curl of his fingers—precise, devastating. “Gonna make ya come so hard ya forget every damn thing but me.”

He was everywhere.

Filling you. Surrounding you. His body pressed close, shirt clinging translucent to the hard planes of his chest, suspenders heavy with water slapping wet against his thighs as he moved. Kisses rained down—jaw, throat, the hollow of your collarbone—each one leaving trails of spit that the shower couldn’t rinse away fast enough. His breath in your ear. His growl when you clenched again. His scent choking out the copper ghost that had haunted you.

You hated this too.

How he knew.

Knew to slow just when the edge loomed, drawing it out with shallow thrusts that made you chase him. Knew to whisper filth against your skin—“Fuck, ya grip me like ya never wanna let go. Good girl, just like that”—while his thumb flicked faster, building that euphoric blaze higher.

Your thighs trembled, spread wide now, knees digging into marble that no longer felt cold. Everything narrowed to the thick slide of him inside you, the wet smack of skin, the relentless press of his mouth claiming your face, your neck, like he’d devour you piece by piece.

“Remmick—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. Stop? More? It didn’t matter.

He laughed soft, dark, lips brushing your pulse. “Please what, sugar? This?” Deeper thrust. “Or this?” Thumb grinding hard. His fingers pumped steady, unyielding, chasing every hidden spot until euphoria drowned you—wave after crashing wave, your body arching, toes curling, every sense screaming his name.

You were lost.

Floating.

So close.

The coil snapped taut, pleasure cresting, ready to shatter—

Then, he stopped.

Fingers still buried deep, but unmoving.

Why the fuck did he stop?

Your body clenched around him, desperate, chasing what he’d yanked away. A whine built in your throat—weak, needy—but before it could spill, Remmick’s eyes held yours. Blazing red. Unblinking. Pinning you there under the relentless pour of water, steam curling like fingers around his shoulders.

No words.

Just that gaze.

Then his mouth moved.

Kissing down from the frantic pulse in your neck—soft at first, lips parting to suck light marks that bloomed under his touch. Water streamed between you, mixing with his spit, but he didn’t care. Didn’t pause. His free hand braced your hip, steadying you as his kisses trailed lower, grazing collarbone with fangs that scraped just enough to sting.

You sucked in a breath.

Tried to form protest.

“Remmick, I—”

Too late.

His lips found your breast.

One.

Then the other.

He lingered.

God, he lingered.

Mouth sealing hot over your nipple, tongue swirling broad and slow, lapping like he was starving for the taste. Suction pulled tight—wet, obscene—drawing a gasp from you that echoed off marble. His fangs grazed the sensitive peak, not piercing, just pressing, threatening, sending jolts straight to your core.

He switched sides without mercy, sucking harder, biting down just enough to ache, tongue soothing the sting before diving in again. Your back arched. Hands fisted in his wet hair. Everything was too sharp, too much—pleasure spiking through your heightened nerves like knives wrapped in velvet.

He hummed against your skin.

Approval.

Hunger.

Kisses scattered lower—sternum, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. His fingers slipped free at last, leaving you empty, throbbing, a slick trail dragging along your inner thigh as he went. His mouth followed, pressing open kisses that smeared heat, fangs nipping faint at your hipbone.

You were spread before him now.

Knees weak against marble.

Pussy bare, aching, dripping under his gaze.

But before his mouth could descend—

The flash hit.

Sudden.

Vicious.

The man’s face again. Those kind eyes widening—not in pleasure, but terror. Blood. Gurgling. Your fangs sinking deep, the hot spill over your chin. Remmick’s voice praising from the shadows.

Show me what I made.

Disgust crashed over you.

Thick as the steam.

You were soaked in it now—his touch, your arousal, all of it twisted into something vile. Pleasuring yourselves to this. After that. Your body betrayed you even as your stomach heaved, sobs ripping free, raw and jagged.

“N-no,” you choked, curling inward, hands shoving weakly at his shoulders. “I can’t—God, the blood, his eyes—I killed him, Remmick, and you—you made me a monster, and now this—”

Tears mixed with water, hot streaks down your face you couldn’t tell apart.

Remmick froze.

Just for a beat.

Then he rose—slow, fluid—cradling your face in both hands, thumbs wiping tears he’d caused. His eyes softened. Red dimming to something almost blue, almost human. “Hey now, darlin’,” he cooed, voice dropping to that velvet murmur, thick with drawl. “Shh. I gotcha.”

He eased you down.

Gentle.

Marble chilled your back as he laid you out, water pooling beneath, his body shielding you from the spray. He hovered close—not crowding—but everywhere. Mouth brushing your forehead, your temples, soft kisses peppering your eyelids. “I know, sugar. I see it tearin’ ya up. That ain’t right.”

You sobbed harder.

He shushed you soft—lips against your brow, hand stroking damp hair from your face. “Listen to me. I feel it too. That weight. Makes my chest ache seein’ ya hurt like this. He was just a man walkin’ his path, and now… hell, it sits heavy on me same as you.”

