#dark remmick

“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.

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

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

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

He smiled and his teeth glinted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pathetic.

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

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

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

He stopped just outside the doorframe and looked in.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, fook me sideways," he breathed.

Killing you would be a waste.

There were better uses for a mouth like that.

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

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

Probably rolled over and went to sleep without touching you.

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

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

A slow, mean smile spread over his mouth.

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

He turned and went up the stairs first.

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

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

But he'd already decided to be cruel tonight.

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

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

Remmick took a punch to the ribs and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remmick stepped back and admired his work.

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

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

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

He sagged in the chair, wheezing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't speak, couldn't actually.

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

You made a small wounded sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmm, sweet."

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

"Look at him," Remmick said.

You shook your head.

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

"Please," you whispered.

"Tha's not the word."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Down," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Suck."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah… y'were made fer me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delighted, he laughed.

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

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

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

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

"Beautiful. Fookin' beautiful, lad."

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

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

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

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

Your boyfriend's face crumpled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh fook, lad, yer tight."

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

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

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

It made you feel both impaled and rearranged.

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

"Sweetheart, the rest is just fer ye."

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

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

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

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

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

Being observed was making it worse… and better.

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

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

"Stop," you choked. "Stop, please—"

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

He hit that spot again and ye whined.

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

So hard it hurt.

He stroked you lazily in time with his harsh thrusts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No—"

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

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

"Tha's what I thought."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y' did so well fer me."

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb traced your bottom lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Ma had always told you spring showers brought summer flowers, that the cold earth of the winter would melt away into a warm fuzzy wonderland where life blossomed beneath the sun. Each summer, you would wait before your window, rays of moonlight forcing their way through the cracks in the curtains, and you would listen to crickets orchestrate their song, chirping loudly in their vast lifetime. In the morning, you would do the same to the birds, listening to their own songs of summer. The forest beside your Pa’s house was alive, even if it was only for a short time till winter returned harsher than ever.

You had blossomed in your own ways, and once more, winter returned. Yet it did not leave this time. Your Ma and Pa were lowered into the cold, unfeeling ground and the petals you’d prided yourself on had shriveled with their corpses. You were left the estate, a drab wooden house that looked different now that you were older and had seen wonderlands beyond the forest, beyond the Mississippi Delta.

Chasing stardom in New York led to dead ends and debts carved into your spine, leaving you crawling back to the Delta with empty hands and more alone than you ever were. The funeral was held a week later. You’d been told it was cardiac arrest that caused the grim reaper to come knocking on their door, but something sat wrong within your stomach, twisted and vile as you watched those two wooden boxes into heaps of barren earth.

Returning to that cold, empty house felt worse than death itself. You’d turn the corner of the hallway, expecting to see your Ma’s sunken cheeks curved into a smile, or hear your Pa’s banjo strumming outdoors in the spring heat when it grew too stuffy inside of the home. You were met with nothing.

Two months came and passed, spring bleeding into summer like an old festering wound. The house was the same besides the introduction of your luggage shoved into the corner, discarded and untouched. You remained in the house, occasionally wandering the forest looking for the life that had seemed to abandon it in the years you’d been gone. The days were alright, it was the nights that were deceiving, sorrow worming its way into your heart until you choked upon tears.

It wasn’t until you’d finally run out of those soap scraps you’d been harbouring that you finally brushed the tears from your weary eyes and gathered yourself just enough to pay a visit to the Chow’s shop. Walking through town felt like being a moth surrounded by beautiful butterflies, eyes occasionally flickering to you with concern for your… not so pleasant appearance. The past few months had been rough, and it was showing in your skin, your posture, everything.

You picked up the pace a bit till you had actually reached the shop, stepping up onto that creaky wooden platform as your posture sunk inward, eyes drifting the shop for the one and only thing you desired. The shop hadn’t changed at all in the years you’d were gone, the wooden interior all varying shades of brown besides the small pop of color provided by roses that were no doubt Grace’s choice.

Your hand grasped the paper wrapped bar firmly as you walked around, feeling a sense of success as you turned upon your heel quickly to pay and return to your den of sorrows. Keep your head down, make yourself unnoticeable—like a fly on the wall, that was the plan. Yet no matter how much you could attempt to avoid the world, the world wouldn’t ignore you.

“Now, now, it’s been some time. How ya been?” That familiar twang of Bo’s made him recognizable in a crowd of thousands, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled down at you with thinly veiled sympathy in his eyes. He knew of your Ma and Pa’s funeral, hell, Grace and him had even provided the flowers, but they didn’t come—you didn’t want them there for some stupid reason now looking back. Maybe it was because you wanted your Ma and Pa to have some sort of privacy in their graves, but you knew better—you knew you were too chicken shit to actually ask for help, to reach out, like you’d always been.

“Feel like death’s knockin’ at my own door, but besides that, fine.” You’d expected a small chuckle from Bo—anything, but he remained silent as his faux cheeriness melted into pure sympathy the longer he looked at you. He looked around the shop, eyeing Lisa from across the store—drawing your attention to the girl you’d last seen when she was just a bundle of cloth within her mom’s arms, all chubby cheeks and wishful eyes.

Lisa followed the silent command from her dad, leaving the shop to go grab her mother from the white’s only side of the street. Turning back to Bo, you hadn’t realized how much your face betrayed your shock until he started laughing finally—clear and true as ever. “I remember when she was just a tadpole. Have I been gone that damn long?”

“She’s lookin’ more like her momma everyday, ain’t she? She’s a good kid,” Bo paused for a moment, his posture loosening into something more relaxed. “I like to think we did a pretty good job for the Delta.”

“You did, no one would doubt that.” You sighed out, posture soon matching Bo’s own. “You built your roots here and you raised that lil’ girl with all ya’ could give, Bo.”

“Sometimes I wish I coulda’ just given her somewhere else to live, a kinder world, maybe?—shit, I ain’t even know what I’m sayin’.” Bo spoke in that familiar chuckling voice, a deflection of the deeper meaning beneath.

“He hardly knows what he’s sayin’ half the time, that’s why I handle the hagglin’.” Grace swiped the palms of her hands against her apron, a smirk etched into the corners of her lips. The air in the room lightened instantaneously in a way that caused you to be become brutally aware of the truth that had quietly settled.

Now, you and Grace had practically been school girls together—if that meant getting up to trouble in unholy hours of the night in your early years, before she married Bo. Even though you’d known Bo for less time, you found yourself loving him just as much as you loved Grace. Each time they spoke to one another, even when they were in petty arguments or bickering like they were double their age, there was love, unyielding love.

The hug you’d given Grace was tight, unspoken words bleeding out from the contact as you squeezed—and in turn, she held you just as fiercely. “I’m sorry about your Ma and Pa, sweet pea. How ya’ been?”

“Been alright,” You caught yourself in your lie just as you spoke it, scoffing gently as you corrected. “Well, could be worse. Just been cooped up in that damn house.”

Her eyes traced along your face, taking in your more sunken in state. You hadn’t eaten in some time, ain’t really cared for yourself either. Grace’s brows were suddenly drawn tight as she kept her hands resting gently upon your elbows. “Now that just won’t do, won’t it? You been eatin’? Prolly not, knowin’ you.”

She leaned around you for a moment, catching the attention of Bo as he wiped down glass jars with his rags. “Bo, we still got that catfish ready to be cooked?”

“Now, that ain’t necessary—.”Grace shushed you like she would a child, continuing to talk with her husband, drawing together plans for you right in front of your face and as much as you wanted to hate it, you couldn’t, not when it was practically your best damn friend who was clearly so worried about you. Though, you wouldn’t deny the guilt you felt for taking up Bo and Grace’s time the way you were.

Before you knew it, Bo and Grace had invited you to dinner and you were seated at their table with a plate full of food. You ate it like you were starved, because you were. The evening was loud, not in the way that a juke was, but in the way friends gathered and spoke of the parts of their lives the other had missed. Bo had packed you up a nice bag full of food for you to eat rather than starving, and Grace had already made plans to pay you regular visits and to finally carve those shallow bones of an estate into something you could call home.

The first day of work had been grueling, plows striking against hardened earth as you attempted to make the garden actually resemble itself. The second day was not any better, but soon, they became easier. Each evening and the days when the shop was closed, Grace and Bo would be right beside you, working away at the chipped exterior of that house to find the gold beneath that had once shined so brightly with your Ma and Pa around.

Wallpaper in your favorite shade with flowers splotched across decorated the living room and the couch that had once sat unused was dusted, cleaned, and restored to its original form. After weeks of work, this house—your home, was finally something you could look at without that familiar ache in your chest. You kept the key parts the same, like your Pa’s banjo leaning just against the doorway to the garden, and your Ma’s embroidery mat was delicately draped across the kitchen table, but now it felt like the place was breathing with life after it had been vacant for so long. The walls thrummed with unheard music, the garden seeded with new coming harvest, and the nights stopped being something you’d dread, but instead something you embraced.

Everything was peaceful, the world seemingly in tune for the first in a very long time.

Then, he came.

Spring had bled into summer, and summer into fall. No matter how the seasons changed, the Delta was never truly cold. After a long day of working in the garden, you wanted to spend a bit of time on your porch enjoying the swing you and Bo had just built, a glass of iced tea in your sweaty palm. The sun faded past the horizon, graciously welcoming the moon in its place, and if anyone were to ask you which you’d admired more, you would always find comfort in the quiet solstice that moonlight provided you.

Taking a long swig of your beverage, you hummed to the sound of crickets and fireflies floating through the air. Your legs ached from your days work in the garden, but you ignored their protests just to keep that gentle swinging motion you’d got going. Your eyes had only fluttered shut for a moment in bliss, autumn breeze trancing you until your eyes were forced to open once more. That’s when you first saw him.

A man stood at the front of your gate, white picket fence gleaming in the moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, gaze locked with yours as if he’d been watching us for much longer than you were aware of. You shifted to stand from your seat, a shiver running down your spine as you took a step closer to protection of your home. From the distance, you could see the faint quirk of his lips beneath the surface of his fair skin. Then, he spoke:

“I apologize, I ain’t intend to scare ya’. I was just wonderin’ where that beautiful voice was comin’ from.” He pushed past the gate effortlessly, feet so light against the dried yellow grass that there was barely a noise made with each step of his black shoes. He kept moving forward, kept intruding until he was at the bottom of your porch steps, his head tilted upward to look at you.

You didn’t respond. Your Pa always taught you to be cautious of strangers, double-so for a white man—a white man on his own was the Delta’s version of the devil. Instead, you met his stare with one of your own—cold against those prying eyes of his.

“Name’s Remmick.” He spoke once more, offering his hand up toward you—callouses and bumps on his pale palm catching in the porch light. You took a step back toward that doorway of yours and his expression shifted, something so subtle in the darkness, yet it was there nonetheless—whispering when his voice shouted.

Remmick cleared his throat as his smile transitioned into something more hidden, lips drawn a bit more thin as he shifted onto the ball of his feet, his hands returning to his trouser pockets. “Nice home you got here.”

He leaned a bit, peering past your shoulder, gaze following into the dimly lit living space—fully refurnished with life and comfort, and here you stood just beyond that barrier. Your voice was a whisper as you shifted to block his view a bit, dusty blue eyes locking with your face once more. “Thank you.”

“Nice voice you got when you’s talkin’ too.” That damned grin was back in a flash at the sound of your voice, like he was relishing in just two seconds of dialogue from you.

“Sir,” you cleared your throat. “Now, I ain’t wish to be crass, but it’s awful late and I do believe you got other places to be besides my doorstep.”

You put on that fake, honeyed tone—holding yourself a bit taller just like your Ma had taught you to do when white men passed you on the street. Your eyes finally met Remmick’s for the first time since he’d opened his mouth, both of your gazes matching the other—two people trying to read the stranger in front of them like a book, and failing. Remmick was no longer smiling.

Remmick glanced behind him for a moment, eyes visibly catching on the forest’s edge in the distance. He didn’t breathe as he did so, simply just watched the mossy green earth. Turning back to you, he finally stepped down off your bottom porch step—his smile returning in a more subtle form. “Alright, I can recognize when a missus doesn’t want me ‘round. Can I at least have your name b’fore I leave?”

Your hand on your glass clenched, the air having gone stagnant in that short period of time. Your Pa would’ve cursed you for ever entertaining this man and not shooting him for stepping on your porch in the first place, your Ma would’ve scolded you for being so direct without another man around. Either way, you would’ve lost that battle. Maybe that’s why you told him your name, and he repeated it like it was the sweetest sugar he’d ever tasted on his tongue—like he’d devour your name and you with it.

Remmick’s retreat from your home was slow, pinstripe shirt illuminated by the porch light as he made his way to the perimeters of your fence. The further he walked, the more your shoulders began to release their tension—your body drawn tight like a banjo string and you hadn’t even realized. Your glass clattered onto the porch as condensation made the glass difficult to grip, your concentration on Remmick finally breaking.

“Shit.” Crouching down, you grasped the cup, silently grateful it was already empty. It probably would’ve made your night worse to waste a perfectly good glass of iced tea. When you looked back up from the glass, you had expected to see Remmick retreating back to whatever place he was from—but there was nothing. Your fence swung mindlessly in the breeze, and the longer you stayed there, the more you realized that the crickets had stopped their nightly song and silence seemed to consume everything around.

You cleared your throat as you stood, and you didn’t hum to yourself this time as you moved from the porch into the boundaries of your home. You locked the door and checked it twice, not willing to admit your paranoia but far more interested in staying safe in the end. Hell, you’d even placed your Pa’s old shotgun on the kitchen table, just in case, you told yourself.

You dressed for bed, cleaned up a bit—made sure to close all the curtains and windows and checked the front door lock one last time before finally finding your way to your bedroom. The linens and blankets were warm against your skin, settling you in perfectly, and once you reached across your nightstand to turn off your oil lamp, you had the moon that streamed so prettily through the sheers to guide you to sleep.

Warm light caused you to stir, your voice muffled within your own ears as your eyes refused to open—eyelashes peeling apart hesitantly as your oil lamp flickered. The first thing your eyes caught upon was the moon above, so big and round, staring down at you with its own singular eye.

The next thing you felt was sensation, intense and growing heat between your thighs beneath your nightgown.

Your eyes struggled to break from the moon, but when they had, they immediately found tuffs of brown hair between your legs as two strong hands gripped your thighs—hiking your dress up higher as a hungry mouth latched right onto you. Your mouth parted into a cry, but nothing came out. Your body wasn’t yours to move, you were simply just there—a vessel writhing against a prodding tongue.

Those pale hands gripped your thighs a bit tighter as a deep vibration left the throat of the obscured man’s face, sending a tingle up your spine. You could feel each lick of his tongue along your seeping hot slit, each suck his lips gave to your clit—each sensation building in the pit of your stomach and all you could do was take it. He worked you up so damn good and if you were able to scream, you would’ve been.

Your back arched, heady gasps finally managing to break past your lips. His hands trailed from your thighs, bunching the fabric along them and dragging it upward onto your pelvis. The man’s hands were decorated in veins, skin oddly cool against your own as he continued to devour you. Each flick of his tongue dragged out into a maddening eternity as you were forced to just wait, to give in to that pressure growing between the sweetness of your thighs.

Blistering hot white pleasure began to creep into your vision, legs quivering as your chest heaved as your peak grew closer. The man chuckled, sending sweet vibrations right against where you needed it most. He gave one final suck to your clit and just as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, you jolted awake.

Sunlight was much harsher than moonlight, that was for damn sure. The burning sensation from your dream lasted in the pit of your stomach, and for a moment, you’d questioned if the dream was real. Tugging the linens away from your legs, you found the real cause of that heat—red, hot and angry upon the linens. Shit.

After cleaning and swapping the linens and slipping on your sanitary belt, you’d decided that today would probably be best spent as a day of relaxation rather than in the town. You curled up on your sofa with a book, mind occasionally drifting to the man on your porch step last night, but you were easily distracted by the words on the page.

As the sun leaned toward the horizon, the book was left abandoned on your sofa as your hands found your Pa’s old banjo. The rickety thing hadn’t been played for some time and was certainly in need of tuning, but you tried your best to remember the fingerings of each note—each shift of your fingers producing a new sound and pitch.

You hummed the notes to yourself each time you played a different one, glimpses of your Pa passing through your mind. He loved this banjo, used to play it from dusk to dawn on your little back porch. That man could also sing like hell too, would drag your Ma into his musical antics no matter how much she protested. He taught you everything you knew about music, he was the one who hugged you tightest when you went off to New York.

You thought you were ready for New York, thought you was able to survive the competition and control that came with newfangled stardom. You were wrong, so very wrong. You’d put all your money into your gig, singing late into the night at all-black establishments that could barely stay open on their own terms. The money was shit, but the feeling was amazing.

Then there was one night that changed everything. A white man came into the club you was playing at, called you a star-in-the-making and took you home with him. In exchange for your… services, he set you up with the big man—a man who had power and money in all the right places. You began to play bigger gigs, had your appearance changed from that humble black girl from the Delta into something the white folks in New York could pretend to accept.

It didn’t last long. Turns out, white folk like the sound of a black woman’s voice but don’t like the face it comes from. The big guy who was supposed to be your handler turned his back on you, claiming you’d taken his money and robbed him—utter bullshit spewing from that filthy mouth of his. You were desperate, hungry, and you sure as hell weren’t proud of what you did next.

You took some cash, just enough to buy a one way ticket back to the Delta. That’s when you found out your Ma and Pa had died, as if it couldn’t get any worse. The leftover cash was put into their funeral, and you were back to square one.

Warm, quiet tears fell onto the banjo in your hands, fingers continuing to slowly pluck a tune on that banjo that you could only recognize as your Pa’s song, the one he played for Ma each and every time she would listen. You hummed the lyrics obscurely, unable to fully grasp each word but knowing the meaning deep within your heart where it whispered loudest.

A slow sigh left your lungs as your fingers stilled, the last plucked string reverberating throughout the room, the last note you could remember of the song even if you knew it was incomplete. The silence that followed was careful, floating through the air, delicate as glass.

Then it was shattered. From just beyond your open window, you could hear the gentle strumming of a banjo outside your home—each note confident in a way your rendition hadn’t been. Glancing toward the billowing sheers of the window, you could see that the sun had finally disappeared into an endless black darkness. You brushed off any figment of dust from your dress as you stood, approaching your front door, smooshing your ear up against the wooden structure as you listened carefully.

A man’s voice followed, sweet and smooth as honey: “Love, oh love, oh careless love… night and day, I weep and mourn.”

You don’t know when your hand had grasped the doorknob, all you could recognize was that familiar creek of door hinges as you pulled.

“You brought the wrong man into this life of mine—“

Remmick stood on your porch now, standing tall as his fingers worked the banjo in his hands—its strap slipped across his shoulders diligently. Your hip and shoulder found a comfortable place against the doorframe as you leaned, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him silently—watched the performance he put on just for you.

Those familiar blue eyes of his were locked onto your own, a smirk sprouting onto his face as he sang. He was good, you’d admit that—it ain’t change the fact that he’s on your doorstep in the middle of the damn night.

“For my sins, ‘til judgement I’ll atone.”

There was a beat of silence, then you spoke.

“You’re good,” you eyed Remmick up and down, mentally noting that he was still wearing the same thing as yesterday—still wearing that pinstripe button-up and black slacks. “But that ain’t change the fact that you’re on my porch again, in the middle of the damn night.”

“But you still answered the door for such a late hour, ain’t ya’?” Remmick was almost smug as he spoke, slipping his banjo over his shoulder as his gaze broke from yours to see inside your home once more—the sudden intrusion causing you to clear your throat and straighten up a bit.

“That still don’t give an invitation for you to be playin’ at my doorstep, Remmick.”

His expression suddenly shifted to this look of faux guilt, head dipping as he stared down at his feet. “I’m sorry, missus. I know I shouldn’t keep showin’ up here n’ all, but you’re just so… pretty and your home just seems so welcomin’. Can I just come in for a bit?”

Even though Remmick’s lips were formed into a pout and he did a damn good job at furrowing his brows to look like a child caught stealing a cookie, something in his eyes disconnected from the rest of his face—something sinister hidden beneath that innocent facade.

“That ain’t a good idea, Remmick. You know that.” You were blunt, remaining against the door frame as you stared at him intensely.

Finally, something seemed to crack within that crafted porcelain as he met your eyes once more—a twitch in his lip and a dilation in his pupils giving way to something a bit more animalistic beyond the man. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the eye contact communicating enough on its own. You weren’t budging.

“…you can sit on this porch. I’ll bring you some tea. You like it sweet?” Even if you weren’t willing to let him in, you could indulge in this little fantasy—even just for a few minutes.

“No sugar, please. Thank you.” Remmick was polite as he sat down on your porch, waiting patiently like a puppy dog getting a treat. When you returned, that charming facade was back—his hand brushing against yours as you handed him the cool glass, the coolness of his fingertips contrasting the warmth of your own.

Placing a pillow onto the floor, you sat across from Remmick with your own glass of tea. You both took silent sips of your tea, and for once, you weren’t staring down each other. You were staring off at the woods behind Remmick, watching how the trees swayed and how the crickets had fallen quiet once more. It was odd for the woods to be quiet, especially at this time of night when everything seemed to be so alive beyond the world of humans.

“Did you grow up in these parts?” Remmick finally broke the silence with a question, drawing the glass to his lips.

“I did. I even used to play in those woods back there.” You pointed as you took another swig of your own tea. “Used to run around for hours and get lost, then my Ma’s voice would guide me back home.”

“It’s big in there, too damn easy to get lost and turned around. I wonder how many people have gone in and haven’t come out…” Remmick muttered as he craned his neck in the direction of your finger, clearing his throat and taking another drink as he turned back to you.

“You from here?” There was a thoughtfulness that overcame Remmick at your question, like he had to remember where he was from rather than just say it. Your own brows furrowed, watching as words formed on his tongue yet didn’t leave his lips. “Didn’t realize I was askin’ such a loaded question.”

“I’m from around here. Moved a lot growin’ up, made it easy to forget where I was truly from.” Even though he spoke with conviction, the words didn’t feel right leaving his lips, like half the truth was missing.

You hummed out, taking another long sip of your tea. “Must’ve been hard movin’ all the time.”

“That’s awful sweet of ya’ to think of it like that. The further away I moved, the more I forgot those lands. I miss ‘em, but they’re more of just a memory now… a distant dream.” Remmick drawled, his hand coming down to support his weight as he leaned a bit, bicep flexing beneath those pinstripe sleeves and you ate up the sight greedily.

“If you miss it so much, why ain’t you just visit?” The answer seemed so on the nose to remedy this homesickness.

But Remmick was beginning to show he was anything but simple. “It don’t exist no more.”

A quiet ‘oh’ left you at his words, followed by an apology. He chuckled at that, taking another sip of his tea before placing the empty glass beside him. “You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Why ain’t you ever left the Delta before?”

“I did—well, I tried to.” You took a moment to clear your throat, hands smoothing over your dress as your eyes found the fabric, following its simple patterns with the tips of your fingers. “Went to New York for a bit. It ain’t shit but buildings and men lookin’ for their next big star, just to dump them in a week. Then my Ma and Pa died, and I came back home.”

You don’t know why you told Remmick your story, don’t know why it felt so good to either. Maybe you were lonelier than you thought, still seeking for something to fill that aching hole left in your chest. The house had become your comfort, but it still lacked that little pattering of feet, the scent of your Pa’s coffee and the sweet scent of cinnamon while your Ma baked. You found yourself thinking about having someone proper in your home, someone to love and to be loved.

Remmick’s smug and smiley disposition shifted into something more demure, quiet as his brows drew tightly together. “Losin’ your Ma and Pa must be a hurtin’ feelin’. I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause of silence once again.

“I went to New York once,” He watched closely as your face lifted to meet his once again, emotions swirling hidden just within the depths of your eyes. “Bustlin’ city, decent night life… I prefer the Delta. I ain’t meet people like you in New York.”

A giggle bubbled within your chest before you could stop it, distracting you from the ache in your chest as flattery wove its way into your mind. Remmick visibly brightened at the sound of your laughter, egged on by the noise and relishing in it as he took in a deep breath. “You ain’t so bad yourself, Remmick.”

His hand moved to his chest, lips parting dramatically. “Now, I think that’s ’bout the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

Your giggle soon turned into a chuckle as your posture dropped into something more comfortable, genuine. “I can sweet talk too, banjo boy. I just choose to not use it on strangers.”

Strangers. Remmick’s grin widened at the thought, the potential bond forming between you two, even if it was risky. “Well, I find flattery is the best medicine.”

“Keep flatterin’ me and we’ll see if it works then.” You flirted back, smirking to yourself as your head came to rest against the doorframe.

The trees beyond the fence swayed with the night breeze, owls cooing in the darkness. The porch light perched on the wall flickered every few minutes, catching the misty blue of Remmick’s eyes as he spoke. You found yourself drawn to him, taking in each word he said in that sweet drawl. Remmick watched you speak as if you held the voice of angels above, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Time was the least of your focuses the longer he talked, you were tunnel visioned by the man in front of you, and so was he.

Morning birds began to chirp, their noises a reminder that there was more to the world than two people sitting on a porch. You found yourself caught on those magic words as you considered inviting Remmick in for the day, tongue tasting each syllable yet the longer they sat within your mouth, the more foul they tasted. Remmick rose from his position on the porch, hands brushing dirt from his trousers.

“You’ll be back again tonight, right?” You asked, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so eager. But Remmick wasn’t turned away from the invitation, no, he found himself smiling so sweetly at the desperation hidden so poorly within your voice.

“I’ll be here every night ‘til you let me in, darlin’.” The wording was odd, but Remmick had an odd way about him, and nonetheless the sentiment warmed your heart.

Remmick’s feet were light against the porch as he descended the steps, his form completely weightless as he trudged across the grass and toward that familiar white gate. His movement stalled just as his hand came into contact with the wood, neck craning around to look at you one last time before waving.

Your brows furrowed the longer you looked at him in the darkness, saw the way his form seemed just a bit taller—less man and more animal now that he was farther from you, like a facade slipping away. You brushed away the idea, telling yourself it was just exhaustion weighing on you. Mustering up a small quirk of your lips, you waved back to Remmick before closing your front door—locking it securely.

For those few hours you slept, it was like you had never truly fallen asleep. Your conscious was oddly aware of everything around you, aware of each twitch of muscle and the linens against your legs. Your heart calmed, breath evening as you relaxed deeper into this odd slumber. Then you felt it, two hands—strong and heavy as they held onto your waist, the cushioning of the bed dipping behind you.

The hands gave way to arms, tugging you closer and closer till your head was resting against someone’s chest. A man was whispering into your ear in a language you couldn’t recognize. His arms were deceptively cool against your form, chest rising and falling slowly against your back as he continued to hum and whisper—each syllable twisted and falling into the open space.

The language was old, smooth and effortless leaving the tongue. It sounded like a song being spoken, beckoning you to fall deeper into his embrace the longer he hold on. A shiver ran down your spine as two sharp points trailed down the juncture of your neck, your arms and legs twitching as his grip tightened around you. The sensation tickled, tracing from your neck onto your shoulder and back, teasing—testing to see how long you would last before waking.

The man’s lips locked onto your shoulder, placing open mouthed kisses, leaving behind a trail of cool saliva in his wake. The sensation sent tingles down your spine, light and airy—then suddenly sharp, hot blistering pain took its place, two sharp points piercing the skin.

You screamed as you jolted awake, tearing the sheets from your legs as you looked around your bedroom—looking for anything or anyone. Yet it was empty, devoid of sound beyond your breathing. Your hands found their way toward your neck, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed as you quickly found your Ma’s mirror. Nothing, not even a single scratch, was there. It was just a weird, vivid dream.

It was too late in the day to go back to sleep by the time you’d opened the curtains, sunlight greeting you far too happily for someone who’d gotten three hours of rest. The headache that followed you throughout the day was frustrating, but nothing compared to the concern you’d begun to feel regarding your dreams. You hadn’t had nightmares since your Ma and Pa’s funeral, and those never involved a man—never involved a touch so sweet and sinful it made your skin crawl.

You tried to distract yourself throughout the day with mundane tasks, keeping to yourself as you tended the garden. Grace paid you a visit for a bit, remarking how “You looked like you’d just seen the devil himself”. Maybe you had, maybe he had buried his head between your thighs and tasted you and was now following you in your sleep—god, that sounded fucking ridiculous. Regardless, weird dreams didn’t mean shit for reality where you were still busy fixing up the final touches to your home.

Remmick came by that night, and the night after, and the night after that. It became a routine of yours. You slept in, woke midday, spent some time fixing whatever was broken before waiting for Remmick to show up and spending the whole night with him. Subconsciously, you relished in the company he gave—the way he listened, the way he watched, all predatory hiding beneath a fawn’s gaze. You never invited him in, always considered it but never did. And each night when you laid in bed, you’d dreamt of a man holding you, touching you, devouring you whole.

Grace said she wasn’t concerned, but you could tell by the way she visited more now, the way she looked at you as if you dying right before her eyes, that she wanted to say something neither of you were willing to admit. She helped wherever she could, but there wasn’t much to do admittedly with how long you’d begun to spend cooped up in that damned house again.

“A man came into the store yesterday, a white man.” Grace’s brow quirked upward, asking a silent question as she scrubbed at the dishes in your sink.

You were sitting down at the dining table, sewing up a hole left in one of your Ma’s table covers. The thread within your hands slowed as you lifted your gaze to meet Grace’s, expression soon matching hers. “A white man? What’d he look like?”

“Tall, dark, sleazy. Everything New York ‘bout him. He asked ‘bout you.”

Fuck, that wasn’t good. You thought you’d covered your trail from your star days, left that girl dead and buried to resume life here—but you were so very wrong. “Shit, Grace. What’d you say?”

“Said you’d moved. He had that look in his eye though, like a man willin’ to drag someone through hell for answers. You know him?” Grace placed a clean cup onto the drying rack, turning to face you as she leaned against the counter.

“I do—well, I did. Knew him back in New York, is all.” You were quick to answer, too quick for complete reassurance.

But Grace wasn’t the type to pry, not when it came to things like this. You both continued on working in silence, your mind drifting somewhere else entirely—drifting to those woods, to that pinstriped shirt and banjo you’d grown fond of, far too fond for comfort. Grace left quietly from your home, casting you one final look as she pushed past that picket fence into the setting horizon—and something in your stomach soured at the sight. It was like she sensed something you were unable to see.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and once again you waited on your sofa, perched like a bird waiting to hear the crow of its lover. You waited—and waited, and waited. Then, there was a knock on the door.

The sound struck you as odd since Remmick never knocked, always calling out to you in the darkness, but who were you to dictate the right way to visit someone. You’d dressed yourself in your best dress tonight, mentally planning on inviting him in and hopefully having a decent supper together. It felt like being a schoolgirl all over again, rushing around your living room as you brushed away any speck of dust and grime from your dress, if there was any. You lit the candles along the dining table, checking to see if the food was still warm before approaching the door.

Sucking in a tight breath, you gathered all your nerves, grasping that doorknob tightly as a smile etched its way into your cheeks. The hinges creaked as the door swung open, his name beginning to form on your tongue only to die out at the sight that met you. “Remmi—…”

Your old handler stood on your doorstep, cigar between his lips as he looked back the woods near your house. His head whipped back toward you the moment he heard the door hinges swing open, that familiar cruel smile curling on his lips. “Hey, sweet pea. Never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

You began to close the door only for him to block you with his hand, leaning far too close for comfort. The man stunk of cigar smoke and New York sewer, something that never quite washed off no matter how far you got away from the place.

“No, I ain’t.” The words were dry leaving your lips, dragging against your throat as your posture tensed.

He peered past you, his form imposing on you the longer he stood there. A deep chuckle left his mouth, humorless. “Waitin’ on someone? Were you waitin’ on me, sweet pea?”

God, you fucking hated that nickname—hated the way he used it to carve his claim into you even after all these months. That sleazy old bastard still knew how to get under your skin, to dig his fingers into a wound you that had healed and rip it freshly open.

“I was waiting on my husband to come home. He should be here soon.” Lies, all of it, but maybe it would keep him from staying past his already overdue stay.

But that man knew better, took one glance at your hand and knew better. You met his eyes once more before quickly moving to close the door, but he was fast and too damn strong. He forced his way inside quickly, plucking the cigar from his lips and smooshing the ashes against your Ma’s counters. “Nice place you’ve gotten yourself, hope it isn’t all from that money you stole, sweat pea.”

“None of this is your money, ain’t ever been your money. Now, get the fuck out of my home.” You rounded the dining table, trying to put as much distance between you and this bulking figure as possible. Your eyes followed him like a prey being chased by a predator, trying to slip from the jaws of something that would chase you till the end. If he was gonna try and kill you, you were going down with a fucking fight.

He scoffed at your words, glancing around your home before looking at you once again. “There’s that fire I missed so much. Listen here, I got two options for you, sweet pea. You can either pack it all up tonight n’ head back to New York with me, and I’ll work ya’ ‘til you pay back every damn cent you took. Or…”

The man didn’t even need to finish as he reached into his suit jacket, a click resounding as he turned off the safety to his gun.

Returning wasn’t an option—it had never been an option. You knew better than that, knew that going back to New York was a death sentence dressed up in glamour. So, you were left with only one choice.

The dish you’d spent an hour on went flying across the table, shattering into the man’s face as the food came splashing onto the floor. “Shit!”

Your feet pounded against the floor as you rounded the table, heading straight for the doorway as his hands scrambled towards his face, then toward you. Pushing past the threshold of your door frame, the once gentle breeze whipped against your face so intensely—the balls of your feet bouncing against the porch steps.

“You fucking bitch!” The man’s steps weren’t far behind as you ran, stumbling into the forest haphazardly. Your feet slipped and caught upon moss, but the consequence of falling was far less than the consequences of being caught.

Your lungs ached, legs burning with each pounding step as your form weaved between trees and branches. In the past, you’d known this forest like the back of your hand, but in the darkness, it seemed much more sinister, twisted and all-consuming. Rounding a tree, you’d stopped to catch your breath—chest heaving as your once-nice dress was now torn and stained at the hem.

The forest was silent all around, no crickets chirped, no owls hooted. It was agonizing, brittle silence. You prayed this forest would protect you—keep you hidden and tightly wrapped in its mossy arms from the predator that was changing you, but the forest had a funny way of protecting people, of hiding them.

A branch snapped beneath weight just a few feet away, goosebumps riddling your skin as you turned to run—only to feel a hand snap around your arm and pull you back. You opened your mouth to scream, but another hand quickly covered your mouth. Bark dug into your back as Remmick stood in front of you, crowding your body with his own as you stopped struggling—his eyes not on yours, but on your handler who stumbled by a few trees over.

When he finally looked at you, there was something different in his appearance—something distinctly wrong. Frothed drool dribbled down his chin, his eyes no longer than misty shade of blue but blood red. His nails were sharp upon your arm, prickling blood unintentionally—but just the scent alone caused his nose to flare hungrily.

“Get inside.”

There were no questions needed to be asked as Remmick released your arm, your form stumbling back through the woods. As you ran, you glanced back to Remmick one last time—watching as the moonlight streamed through the trees and caught upon his form, and that’s when you truly saw him. That animal hidden in human flesh was no longer pretending, talon-like nails protruded as his tongue dragged across razor teeth.

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes the longer you ran, bile sloshing in the pit of your stomach and soon exiting through your mouth. You dry heaved as you push past the white gate of your home, now tarnished with blood. A blood curling scream left the trees, your heart leaping and squeezing in your chest—but you didn’t stop moving, never stopped until you past the boundaries of your home, slamming the door shut and locking it.

The waiting had been the worst part—waiting to find a savior or the devil at your doorstep. You swept and scrubbed the floor, the actions so mundane for someone whose mind was far from their body. You scrubbed, and scrubbed—working your hands till they were raw as blood trickled down your arm. Silence consumed your home, consumed you with it.

The sight of the food on your dinner table, the broken promise of a night you were supposed to have, made your stomach sour and clench. Fear gave way to anger as you swept all the food into a trash bin, tossing the plates into the sink and scrubbing at the dishes till they were spotless—lacking any memory of the ordeal, just as you wished you could do.

You scrubbed the counter where he’d smooshed the cigar, wiping bitterly as the ash stained and carved a permanent marking into the wood. Fucking asshole—fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your manic cleaning was broken by the gentle sound of humming beyond your door, a foreign language sitting upon unseen lips—the same lithe tongue spoken in your dream. Remmick was here. Your hand rested upon the doorknob, arms ready to accept the fate beyond the door—but something in your brain made you pause. You didn’t know what Remmick was, but you knew he wasn’t human—knew he a creature of the night, something dangerous, something sinister.

You backed away from the door as Remmick called out your name from the other side, his voice soft, too soft. The shotgun in the closet found its way into your hands, loaded as you swung the door open—taking aim at the man you’d once considered your friend.

Remmick stared down the barrel, a dry laugh leaving his bloodied lips as he stared at you. He looked at you as if you even prettier this way, full of scorn, scared and shaking in front of him, like he wanted to devour you whole right then and there. He was smeared in blood that obviously wasn’t his, shirt ruined as one of his suspenders hung loosely off his shoulder. “Ain’t no need for that, pretty thing.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You raised the gun, feeling hot tears well in the corners of your eyes and escape down your cheeks. “What the fuck are you?”

That facade he’d embraced was long gone now, replaced by this thing—replaced by what he truly was. Remmick didn’t respond, simply lifting his claws into the air almost defensively as he smiled down at you with his fangs poking past his lips.

You cocked the shotgun, a sharp glare crossing over your face.

“I’m your Remmick, darlin’. Always have been.” Your Remmick, how fucking rich. “That man won’t be botherin’ you anymore. Won’t be botherin’ anyone anymore, really.”

Remmick spoke like what he’d done was mundane—like it was an average occurrence through his week.

“Shut the fuck up, Remmick!” You screamed finally, shoving the barrel of the gun toward, aiming toward Remmick’s head with shaky hands. “I thought we was friends, real friends. What the hell are you? Why the hell would you hide this from me? Jesus—fuck!”

Remmick cooed in that familiar drawl of his, but it wasn’t charming this time—far from it. “We’s still friends, darlin’. I’m yours… just like you’re mine. Why don’t you lower than gun and let me come on in?”

His clawed fingers slowly grasped around the barrel of the shotgun, inching it away from his face as he stared down at you—near quite breaking eye contact as his crimson eyes burned into your face. His tongue dragged across his lips at the sight of your tears, drool beginning to slip out at the corner of his mouth again. Fuck, you looked just as pretty when you cried.

You knocked his hand away from the barrel quickly, aiming it once again as your brain continued to try and convince you to hate him—to blow his brains out and move on with your life.

But that ache in your heart was louder.

“…come in.” You whispered out, dropping the shotgun to the floor roughly. Your mind wanted to hate him, wanted to despise what he was—but your heart had known for a long time that Remmick was far from normal and part of you loved him for it.

The first step he took beyond that barrier felt like glass shattering, the world tipping the moment he was fully inside your home—here, with you, covered in blood. The grin he had on his face was almost childish, like he’d just received candy and gotten a pat on the head.

You didn’t speak to him, just gestured for him to take a seat while you turned your back, dipping a towel in a soapy water concoction.

“Pretty home,” Remmick hummed as he looked around, slipping his suspenders down to his waist before claw-like fingers began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt slowly until he had fully peeled away the fabric to sit in his undershirt and slacks. “Ain’t as pretty as you, though.”

For someone who just had a gun held to his face, he still managed to flirt like you were the next hottest thing.

Wringing the towel out, you handed it to Remmick, his fingertips brushing against the softer palm of your hand and there was a slight hitch in his breath at the contact, like he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time—waiting to touch you, to carve himself into your bones and make it his home.

“You’re hurt.” You didn’t like the way the words came out so pitifully, like you were genuinely concerned for him even when you should despise him. He was a murderer, a monster.

Your hands moved before your mind had fully processed, fingertips pushing up the side of his undershirt to reveal a gash left in his side from what appeared to be a bullet. It was weird that Remmick wasn’t reacting to the pain, but honestly there were a lot of weird things that happened tonight so you didn’t even have the mental bandwidth to question.

Instead, you took the towel from Remmick’s hands, fingers finding their place along the plane of his abdomen, cool flesh settling against the warmth of your own as you dragged the towel along the bloodied wound. You could feel the way his flesh expanded and contracted, feel each vibration in his chest as he let out a mix of a scoff and laugh.

“You’re too good for me, darlin’.”

“I know.” Your response was snippy, quick as you wiped one last time before stepping away from Remmick—but his hand caught your wrist before you could reach the water bucket, grasping firmly.

Your head whipped around to look at him, to fully look at him—taking in the blood, the mess, and goop. Admittedly, those red eyes were what hypnotized you the most, the way they watched you—took in each change in your facial expression and yearned for more, begged for more. His claws released your wrist, slowly making their way to your face.

The tingling sharpness on your jaw felt perfectly contrasted by the gentle nature of the touch, so light as if he was scared to draw blood. Your knuckles tightened around the towel, pale bloody water pattering onto the floor going unnoticed. Your breath was hitched, caught within your chest the longer he touched, but fuck, you knew exactly where you wanted him.

One hand found its way to his shoulder, tracing along the fine tuned muscles, tracing each ridge and bump of cool skin beneath your fingertips. The space minimized in seconds, the contact of lips so light it felt like a feather had brushed you. Your stomach clenched at the contact, mind doing backflips while your heart thrummed in a frenzy.

Remmick didn’t wait to go back in for a second taste, opposite hand finding its place on your hip as he gently guided you down into his lap. Your legs parted, making room for Remmick to slot himself perfectly as his lips consumed your own. The second kiss was different, full of hunger and need that lasted centuries.

The rag in your hand was thrown somewhere you couldn’t see, the hand instead finding placement in his hair—fingernails scraping against the nape of his scalp. Remmick’s mouth parted in a mixture of a whimper and a groan, tongue swiping across your own looks in search of acceptance.

The hand on your hip held firm, tilting your pelvis as it began to rock you up and down the curvature of his cock. You broke the kiss in a gasp, giving Remmick his opportunity as his tongue began to explore your mouth greedily. The sensation was suffocating, clouding your brain as your hips began to rock on their own, matching the rhythm Remmick had set.

“You’re so sweet f’me, so precious.” Remmick whispered into your lips, hands dipping into the arch of your back as your pebbled clit languidly dragged right against his slacks. You weren’t the only one aroused either, his cock swelling within its confines with each buck.

You nipped at the his bottom lip, a high-pitched gasp leaving your lungs as Remmick’s fingers tweaked your nipples through the fabric of your gown. “I ain’t sweet all the time.”

Remmick shook his head, dipping his head into the juncture of your neck before licking a wet stripe up the flesh. “No, I bet you ain’t. Neither am I, darlin.”

He punctured his words with a mean nip at your jawline, just enough to make the skin red and puffy. Slick gathered between your legs, dripping through your panties like sacred honey. You rocked your hips faster, feeling that burning sensation beginning to form in the pit of your belly, desperate and hungry. Your hands perched on Remmick’s shoulders, breathless whines leaving your gasping mouth as you chased that precious peak.

Remmick’s eyes were trained on your face, that annoyingly smug smirk plastered across his lips. He watched as your brows furrowed and your legs began to tighten, clit bumping against his hardened tip so beautifully it made you want to cry. He watched as you worked yourself to the crest of that peak, only to rip it away from you.

“Ah, ah, ah…” His arm suddenly wrapped around your torso, lifting you up as you released a strangled pant. Remmick laid you down on the kitchen table, using those perfectly veined hands of his to languidly bunch the fabric of your dress along your thighs, teasing you.

“Remmick—.”You wanted him, needed him to make you feel so good again. Felt like you’d die without it. “Shh… sweet thing, I’ve got you. Let me treat you proper.”

One hand splayed itself across your hip bone, the other resting onto your inner thigh as Remmick used his food to pull a stool up to the table. The wooden thing creaked under his weight, shifting till he was sat with his face hovering between your thighs. Remmick’s eyes were a bright red now, full of hunger as saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the counters.

The hand on your thigh finally moved toward where you needed him most, tracing light circled just below your clit—allowing the slick to build on the tips of his fingers before pulling them away, slotting his middle and index past his lips with a heady hum of approval.

“Fuck, you taste as good as you smell.”

You were quick to lift your hips, removing your panties with a bit of assistance. Remmick pocketed them before returning to your altar, watching sweet dripping wetness leak from your slit all the way down onto the table. A needy moan broke past your lips, hips writhing against the table in search of friction.

“Sh… I got you. Let me pray before my meal.” Remmick propped his elbows on the table, fingers intertwining as he whispered words you couldn’t quite hear. “Amen.”

There was no warning before he lunged into your cunt, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness. You released a startled cry, hands darting out toward his hair. Remmick moaned into your lips, hands grasping your thighs and hiking them onto his back as he devoured you from the inside out. Your hands were tight in his hair, a whine breaking past his throat as he ate you out intensely.

Your hips lifted for a moment but Remmick was quick to push you back down with his hand, wanting you to sit pretty and just take what he was giving you. His lips squelched against your cooze, tongue slipping lower until it was prodding against that first ring of muscle.

“Remmick—oh, fuck!” The sensation was foreign as his tongue exploded your crevices, thrusting and working you so good. His nose rubbed against your clit, pressed just right and you clenched around him. Remmick was a messy eater, sucking loudly, groaning into your cunt like it was the best meal he’d eaten in centuries. Your fingernails scraped against his scalp as you gasped, legs squeezing around his head and threatening to suffocate, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, it only spurred him on as he released your thighs.

One hand planted itself on your pelvis, thumb swiping mean circles across your clit as his mouth pulled away. Remmick slowly brought his middle and ring finger between his lips, tongue swirling around his digits before he removed them, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to his fingers.

“Take a deep breath for me, darlin’. You’s a little tight, and that just won’t do.” He lined his fingers up with your entrance, pushing past that first ring with little resistance. Remmick cooed at the sight, watching his fingers disappear while you writhed against the table, back arching as your mouth parted into a breathless moan at the intrusion. “That’s it, you’re doin’ so good. So good f’me.”

Remmick gave an experimental thrust of his fingers, testing the way you stretched and moaned before starting to curl them in a careful rhythm. He listened to each moan that left you, finding that spongy spot that made you moan loudest in seconds. You released those brown locks, hands finding purchase on the table as you propped yourself up—watching as Remmick dove right back into your cunt.

He suckled your clit, tongue swiping across that precious nub while his fingers rubbed right against your g-spot. The combination of sensation sent your brain into a frenzy, body shuddering as you got worked up fast and hot, your moans and gasps becoming desperate and whiny. Your hips bucked into Remmick’s face and he groaned right back, sucking harder till the dam in the pit of your belly broke. “Wait—let me catch my breath—oh, fuck… fuck!”

Your back arched, hips bucking wildly as Remmick’s free hand came to hold your thigh against his face, stubble rubbing deliciously against the tender flesh. You wailed into your orgasm, vision blurring as you pulsed with life. Remmick sucked on your clit till you sobbed, pussy weakly pulsing around his fingers as everything became all too much.

“That’s my girl.” Lifting his head, he withdrew his fingers from your cunt, covered in your orgasm. Remmick was quick to lick up his fingers, cleaning the mess you’d made with a delighted hum. He patted your thigh, rising from the stool as he began to fiddle with his belt. Your brain was scrambled, frothy from pleasure and one hell of an orgasm—but that still didn’t stop you from trying.

Your hands found Remmick’s shoulders, attempting to push him down onto the table with you. “Let me ride you, least I can do.”

Remmick chuckled, a flicker of something sinister crossing over his face as he pushed your hands away, the belt falling to the floor with a thud. “Maybe next time, darlin’. I’ll be takin’ you nice n’ proper, as proper as fuckin’ you on the table can get.”

With that, he guided your back onto the wooden surface, placing your legs comfortably around his waist as he unzipped his pants. Your eyes greedily took each movement in as Remmick pushed down his boxers just enough for his cock to spring free, bobbing out of its confines. He was thick, a singular vein lining him all the way down to the base where a thick patch of dark brown hair peaked out. Fuck, that’s what you were going to be taking, made your stomach clench and your pussy pulse.

“You’re massive… holy shit.” You whispered out, a gentle scoff leaving Remmick’s lips. Remmick spit into his hand, sliding saliva up and down into a gentle pump on his cock before lining it up with your entrance.

“It’ll feel real good, darlin’. So good you’ll be screamin’ f’me. Just breathe.”

You followed his words, taking in a deep breath only for that air to be punched out of you a moment later. Remmick pushed forward, his tip splitting you open painfully. You tensed, legs squeezing his waist as your face bunched up in a pained groan.

Remmick’s thumb traced tiny circles across your clit, cooing and whispering words of encouragement until you’d adjusted a bit, tension seeping out of your body steadily. He continued this process, inching in until he was fully sheathed, that delicious hairy patch grinding against your clit as his mouth perched itself on your pebbled nipples. Remmick sucked diligently, fangs grazing every few seconds before switching to the next until your chest was coated in his saliva. “Fuck—you’re so damn tight.”

You felt full, unbelievable full. Each breath was full of Remmick, each sound was full of him. You shuddered at the sheer size of him, prodding each spot in you like it was nothing. Your chest heaved, rising and falling as your eyes remained wide as you adjusted to him just a bit more, allowing his cock to imprint itself inside you.

Remmick placed a kiss on your collarbone, followed by one on your cheek. Pulling his face an inch away from yours, he whispered. “You ready, sweet thing?”

The slightest movement caused him to slip deeper into you, a weak groan leaving your lips as you stuttered over the words. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

You didn’t need to repeat yourself as he caught your lips with his own, hips rolling experimentally. You whined into the kiss, his cock pressing into you greedily as your hands grasped the table desperately. Remmick matched your sounds with ones of his own, whining and gasping against your lips with each thrust. The more he moved, the more you were able to adjust—soon finding yourself relaxing into the sensation, pussy contracting and pulsing.

“I’m gonna—haah—gon’ move you a bit.”

Remmick’s hands dipped under your thighs, unlocking them from around his waist before placing ankles onto his shoulders. He leaned forward and the stretch was almost immediate, his cock somehow piercing a completely new part of you. A garbled noise left your lungs, eyes snapping down to where you both met so beautifully.

Remmick gave a singular rough thrust, a snarl forcing out of his mouth, animalistic and raw. His fingers dug into the fat of your hips, dragging you into him as he began to rut into you—fucking you into the table. Your hands left the table quickly, nails scraping crescents into his biceps as they flexed with each thrust.

“Remmick—oh, my… god. I can’t—ngh!”

The stretch was overwhelming, each spot inside you being scraped bare as Remmick pounded into your walls, tits bouncing as your back arched.

“You can—shit—you will.” One hand planted itself on your pelvis, applying just the right amount of pressure so you could feel him dragging against your walls from the inside out.

“Feel that? Feel me fuckin’ that pussy, fillin’ you up? Fuck—haah… you’re squeezin’ the life out of me.”

You clenched tighter, pulsing as your eyes rolled shut—mouth opening in silent moans and broken screams. Remmick leaned forward, a glob of spit forming on his tongue before plopping directly onto your pussy. His thumb caught the saliva, smooshing it against your clit in mean little circles.

Your legs spasmed instantly, tightening and milking around his girth. Remmick released a strangled whine at the sudden tightness, his unoccupied hand grasping your tit tightly.

“You gon’ cum? You gon’ let go all over me, yeah? Fuck—fuckin’ do it. Show me how good I can make you feel.”

Your vision blanked as your body shook, legs spasming on his shoulder as your pussy clenched so tight Remmick swore you’d break his dick. Your lips parted in a scream, breathless and high-pitched. Remmick didn’t stop moving, rutting into you as his whines turned into snarls, hands moving to dig into the fat of your hips in a bruising grip.

“Mmph… oh, fuck—take it, darlin’.” He released one final moan as he ground his hips against yours, balls drawing tight before he burst within you—cum spilling into your pussy and plugging you full. Remmick collapsed on top of you, sweat coating both of your forms.

The room grew silent except for your mutual gasps for breath, your eyes prying open as your hand gently played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Remmick placed mindless kisses along your jaw, hands softening their grip.

Slowly, Remmick pulled out from your spent entrance—his seed and your arousal leaking down your thighs and onto the table beneath. His eyes caught the concoction, a distinctly smug smile crossing over his face. “You did so good for me, darlin’. Let me clean you up.”

You hummed, completely blissed out that you couldn’t even register Remmick’s head between your thighs until he was already tonguing your slit again. He ate you messily and quickly, sucking and prodding as you whined and attempted to push his head away only for him to suck harder. You felt that stinging hot sensation build within your core once again, mumbling pleas leaving your lips as tears brimmed your eyes from overstimulation.

Remmick gave one final suck to your clit, sending you right over the edge of that cliff and into deep waters as you came for the third time. Your body convulsed, legs spasming as you gasped for air like a fish out of water. You were spent by the time the orgasm subsided, and Remmick knew it—wouldn’t let you live it down as he smiled down at you like he hadn’t fucked you into this.

The brown haired man rose from his spot, disappearing from your vision for a moment before returning with blanket. His movements were gentle as he guided you, gently reaffirming how good you were with each touch of his hands on tender skin. Soon, you bundled in the blanket, guided to the sofa and curled into Remmick’s form like a lap cat.

“You can fall asleep with me, darlin’. You did so good, took me so well.” Remmick cooed into your ear, red eyed watching the way your eyes were slowly fluttering shut.

“I don’t wanna fall ‘sleep yet… not yet…” A vibration left Remmick’s chest as he laughed at your sleepy sex-induced delirium.

“That alright. Talk to me then, tell me ‘bout what you want, what you need.” Remmick’s hands stroked down your back and side rhythmically, his words whispered into the top of your head as you lolled against him.

You hummed out tiredly, thinking for a moment as your eyes closed. “I want… a picket fence house on a hill… the sound of a banjo all the time, the fresh scent of cinnamon wafting through the halls… two kids, one that looks like you and one that looks like me… and… and…”

And you were out cold. A smile wedged its way between Remmick’s lips as he listened to you speak, to you dream about a future with him—a domestic life filled with love. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that would never happen, but he was willing to pretend that life was a possibility for now. Just like he was willing to pretend like your handler finding you was a coincidence, and that Remmick hadn’t led him here to you.

Remmick wanted to be your everything, your life, your love, your death. So what if a few people got caught in the middle? If it meant that each night you’d be curled up like this in his arms, he’d do it again and again. Just to keep you here with him.

Forever.

It was well past 2:30 a.m. when the only customer inside the café shut down his laptop, paid for his drink at the counter, and headed toward the exit—where the storm that had been raging violently over the city for hours was waiting for him.

As soon as the door closed, silence fell like a thick blanket, muffling even the patter of rain against the windows. The night felt dimmer than usual—gloomy, motionless. But that was no surprise, in the middle of the week, with the downpour and that heavy dampness that seemed to weigh down even your thoughts.

Not that you minded. Deep down, you loved that kind of stillness. You liked to lose yourself in the muffled sounds of the night, in the steam rising from the warm cup between your hands, in the soft lights of the now-empty café.

And yet, a part of you missed the usual buzz. The chatter, the laughter, even your coworkers’ weary complaints whenever some difficult customer got on their nerves.

That week you had decided to cover the night shift alone, to ease the burden of a colleague dealing with a complicated family situation. No one had asked you.

You had simply volunteered, without thinking too much about it. A spontaneous gesture. A small act of kindness.

Because you knew it well: if you didn’t help each other, no one else would. And in a place like that—where the hours stretched and time seemed to hold its breath—community was more than just a word. It was survival.

You opened the trash drawer to throw away the used tea bag, still warm and dripping. But as soon as you lifted it, you noticed the container was nearly full. Paper, coffee grounds, tea bags, wrappers—all quietly piling up throughout the evening.

You let out a quiet sigh. Maybe you should have emptied it earlier.

If you didn’t hurry to take it out, you risked missing the garbage collectors, and leaving it for another day didn’t feel like much of an option—especially with the wild animals scavenging around the area.

You grabbed the trash bag with one hand, the umbrella with the other, and stepped out of the café.

The wind hit you immediately. It was cold.

The damp air seeped into your bones, and every step on the wet street was accompanied by the dull, steady drumming of raindrops on your taut umbrella. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving you alone in the downpour as you made your way toward the bins across the street.

The bag sank with a soggy thud among the other trash, and you had just turned to head back when a shadow froze you in place.

A figure stood in the middle of the road, just beyond the curb, straight as a nail driven into a wooden board.

You hadn’t seen him arrive. Not even out of the corner of your eye.

One moment, the street was empty. The next, he was there.

Your hands tightened around the umbrella’s handle. You couldn’t explain why, but something about the way that man—if he even was a man—stood there in silence, as though he were part of the night itself, made your blood run cold.

He wore only a white shirt and a pair of dark trousers, soaked through, yet he didn’t seem to care.

He was just standing there, staring into the void ahead of him.

A sudden glare hit your eyes.

Headlights, far off, slashed through the darkness like blades of white light, warping shadows and reflections on the wet road. You immediately caught the sound of tires on asphalt, a rising hiss, familiar… and yet, in that moment, dreadful.

You looked at him.

The man was still there.

Motionless.

In the middle of the lane.

Drenched in rain, unmoving, as if he had no awareness of the oncoming danger—or worse, as if he were waiting for it.

Panic wrapped around you at once, hot and cold all at once. Your breath escaped your lips, short, clipped in half by fear.

“Hey! Move!” you shouted, instinctively.

No reaction.

Not a step back. Not even a flicker.

The sound of the engine grew louder. The headlights drew closer at a speed that made your teeth clench. Your heart burst in a blind impulse: you didn’t think, you didn’t weigh it. You just moved.

You darted across the street, shoes slipping on the asphalt, rain blurring your vision, the sudden blare of the horn ripping through the air.

You grabbed his wrist.

It was like touching frozen marble. His skin was cold, hard, and yet alive beneath your fingers. His arm didn’t budge at first. It took a sharp, desperate yank. Only at the very last second, with the car just meters away, did you manage to drag him aside with you, out of the middle of the road.

The vehicle tore past in a spray of water that hit you both full on. The stench of burnt rubber and gasoline mingled with the deafening thud of your heartbeat.

You found yourself inches away from him.

Your umbrella was gone.

You were struggling to breathe. His wrist was still clutched in your trembling hand.

He was looking at you.

Not confused.

Not frightened.

Almost… surprised. As if, for a long moment, he couldn’t comprehend what you had just done.

As if he couldn’t fathom why.

The rain kept falling around you, dripping from your hair, sliding down your collars, soaking your skin. But you no longer felt the cold. Not really. The adrenaline had pumped enough fire into your veins to keep you warm.

His eyes lowered slowly, trailing to your hand still wrapped around his wrist. Your grip trembled, unsteady yet stubborn. And he—he seemed entranced by the gesture.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice to work against the chill.

“Are you okay?”

You had never studied psychology, nor taken any emotional first-aid course, but even without training you knew that asking someone—who had just stood waiting in the middle of a dark road, in the dead of night—why the hell they had done it wasn’t exactly the best choice of words.

He blinks slowly and lifts his gaze back to you. The rain streams down his face, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shiver. It’s as if the cold can’t touch him.

At this distance, lit by the glow of your café, you could see his face more clearly.

Pale, a strong jawline, the faint shadow of dark stubble on his cheeks, and two deep, large grey eyes.

“C-Come inside. I’ll fix you something warm while you dry off, what do you say?” you offered after a moment, nodding toward the café behind you.

He nodded—barely perceptible.

Inside, the café was wrapped in an unreal silence.

The machines were all shut down or in standby, the faint lights on the digital panels pulsing like sleeping hearts. Despite the quiet and the absence of customers, the air was still thick with aromas: the warm persistence of freshly ground coffee, melted sugar, cookies, cakes.

You guided him to one of the tables closest to the counter, small and discreet.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t resist. He sat down slowly, letting you lead him.

Your hand, still locked around his wrist, loosened at last. Only then did you realize just how cold his skin had been—and how long you had held on.

As you let go, you caught the faintest, almost imperceptible motion: his hand started to follow yours, as if to hold it back. But then it froze midair. Stopped. As though he had realized too late what he was about to do.

A shiver ran through you, but you said nothing. Maybe you had imagined it.

Or maybe not.

“Stay here,” you murmured, calm but firm. “I’ll get you something to dry off.”

He raised his eyes.

Those eyes struck you again: clear, almost translucent, yet deeply disoriented.

It wasn’t a dangerous gaze.

It was… lost.

Like a soaked stray left out too long, not sure whether to trust you, but already decided to follow you wherever you went.

You moved behind the counter, and you could feel his gaze on you. When you returned with a small white towel in your hands, he was still watching you as if you were the only solid thing in this frantic night.

You handed it to him wordlessly.

He took it with care, fingertips brushing the fabric as though it were fragile. Or precious.

“Do you want some coffee?” you asked, without thinking—but then hesitated. Given the night’s events, maybe not…

“Or maybe… better a tea.” you added, trying to keep your tone light, as if all this were normal.

His gaze softened, his lips curved into the faintest smile, and his voice slipped out dripping with syrupy sweetness.

“Whatever ye decide to give me'll be fine.”

The words struck you. Not so much for what he said, but for how he said it. Laden with undertones.

Maybe you were wrong but… this man, who had just nearly let himself be hit by a car, was flirting with you?

“Uh… well… I guess.” you laughed awkwardly. “What’s your name, by the way?” you asked as you moved back behind the counter.

“Remmick.”

A foreign name, yet simple. From his accent, probably European.

You opened the tea drawer. The packets were in messy order, shuffled by countless hands rummaging through chamomile, lemon balm, and ginger like they were picking at random.

Your fingers slid over each label until they found one with a delicate, floral scent.

Linden and honey. Something simple. Warm. Soothing.

You boiled the water. The kettle whistled softly, that familiar sound—normally comforting—now felt almost too loud in the unnatural silence.

Every now and then you cast a glance over your shoulder, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, composed, hands clasped on the table’s surface.

Remmick smiled when he noticed your attention, and you quickly looked away, finishing the drink in haste.

Carrying the steaming cup in your hands, you walked briskly back to his table and leaned forward slightly to set it down.

But he moved before you could.

He leaned forward just enough, his hands ready to take it from yours. A simple, instinctive motion—but enough to make you stiffen.

You flinched slightly back, your wrist trembling. Not pure fear… rather a silent alarm, rooted deep, impossible to ignore.

He noticed.

For a brief instant he froze mid-gesture, then pulled back, sinking into the chair with a contained air, as if he had made a misstep.

He let you finish without another move.

Then he spoke.

His voice lowered, softer, threaded with an echo of sincerity. A shadow of warmth—or at least, something like it.

“Thanks… for earlier. Out there, I mean.”

A nod.

A whisper.

You gave a small nod back, rigid, avoiding his gaze. You had no wish to relive the scene. It had shaken you enough.

He lowered his eyes to the cup. His fingers shifted around the warm ceramic, but he didn’t lift it.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then added, voice lower. Emptier.

“I’m not doin' too well, y'know. People… they're always headin' off, one way or another. An' it's myself that's left standin' at the end, every time.”

A pause.

“It wears ye down, after a while.”

Something in the way he said it hit you harder than you wanted to admit. It was raw, weary. Like he had simply grown used to the thought.

The tension in your chest began to ease.

You looked at him as he tilted his head slightly, as if he wanted to sink into the warmth of the untouched cup. The shadows of the lamp carved his profile into something almost fragile. And for a moment, he seemed different.

Not threatening.

Not strange.

Just… lonely. A drifting soul.

A bit like you.

You spoke before you had truly decided to.

“Well… if you ever need company, you can always come here.”

You offered a faint smile, though it was more a clumsy attempt to ease the tension than a true invitation. Something to say out of empathy, not commitment.

He raised his eyes.

He didn’t smile. But his eyes seemed to shine in a new way. A barely perceptible flicker, like a spark ignited in the dark.

“Aye… aye, that seems like a good idea.”

It was his answer.

Simple.

Calm.

Yet it left a strange, subtle unease on you.

As if he had read something inside you that you hadn’t even noticed yourself.

As if that offer, so vague and harmless, was for him a promise.

Remmick had returned every night. Always at the same table near the bar, always with that composed, affable… vigilant demeanor. It almost seemed as if his gaze followed every move you made, even when he wasn’t looking directly at you. During the week, between customers, you had started sitting with him. Small fragments of conversation that, night after night, stretched like thin threads, stitching together a strange familiarity.

But not Saturday night.

The place was alive, pulsating. The lights, slightly dimmed, cast golden glimmers over the crowded tables; the chairs creaked under customers weighed down by a long week, and the dense scent of burnt sugar, roasted coffee, and sweet liqueurs hovered above everything like a warm blanket.

Glasses clinked against the marble bar, the coffee machines puffed like old, tired locomotives, and laughter—often loud, sometimes boisterous, rarely genuine—filled every corner of the bar. Your body moved naturally: a hurried order, a forgotten plate to pick up, two fingers brushing together to hand over the change.

You had been so distracted that it was only when Remmick grabbed your arm that you noticed him at the usual table. When had he arrived? You couldn’t say.

“Oh, hi, Remmick. Sorry, I didn’t see you at all…”

“It doesn’t matter, darlin'. I noticed it.” He said with a quiet smile. His fingers bent slightly, sliding over your shirt in a tender brush. “I’ll be here when things've settled down.”

You nodded briefly, and only then did he let go. But from that moment on, you felt his presence like a fixed echo in the room. Silent, still, yet undeniable.

Around three in the morning, the place began to empty, and you finally managed to slip into the chair opposite where he was sitting. His gaze was fixed on the window, brow furrowed, teeth nibbling his lower lip, but when he saw you, all that vanished.

“Sorry again. I told you, weekends are terrible.”

He looked at you, and this time his smile widened, revealing his teeth. It was a crooked smile, but strangely charming.

“I was worried ye’d gone and forgotten about me.”

“Impossible. You’re the only customer who never orders anything and just sits as if you were in your living room.”

You let your back sink into the chair, stretching your legs under the table to ease the calves that were burning.

“Ye look tired,” Remmick observed in that calm voice of his, as if it weren’t just a simple observation, but something he had genuinely sensed in you.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to hide the small yawn that escaped. “It’s nothing. One night of sleep and it’ll pass,” you replied with a weary but genuine smile.

The metallic jingle of keys interrupted the moment.

You looked up just as Serena, your colleague on shift, peeked out from behind the bar, eyes searching for you among the now-empty tables. She waved a bunch of keys over her head, arm raised like a small trophy.

“Are you waiting for Jad?” she asked, her voice cheerful and slightly muffled by fatigue.

You reflexively glanced at the wall clock: the hands, worn by time, showed it was past four. Even the usual night owls had left by now.

“Yeah, sure,” you nodded with a half-smile. “I don’t think a bachelorette party will come in at this hour.”

Serena giggled, already putting on her jacket. “Well… if so, you can always get help from your boyfriend.”

The silence that followed was immediate and sharp; you could feel it even in your ears. Your cheeks flamed almost instantly, and you blinked several times, searching for something to say.

“He’s not my—”

Remmick coughed. Or maybe he pretended to cough. He turned slightly to the side, fist in front of his mouth, but it wasn’t fast enough to hide that smirk creeping across his lips.

“Goodnight!” Serena said teasingly, pushing the back door open. The metallic click of the lock was her last word. And then, silence.

You stayed there. Still. Eyes fixed on the table, ears still red.

“You're not my boyfriend,” you muttered under your breath, as if you had to immediately erase that misunderstanding from the air, before it took shape, before it became something real.

Was that what people thought? Was that what Remmick was beginning to think? That you had some sort of romantic interest in him?

The question slipped under your skin like a fine needle.

You had started building something with him—you knew that. But that something, in your mind, was a form of friendship, an unexpected connection. Something deep, yes, but not romantic. Not physical. Not with him.

With Remmick, it was like talking to a mirror forgotten in an attic. You didn’t always like what it reflected… but it saw you. And you saw him… or at least, you thought you did.

You needed that. You needed someone.

Perhaps, you thought, you were getting too involved. Too present, too open with him.

Remmick rested his elbows on the table, fingers intertwined in front of him, and watched you with a gaze… amused. You were probably starting to smoke from your ears from the speed of your thoughts.

“Well, that’s a quare shame then,” he said in a low, calm, almost teasing tone. “If a hen party wanders in, I won’t be throwin' me hand up for the strip show — doin’ ye a favour.”

You licked your suddenly dry lips and lifted your gaze slightly toward him. This time, it was you who laughed, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”

Suddenly, you remembered a new tea blend, a kind gift from a downtown shopkeeper who often stopped by to chat with you. Chamomile, orange peel, and pink pepper. A curious scent, different from the usual, but pleasant.

You turned with a smile, ready to offer it to Remmick.

“By the way,” you began, “I have a new herbal tea for you to try—”

But you stopped.

Remmick had stood up.

Not abruptly, not quickly. But slowly. As if detaching from something he wanted to hold onto.

His hands slid down from the edge of the table, then smoothed, with a distracted gesture, the nonexistent wrinkles of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at you yet. His eyes were directed at the window, where the night was just beginning to fade.

A shadow of bluish light crept into the sky, imperceptible but present.

“It’s late,” he finally said. Voice lower, restrained. “I have to go.”

You froze for a second, slightly surprised. It was rare for him to end the evening. He usually stayed until you convinced him, with a laugh or an exasperated but affectionate expression. But this time… no.

“Oh… really? I thought—”

“Another time,” he cut in, but gently. He gave you a small smile. A strange expression, almost melancholy.

You watched him take his coat, carefully left on the chair back. His movements were fluid, precise, yet seemed slightly… forced. As if every second counted more than the previous one.

“Well, okay, have a good day, I guess…”

And then… he touched you.

His hand rose, with a slowness that wasn’t hesitation but choice. His fingers brushed the side of your face, just below your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your skin with a gesture so delicate it seemed unreal.

A gesture that, in other contexts, would have been tender. But not in that moment, and not from him.

You stiffened slightly, unwillingly. An instinctive reaction, of discomfort. A small pang of something you couldn’t name, as if your body sensed an intention your mind hadn’t yet processed.

“Sleep well,” he said.

You stayed there for a few moments, uncertain, even after Remmick’s figure had disappeared behind the door.

Then you turned toward the bar, trying to return to reality. But a small, stubborn inner voice kept company:

That touch… wasn’t friendly.

After that night, something had broken. Or maybe just cracked—imperceptibly, but enough that you could no longer ignore it.

The caress he had left on your face hadn’t been vulgar. It hadn’t even been invasive in the most direct sense. But the way he had touched you—that almost tender slowness, almost… possessive—had lit up a subtle, persistent alarm bell inside you.

Now, every time you sat with him, you felt a weight in your throat. A bitter aftertaste. As if something deep inside was telling you that this closeness… was changing shape.

So you started to pull away.

Nothing drastic. Nothing that could be openly read as rejection. Just small gestures.

When he arrived, you suddenly became busy at the counter. When his eyes called you, you answered with a polite nod, but you no longer sat down. No more teas made just for him. No more smiles held too long. No more silences too comfortable.

And Remmick… kept coming. Every night. Always the same table. Always the same patience. But his eyes—those eyes—never left you. You felt observed as if you were an equation to be solved. A behavior out of pattern that escaped him. A disruption of balance he could not accept.

And then, it happened.

It was a Wednesday evening, almost spring. The air was mild, the door of the café left half-open to let in a bit of breeze. The bar was calm, with a few customers at the tables and soft music blending with the clinking of cups.

You were behind the counter, then stepped out to bring a dessert to table six.

He was there. The other one.

A new customer. Nothing remarkable—he wasn’t particularly handsome, nor particularly elegant. But he had a gentle way of speaking, of listening. He had made you laugh with a silly joke, and you had lowered your gaze, a little embarrassed.

Remmick saw it.

From his usual shadowed corner table, he saw everything.

He saw the way that man spoke to you, leaning forward to hear you better. He saw you blush, lowering your eyes the way you did when you tried not to show interest. But you were showing it—clearly.

He saw your fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of the tray, then you laughed—really laughed, not the nervous, uncertain kind you used to give Remmick when you weren’t sure whether to stay or run.

You were at ease with him in a way you had never been with Remmick.

That was what made something in his chest break.

Then, he knew.

The distance.

The sudden coldness.

It wasn’t the wrong time. You weren’t unready. You weren’t in crisis.

You were choosing someone else.

His eyes narrowed, just slightly, like two sharp blades in a perfectly still face.

And even though his body remained seated, calm, at the corner table, something in the air shifted. An imperceptible tightening of the temperature. A silent contraction of the room.

You didn’t notice it right away.

But later, when you returned to the counter, your heart beating a little faster than usual, for a moment the room felt… emptier.

Colder.

You turned toward the corner. And Remmick was gone.

No goodbye. No door creak. Only a still-warm cup and a shadow that seemed to cling to his seat.

He would grant you that. That false idea of freedom.

He would let you believe you were in control of your choices. Let you build, step by step, the illusion of a normal love.

He would watch from afar, without interfering.

You’d finish late shifts, tired, and the boy'd be there waiting with that sweet, innocent smile.

He’d walk you through quiet nights, where each streetlight seemed to flicker on just for the two of you. You’d share little things, trivialities. He would listen as if every word mattered.

He’d let you sit beside him at the movies, during a film too silly to deserve the tears slipping down your cheeks. And when you hid your face against his shoulder not to be seen, he would take your hand—shy, respectful, affectionate.

And you—you would think that maybe, finally, it had come for you too, that magical moment every human being chases.

The boy would let you kiss him, the first time.

In the parking lot.

With his fingers trembling against your cheeks and your hearts racing too fast.

Remmick would let you believe. Hope. Love.

And then he would take it all away.

With the same calmness with which a candle is blown out in a dark room.

The jingle of the door closing behind you marked the end. The last customer had left with a tired farewell, a small nod of head and hand, and you’d answered with an automatic smile that never quite reached your eyes.

You moved toward the door, exhausted and desperate for a pause, flipped the sign on the glass with weakened fingers, and let silence fall like a damp blanket over the long night. The lights were low, dim. The floor still slightly sticky from the quick wash after a couple of spilled drinks. All around you smelled of fatigue, alcohol, lemon, and cigarettes.

You paused behind the counter, your gaze lost in the smeared reflection of the fridge glass. It was your first moment of quiet after hours of forced courtesy, serving drinks with slightly trembling hands, pretending the emptiness inside wasn’t gnawing you hollow. Your dark circles ran deep, temples pulsing, and the exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was the kind that clung to you when you no longer even had the strength to ask why you were still holding on.

Ryan, your boyfriend, had quite literally disappeared. You had called him countless times, sent endless messages, even buzzed at his apartment, but nothing. Wherever he was, he was deliberately ignoring you.

Out of the corner of your eye, through the reflection in the fridge, you saw a vague shape just beyond the counter.

Of course, he was still there.

Remmick sat in the far corner, his body still and composed, like a forgotten shadow. Somehow, his presence didn’t surprise you. After all, he had never stopped coming to the bar, even after you had pulled away.

Your eyes met. His were calm, clear, impenetrable. No judgment. No pity. Only silent recognition. As if he already knew everything, every detail, every thought that had passed through you in the last forty-eight hours.

You lowered your gaze and, without a word, moved toward him. Your steps were slow, dragging, your legs heavy as though every inch you covered drained your breath. You still had your apron on, your shirt stained with red wine at the sleeve. You looked out of place, out of time, out of yourself. There was no grace in the way you dropped into the chair across from him. You didn’t seek posture, or distance. You simply collapsed.

Your back curved, your shoulders sank as though something inside had gone dark. Your eyes stayed fixed on the table between you, lost in the worn wood. You couldn’t pretend, not anymore. Not with him.

Remmick watched in silence. He didn’t ask, didn’t try to break the moment. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full, dense, charged with everything he could have said and, with perfect precision, chose not to.

“I’m driving myself insane,” you murmured, your voice so low it nearly dissolved into the shadows. “He hasn’t written. He hasn’t answered. It’s like he just… vanished.”

You added nothing more. Your throat was tight, your mouth dry. You had already cried too much in the past days. There were no tears left to spend.

Remmick rose without a sound. He moved slowly, circling the table with measured steps, almost ceremonial. In moments, he was beside you. A hand brushed your shoulder with delicacy as he sank into the chair next to yours.

His arm wrapped around you naturally, with an intimate tenderness that didn’t belong to you two. And you, who only days ago had avoided any touch, no longer had the strength to pull away.

“Yer wearin' yerself down,” he said at last, his voice warmer than usual, more human maybe, yet veiled with something you couldn’t place. “Ye need to mind yerself better, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes, and the tears—the ones you thought gone—returned. Silent. Soft. Humiliating. You cried in the truest way possible: defenseless, soundless. Only pain spilling over.

Remmick didn’t try to wipe them away. He let you cry, patient. His fingers traced slow circles across your back, steady motions that didn’t even seem conscious, but simply a part of him.

“What’s wrong with me,” you whispered, as though speaking to yourself more than to him. “Why can’t I just be happy?”

Remmick looked at you, and something slipped into his gaze. Not pity. Not surprise. Something far more dangerous: satisfaction disguised as tenderness. But it was fleeting, just a shadow, a flicker beneath the surface. He moved carefully, as if fearing a sudden gesture might make you close off again.

“Oh, poor darlin',” he said, leaning toward you, his voice low, honeyed, the kind used on a wounded animal. “There’s nothin' at all wrong with ye.”

He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, his touch cold yet impossibly gentle. His fingers seemed to know every curve of your face, as if he had studied it through a thousand sleepless nights, as if his eyes had rested on you even when you hadn’t seen him.

“The problem's not yerself. It never was.”

His voice dropped further, like a whisper brushing across skin.

“The problem is… ye keep lookin' for love in the wrong places. In the wrong arms. In mouths that can promise all day, but never keep a word of it.”

He drew you closer again, and you didn’t resist.

You let yourself be shaped like fragile clay in his hands.

“The world’s not made for folks who love too much, y'know?” he went on, his fingers tracing light, almost absent lines along your arm. “Those who love like we do always end up hurt. Others feed on our hearts as long as it suits 'em...an' then they're off, leavin' us behind.”

A sob escaped you.

“We’re made for each other…” he whispered, lowering his gaze to your lips, your neck, your weariness. “I’d sooner be dead than leave somethin' as sweet as ye.”

He kissed your cheek. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. There was no urgency in his movements—only that damned toxic sweetness, so comforting it made you forget that it wasn’t his touch you longed for.

“Ye don’t need to be sad,” he continued. “Ye just need to stop carin' for those who never truly see ye.”

His lips brushed your ear again. His arms closed around you, gently, as though he meant to gather every broken shard you had scattered about.

The tears kept falling, though you no longer knew where they came from. You weren’t sobbing anymore. You weren’t speaking. You were simply there, curled against him, arms limp, eyes lost somewhere beyond the pain.

Remmick moved.

He tilted his face slightly. You felt his breath closer, warm and uneven, and when you lifted your gaze just a little you found his eyes locked on your lips.

Before you could turn away, he leaned in, and his mouth pressed against yours—deep, hungry, as though he wanted to devour the last breath you had left. His breath burned against your lips, hot and insistent, a wave that crashed over you and forced your fingers to clutch the armrests of the chair, searching for something to hold onto.

You gave him no chance to deepen the kiss: the moment it grew real, more carnal, instinct ripped you from him. You pulled back abruptly, heart in your throat, voice breaking.

“Remmick… Remmick, no… You’re—you’re such a good guy, but I don’t—”

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he whispered immediately, with such disarming calm it almost made you feel guilty. “I see ye. Always. Even when ye can’t.”

He didn’t give you time to react. His lips slid over your forehead, then your temples, your tear-streaked cheeks. Every kiss was slow, measured, unhurried, certain you wouldn’t push away from those attentions the way you had from his mouth. His hands caressed your neck, your shoulders, pressing just slightly, in small but steady motions, as if trying to ease every knot, every resistance.

You felt yourself giving in, bit by bit. Your body loosening under those caresses, as though it only craved a place to rest. But your voice came again, faint, trembling, like a knot struggling to undo itself in words.

“I-I know… I know… but I don’t want this… I don’t—”

“I’m just lookin' after ye, love,” he murmured, his tone soft as velvet but hiding steel beneath. “Just let go a bit. Ye deserve it.”

He said it as if it were undeniable truth. As if resisting was a cruelty against yourself.

And then, slowly, his mouth moved to a precise spot—just behind your ear, where the skin was warmer, more sensitive. When he kissed you there, you flinched involuntarily. Your feet curled, a bubble of heat burst in your belly, and your breath stopped for a second.

Your hands—before you knew how—slipped into his hair. Not to push him away. To pull him closer. Because even if your mind tried to swim against the current, your body—your tired, wounded body—wanted only something that resembled comfort.

“Just let me have a wee taste,” he breathed, so low it sounded like a thought caught between his teeth. “I’ll be so good for ye. A bloody good lad.”

His lips found their way beneath your chin, to the spot where your heart pulsed, wild and restless.

“I’ll give ye everythin' ye desire.”

You didn’t stop him.

Not this time.

The second your silence gave way, Remmick surged forward like he’d been holding his breath for years—and you’d just given him air.

His mouth crashed into yours, needy, trembling. Not anymore gentle. Not anymore careful. Just desperate.

He moaned against your lips the moment they met, low and guttural, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—like he’d waited too long, held back too much. His hands cupped your face like he was terrified you’d push him away again, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you like you were already his.

And the taste—your taste—undid him.

You felt it in the way his whole body shuddered, in the strangled whimper that tore free as his tongue slipped into your mouth, hungry and reverent. His tongue surged forward without hesitation, pressing against yours, seeking it and chasing it with quick, urgent, almost feverish movements. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an assault.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, breaking away just long enough to gasp. “Ye taste—gods, ye taste like I always dreamed—”

He kissed you again, deeper, whining into your mouth like the pleasure of it was too much, like he was already stung by it. Addicted. Lost.

Your back hit the bar as he pressed you into it, not rough, but insistent—driven by need, not dominance. And still, his hands never roamed. They stayed at your face, cradling you, grounding himself in the one thing he never thought he’d have:

You.

His lips trailed down your jaw, fevered and worshipful, then returned to your mouth like he couldn’t stay away, like every second apart hurt.

“Ye don’t even know what ye do to me,” he whispered between kisses. “Ye don’t know.”

You did now.

You felt it.

And something inside you cracked like thin glass under too much pressure.

Your mind staggered, lost in a whirlwind of tangled sensations, words failing to come. But in the end, your mouth opened:

“Rem… Rem, the door is—”

It came out as a broken sound, your breath caught, and you weren’t even sure Remmick had heard, since he was already moving.

Strong hands gripped your hips, and in one swift, confident motion, he lifted you and sat you on the bar, your back hitting the bottles with a soft clatter. His body came between your legs, kneeling on the floor like a prayer ready to have his sins forgiven.

His hands spread your thighs wide, and the look in his eyes turned dark—hungry. Not just lust, not just want.

Need.

“No worries now,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Lemme do this.”

He dragged his hands down the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing along your skin—savoring the way you trembled, the heat radiating off you. And then he saw you.

Wet against your panties.

Dripping for him.

His breath caught in his throat—like it hurt to see you that ready, that open, that undeniably his.

“Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. “Yer perfect.”

His hands flexed on your thighs, as if he were grounding himself there, keeping from diving in too fast. His fingers slid slowly, almost hesitantly, to the waistband of your panties, gently pushing it aside. He stared at your wet folds with such obsessive intensity that your cheeks burned, as if he wanted to imprint every detail in his memory. His breathing grew ragged in short bursts as his fingertips traced lightly over your exposed skin, parting your slick folds and pressing against your sensitive bud, making you shiver and tremble for him.

He didn’t seek your eyes for permission; he didn’t need it. Every quiver, every involuntary moan, every subtle clench of your thigh muscles spoke louder than any words ever could. Your body was already giving him everything, shouting desire and surrender that your lips wouldn’t dare to utter.

He leaned forward slowly, tilting his head with careful precision.

His tongue flattened, wide and warm, over the spot where his fingers had just wandered, savoring your excitement between the soft folds with an almost devoted delicacy. Every touch was calculated to send spasms of pleasure through you—pleasure that fed him even as it consumed him.

His hands slid under your thighs, gripping tight, pulling you forward so your pussy was flush against his mouth, his nose, his entire face buried in your sweetness.

He didn’t just eat you—he devoured.

Every lick was needy, every flick of his tongue purposeful, as if he could pull the heartbreak from your body with his mouth. His breath mingled with the warmth of your skin, hot and ragged, and the soft, muffled whimpers escaping him intertwined with your own gasps, creating a silent, insistent rhythm—a tangled dance of control and surrender.

“Let me hear ya,” he murmured between licks. “Don’t be holdin' back.”

And God, you couldn’t.

Not with the way his tongue circled your clit, slow and then fast, not with the way he kissed your pussy like it was the only thing that had ever mattered to him.

Remmick was utterly lost in you.

He was driving you to the edge and pulling you back, as if he needed to savor every reaction you gave him.

You threw your head back, fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging as the heat in your core built to an unbearable tension. You could feel it climbing, curling through you, sharp and slow like a storm just before it breaks.

Then, he pulled back just enough to lift his face and study your contorted expression, eyes tracing every line of tension and pleasure etched across your features.

You looked down, breath hitching—

And you saw them.

His eyes.

Red.

Not glowing. Not fiery. Bleeding through grey, otherworldly, hungry in a way that was not human. A flash of something unnatural and dangerous flickered across his face, just for a breath.

Your heart stuttered.

But before you could speak—before you could even think—the sight was gone.

His gaze was grey again, soft and wild, fixed on you like you were everything. And his mouth was back on you, firmer now, his tongue flicking faster, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking just right—

You shattered.

Your climax tore through you like a breaking wave, fast and violent, your body arching off the bar as his name fell from your lips in a liberating cry. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t pull back. He held you through it, licked you through it, reverent until your body finally slumped forward, quivering and overwhelmed.

He rose slowly, his lips were still wet and glossy from your release. His hands remained on your thighs, light points of contact that tied up him to you as his face glided over your exposed skin.

Remmick kissed up your thigh, up your covered belly, across your low-cut chest, your collarbone—

And then your lips.

He kissed you with the taste of you still on his mouth, a taste that seemed to ignite every sense. The contact was intense, consuming, just like his body, which was pressing closer and closer onto yours.

You pulled back, just enough to breathe, to look him in the eyes.

“Remmick… wait—”

He smiled, brushing his thumb over your lower lip.

“Just want to make ye feel loved.”

He was kissing you like he couldn’t stop. Like something inside him had snapped the moment he tasted your climax—and now it was all unraveling.

“Need ye,” he whispered against your lips, breath ragged, voice strained. “Need to be inside ye. Now.”

You barely had time to respond before he lifted you slightly, guiding you back on the bar with a low groan as your thighs parted for him again. You felt the thick weight of him drag against your slick entrance—already hard, already leaking for you.

You looked up at him, catching his face—his jaw tight, his eyes wild, pupils blown. There was no cool control left. He wasn’t composed. He was ruined with want.

He pushed inside in one trembling thrust, and a sharp, sweet burn coursed through you as he forced himself into your still-sensitive body. It was a pain laced with pleasure, a sting that mingled with the intense sensation so completely that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You both moaned, ragged breaths and broken voices intertwining in the air. His cock was thick and heavy, filling every inch of you, stretching you to accommodate him fully.

Every slight thrust forward made him tremble, and the pressure against your walls sent shivers down your spine, forcing you to clench your teeth to endure the mix of pain and pleasure. His hands gripped your hips almost bruisingly, mooring himself as he pulled out and then plunged back in, each motion deliberate, fast, shallow, yet devastatingly sensual.

“Yes,” he gasped, head falling forward against your shoulder. “Yer so—so tight—I’m not gonna—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

His hips started to move, fast and desperate, fucking into you with the kind of rhythm that wasn’t supposed to happen yet—frantic, messy, like he’d been holding back for weeks and couldn’t hold the line anymore.

You clung to him, gasping, as the counter beneath you creaked with every thrust. The pace was needy, almost clumsy—he couldn’t even pretend to slow down, couldn’t even manage to be rough in a controlled way. It was just raw call.

“I can’t—I’m sorry—I can’t hold it,” he moaned against your neck, his voice breaking with each thrust. “Ye feel too good—I’m gonna cum, fuck—I’m gonna—”

His whole body tensed.

You felt him twitch deep inside you once—twice—

And then he came with a harsh cry, hips jerking against you, cock pulsing in thick, shuddering waves. He gripped you tight, his face buried in your shoulder as he whined through it, loud and wrecked.

His cock twitched one last time inside your body—already softening—his climax fading fast.

You blinked, dazed.

That was it?

He had barely lasted more than a few minutes. You hadn’t even had time to adjust before it was over—just a blur of desperate thrusts, heat, and trembling release.

Your body still ached, not quite satisfied.

But before you could process it, before you could even think about disappointment, Remmick pulled back, face flushed, hair messy, eyes shining.

And he smiled.

God—he smiled like you’d just saved him.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft, with the kind of affection that made your chest tighten.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ve been dreamin' about that for so long.”

You didn’t say a word.

Just kissed him back.

Because he looked so happy. So in love.

You could feel it in the way his hands touched your face, tender. In the way he kissed you like he didn’t care how fast it happened, how messy or imperfect it was. To him, it wasn’t just sex. It was a claim. A promise. A moment he’d wanted for so long, maybe too long.

And even though your body still buzzed with unspent need, every fiber of you taut and burning with lingering pleasure, the rational part of you forced silence.

Remmick seemed calmer now, an air of quiet, deep satisfaction wrapping around him like a thin mist as he bent down, pressing his face between your neck and shoulder. You could feel the muscles of his body relaxing slowly, and his breathing, though still slightly ragged, grew more even and measured.

Yet, in that fragile balance between calm and euphoria, your heart raced. Remmick, as tranquil and almost harmless as he seemed in that moment, had bent you to his will in a way that left you simultaneously terrified and unsettled. The awareness of his power—the ability to dominate not only your body but your mind—stirred a deep unease that you couldn’t shake.

So much so that, in the days that followed, you found yourself pleading with your boss to avoid night shifts, trying to minimize every possible future interaction. The memory of that encounter clung to you, vivid and impossible to dismiss, a mixture of desire, fear, and awe that haunted your thoughts in quiet, unexpected moments.

When Remmick learned of it, he wasn’t particularly pleased. The calm he displayed was only skin-deep: beneath it, discomfort and frustration simmered like lava ready to erupt. He didn’t like change, especially when it involved you. He had savored your routine, the predictability of your behavior, and suddenly everything had shifted.

Every tiny variation in your daily life seemed like an affront, a signal that you were trying to slip away from him.

It didn’t take long before he began appearing around your apartment after sunset. He wasn’t aggressive in his approaches: Remmick knew every move had to be measured. He watched you from the shadows, sometimes standing at a distance, other times walking along the opposite sidewalk, measuring each step as if it were part of a ritual. He observed you coming and going from home, always with friends, always surrounded, but never alone. His frustration grew with each missed opportunity, yet patience was part of him: he knew he didn’t want to create chaos during already turbulent times.

Still, he missed you. Your scent, drifting like an irresistible call; the sound of your voice piercing his attention even from afar; your smiles, bright and spontaneous, that seemed to defy every shadow in his nature. Every time he returned home, or wandered through the city, thoughts of you obsessed him. He couldn’t simply ignore you: your absence from his world was a wound that kept bleeding.

Remmick knew he would have to do something drastic to access you without relying on chance encounters that fate seemed to perpetually deny him. He didn’t want to make a scene, not yet; it wasn’t the time, and anyway, he wanted to maintain some control. But he had to find a way to get close without breaking all the rules—at least, not completely.

So he devised a subtle plan, typically Remmick. With a classic excuse—a newly moved-in neighbor in search of a cup of sugar—he transformed the apartment across from yours into his vantage point.

From this new, privileged position, he could observe you without being seen. The window of your bedroom became the focal point of his obsession, the portal through which he could perceive every movement, every tiny habit you once thought insignificant. He didn’t need to speak to you, not yet. Watching was enough: the way you moved, how you opened the door for fresh air, how you arranged yourself in the sheets.

You never drew the curtains, convinced the darkness of your room shielded you from prying eyes. But you hadn’t accounted for his. Predator eyes, cutting through the shadows with the same ease your breath faltered under his touch. He saw you clearly. He saw your hand slide between your thighs, the way your body tensed as you touched yourself, oblivious to being watched.

On the other side, Remmick groaned softly, a restrained sound vibrating from his throat as he rubbed against the folded pillow. He moved slowly, then with increasing force, testing the resistance of the fabric as he longed for the feel of your flesh. He imagined you bent beneath him, knees sinking into the mattress, your back arched into a perfect curve as his hands pressed on the back of your neck. In his mind, your voice was no longer a sweet sigh, but a broken moan, a desperate plea for mercy.

He pictured your face pressed into the sheets, lips parted in supplication, as he drove deeper and harder, breaking every shred of resistance. He imagined you trembling, nails scratching at the bed for purchase, while your voice called his name as if condemning yourself to him.

“Remmick…” you murmured, blissful as he leaned into your neck to bite.

He growled low between his teeth as a violent wave overtook him. His hips halted in a final, deep thrust, body shaking in the throes of pleasure. Warm, white streaks stained the fabric beneath him, while his brow lowered, red eyes glued to your window, shining with infatuation and craving.

And while you succumbed to your pleasure, oblivious, he licked his lips, exhausted yet satisfied, already savoring the night when he would no longer be content merely watching, when he would make you entirely his.

It was one of those afternoons that left you more exhausted than you would have imagined. The sun hung low, its rays filtering through the blinds of the bar where you had covered your colleague’s shift, forcing you to stay until just before sunset. Every minute seemed to drag endlessly, and the waiting left a strange tension in you, like a tingling under your skin you couldn’t shake off. Finally, when the clock marked the right moment, you managed to slip out before Remmick walked through the door.

You sighed in relief. You thought you had made it. The city was a mosaic of long shadows and sluggish traffic, and you moved through the familiar alleys, heading toward your usual path through the park district. The cool air on your face soothed you, and for a moment, everything felt normal. But then you heard that voice—low, enveloping—and your heart skipped a beat.

“Darlin'…”

Your breath caught. You turned slowly. There, only a few meters away, his eyes pinned you in place. Every muscle in your body froze.

“Remmick…” your voice trembled, thick with disbelief and fear that washed over you in waves. “…what are you doing here?”

He took a step forward, a tired but razor-sharp smile lighting up his features. “It’s been a fair since we’ve managed to see each other, darlin'. I’ve missed ye terribly.”

Something in his eyes sparked then, a light and familiar glimmer that dragged you back to that night… when his mouth had brought you pleasure, when you had yielded—if only for a moment—to his dominance. His hair was tousled, his expression weary as if he had been running, and yet his gaze caught you entirely.

“I… I know, I’m sorry. I had to cover extra shifts, you know…” Your voice carried a thread of unease, as you tried to keep it light, friendly. Your heart pounded in your chest, your hands trembled slightly as you clutched your bag against your side like a shield. Every backward step you tried to take felt useless.

“I know.” His voice sounded understanding, a whisper wrapping you in false acceptance. “But yer free now, aren’t ye?” His tone shifted, urgent, charged with sick excitement. It wasn’t just a question—it was a veiled command that unsettled you. His eyes never left yours, piercing, and for a moment you felt he could read every thought, every hesitation, every fear you tried to mask behind courtesy.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to push back the tension coiling down your spine. “Yes… but… y'know, I’m tired. It’s been such a draining day at work. I’d just like, y'know… to relax.” The words came out tighter than you wanted, a mix of evasion and caution. Your shoulders curved slightly inward, as if to protect yourself, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down. And yet your body stayed alert, prickling with that subtle, electric tension that lit up whenever Remmick drew closer.

A shadow of disappointment flickered across his face, but it was brief, almost imperceptible—an emotion quickly replaced by that gleaming, eager look that defined him. “Then we can head back to yer place. We’re close enough, after all.”

You blinked, startled and uneasy, a knot tightening in your chest. “Remmick, I don’t think that’s a—” you began, trying to build a verbal barrier, to buy yourself time. But your question slipped out anyway: “How do you know I live nearby?”

He hesitated for a moment, tilting his head slightly, his eyes studying yours, searching for every reaction, every flicker of doubt.

“I just assumed, darlin'.” His voice was soft, but every word carried an urgency that made you step back half a pace, even against your will. “Ye left the bar on foot, didn’t ye?”

His words froze you. He wasn’t assuming—he knew. Something only he could know. Your eyes widened, your mind scrambling for excuses, explanations, anything as a chill swept down your spine.

Remmick moved a step forward, close enough to shrink the space between you, not touching yet, but his presence pressed against you like a shadow wrapping itself around your body.

Your heart lurched, pounding so hard you felt it in your temples. “You… you followed me?” Your voice wavered, betraying shock and fear. Before you could say another word, his fingers closed around your arm with a grip that left no escape. Panic fogged your thoughts, paralyzing you for a moment, trapping you between curiosity and terror.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, half fury, half panic, wrenching yourself free of his hold and stumbling back. Adrenaline shook your legs, your skin hypersensitive, as though every fiber of your body still felt his touch.

Remmick stepped back slightly, hurt, yet his eyes glimmered with dark allure—a mix of pain and admiration for your defiance. “Why d'ye always have to make things so hard, love? Look at us… we were made for each other.” His voice was velvet, hypnotic, every syllable vibrating in the air like a siren’s call.

He stopped beneath the nearest lamppost. Cold light spilled across his face, illuminating his mouth, revealing sharp teeth and long nails that glinted in the shadows like blades. You froze, unable to look away, a shiver crawling down your spine. The air thickened, every breath heavy with tension.

“But ye keep livin' in the light, an' I can’t reach ye there.” His words were a whisper sinking into you like venom, deep and dangerous. His eyes gleamed, then flared into a glowing red.

Every word seemed crafted to ensnare you, to hold you still, locked under his gaze. Tears welled as his clawed hand seized you again, gripping with inhuman strength. Your skin burned beneath his long, sharp fingers, and a sudden tremor ran through your body.

“Shhh, shhh, darlin'… don’t be afraid,” he murmured inches from your cheek, his cold breath brushing your skin, making you shiver. Each word froze you further, sapping your will to resist.

“That night...I… I helped you. So please…” your voice cracked, a plea laced with terror and desperation. You tried to explain, to beg, but your words fell into emptiness.

“Ah, but sure that’s exactly why I do this,” Remmick whispered, his red eyes burning into yours, his teeth glinting faintly under the lamplight. “What were the chances that ye’d be there at that very moment? How many would've just walked past me? But not you… no, ye’re good. Ye deserve a reward for bein' so good, so ye do.” His voice deepened, thick with darkness, making you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to break away from him.

His gaze locked on yours, unyielding, as though he could carve his will into your mind. “An' what greater reward could there be than eternal life by me side?” Each word dropped like stone, and your heartbeat stumbled, racing in disarray.

“Don’t… don’t hurt me, please,” you managed to whisper, your body rigid in his grasp. Every muscle was taut with terror, tears streaming down your cheeks unchecked.

“Don’t worry, darlin'.” His mouth spread into a dreadful smile, his fangs bared, gleaming with thick saliva. “It will only take a wee moment,” he added, voice low and controlled, tinged with the feverish thrill that vibrated in the air around you.

Remmick led you through the silent streets, his hands firm on your hips, leaving you no chance to escape. It wasn’t a calm walk: your heart pounded so hard you feared he might hear it. His warm breath on your neck made you shiver, and terror gripped your stomach in a cold vise. There was nothing seductive in his movements: every action was predatory, deliberate, and you could clearly feel that your will no longer mattered.

When you reached the door of the apartment, your breath quickened. You barely turned, searching for a way to flee, but it was too late. With a sharp motion, he opened the door and pushed you inside. There, in the dim light of the apartment, you realized with horror that he had been watching you all along, every day, every night. In the faint light, the window revealed the park and streets you walked, and suddenly everything made sense: every time you thought you were alone but felt vaguely watched, he had been there, hidden.

When your foot hit the rug, it made a thick, disturbing sound.

You looked down and your eyes caught the large, dark stain where your foot had landed. Some flies buzzed up into the air, circling, before returning to settle on it. The red outlined the contours of your white sneaker, making it painfully clear what you had stepped into.

You froze there, in the center of the room, your body paralyzed with terror. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, and goosebumps prickled your skin.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Remmick whispered behind you, his tone dripping with a sweetness that made you shiver. You felt the weight of his body pressing against yours as he slowly guided you toward the bedroom. Each step was a reminder of your vulnerability: there was no escape, no choice. You were at the end of the line.

When you crossed the threshold of the bedroom, your body unblocked and you rushed toward the window on the opposite side of the room, trying to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the monster. But when your eyes landed on the building across the way, you froze. The apartment he had dragged you into faced directly the window of your own apartments.

Remmick’s body flattened against yours from behind, a hand rising to encircle your neck, forcing your head to face the horrifying discovery before you. His lips brushed against your head, your temples, your neck, and with every touch, you felt the weight of his control.

“I swear… I hated seein' ye leave the house and not bein' able to follow ye through the day,” he whispered, his words barely a sound between kisses. The tone was melancholic, but there was something fierce beneath that melancholy, a possessive desire that made your hands clutch your chest without your realizing it.

“Wh— what are you?” you managed to ask, your voice a tremor, as you barely turned to meet his eyes. He stared at you, a flash of pride and excitement crossing his gaze.

“Ye can call me a vampire,” he declared simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The revelation left you breathless. Stories about such creatures had circulated over the years, but they had always remained just silly horror tales. Nothing had ever proven their existence.

“And this is how you want to make me? A monster who drains blood and hides forever from the sunlight?” you asked. Your voice shook, but you still managed to inject a hint of defiance, a scrap of pride clinging to your dignity. “What kind of ‘thanks’ is that?!”

His grip on your neck tightened slightly, as if warning you to maintain a compliant tone. His cold breath brushed your skin, and his eyes glimmered in the shadows with an unsettling intensity, as if every word of yours were a sweet provocation to his predatory ego.

“Oh, darlin'…” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “Ye call it a curse, but I call it a gift. A blessin'. Few are lucky enough to become what ye will be, to live above human mediocrity. Ye should feel honored, not frightened.”

“You don’t understand…” you tried to reply, attempting to maintain a rigid posture. “I don’t want to be… like you. I don’t want—” Your voice broke when you felt his firm, unyielding grip on your neck, forcing you to turn toward him.

“Enough talkin'.” He growled, now irritated by your continued resistance.

Before you could react, he shoved you backward with force. The backs of your knees struck the bed with a dull thud, and your body collapsed onto the mattress, your heart hammering furiously.

The mattress gave way beneath his weight, making you flinch, and you felt the pressure of his body on top of yours like a weight impossible to escape. Remmick leaned over you, hands gripping your hips with a firmness that left no room for movement. His cold breath brushed your face hovering just in front of yours, while those crimson eyes, filled with desire, locked onto you without hesitation, immobilizing you like prey.

“Love…” he murmured, his voice astonishingly calm yet razor-sharp, “it’s not a matter of wantin'. It’s a matter of what ye're destined to become. Like it or not… I'll be guidin' ye through this process.”

As your eyes darted around, searching for a way out, a flash of silver caught your gaze, dangling just above the headboard. A small crucifix, gleaming, almost imperceptible in the dim light. If the stories were true, that symbol should have harmed him, restrained him. But reaching it would require distracting him. And there was only one way to do that.

Before his face could descend onto your neck, you moved decisively, catching him off guard. Your arms wrapped around him, suspending him in the air, muscles tensed as you held him at a distance. Your heartbeat raced, and your eyes locked with his: in them were surprise, excitement, and a trace of challenge.

“Wait… wait…” you said, voice trembling, uncertain, as if the words had come at the last second and you didn’t really know what to say. Your hands gripped the fabric of his white shirt nervously, seeking purchase.

“Tryin' to buy time, are ye? It won’t get ye anywhere.” His voice was flat, but the smirk on his lips betrayed an almost cruel amusement. His eyes flickered, fiery, alert to your every movement.

“Let me...let me make love as a human one last time… you owe me that, damn it.” Your words came out more like a plea, full of desperation. Your fingers tugged at the fabric, trying to impart urgency, necessity.

He froze for a moment, the smirk unchanged, but something deeper appeared in his eyes: genuine interest, an intriguing surprise. He seemed to evaluate, calculate, as if considering granting you that unusual concession. His body was tense, every muscle alert, yet he made no move toward you.

So you moved. With slow, deliberate gestures, you began to undress him. As the buttons gave way one by one beneath your fingers, a subtle shiver ran through his body, as if each motion of yours were a tiny spark igniting his arousal.

The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath his shirt. Your fingers ran down his back, across his chest, following the curve of his tense muscles. He watched you, his pupils dilated, his breathing slightly more labored, the smile now absent from his lips.

“Don't you want me?” you asked, your eyelashes fluttering in mock shame, tilting your head slightly. He remained still, his gaze fixed on yours, preventing you from moving closer or allowing yourself a free hand to grasp the crucifix.

“Of course I want ye…” his voice sounded tense, somehow hurt. “…but ye were always so distant.”

You felt a long, curled claw leave a delicate caress along the line of your jaw, and you bit your cheek to keep from pulling away. Instead, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath through your nose before looking directly into his haunted eyes again.

“I'm here now, aren't I?” You threaded your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the roots as you watched him bend and lean into your touch. He nodded dumbly at your observation.

Remmick's gaze was desperate, and for the first time you saw him vulnerable, almost pleading. His lips were slightly parted, his sharp teeth barely visible, his hands shaking as they tried to find a place to rest.

“Please, dove…”

You stared at him for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm the anxiety coursing through your chest. “It's okay, Remmick…” you said softly, your voice soft but firm. “Lay down for me, okay?”

Your words seemed to have an immediate effect. His body relaxed slightly, sliding sideways to free you from his weight and lying on his back, his eyes begging you to continue, to come closer. You didn't wait a second, afraid he'd change his mind: you towered over him, slowly climbing onto his lap. The skirt of your work uniform rose up your thighs as you moved on top of him, every inch of your body touching his. The heat between you was palpable, a mix of excitement and tension that enveloped you like a living flame.

Your hands slid down his chest, feeling the muscles tremble beneath your fingers. His, on the other hand, rested on your ass, pushing you down and rubbing against his aroused cock that was pushing against the fly of his pants.

“Babe…” he hissed, tilting his hips upward to pursue the friction, “do… do somethin'…” You didn't respond immediately, letting the silence between you amplify every small movement.

Gently, you leaned slightly into him, your bodies very close, and you felt a shiver run down your spine when his teeth were so close to your face. Remmick didn't notice, or at least he seemed to attribute your shiver to arousal, because he slid against your body with a lewd moan, brushing your lips in the process. His eyes were fixed on yours, full of desperation and desire, as he sought comfort in your words and gestures.

“It's okay…” you whispered, leaning your face slightly forward to brush his lips with a light kiss, just to reassure him. “I'll take care of you… leave it to me.”

You placed your lips on his forehead in an almost compassionate and affectionate gesture. As much as you hated the situation, in that moment, your body was your weapon, and you had to use it with a precision that burned your skin.

You felt his hot breath brush your neck, his intense gaze burning into you. From that position, you could see it. The crucifix was there, on the wall, an arm's length away, but every muscle in your body knew you couldn't reach it openly. Not with him so alert, so ready to make every move.

You didn't know his speed, and you were already gambling on all the stories you'd heard over the years.

With a ragged breath, you let your hand slip into his pants, your fingers sliding between the fabric and his skin. His body responded immediately, a tremor running through his hips as your fingers firmly gripped his already hard, throbbing cock. He was hot, incredibly alive. How could he be so hot there when he was so cold and dead everywhere else?

At the feeling of your touch, his mouth opened in a low moan, a guttural sound that vibrated the air. “Jeez…” he whispered, his voice cracking with euphoria. “Oh, sweetheart, like that…”

It only took a few blows. You felt him give in, let go. His eyes, which just moments before had stared at you with the ferocity of a predator, slowly closed, long lashes trembling against his cheeks. His head tilted back slightly, vulnerable, exposed, and you seized the opportunity.

With your free hand, shaky but determined, you reached toward the wall, your fingers gliding along the drywall until they brushed against the base of the cold, familiar metal. Your heart pounded so hard you were afraid it would burst in your chest. But when your hand grasped the crucifix, a wave of courage surged through you, as if you were holding not just a symbol but a real weapon.

And without hesitation, with all the strength built up from anxiety and fear, you slammed it against his face.

For a split second, you thought it hadn’t worked, that all the stories were false. But then the sound that followed milliseconds later hit you straight in the stomach: a disturbing sizzle, followed by a scream that made your bones vibrate. The burned flesh gave off a pungent, unbearable smell—a mixture of charred skin and blood that made you nauseous—but you didn’t let go. You continued to push cruelly with both hands now.

Remmick screamed, his voice broken, tormented, as he struggled against the crucifix burning his flesh.

For a moment, you felt victorious, in control. But his rage was faster than yours. With a sudden jerk, he grabbed your shoulder with his claws, sinking them into your skin and forcing you to release the crucifix. He pushed you away from his sides, hurling you sideways, and the world spun as you fell off the bed, landing heavily on the floor, your breath knocked out by the impact.

You looked up just in time to see Remmick rip the sacred object from his face. A piece of skin stuck to the metal, leaving an open, smoking wound that made him even more terrifying. His eyes glowed with a dark, ravenous light, and blood trickled slowly down his cheek, mingling with sweat.

Panic gripped your stomach. You scrambled to your feet, staggering toward the bedroom door. Every fiber of your body screamed to run, to push your legs to the limit just to get away. You almost reached the threshold, hand outstretched toward the handle. But not quite.

A moment later, two cold arms wrapped around you from behind, hard as iron. Remmick pulled you back with superhuman strength, lifting you slightly off the ground, then threw you back onto the bed. The impact stole your breath, forcing you to curl over yourself. Before you could react, his body was on top of yours again, the crushing weight pinning you against the sheets.

You gasped loudly, your throat tight with a mixture of fear and rage. You tried to wriggle free, but his hands pinned your wrists above your head, sharp nails pressing into your skin, scratching and drawing blood.

You thrashed, shook your head, but it was useless. Thick, warm drops splashed onto your face: blood and drools from his devastated, silver-burned face. They coated your cheeks, mouth, even your eyes, and your stomach knotted in desperate revolt. You tried to turn away, to escape the nauseating contact, but every movement was in vain: his grip tightened, as if he relished your helplessness.

“This…” His voice was no longer human. It was a deep, cavernous sound, echoing as if from the very depths of hell. “…wasn’t very kind of ye, sweetheart.”

The crucifix had hurt more than you had dared to hope. The silver had penetrated deep, carving into his skin, leaving a smoking mark that reminded you of a fireshot wound. But it wasn’t just that which terrified you: as you stared, trembling and disgusted, you saw his mouth distort. More teeth sprouted from his gums, white and sharp, joining the already monstrous row of fangs glinting in the dim light of the room. It was as if the pain had only revealed what he truly was.

A grin spread across his face, cruel and delirious. “But that’s fine. I understand.” His words dripped with both venom and tenderness, a paradox that made you shiver. “Ye had to try until the end. My clever little snake.”

You felt his hot, damp breath on your cheek as he leaned close. The grin twisted his mouth, and the burnt skin still gave off that nauseating smell of raw flesh that filled your lungs. “But ye’re lucky. I love ye. I’ll forgive ye even this.”

Those words, instead of bringing relief, churned your guts. The very concept of “love” from him was a sentence, a yoke, a chain crushing your soul. There was no tenderness in him, only possession.

Your stomach knotted, a mixture of anguish and rage lodged in your throat. There was no room for fear anymore: something sharper, more cutting, was growing inside you. A hatred that burned in your blood.

“Remmick…” you spat his name as if it were poison, eyes shining with tears and fury. “Remmick, if you do this, I’ll make your shitty life a living hell.”

He didn’t move immediately. He seemed to savor the declaration, letting it hang between you like a gift. A slow, distorted smile formed on his bloodied lips. He leaned closer, his breath sliding over your neck, warm and damp.

“I’ll hunt you down and kill you, I swear.” Your voice broke somewhere between threat and plea, but the words were blades that came out sharp and true.

Remmick chuckled softly, a sound both intimate and monstrous. “Ah, sweetheart…” he murmured, patient, amused. His lips brushed your skin, wetting it with a dirty, cruel kiss. “It’ll be fun to watch ye try.”

Time seemed to stop at that instant. You could feel every drop of sweat running down your temples, every shiver along your spine. You held your breath, silently praying it was just another of his psychological tortures, that he wanted to make you suffer with the promise of pain without delivering it. But you were wrong.

His mouth opened against your throat, fangs scraping your skin as he sank in.

The pain tore through you like lightning. You screamed, but your voice was quickly choked, suffocated by the blood filling your mouth with its metallic, thick, intoxicating, nauseating taste. You felt the flesh tear, blood vessels give way under the pressure of his jaws. Every nerve in your body ignited, a fire running from your veins to your brain.

It didn’t last a moment. That would have been merciful. No, Remmick wanted to prolong it, to take every single breath from you, dragging you through agony step by step. His bite was not swift, but slow, hungry, ravenous. He drank your life as if it were divine nectar, and your very existence was sucked away with every sip.

Your hands struck him, clawed at his shoulders and arms, tried to push him away, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His clawed hands held you fast, and his body crushed yours with no escape. Your feet kicked, uselessly, tangled in the sheets.

The world around you began to dissolve. Pain became muffled, transforming into a continuous wave dragging you down, down into the depths of unconsciousness. The room faded, its outlines dimmed, and only the wild beating of your heart reminded you that you were still alive—for now.

Your eyes, in a last desperate gesture, fell on the crucifix lying a short distance away on the floor. There, among the shadows of the room, it glimmered faintly, still stained with the blood and flesh he had torn from himself. And in that glimmer, you found your last anchor.

Not salvation. Not hope. But something more powerful.

The desire for vengeance.

As darkness gripped your limbs and Remmick continued to feast on your body, a single thought solidified in your mind: that creature would pay. With fire, with silver, with every shred of your soul, you would drag him to hell with you.

And it was with that vow etched in your heart that you sank into the abyss of unconsciousness.

When you woke up, the first sensation was that you no longer had a body. As if you were only consciousness suspended in the void. A warm void, timeless, where even pain seemed suspended, waiting for something. You didn’t know if days, months, or years had passed. An entire eternity. And yet, in reality, only a few minutes had gone by.

The return of the flesh was brutal. First, the perception of your heart—not a steady beat anymore, but an irregular spasm, as if the organ itself rebelled against what you had become. Then the lungs: they didn’t really breathe, but simulated the act, making you inhale and realize that air had no taste anymore, except that of dust and iron. Everything was different, and everything seemed cruelly sharp.

You opened your eyes, and the darkness around you was no longer darkness. Shapes that would have been invisible before now stood out with precision: the folds of the stained sheets, the densest shadows in the corners of the room, even the particles suspended in the air, illuminated by a glow coming from nowhere visible. Silence was not silence: you heard the slow drip of a liquid somewhere, the rustle of fabric moving beneath you, the imperceptible sound of someone else’s breathing.

And then the taste. A taste you would never forget. Iron, copper, yet sweet, nauseating, and irresistible. You realized it came from your mouth, from your dirty lips, from the throat still pulsing with a pain that burned and stunned. You realized it was blood.

“Welcome back, princess.”

The voice slid over you like poisoned silk. You turned toward the sound and blinked several times, as if the gesture could erase what you were seeing.

A man.

He was there, sitting on the bed, his body resting with insolent ease, his skin still marked but only with superficial wounds. The smile he gave you was intact, pure, and sounded so wrong.

His name exploded in your mind with the force of thunder: Remmick. And with it came a wave of something that threw you off balance. A feeling of acceptance, of warmth, almost of love. As if that voice, that face, were what you had always desired. His presence cradled you, and for a moment you felt safe, protected, as if you had finally arrived at the place where you belonged.

But it didn’t last.

The feeling cracked, like glass shattering under a sudden blow. An abyssal hatred rose in your stomach, boiling violently. It wasn’t simple anger. It was venom. It was fire. It burned hotter than fear, more blinding than any desire. You found yourself staring at him with eyes that wanted to tear flesh, break bones, reduce him to ash.

Your tongue felt heavy, your lips clotted. But inside, words screamed. “I’ll hunt you down and I’ll kill you, I swear.”

And then it happened.

A sudden flash tore through your mind, a brutal snapshot that did not come from your eyes. It was like looking through another perspective, not your own. A vision that hurt more than the bite itself.

You saw yourself.

You saw the harsh and raw image of your body. Lying on the bed, the sheets stained, your throat ripped by a deep bite from which blood slowly flowed, forming a dark pool beneath you. The surrounding skin was torn, violated, the marks of fangs etched like an eternal brand. Your eyes were open but dead while a single tear slowly slid downward.

You could see no more.

The cut was clean. The image vanished.

The bond broke, and you felt it deep in your bones like the sudden collapse of invisible chains. The pressure that had gripped your mind, that bittersweet hold that had deceived you, disappeared in an instant. Your eyes lit up with a pale color, a bluish light that belonged to no human being, and Remmick’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and disbelief. He didn’t even have time to mask it. He leapt to his feet just before your claws tore his head from his neck in a single motion.

Your body lunged forward, striking the air, new and lethal claws spreading from your hands as if they had always been there, only waiting to emerge.

Fear no longer mattered. Your burning throat, the thirst that carved through you like blades—none of it mattered.

“You killed me, bastard…” Your voice was a guttural growl, a vibration not your own through sharp, hard teeth in your mouth.

Remmick stepped back slightly, raising his hands theatrically, almost amused by your fury. “Now… I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” he said, his tone smooth, pleased, as if explaining a simple concept to a stubborn child. “Look at yerself. Ye move, ye speak, ye breathe. Ye're not dead, darlin'. You’re… more.”

That calm drove you mad.

You growled again and, without thinking, grabbed the bed’s headboard. Your fingers sank into the wood, which gave way like butter under your new strength. With a single violent yank, you ripped it off, the sharp crack of the broken plank echoing in the room like a harbinger. You gripped the jagged piece in your hands, turning it into an improvised stake.

Remmick followed every move with his eyes, a flash of alertness betraying his feigned calm.

You lunged at him, the wood pointed straight at his chest. Your body moved faster than you could ever have hoped, senses heightened, muscles guided by a new and brutal instinct. But he was even faster.

He grabbed your arms with a ferocious grip. You felt his clawed fingers squeeze your flesh, almost penetrating it. The plank missed its target, easily deflected, and before you could react a sharp, raw pain exploded from your wrist: a clean, brutal snap that made you scream and fall to your knees.

The plank slipped from your grasp and rolled away, far.

He let you drop to your knees, gasping, while the pain from the sprained wrist pulsed with every beat. But stronger than the pain was the awareness: his strength was superior. Despite the new power boiling in you, he remained something older, more accustomed to the hunt.

He looked down at you with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, as if you had been a slightly more complex puzzle than expected. “I can’t sense ye anymore,” he said softly, and there was genuine astonishment in his words. He stared at you with eyes trying to peer beyond your skin, to read your soul as he had before, but now he found nothing.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to give him the pleasure of your voice. But a sudden wave of exhaustion hit you, along with a piercing thirst that burned your insides. It was a void that devoured everything, an impossible hunger to ignore. You tried to resist, to stay standing against that new pain, but every breath, every heartbeat nearby—even Remmick’s—felt like an irresistible call.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” you finally hissed, your voice hoarse, broken but full of venom.

For a moment, you thought you had wiped the smile from his face. But no. His lips curved again, slower, more pleased, forming that grin you hated so much.

“Ye can try,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, a whisper seeping into your skull. “But ye’ll need blood to do it.”

He leaned toward you, his eyes glowing bright red, pupils completely gone. He extended a clawed hand. Claws longer and more terrifying than yours.

You run through the woods as far as your feet can take you. He’s gone out to feed and now is your time.

The moonlight shines on the darkened path, while you run through it barefoot— stepping on every branch, vine and flower in your way. Your nightgown tears in several places from getting snagged, but you don’t care.

The branches have cut your skin in multiple places, blood running down your legs.

The pathway twists and curves, you can’t even tell if you’re still on it or not.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat— thump, thump, thump.

The night is quiet—too quiet. Not a cicada hum, not a dog barking, not even a sound from the street lights —nothing.

You notice towards the end of the pathway that you can see your house, you run like your life depends on it—because it does.

You push through the trees at the edge of the woods, you can see your mother in the window. Someone you’ve longed to see for so long now. You start to make a run for the front door and you’re grabbed.

An arm wraps around your waist and a hand over your mouth.

“You runnin away from me?” The familiar voice whispers in your ear.

Your blood runs cold, tears painting your cheeks, and panic coursing through your body.

You kick and try to scream to no avail.

“Please, please let me go. I want to leave.” You scream, muffled by his hand.

You chomp down as hard as you can on his hand— drawing blood and surprising him.

“Motherfuc—“

“If you don’t stop this nonsense and she sees us, I will kill everyone in that house. If you run to the door, I will kill everyone in that house. If you do anything other than what I’ve told you, I will kill everyone in that house and make you watch.”

Your breath hitches in your chest, bringing everything to a halt. Even if you wanted to keep going, you know he’s telling the truth.

He would kill all of them brutally, bring you back a souvenir and tell you that it was punishment for betraying his trust.

He continues to hold you as he walks back into the woods—hand over your mouth and the other hand over your waist, like a ragdoll.

You’re not sure how long it took to get back to his cabin, but you doze off— awakened by him dropping you on the floor and shutting the door behind him.

You pull yourself up— staring at him with contempt. His shirt is covered in blood and sweat, pants ripped, and his hair is a mess.

“How did you find me?” You mumble.

He looks up at you after analyzing the bite on his hand, running his fingers over it.

“You got me good.” He chuckles.

He walks beside you, taking his shoes off and paying you no mind. Lighting the candles on the stand near the door, placing them throughout the house— while you just stand there watching.

He holds one candle in his hand as he walks back towards you, the hardwood floor creaking underneath him.

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to grab it.

You grab his hand as he guides you back to the bedroom— shutting the door behind him, you sit on the bed.

“I’m gonna run you some bath water, baby. Get you all cleaned up.”

You nod your head and just sit there twisting your ring, waiting on the other shoe to drop.

He waves for you to come in the bathroom—you walk in, seeing him on a stool beside the tub.

The bathwater steams in the tub.

You strip out of your nightgown— toss it to Remmick and sit down in the tub.

“Ever since I first tasted you, I can feel you—“

“ I can feel all of your emotions. So, when your heart was beating fast while I was feeding— I figured something was wrong.” He admits.

“Remmick, I’m sor-“

“Shh, shh.” He whispers, rubbing the warm rag over your body.

“Don’t apologize, Mo ghrá.”

The blood washes off into the water changing the color.

Remmick is very calculated and with him, there’s always more. What you did won’t go unnoticed and it surely won’t go unpunished.

He glides the rag over your body with precision and comfort, taking his time to make sure that you’re clean.

“I love you, Remmick.” You mumble.

He grins, rubbing the rag in between your fingers.

“I love you too, Darlin. More than myself, really.”

He says he loves you, but it almost feels wrong— it feels distorted.

“I ran earlier, because I miss home..”

“ I love you, I really do and nobody could take me away from you— but I just wanted to go home for a bit.” You confess, sitting in the water with your knees to your chest.

Your confession catches him off guard, he stops rinsing you off and seems to be thinking something— but he doesn’t respond for a few minutes.

“You could’ve said something, anything. What you did ain’t a good look, I don’t appreciate it. You put everything at risk and you know we can’t have that.”

Your hand shakes a bit, just out of sheer nervousness.

“Don’t be scared, baby.” He assures you, but it comes off taunting.

You lean back in the tub, Remmick drops the rag back in the water with you.

“I’ll be back in a second, darlin.”

He walks out, leaving the door cracked.

You lay there, unsure what to think or how to feel. Always in fear, never knowing what his next move is.

He’s gone for a while, long enough for you to doze off.

You wake up in a state of panic— your hands gripping the side of the tub and feet thrashing in the water as Remmick holds your head under.

You see him through the water, staring at you with such anger and contempt.

The water is filling your lungs— a painful and burning sensation.

A few seconds longer and Remmick finally lets go of your head, you come up from the water gasping for air.

“.. what the hell is wrong with you?!?”

He kneels down beside the tub, a smirk on his face as he pushes your hair out of your face.

“You. You’re what’s wrong with me, honey.”

“I give you everything you could need and you still want more? You are selfish, greedy, and a liar.”

You cough up more water, grabbing Remmick’s hand.

“I said that I was sorry.. you are enough for me, Remmick.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t quite buy it.

“I don’t believe I am.”

He walks out of the bathroom, leaving you there— reeling from what happened.

You climb out of the tub, the water falling off you.

You grab a towel, wrapping yourself up and heading into the bedroom.

The bedroom is quiet— even with the window open, there’s no noise from outside.

You finish drying off— putting your newer nightgown on and crawling into bed.

Who knows where he went and you aren’t trying to go figure it out.

The night continues on and you continue to sleep.

You wake up to a feeling of pressure on your legs, your eyes open and Remmick is on top of you.

His eyes red and fangs out.

“Remmick.. what are you doing?”

He leans towards your face, sniffing you like a dog.

“You’ve been hiding something from me?”

Your hands grips the sheet as you can feel the panic setting in.

“What?”

“I think I deserve a treat after what you did.” He chuckles.

Your eyes start to water, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Aw, don’t cry sugar. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

His tongue glides up your cheek, tasting your fear and relishing in it.

“Mhmm.” He groans.

“I just want the one thing I haven’t had in a while— it’s bleeding and aching for me.”

His hands glide up your body— fingers swirling your nipples and teasing you.

“Remmy.. I—“

You can barely form a sentence you’re so distracted, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“Don’t cha think I deserve a treat, darlin? You wouldn’t deny me would you?”

He should repulse you, he should make your stomach turn— but, you want him to claim you. You want him to take your clothes off and make you his.

He pulls your nightgown up, exposing your blood soaked panties.

“I could smell you.. smell the thing that drives me crazy.”

His nail drags along the front of your panties, making you whimper.

“No claws, Remmick.” You mumble.

He retracts his claws as his hands hook into your panties and he pulls them down.

He scoots down further— raising your legs up and putting his head between them.

“My, my, my— this is such a beautiful sight.”

His tongue swipes your slit, blood coating it.

You arch your back, pulling his hair.

“You like that, baby?”

You nod, breathing heavy.

“Don’t stop.”

He glides his tongue up and down your clit, groans escaping his mouth.

He eats your pussy like a starved animal, like it’s a forbidden fruit.

Blood coats his mouth, dripping down his chin.

He starts sucking on your clit, driving you crazy and making you squirm.

His fangs sink into you, causing a shock of pain.

Although the pain should scare you and hurt you, it mixed with everything else brings a good sensation.

You can’t get enough of it.

“That’s it, darlin. I want this pretty pussy to cum for me.”

“Oh, my—“

“Fuck, Remmick.”

Your moans grow louder and more intense as your orgasm washes over you.

Your legs trembling around his head.

Remmick laughs, standing up and staring at you.

You can see him perfectly in the moonlight— blood around his mouth, dripping down his neck into his chain and white shirt. He looks terrifying, like the thing you should stay away from. Instead you’re drawn to him, in love with him.

Remmick comes up between your legs, getting face to face with you.

“You truly do taste delicious.”

You bite your lip, staring into his eyes.

He leans down kissing you, deep and ravenous.

Blood smears onto your face and down your chin.

He grabs your face, bringing your full attention to him. He licks the side of your face.

“Promise me, you won’t run away from me again. I love you too much to lose you.”

You lean up, licking more blood of his lip.

“I promise, honey.”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

you weren’t supposed to become a camgirl. it just kind of happened. you noticed that men were willing to give you money for taking off your clothes on camera, so it became your job.

your family doesn’t know, of course. they would never understand. your friends are mostly supportive.

but in these last few months you’ve noticed a strange thing. many of your most devoted fans have disappeared, not appearing in chats anymore. you have plenty of new followers, but it seems that the old ones are leaving one by one. you figure they must be getting bored of you.

so you changed it up a bit. new hairstyles, new clothes, new kinks. you decided to try out some rougher things to keep yourself relevant. you ever peed on camera once, your fans seemed to love it.

there’s one old fan who hasn’t disappeared, though. remmick. he’s always there when you go live. he doesn’t give a lot of money, and mostly doesn’t book private chats. probably doesn’t have enough money.

he booked a private chat one time, and you joked about him being your boyfriend since he’s followed you for so long. he wanted to hear you say ”i love you”, though, which felt strange to you. but you did, of course, he paid you for it.

you always greet him with a big smile, since he’s one of the og’s. he started subscribing to you when you were nothing but a beginner.

he doesn’t talk much in the chats. just watches. you sometimes play with the idea of meeting him, you’re interested in what he looks like. if he’s handsome… let’s face it, probably not.

you’ve taken the day off. you’re on your way home from the bar, a bit tipsy. you had a great time with your friends.

you turn to a dark alleyway, a shortcut. a bit risky, yeah, but you know these streets. it’s safe enough.

a man walks up to you. he’s wearing a worn-out hoodie and jeans.

”s-sorry to b-bother ya, m’am, but ya wouldn’t h-happen t-to got a c-cigarette f’ me?” he stutters.

”sure!” you say, offering him a cigarette. he takes it, his hand brushing yours a bit. it’s sweaty.

”i’ll smoke with you”, you say. you always liked talking to strangers, even if this one does seem a bit weird.

you smoke in silence.

”what’s your name?” you ask.

”re-”, he starts, but goes silent.

”shy one, huh?”, you chuckle.

you take a peek at his face from under the hood. he’s definitely handsome. a bit odd-looking, but still.

”you know, the night is young”, you say, smiling at him. you’re tipsy, and feeling kind of lonely. he seems like the kind of guy that wants to please.

”i-i live c-close by”, he says, shortly meeting your gaze. his eyes have a strange glow. for a second you could’ve sworn that they were red.

you take off the cigarette from his mouth and kiss him. but you’re quickly turned off by his stench. you didn’t notice it in the night air at first, but when you’re close to him it’s definitely noticeable.

he reeks of old, dried up sweat mixed with new and something metallic.

you try to pull away, but he grabs your face, forcing you to continue kissing him. he’s moaning, eagerly licking into you.

he grabs your waist next, pulling you close. you try not to gag, since it would be offensive. but god, he reeks.

he’s a really bad kisser as well, like he’s never done it before. he’s just aimlessly smacking his lips against yours, opening and closing his mouth. it’s like he’s trying to eat you. he’s drooling as well.

you finally manage to push him off.

”s-should we go?” he asks with a shy smile.

”you know… i’ve changed my mind. it’s pretty late…” you say.

he looks disappointed, almost angry.

”bye then!” you say, turning away from him.

but you don’t get far. he grabs you from behind, putting a damp cloth on your mouth.

you whimper and squirm until the chemicals make you drift off to sleep.

you wake up in a dark room. a living room.

it’s filthy. empty beer bottles, full ashtrays, balls of dust, clothes laying everywhere, notebooks, wires…

you try standing up, but your body feels weird. your legs won’t move.

”ya awake?” a familiar voice draws.

it’s the man from before.

he’s wearing a white tank and jeans. or, somewhat white. he’s covered in blood.

you scream.

”shh”, he cooes.

he kneels down in front of you. ”finally…” he mutters.

you don’t have time to react before his mouth is on yours.

his stench has become worse, now mixed with blood.

he’s whimpering while kissing you, smacking his lips wetly against yours.

you bite.

he doesn’t care, just keeps on kissing you.

he wraps his arms around you, squeezing you tight. he’s damp with sweat, grossing you out.

he parts with your lips with a wet smack. now he’s looking at you in the eyes. his eyes are blood-red, you can see them glowing in the dark.

”what the fuck?” you hiss.

”i-i thought y-ya wanted me”, he says.

”well i don’t!”, you hiss. ”let me go!” you say.

”i-i can’t do that”, he says.

”w-whose blood is that?” you ask.

the man looks to his right, pointing at something in the corner of the room.

to your terror you see a dead body.

you scream.

”shh”, the man hushes you. ”don’t cry”, he says.

”h-he was g-gettin’ too comfortable with ya”, he says.

”what do you mean? i don’t know him!” you say, tears starting to form in your eyes.

”big dick five hundred, that’s who he was. h-his real name was tom”, the man says.

you recognize that name immediately. bigdick500 was one of your most devoted fans.

”what the fuck?” you hiss, trembling.

”n-name’s remmick”, the man says.

you freeze. remmick?

you start searching for your phone to call the police.

”l-lookin’ for this?” remmick asks you, taking something from the table. it’s your phone, broken into pieces.

you start crying.

”b-baby, don’t cry!”, remmick stutters with a pout.

”l-look, i’ll kiss it better”, he says, leaning in, puckering his lips.

”get the fuck away from me!” you hiss, backing off.

he ignores you, taking you into his sweaty arms again, forcing his bloody lips on yours.

”mmh”, he moans against your lips. drool pours freely from the corners of his mouth now, smearing across your chin and cheeks as he licks into you.

you desperately try pushing him off, but it’s like trying to move a wall.

”sto-”, you try to mumble in between kisses, but remmick silences you with his lips.

he finally pulls away, looking at you lovingly. ”a-ain’t ya h-happy we can finally b-be together?” he asks.

”what the fuck are you talking about?” you hiss at him, teary-eyed.

remmick starts pouting, his lower lip trembling. ”y-ya said i was yer b-boyfriend, even told me ya l-loved me”, he says.

”that wasn’t real, you fucking creep!” you yell.

remmick looks at you, in disbelief. then he starts crying.

”i-it was r-real to me”, remmick cries.

”are you fucking kidding me?” you hiss. you’re mostly angry now. scared, sure. but you really wanna rip his eyes out.

”i-i love ya a lot”, remmick bawls.

”no you don’t, you don’t even know me!” you say.

”i-i do k-know ya”, he says, wiping his tears.

”k-know how ya go f-for a walk every day, h-how ya smoke out the window, how ya always c-change in front ’f the window”, he stutters.

”have you been stalking me?” you ask.

”w-watchin’”, remmick says. like it’s any different.

”if you let me go i won’t tell anyone!” you say.

”i-i can’t do that”, remmick says. ”i-i told ya i l-love ya”, he adds. ”y-ye’re mine now”, he continues, completely delusional.

”you’re insane!” you hiss. you try standing up again, but the drugs and chemicals have made your body numb.

”h-here, i’ll help ya”, remmick says. he picks you up into his arms, carrying you into his bedroom. you squirm and scratch, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

the bedroom in filthy as well. dirty clothes and underwear laying around, balls of dust. the bed is dirty too, the sheets look like they haven’t been washed in months. there’s a lot of cum and blood stains on them.

remmick gently lays you down on the bed, climbing on top of you.

”no, stop!” you cry as he starts pulling up your shirt.

”i-i promise i-i’ll make ya feel g-good”, remmick says. ”b-better than those a-assholes ya usually date”, he adds. ”t-those guys are all muscle, no brain”, he says. ”i-i’m not like that, i-i’ll take care ’f ya”, he says.

you start squirming and kicking, trying to get him off you.

”s-stop resisting, i-i’ll have to tie ya up”, remmick stutters.

you don’t listen, so he gets a cable and uses it to tie your wrists to the bedposts.

you start crying.

”shh, baby”, remmick cooes.

he starts placing wet, hot kisses down your neck, stopping at your breasts. he suckles on them as he starts pulling down his pants.

”no, no!” you cry.

”can’t wait no more”, remmick pants, getting his cock out. it’s long and wide, so hard that it looks painful. the tip is red, swollen and weeping with precum.

he lines up, rubbing his cock on your entrance.

then he tries pushing in. it slips away.

remmick lets out a huff and tries again. no success.

you almost feel sorry for him, he’s so pathetic.

”f-fuck, ye’re so t-tight”, remmick pants.

as if it’s your fault.

he tries pushing in for the third time, but ends up pushing his dick in the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis.

he moans and starts thrusting, only for it to slip away again.

he tries the fourth time, finally managing to bottom out inside your cunt.

remmick lets out a loud, desperate moan.

”y-ye feel so g-good”, he stutters. ”i-i can’t- i’m gon’ cum already”, he whimpers.

he starts thrusting, fast and needy, almost like a humping dog.

you’re still crying, cheeks wet from tears. remmick leans in and starts kissing away your tears, wetting you even more by constantly drooling.

his balls are slamming hard against your ass as he fucks into you.

”a-ahh, fuck, baby”, remmick whimpers against your skin, lips smacking wetly on your cheek.

”c-c’mere”, he whines, puckering his lips. you turn your head. ”don’t be like that, baby”, he says, tears starting to form in his eyes.

he follows, forcing his damp, slightly chapped lips on yours.

he starts crying then, his tears wetting your face.

”i-i love you s-so m-much baby”, he stutters, sniffing.

he keeps crying while kissing you, his pace bordering on animalistic. you can’t believe his stamina. he’s fucking you like his life depends on it.

he starts going rougher, more sloppy. you feel his cock twitch inside you.

”gon’ cum-”, he moans.

and he does. he stops, balls-deep inside you. you feel his cum pouring inside you in thick ropes.

remmick crashes on top of you, panting.

”t-that was amazing”, he says. ”d-did ya come?” he asks you.

you huff.

remmick kisses you, still teary-eyed. ”i-i’ll make ya cum, don’t worry”, he says.

”i don’t want you to touch me!” you hiss.

remmick pouts at you, his lower lip trembling. then he starts crying again.

”i jus’- i jus’ want ya to love me”, he cries.

”i never will!” you say.

remmick’s crying properly now, snot dripping from his nose.

”wha wha”, you mock him. ”what a fucking baby”, you say.

remmick frowns, trying to stop crying. but he can’t. ”i-i’m not a b-baby”, he stutters.

”yeah you are, and you fucking reek!” you hiss at him.

remmick looks genuinely offended. he can’t stop bawling, hurt by the fact that you don’t seem to love him back. it’s like a reality check for him.

”i-i really love ya, why can’t ya jus’-”, he cries, starting to fondle your breasts.

”don’t touch me!” you hiss.

”i-i promise i’ll make ya feel good”, remmick says.

he starts kissing on your neck with loud smacks, moving down to your breasts. he stops crying when he gets your tits in his mouth.

you have a line of drool, tears and snot along your neck and breasts.

remmick moans against your breasts, closing his lips around your nipple. he pulls his mouth away with a wet ”pop”, moving down to the other breast.

then he starts kissing on your belly, going even lower to your inner thigh.

he rubs his cheek on it before taking a deep breath, inhaling you.

”y-ya smell so g-good”, he says, in awe.

then he licks. a tortuously long stripe on your folds. he repeats it, like he’s savoring you. remmick licks his lips, moaning. ”never tasted anything better”, he says.

then his mouth crashes onto you. he’s definitely never done it before. he’s just aimlessly flicking his tongue on your folds, not even close to your clit.

he’s moaning loud while eating you. at one point he’s drawing circles with his tongue, then he’s moving up and down. it’s like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to taste.

he doesn’t seem go get tired at all, continuing for over ten minutes, lips smacking wetly on your cunt.

he’s slurping loud, drooling all over you. there’s a puddle under you, and it’s not your squirt.

”stop!” you whine, already getting frustrated. you feel violated, but almost more than that you feel embarrassed for him.

remmick just huffs, continuing eating you. his whole face is buried against your cunt, nose almost rubbing your clit. he can’t seem to locate it, though.

”d-did ya come?” he asks you.

you could laugh. you don’t, though. the situation is way too messed up. it would be funny if it was consensual.

but him eating you just feels unpleasant. too wet.

remmick lets out a groan, smushing his face even harder against your folds. it’s like he’s starving.

his hands are spreading you open, fingers squeezing your flesh, surely bruising. he wears a ring on one finger, leaving a mark on your soft skin.

it’s been twenty minutes and he still hasn’t found your clit.

you’re crying, grossed out and tired. you wish he’d just leave you alone. but he won’t, obviously.

”that feel good, baby?” remmick asks you, sliding his tongue on your entrance.

you shake your head with teary eyes.

remmick ignores you and pushes his tongue inside your cunt, twirling it around your soft walls, moaning loud.

as he withdraws his tongue and goes back to eating you he finally touches your clit.

you flinch.

he notices.

”y-ya like that?” he asks you.

you don’t respond.

remmick keeps his tongue pressed against your clit, drawing circles.

you let out a soft moan, unwilling.

”aww, i love hearin’ ya”, remmick says.

he starts eagerly sucking on your clit, closing his lips around it.

you whimper and squirm, but he’s holding you down.

you really don’t want to cum.

remmick suddenly decides to do something more, shoving two thick fingers inside you as he sucks on your clit.

you mewl, trying to free yourself from the restraints.

remmick starts pumping his fingers in and out of you, your now wet cunt leaking a bit on his fingers.

then it happens, the thing you’ve been dreading. you squirt on him.

remmick moans, swallowing every drop of your fluids.

then he goes back to your clit.

you squirt some more, wetting his face. remmick moans, drinking your squirt.

you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release. you try to stop it, try to distract yourself. but you can’t.

you cry as your orgasm is ripped from you, crashing through you in waves. your legs are shaking.

remmick notices, giving your clit a soft kiss.

”i made ya cum, ain’t i?” he says, proudly.

he stays between your legs, his red eyes wandering to your other hole.

”ye’re so pretty down here”, he says, gently rubbing his thumb on your asshole.

”not there, please!” you whimper.

remmick ignores you as he spits onto you, leaning in. he gently licks your hole, staring to draw circles with his tongue.

you whimper and squirm, it feels uncomfortable.

remmick keeps flicking his tongue on your hole, moaning.

then he shoves his tongue inside. you mewl. he starts twirling his tongue around the soft walls of your hole, drooling all over you.

you squirt again.

remmick chuckles and keeps going, seemingly more confident now.

he pushes his tongue even deeper, making you cry out.

he keeps going until you’re trembling, a puddle of squirt and drool under you.

then he finally stops.

he kisses your hole and your inner thigh, then he starts moving upwards with constant kisses on your skin.

he reaches your lips and forces his mouth on you, eagerly licking into you.

he’s slobbering all over your mouth while kissing you, grossing you out.

his stench is making you nauseous, you feel like you want to throw up.

old, dried-up sweat mixed with fresh sweat and blood. he’s musky, the smell is baked into his skin.

you gag. he doesn’t care, doesn’t stop kissing you. his breath also stinks, it’s like he doesn’t brush his teeth. you imagine all the people he’s killed.

he finally parts with your lips with a loud smack and a thin line of drool connecting your mouths.

”i wanna make ya cum again”, he says.

”no, please just stop, i’m tired”, you whine.

”okay, baby, in the mornin’ then”, remmick cooes.

he unties you. you start immediately squirming and trying to hit him, but he cages you into his arms, not letting you move an inch.

you gag again, his sweaty armpit is right on your face.

”let me go!” you mumble, gagging.

”shh”, remmick cooes, petting you, giving you kisses on the forehead.

”sleep, baby”, he says.

you can’t sleep. his stench is driving you insane, you’re way too hot and every time you close your eyes you see him on top of you, raping you.

you just cry silently against his chest until he falls asleep, snoring loud.

you try squirming away, but he’s holding you tight even in his sleep.

you squirm harder, forcing his arms off you.

remmick wakes up.

”baby.. ya wanna go again, is that it?” he asks you, rolling on top of you. he kisses you then, clumsy and wet.

”no, no!” you whine.

but he doesn’t listen as he starts rubbing his thumb on your clit.

here we go again.

Remmick towers over you, knees locking your hips into place in the dust below. His eyes shine like rubies in candlelight - burning red hot. They have been locked on you since he toppled you to the ground, since he ripped your shirt open and basked in the scent of your sweat. A panicked sweat, etched around the curves of your stomach, in the creases of your neck, and the plane of your brow. You looked so beautifully fearful under him, so fully taken over by shaken woe. He loves the way your pupils ripple when his clawed fingers trace down your stomach. Even more so, he loves the shocked scream he receives when he rips your trousers in two, leaving you on full display under the moonlight.

A perfect table – set just for him. A decadent meal, wrapped pretty in tears and gasping pants.

Your pleas met empty ears as your hands pressed to his chest, never faltering his weight. You put up a fight, slashing your nails over his chest, across his face or any piece of skin that can find purchase. But he simply watches, blinking slowly, grin wrapped up in a promise of hurt.

His fangs shine when he shifts over you, coughing up a ball of spit, he directs it into his palm. He rubs the thickened saliva around his thumb, middle, and forefingers, making sure to keep the movements directly in your sight.

“Don’t ya move, pretty thing. I’ll only slice ya apart if ya do.” His voice vibrates, coated in darkness deeper than the inky depths outside. A demon takes over his words, a demon with the threat of promise.

Claws trace past your opening first, sharp and cold. You jerk, knees swift as they crash into the small of his back. He rocks with the impact but doesn’t stop. A wicked, wet laugh exits his throat between clenched teeth.

“Do that again and I’ll be sure to shred ya apart.” A slicked finger presses inside of you.

You felt the claws first as they entered you, threatening to break skin with any movement you weren’t supposed to make. Suddenly, your body froze, wrapped in time, sickened and pained. The saliva on his fingers washed your walls perfectly, giving a slight barrier for his nails. Once his knuckles enter you though, that’s when the sensation rises. You shudder, feeling the cold connection of skin over the most sensitive parts inside you. Mouth dropping open, you gasp a breath. This time though, it wasn’t in fight. The claws scrape just some as his fingers deepen inside of you, pressing dangerously, before he stills them. You clench, pulsing around his fingers but not moving. Though you wanted to fight.

You suck in a breath as he arches down, leaning face to face with you in an instant. His breaths wash over your face, filling your nose with smoke and sin. With iron and meat. He snickers, low and heavy.

“You like when my nails dig past your walls, don’t you?” He arches down more, connecting his tongue to your jaw. Inch by inch, his pointed tongue laps up the skin, sloping over to wrap around your ear. “You want me to fuck you with these claws, don’t ya? Want to be so scared of me ripping you apart, but also makin’ ya feel so good. Dirty little fuckin’ slut, just for me.”

He pulls his fingers back, savoring the way your walls quiver with the lack of touch. The growl that enters your ear is animalistic, shaking your core hot. He dives his fingers back in, pressing up, rubbing that perfect spot inside of you as his mouth trails wet down your neck, ending right in the crook. Your hips buck, delving those fingers deeper. You feel the etch of one nail press into the skin before it just barely cuts you inside.

You yelp, the tears finally trail down your face as the pain shoots all over. It’s not agonizing or crippling. It just adds to the sensation inside of you. Now with every withdrawal, your walls shudder, but also burn.

And fuck. It feels so good.

You could hear the slick of the spit as his fingers pump inside you at a slow, calculated pace. You also heard the blood as it mixed, as it accented those movements, as it filled your senses.

The heated tip of his tongue flicks over the arch of your neck as he fucks you, nuzzling his nose into the skin there. He savors the feeling of your heart as it pumps blood frantically through the vein in your neck.

“Fuck, baby. You are just so perfectly ready for me,” he praises, voice still toxic and evil.

You clench around him as his pace quickens, rubbing you so perfectly inside. His other hand splays over your chest, anchoring you down.

“Don’t move, this'll only hurt a little.” He sinks his teeth into your neck.

The feeling was searing hot, but somehow, ice cold. You felt the etched curves of each tooth puncture your skin, felt the barrier give way and pop under the pressure. The pain lit your eyes, shooting white silky blurs in your vision. You cry out a shattered breath, but that only deepens the suction.

His movements inside of you never cease, actually, they become more frantic as he steadily begins drinking. The sound of him slurping and the wetness of you being finger-fucked was all too much. You cry. Weep even. But that doesn’t stop him. And that doesn’t stop the undeniable pleasure you feel as his fingers curve into your walls.

He was taking what was his with no permission. He was claiming and worshiping his property, the way HE wanted to. You were his pawn, his plaything. And you weren’t going anywhere now.

He only detaches from your neck to draw back once again, hovering over you.

“Open,”

Your eyes widen at his demand. You crease your lips tight, sharpening your glare at him.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth.” His hand whips to your jaw, gripping it with unyielding strength. The tips of his nails embed into the skin, breaking it open as his knuckles press painfully into your gums through your cheeks.

You gasp, mouth gaping only to get relief from the pain. He growls before he spits a hot, melted glob of spit into your tongue. It tasted of salt, blood, and sweat. It tasted sweet but coated in dirt.

“Swallow it.” His grip stayed iron on your jaw, red eyes blazing with demand.

You swallow, tasting it as it slides down your tongue and slithers down your throat. He gives a satisfied purr and in turn, pumps his fingers inside you again.

That’s the game he plays with you. Sucking from your neck, drawing out the pain. Then fucking you so expertly with those fingers that suddenly the pain felt good. Against yourself, against everything you knew to be true, you felt yourself building. You found yourself getting drunk from the feeling, from the pain and pleasure. From the spit he drives into your mouth with every pull back. With the noises of pleasure he made himself.

You sob as your orgasm rocks through you, as you give him what he wanted all along. You. All of you. Pure and simple and raw.

“Filthy fuckin’ thing.” He breathes against your neck, slipping his nose over the bloody holes his teeth made in the crook. “Now let’s see how that pretty little hole takes my cock, shall we?”