Lies.

Smooth as silk.

But your senses drowned—water roaring, his scent overwhelming, touch grounding you in the now. No room to question. Too raw. Too much.

“I didn’t want this for ya,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your jaw, nuzzling close like a lover grieving with you. “Not the pain. Not the ghosts. I turned ya ‘cause I love ya, darlin’. Wanted ya forever with me. But this? This guilt? I hate it eatin’ at ya. Let me take it away. Just for now. Let me make ya feel good. That’s all this is. All for you.”

His hand trailed soothing paths down your side—light, reassuring. Kisses dotted your throat, your collarbone. “It’ll be okay. I promise. We’ll figure the rest. Together. But right now? Let me love on ya. Wash it all clean.”

You hiccuped.

Clung to him.

Not convinced—not fully—but the overwhelm crashed too hard. Sobs tangled with shivers, his words weaving through like balm on burned skin.

He felt it—the softening, the brief surrender.

Like clockwork, he moved.

Eased down your body again.

Settled between your thighs.

Eyes locked on yours one last beat—red flaring hungry beneath the feigned concern.

Then his tongue dragged.

Bottom to top.

He dove in.

A long, flat lick through your folds, gathering slick, pressing firm against your clit at the very end. The taste of you exploded on him. A growl rumbled low, ancient, and whatever mask lingered shattered.

Ravenous.

Unrelenting.

His mouth sealed over you—sucking hard, tongue thrusting deep like it aimed to replace his fingers and more. No tease now. No patience. He devoured—lips pulling at your folds, fangs grazing outer lips with dangerous precision, never breaking but threatening ecstasy edged in peril. His tongue swirled wild inside you, curling, lapping every drop, then flicking frantic over your clit—fast, messy, insatiable.

You cried out.

Body bowed.

Tears streamed—guilt? Pleasure? Blurred into one endless salt. Sobs choked into moans, your hands yanking his hair, hips bucking into his face despite everything. He was everywhere again—growls vibrating through your core, nose grinding against your mound, saliva mixing with your arousal in thick, dripping strands that clung and stretched. He ate like famine gripped him—sucking your clit between lips, teeth nipping light, tongue plunging deep, fucking into you with wet, obscene thrusts.

“Fuck—Remmick—”

He didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

A hand pinned your thigh wide—claws pricking faint, holding you open as his mouth worked ruthless. Lick after lick after lick—broad stripes, pointed flicks, circling that swollen peak until sparks lit your veins. Your heightened world exploded: every lap thundered like thunder, his hums rattled your bones, scent of sex and him choking the air. Pleasure built savage, coiling tighter than before, guilt fracturing under the onslaught.

He pulled back just enough—barely—to growl against your dripping core. “Taste so goddamn sweet, darlin’. All mine.” Then back in—fangs scraping inner thighs, tongue spearing deep, lips sealing to suck like he’d draw your soul through your cunt.

Your tears were endless.

Sobs melting to screams.

Hated it.

Needed it.

His free hand slid up—fingers pinching your nipple, rolling hard, syncing with the frenzy below. Mouth unrelenting—lapping, sucking, biting faint at tender flesh. Growls turning feral, drool slicking your thighs, water doing nothing to dilute the mess. You were soaked. Ruined. Every sense overtaken—his heat, his hunger, his everything consuming you whole.

The edge loomed again.

Faster.

Harder.

His tongue lashed with renewed fury, plunging deep into your core before flicking up to your clit in a rhythm that bordered on brutal. You couldn’t take it anymore. The pleasure bordered on pain now—too intense, too all-consuming for your sharpened senses to process. Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his slick hair as you tried to push him away. “Remmick—stop, too much, I can’t—”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even pause.

Instead, his grip tightened. His claws dug deeper into the soft flesh of your thighs, pricking skin with sharp points that drew faint beads of blood. The sting barely registered amid the onslaught, but it anchored you, held you mercilessly open. He locked you against his mouth, nose grinding into your mound, lips sealing tight as he devoured you with even more ferocity. Growls vibrated through your folds, low and animalistic, drowning out your pleas. He didn’t seem to hear you anymore.

Or if he did, he didn’t care.

His tongue thrust relentlessly, curling inside you, lapping every inch like a beast denied for centuries. Fangs scraped your inner lips, teasing peril without piercing, while his lips sucked hard on your clit, pulling it between them with obscene pressure.

You thrashed.

Sobs tore from your throat—pleasure and overwhelm twisting into something frantic. “Please—Remmick!” Your hips bucked wildly, but his claws pinned you down, unyielding. He ate you like he owned you, tongue swirling faster, wetter, more invasive, saliva dripping in thick strands that mixed with your arousal and the shower’s endless cascade.

Every sense screamed: the wet smacks of his mouth, the copper tang of your own blood mingling faint with the air, his scent choking everything else. You loathed how it built again, coiling savage despite your protests, euphoria crashing higher until your vision blurred.

It hit like oblivion.

You came.

Hard.

Your body seized, back arching off the marble as waves ripped through you—insane, shattering, so high you nearly blacked out. A scream echoed off the walls, raw and broken, as you soaked him completely. Slick gushed from you in hot pulses, flooding his mouth, his chin, dripping down his neck to mix with the water. He drank it all, growling deep, tongue still working through the spasms, prolonging every twitch until you shuddered boneless beneath him.

Only then did he relent.

He lifted his head slowly, face glistening—your release smeared across his lips, his cheeks, clinging in strands to his fangs. Red eyes glowed triumphant, pupils blown wide. He crawled up your body with deliberate grace, water sluicing over both of you, and captured your mouth in a kiss.

You accepted it.

Couldn’t do anything else.

Your limbs felt like lead, spent and trembling, every muscle drained from the high. His lips pressed soft now—loving, almost tender—as his tongue slipped inside, mingling saliva thick and warm. You tasted yourself on him: sharp, sweet, intoxicating. Your fangs brushed his, a faint scrape that sent aftershocks tingling through you. He kissed you deeply, slowly, hand cupping your jaw like you were fragile porcelain. No rush. Just possession wrapped in gentleness.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips. “There ya go, darlin’. All better now.”

And it was.

He had done exactly as he promised. The memory of the man—the kind eyes, the blood, the guilt—had faded to a distant echo, washed away in the flood of him. Nothing remained but Remmick. His touch. His taste. His voice coiling through your mind like roots taking hold.

Time blurred in the steam-filled haze.

Minutes?

Hours?

You couldn’t tell.

The shower poured on, relentless, but he made no move to stop it at first. He simply held you there, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, whispering soft nothings that wove deeper into your bones.

“Ya did so good for me,” he said, voice a low rumble, thumb stroking your damp cheek. “My brave girl. Lettin’ me take care of ya like this. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt ya now. Not while I’m here.”

His words wrapped around you, gentle and addictive, each one a thread pulling you tighter to him. You melted into it, eyelids heavy, body limp against the marble. He shifted, reaching past you with one arm, and the water cut off abruptly. Silence rushed in—broken only by your shared breaths and the faint drip from fixtures. Cool air kissed your heated skin, raising goosebumps, but he didn’t let you shiver long.

Remmick gathered you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he stepped from the shower. His clothes clung sodden and ruined, but he ignored them. He carried you to the marble counter, perching you there gently, like you weighed nothing.

“Hold still, sugar,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning to the linen closet.

He returned with a towel—plush, oversized, warmed somehow in his hands. He draped it over your shoulders first, rubbing slow circles to chase away the chill. His touch stayed reverent, obsessive in its thoroughness: drying your arms, your back, lifting each leg to pat tenderly along the claw-marked thighs. He lingered there, eyes darkening faint at the red welts, but his fingers soothed rather than tormented—light strokes that made you sigh. “Look at these,” he whispered, voice thick with feigned regret. “Got carried away lovin’ on ya. I’ll kiss ‘em better later. Promise.”

You nodded faintly, too spent to argue, leaning into his care. He dried your hair next, fingers combing through the wet strands with shameless intimacy, tilting your head back to blot the nape of your neck.

Every motion screamed possession: the way he murmured praises—“So beautiful like this, all soft and mine”—the way his eyes never left you, red glow simmering possessive. “Ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing. I got ya forever now. No more scrubbin’, no more ghosts. Just us.”

Time slipped further. He wrapped you in the towel like a cocoon, lifting you again to carry you from the bathroom. The estate’s halls blurred past—dark wood panels, faint lamplight casting long shadows—but you barely registered them. Your bedroom materialized: the massive four-poster bed, silk sheets rumpled from earlier nights, air heavy with his scent. He laid you down reverently, peeling the towel away to slide cool sheets over your naked skin.

He stripped then—efficient, unhurried—tossing wet clothes aside before joining you. His body pressed close, warm and solid, one arm banding around your waist to tuck you against his chest. “Sleep now, darlin’,” he cooed, lips brushing your ear, hand splaying wide over your stomach in a move that felt like protection. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Gonna hold ya all night. Dream of good things. Dream of me.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns—spine, hip, the curve of your breast—gentle caresses that lulled rather than aroused. Kisses dotted your shoulder, your hair. “You're perfect,” he whispered, obsessive litany spilling soft. “My heart. My everything. Turned ya right, didn’t I? Feel that strength in ya now? All mine to keep safe.” Delusions layered sweet, each word erasing cracks, filling you with him.

The man’s face flickered once—faint—then vanished, overwritten by Remmick’s touch, his breath syncing with yours.

Your eyelids drooped.

The world narrowed to his warmth, his voice humming low lullabies in that hypnotic tone. “That’s it. Drift off. I love ya more than anythin’. Forever, sugar. Just like this.”

Sleep took you then.

Deep.

Dreamless.

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven