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polaris-daydreams · 12 days ago

Text

FILTHY

pairing | ramsay bolton x reader

summary | the new-made lord wants a bath

warnings | 18+ MDNI, mentions of flaying, preestablished situationship that's on hold (lol), reader is a servant, could be ooc but idk i tried, ramsay is a bitch and you shouldn't trust anything he says OR DOESN'T SAY ever, spellchecked but that's it cause #yolo

word count | 2.0k

A strand of hair clung to your forehead, sweat slick from countless trips up and down the steep steps of Winterfell. Your biceps ached as you heaved the bucket onto the tub’s edge, palms burning from the raw bite of its thin, rusted handle.

Blowing the hair from your face, you glared across the room. “You’re enjoying this.”

Ramsay grinned from where he lounged on his bed. He was dressed in nothing but a thin robe, tied loose enough to expose much of his pale chest, marred by slashing scars.

His body was nothing you hadn’t seen before. Nothing you hadn’t mapped with your tongue.

And yet he captivated you still.

“My lord,” he corrected. “You’re enjoying this, my lord.”

Your teeth gritted.

Would it be wrong, you wondered, to cross the room and dump the bucket’s contents over his head? The water was near boiling. Perhaps it would burn his pretty face off, melting the stupid spell he had over you.

Or perhaps it would end with you strung up in the dungeon, skin kissed by a flaying blade...

Tilting the bucket, you hoped the steady splash of water might drown your thoughts. The tub was nearly full now. You would be able to leave Ramsay’s rooms after this – so long as my lord didn’t take issue with the temperature (again).

Five times you had been made to fill and drain then fill the tub again.

Five times you had resisted the urge to smack Ramsay upside his head.

When the last drop had dripped, you set the bucket aside to assess the water’s temperature with your fingertips. Instantly, tension released from your muscles. It felt nice – not so cold as he claimed the first bath to be, not so hot as the third, and nicer than any bath you had ever taken.

You dried your hand on your apron. “Better,” you told him stiffly.

Ramsay swung his legs off the side of his bed. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

He waited until he was in front of you, on the other side of the tub, to undo his robe and let it slide from his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Good for gripping and biting and–

Ramsay stepped into the tub. You fought to keep your eyes on his – pale and violent, yet oh-so pretty, like ice gleaming on the surface of a lake. Water lapped at the tub’s edge as he moved a foot throughout it, assessing the temperature for himself. The sound was a siren song, urging coaxing begging you to look down. You didn’t want to. You did want to. Your mouth salivated at the thought of what you would see, the flat plain of his stomach and the impressive length between his legs.

As if able to read your mind, Ramsay smirked at you before lowering into the water. “Tepid,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll make do.”

Make do. He’ll make do, you thought incredulously.

Most days, you and other servants were expected to sponge off with leftover dishwater. Others, your Lord Roose Bolton might allow you each a bucket from the kennels, whatever the hounds hadn’t drank before having their water refreshed. The former left your skin dry and smelling sour, while the latter left it sticky with drool.

You would kill for one of the clean, oil-scented baths enjoyed by nobles – tepid or not.

With your arms crossed behind your back, you fisted the thin linen of your dress. “I am glad it meets your standards,” you made yourself say.

“That’s not even close to what I said.”

“But if it pleases you,” you ignored him, snatching the bucket up by its handle, “I will be taking my leave for the night.”

You made it no more than a step backwards from him when he began to tut. “You think you’re done?” he asked, amused. “You forget yourself. This is Winterfell, little pet – and I am to be the Warden of the North someday.” As if you could forget… the smug bastard reminded you daily. “Do you truly think wardens are meant to trouble themselves with tasks so menial as bathing?”

“If a man can be trusted to ward the North,” you said tiredly, “then surely he can be trusted to scrub his own balls.”

If Ramsay was another lord – his father, or even the patient Lord Eddard Stark – you would face punishment for speaking out of turn. Lord Roose might’ve even yanked the forked tongue straight from your mouth, plopping it into a jar of vinegar to decorate his council room.

But Ramsay was not Roose, nor Eddard.

Ramsay found humor in insolence.

Grinning, he said, “Oh, but you’re so much better at it.” He swiped the sponge off the bath tray set up beside the tub, holding it out to you like a gift. You only stared at it. Impatience sprouted like weeds between his teeth. “Would you like me to say please?”

You would.

“Don’t bother.” You dropped the bucket with a loud clang, adjusting your skirt to kneel beside the tub. “I worry the word might burn your tongue.” And who would tend to that wound if not you? And how quickly would your resolve falter that close to his mouth, his lips, the sharp points of his teeth?

Ramsay ignored your snark. But as you took the sponge from his hand, your fingertips grazing his palm, he said, “Good girl.”

There was a sudden tightness in your gut.

You assured yourself it was due to loathing – not lust.

Ignoring him as he had done you, you dipped the sponge in the water – careful to avoid looking at anything, ahem, important – and wrung it out before grabbing his favorite cypress soap off the bath tray. When the sponge was thoroughly lathered with fresh-scented bubbles, you tapped the back of Ramsay’s shoulder a bit harder than necessary.

“Lean up.”

“My lord,” he corrected again, even while doing as you commanded.

Ramsay’s back was as impressive as his front. Well-muscled from years of archery and hunting with his hounds. Still pale, still flecked with scars – some deep and vicious, from prey with a bit more fight in them; others long and sensual, from pets like you or Myranda.

There were freckles on his back, too. Cute, dainty – words that couldn’t be used to describe Ramsay Snow Bolton in any other way. Soap waterfalled over them as you scrubbed between his shoulder blades, your mind drifting to nights spent beneath his sheets. How often had you laid awake, trying to count each one amidst the soft hum of his snores? How often had you traced a finger from one to the next, mapping them into constellations more beautiful than any maester had discovered?

You had thought you would marry him, once. Imagined babes with dark hair growing into smiles that were all teeth, their pale skin spotted with stars. Not so crazy a dream, once… A bastard marrying a serving girl was no queer thing, after all. It happened all the time.

But now he was a lord.

Your lord.

“Either I’m filthy,” Ramsay said, disrupting the haze that had fallen over you, “or you’re distracted. Are you admiring your handiwork?” In truth, you couldn’t tell which of the claw marks had come from you, Myranda, or any of the other girls Ramsay had taken to bed.

Could he tell? You hoped so – and hated yourself for it.

“You had it right the first time,” you said, stiff and awkward, with a familiarity not befitting a lord and his servant. “You are filthy.”

He chuckled. “Then perhaps you should bathe me more often.”

A smile twitched at your lips, rinsing the soap from his back with cupped hands. “It’s not your body that needs cleansing.” It was his mind, his mouth, his hands – especially his hands, pristinely groomed, yet stained bone deep with the lifeblood of every man, woman, and child who had met his flaying knife. “There isn’t enough soap in the world to make you pure.” Nor any title that can change what you are.

Tommen Baratheon’s decree might have legitimized Ramsay, given him a name to match his blood, but in the eyes of a trueborn lord? A bastard was a bastard from birth ‘til death, no matter the scribblings of a boy king. If Fat Walda bore Roose a son, he would be named heir – and as for Ramsay? There would be only two options: death or the Wall. And while the bastard looked swell in black, you knew he would swear no oath to the Nights Watch.

When you were done rinsing, Ramsay leaned back and laid his arms along the side of the tub. He watched as you wet the sponge again. He looked calm – a façade betrayed by the subtle tap tap tap of his index finger.

“Would you like me better if I were pure?”

Your eyes widened.

“Servants aren’t meant to hold such opinions of their lord,” you managed evenly. The sponge was already well lathered, but you coated it with more soap anyway, avoiding Ramsay’s stare.

He snorted. “We both know you hold no shortage of opinions.”

“Such as?”

“You think I should wash my own balls, to start.”

“That’s not an opinion,” you argued. “It’s fact. Do you think Eddard Stark needed someone to bathe him below the waist? Or how about his son?” The Young Wolf, they had called him. “That one died a king,” you said, “yet I’d bet my last coin no servant ever had to scrub his cock.”

The water rippled as Ramsay shrugged. “Perhaps that’s why they failed to hold Winterfell. Too much time spent polishing the ole sweaty jewels rather than ruling the lands they were given.” You could hear the smile in his voice, lazy and cruel. “Or perhaps they just fools, cut down by smarter, more worthy men.”

“Is that what you are now?” you asked without thinking. “A smarter, more worthy man?”

You cursed yourself for looking at him then, for noticing how his eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. He was offended. Hurt, even – or as hurt as someone like him could be. Was I not smart before? he refused to ask. Did you, too, not consider me worthy?

But then he blinked, all childish vulnerability faded into a look of trained boredom.

“I changed my mind. A servant shouldn’t hold opinions of their lord – they’re too stupid to be trusted.”

His words coiled in your chest, a barbed serpent around your heart.

You knew better than to get upset. It was the nature of hurt things, after all, to hurt those around them. And who was more adept at getting under the skin than a pretty boy with sharp teeth, death on his heels and power at his fingertips?

Squaring your shoulders with a deep breath, you set the sopping sponge on the bath try. “Apologies, my lord, but I’m afraid I’m in no position to be of further use to you tonight. I will fetch another servant to–”

Ramsay caught you by the wrist as you stood up, intending to escape. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub from the force of his movement. Your skin burned where he touched you. Not like fire, hot with bubbling blisters – but like frostbite, a cold sting burrowing underneath your flesh.

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “If I wanted another servant, I would call for one myself.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Slowly, Ramsay loosened his hold on your wrist.

Even slower, he let go completely.

“You’ll stay.” He grabbed the sponge off the bath tray and began scrubbing his own chest. “If not to wash my balls, then to provide entertainment.” There was stiffness in his voice that undermined his humor, his command.

No title will change him, you thought, sadness pulling at your heartstrings.

He would always be a bastard with no friends, save for those he forged out of suffering and pain, cruelty wrapped in deceptive adoration. No amount of power would ever purge his need for acceptance. No victory would ever eradicate the loneliness in his bones.

There would be no marriage. No babes with dark hair and star-flecked skin.

But Ramsay was still Ramsay, and you had never been any good at denying him what he wanted.

You knelt back down beside the tub. “Entertain you how?” you asked.

He began to grin.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

super sick bolton divider made by @/valyrianvibranium !!

a/n | i'm of the belief that after the cut ramsay pulls her into the bath, fully clothed, and the rest of their night is actually just smutty and as cute as a night with ramsay can get. definitely doesn't last beyond the night tho - reader is for sure gonna end up dog food at some point. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

anyways, thanks for reading! and an extra special thanks to @polaris-daydreams for being my newest mutual to yap about ramsay and theon with lmao🫶

#IM LITERALLY GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL RITE NOW AHAHA #BUT TRUST I WILL READ THIS QHEN IM HOME #or at school later who knows we ball #HEHE IM SOO GIDDY TO READ THIS YALL DONT EVEN KNOW #to read later #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton

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polaris-daydreams · 12 days ago

Text

"Ain’t that cute. Don’t even need my help, now."

"Gonna have to do it yourself this time, sweetheart."

"Then, stop, sweet girl."

A low laugh.

"It’s alright, angel."

sab im only at the beginning n im alr hot n bothered. somebody sedate me. all those sweet sweeeet nicknames, guiding n commanding reader, controlling their orgasms, mean n mocking n laughing.

“You been dreaming of me, sweetness?” He asks while leaving graceful kisses along your thighs. Trailing closer and closer. He doesn’t let you respond before he acts.

gawdihatehim. why is he so hot. sab you write him so hot. those words ?? the petname ?? while hes kissing up reader's thighs ??

“Go ahead, dove. Show me how you want it.” Hesitantly, you use his dark curls to guide his head. He chuckles only once into you. “Fuckin’ filthy girl, usin’ my tongue to feel good.”

remmick encouraging reader to pull on his hair, being rough w him n using him for their pleasure. imsogood.

He growls, “Keep ‘em open, girl.” The roughness of his tone matches the pace of his fingers. “Eyes, too. Want you to watch me when I make you come all over my face.”

ordering reader to keep their eyes on him while he makes them cum. deceased.

His hands, much larger than yours, just barely wrap around it. “Come here, pretty girl,” he says as he begins to stroke it with his palm.

“I’m gon’ ruin you,” he says towards the sky before looking back down at you. “And I’m gon’ be so gentle, you won’t even realize ‘til it’s done.”

pretty girl !! and his dirty talk AAAA. such sinful words spoken with soft reverance.

“Miss me when I was away?” Remmick chuckles as he pants. Not once do his movements slow or falter.

You nod rapidly, eyes squeezing shut because, even as he fucks you right there like he’d been doing it his whole life, the mere girth of him is still too much to bear. “You w-were gone for s-so long.”

“Oh, I know, darlin’,” Remmick half coos.

this was so HOT PLEASEEEE ??? his cocky teasing had me screaming inside. omg.

im doing backflips. this was so fkn good sab ??? all the religious themes n imagery. right up my alley. using the hivemind system to get into reader's head. so well done. ohmygoodness. literally had my eyes glued on my screen and my mind locked in on each line. this fic read like poetry !!! the structure, the dialogue. chefs kiss honestly. thank you for writing 🩷🩷

ALSO ALMOST FORGOT : the part where remmick pushes reader into the water immediately brought me back to the sammie baptism scene :OO

in the river to pray

remmick x f!reader

SUMMARY: He laid his claim on you that first night. Weeks later, he comes to take what’s his, leaving his own curse upon your soul.

WC: 10.2k

WARNINGS: dub-con themes, religious themes/religious guilt, fingering, vampirism (death, blood, transition), minor blood play, use of hive mind, violent/brutal death scene, descriptive language, marking/claiming, minor angst, smut (18+ ONLY); masturbation, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), crying, choking, slight size kink, slight dumbification, squirting, creampie, cockwarming

A/N: my first official and original remmick one shot, and i was very inspired by thestrals from hp. i had to change it up a little, but i think it works :) i've never written this many words and idk if i will again but i had fun writing this! there’s a lot of people to thank for this so here we go: thank you to all @flixpii, @madkingcrowley, @confetti-cakemix, and @jaythewriter for beta reading, your enthusiasm meant the world! thank you to @iceemochaa, @vcmpbyt, @matrixfangs, @sinandguilt, and @eternalstrigoii for encouraging me to even write this!! i’ve definitely missed someone, i had so much help/motivation during the month it took me to write this. enjoy!

visualizer | masterlist

thestral a magical species that can only be seen by those who have witnessed death

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated! this post is 18+ only. minors do not interact.

It came like a whistle in the wind, bending to the will of the trees surrounding your home.

A phantom. A shadow looming outside your window. A presence at the threshold, ingraining itself to your soul while it waited.

Sweet Lamb.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d tell your father what plagued you. Beg him to take you to the preacher. Beg the preacher to free you from this torment. Beg the Lord to forgive you because you’ve been dreaming of sins.

And it felt so good.

Eventually, you let it in. Stood there at your door looking as if you’d seen a ghost.

There’s a warmth beside you in your bed now, tracing over your body and snaking towards your legs. It knows you like a second skin. Knows just where to touch, where to pull.

You feel me, don’t you?

Eyes dancing over the darkness of your room found nothing. No one.

It spreads to the curve of your thighs, reaching higher than you knew was right. Tendrils that slip past the nightgown that covers you, leaving you bare, but never cold. The warmth stays. Pressed to you so close that you almost believe its words.

You’re not alone.

Never alone. Not when you felt it reaching that inner depth, swirling around the center of you so deliciously.

You opened yourself to it. That gentle force that rocks your core until you’re left babbling back. “I feel you,” you whisper. “I want more.” It laughs back.

More, darlin’? Anything for an angel.

That pressure over your sweet bud strengthens, and it leaves you blooming. Flames of hell ignite across your skin. But it burns so delightfully. Your legs spread even further.

“Fuck,” you let out in a breath. Cursing like you never had before.

The burning turns into a searing. Iron branded on your skin. “I-I’m…”

I know. Let it out all over me. Let the Lord hear you.

You gasp at a sting near the base of your neck, a gentle nip into your skin. Jaw slacked open. Chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. A sense of heaven washing over you like a pulse as the sheets turned soaked beneath you.

The blanket tangled around your leg fluttered, but there was no turn of the air in your room. And you felt the warmth slowly disappear.

Ghostly fingers trailing down your skin until you were cold again. But still, you weren’t alone.

Let him send you down with me.

Your eyes shoot open. And suddenly, you’re sickened with clarity.

A nightmare. A dream. Everything you wanted felt so good to take, and in doing so, you’d surely damned your own soul.

You’re a woman possessed. Forget your father, and the preacher. No one could save you now from the demon that’d pulled you under. Water and guilt filling up your lungs.

You lay awake that night.

The moon bleeds silver light onto your floor boards. Your eyes turn red as you watch, waiting to feel another warmth again. But it never comes. You waited. So still you probably looked dead.

Deep down, there was something you’d never confess:

It was the most alive you ever felt.

The next morning, you wake with the memory of it and dried remnants of a slick between your legs. The smell of sweat in the air. The sound of a voice whispering into your ear forever etched into your mind.

You rise from your bed almost drunkenly. Intoxicated with sin. The ground doesn’t feel right underneath you, as if you’re floating an inch above it.

Something churns in your stomach. Rapid footsteps to the bathroom sink are still soft so as not to wake your father.

You lurch over the basin and gag, but nothing comes out.

The sink croaks as cold water spurts. You splash onto your skin, hoping to remove the remaining flush on your cheeks. Evidence of your crime.

And that’s when you see it. Staring at your crazed reflection in the mirror.

Upon your neck. Almost completely imperceptible.

Two minuscule bumps, red, warm, and tender to the touch. They could somewhat pass as mosquito bites, but you knew well of what it was. The devil had left his mark on you.

You don’t sleep at night.

When the sun sets, it shuts its eye on your tranquility. And the demon threatens to appear again. You pull the covers to your chest and lay flat against your bed. You moved your bed to the corner. Lets you see all of the dark around you, not a spot to be missed.

Sometimes, you think it’s come. A slight breeze from the hall or a creak in the floor.

But it never did. No ghost harnessing itself to you.

Your eyes only drift shut at the earliest peek of dawn. You only wake when the air turns hot in the late morning.

The days remain the same. You run to the town to get groceries. You ride your bike past the bridge. You braid the choir girls’ hair.

The other young women in town are engaged, or already married. Swept away as soon as they were old enough. But you find peace in solitude. At least, you tell yourself you do.

You think nothing of the night two weeks ago.

And how it knew how to speak to you. How to feel you. How to provoke every part of you that you denied yourself.

It took you in a chokehold.

And you begged it to continue.

When the memories crept to the front of your mind, you pushed them back like it had never even happened. But you were denying yourself.

And for what? Glory?

What could be more glorious than the way that warmth opened you? The spirit of something beyond the world you knew—settling inside your heart, riddling you with curses and sinful reveries.

You sauntered through the front door somewhat like a ghost yourself. Stomach still full from an early supper. Sweat clinging hair to your skin.

Outside, half the sun casted a golden glow across the land. The boots on your feet were suddenly heavy as you passed the hall.

“Is that you?” Your father calls out.

You stop in your tracks. The radio plays a gravelly broadcast of a song your mother used to sing.

He sits in his armchair. He won’t let you leave until you’ve come and said goodnight. And promise to pray. “How was your walk?” He calls out once you stand in the doorway.

“Fine,” you say breathily. “The ferns are growing in double this year. And the honeysuckles smell sweeter.”

Your father hums. It’s silent for a long moment. You hope there’s nothing else to be said.

Until he speaks again.

“Are you alright?”

Maybe he really did know you better than you thought. Maybe he’d know this whole time of how you’d disgraced yourself. Ruined. Maybe he’d overheard you that night, realized it was lust laced in your voice.

Or maybe he could see the devil in your eyes right there as you glared at him in silence. “Of course, I am, daddy.” His face softens.

You haven’t called him that in years.

“Well…I just worry, is all.” He pats the armrest once. “You look like you ain’t slept a lick.”

A smile twitches across your mouth. The hair around your face is dry now, strung out in different directions.

You look like a mad woman.

Perhaps you are.

“I’m fine, daddy.” The song on the radio ends. “I promise.”

You turn back to the hall. Your father doesn’t speak another word.

The sky turns dark outside your window And the routine begins. Exchange the cotton dress you’d stolen from your mother’s wardrobe, untouched for years, with a nightgown hemmed with lace. Rinse your face—let the water into your eyes because you’re too afraid to close them.

Pull the covers to your chest. Lay like you’re on your deathbed. Waiting. For too long you watch the moonlight shift throughout the night.

But it wasn’t your fear keeping you awake.

It was the addicting taste of temptation. Of lust again. And it tasted of sweat, tears, and something ancient that you couldn’t place.

Your skin felt the air thicken first. Then, your heart.

And you heard it again.

Left you aching for more, didn’t I?

You would’ve gasped if your chest hadn’t suddenly locked in fear. Your eyes darted across the room.

Nothing. No gentle breeze.

Though the voice continued, you felt no warmth like before. You were alone.

“You’re in my fuckin’ head,” you whispered.

I’m everywhere inside you, lamb.

You thickly swallowed.

“Why come back?”

How couldn’t I? When you tasted so sweet?

Your bones turned to butter. Melting right back into the bed just like you had that night. The mere mention of what you’d felt…

Gonna have to do it yourself this time, sweetheart.

Eyes closed, your brows furrowed as you mindlessly slid your hand down your stomach, hovering just above your mound. “I don’t know how.”

Sure, you do. Just do as I say.

A beat. An invitation. One that you accepted.

Put your fingers where I had mine.

Your middle finger touched yourself first. Landed perfectly over that pearl. Your pulse throbbed into your hand as your fingers slid through your folds and gathered your slick.

“Oh- fu-uck,” your voice trailed off, determined to stay quiet again.

That’s it, angel. I’d have you screamin’ if I was there.

Without a command, you dug your palm into your clit. Bucked your hips involuntarily, leaving the springs underneath your mattress squeaking.

You heard its chuckle.

Ain’t that cute. Don’t even need my help, now.

“Don’t leave,” you pant quietly. Fingers rubbing over as much of you as possible.

You remember that night, don’t you?

What I did to you…how it felt.

You nodded. Your entire figure shook under your own touch. To be in control of your pleasure was an indescribable power. With your eyes shut, the memories still burned into your mind begin to guide your hands.

The tip of your finger prods your hole. Traces the velvety opening just past the brim, collecting a warm wetness that reaches your palm.

Taste it.

You hesitate. Put your fingers into the light and watch them glisten with your own sin.

Go ahead, dove.

Its words beckoned you like an inner calling. You do as you're told. You bring your hand to your mouth—still hesitant—before brushing over your tongue. Your lips involuntarily tighten around your finger.

The flavor isn’t anything you’ve had before. A strange taste of what it meant to feel good. To defy what you’d been told was wrong.

To be right.

You didn’t care if it was sinning. And you didn’t care if this temptation was dragging you down. You want this pleasure forever, to feel it sink into your bones.

Without command, you pressed your hand to your cunt again. The heat of the sun in your hold. You don’t hesitate anymore. Push not one, but two fingers inside.

A moan—soft but deep like it came from the very core of you—escapes past your lips. Your other hand flies to cover your mouth.

Well, if that ain’t the most heavenly thing I heard.

So, you don’t stop.

Instead, you huff heavy, muffled breaths into your palm as your other hand works inside you. The sound of your own slick nearly echoes across the room, even under your gown and blankets.

Curl ‘em, just gently. Want you to feel what I feel.

You curl your fingers upward, your back arching at the pleasure. Your chest falls heavy as you try to breathe quietly. It chuckles at you.

You close to it, ain’t you?

You rapidly nod. A subtle shake to your legs because you hardly imagine your hand as your own anymore.

Say it.

“I—” you sputter out, louder than you’d intended. You were desperate for that feeling again—the one that left you trembling in the dark and questioning your own sanity.

You don’t feel crazy anymore. And if you are, then so be it. “I’m so fuckin’ close.”

Now, you’ll do as I say, yeah?

The voice has changed, and you only notice it now. It’s still the same deep tone that whispered sins to you like lullabies, but there’s a drawl—it matches yours.

You nod again. “Y-Yes.” A heat builds up around your hand. It’s coming, and you softly smile at the thought of it.

Then, stop, sweet girl.

You don’t know how you obeyed. Pulling your hand away from you, instantly feeling empty despite the fire coursing through your blood. So close, and yet so far. The euphoric feeling ripped from you like a threat.

“No!” Your other hand shoots straight to your mouth. You pray your father has drunk himself to sleep tonight.

A low laugh.

It’s alright, angel.

“Please.” It comes out muffled through your palm. Your cheeks burn, a single, cold tear sliding down them. Your fingers inch towards your cunt again.

Now, don’t go ruinin’ it, darlin’. Only one who’s gon’ have you shakin’ is me.

The only thing ruined was your impending release.

You do as I say.

But you don’t listen anymore.

Dig the heel of your palm into your cunt again.

It continued to urge you, command you, to stop. But without the force of it upon your body this time, you saw no threat.

“I told you,” you say quietly. “You’re just in my head. A fuckin’ curse draggin’ me to hell. But I don’t care anymore.”

It makes a sound like a sneer. A test. A bit more temptation. Amused at the sight of you now grinding your hips into your own hand, chasing after that desperation again.

Oh, sweet lamb. I’ll do more to you than that.

It coos as your brows furrow. Your veins are hit with waves of shock, leaving you whining into the sheets. A warmth runs over your hand—that feeling again. And this time, guilt doesn’t follow. No overwhelming chaos of regret to salvage what purity was left of you.

You ignore it now. Laugh in a sweaty haze, drunk off of your release, as it whispers its goodbye.

You’ll be beggin’, girl. No one can save you now. No one but me.

You aren’t afraid anymore. At night, you lay in bed with a craving for more, eyes glued to the window like it’ll will the ghost back.

But it never comes.

Three nights pass, and on each, you pull another orgasm with your own hands, the memory of its voice coaxing you through it. It’s not the same as having it speak to you, of folding under its will.

Nevertheless, each night you fall asleep with a blush settled over your cheeks. You stay quiet. Your father doesn’t question you again. He only looks the other way when you walk by. If he knew what you’d been doing in the dark, he would’ve thrown you in hell himself.

You suppose his silence is safe.

And it all goes about the same. Ride your bike into town and near the bridge. Get groceries for dinner. Braid the choir girls’ hair.

You aren’t followed anymore. Nothing lurks nearby. For the first time in weeks, you feel free.

The most rotten and ruined part of you. It felt glorious.

But your own hands weren’t enough to bring that spark back into you. Never like it did. It knew you better than you knew yourself. And since it had made no appearance since the night you defied it, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

Charlie Maywell.

A boy your age who worked down at the mechanics shop. He was rough and dirty and spoke with the grit of men twice his age. Most importantly, he was popular among widows.

He was a whore, to put it bluntly. A sweet one. He never broke hearts or left them weeping in the middle of the night.

He couldn’t hurt you.

It only takes a cigarette and honeysuckle rubbed over your wrists to convince him. You figure he hasn’t been with a girl his age in some time.

Maybe that’s why he looks at you like you’re gold.

He lifts your dress so delicately from your frame, eyes going wide when your tits hit the bare air. He doesn’t spend nearly as much time devoted to you as you would’ve hoped, but you’ll take what you can get.

You would’ve preferred to be in a bed. Not pressed against some wall in a back alley where there’s a slight reek of trash.

You gasp when he ruts into you. It isn’t the stretch you felt before, but you’re not empty anymore. Charlie lifts your leg over his arm and leans in, pressing you closer to the wall.

“God, you feel good,” he says into your ear. It’s not right. It’s not the voice you’ve been imagining every night. The voice you were starting to miss.

“Where can I—?” He looks down. It’d hardly been three minutes.

You aren’t anywhere as close as him.

“You can do it on my leg. Just wait.” You close your eyes shut. Charlie’s hips stagger against yours in restraint, desperate to follow your command.

Behind your shut lids, that night comes back to you like a reflection in the mirror.

You remember its warmth, its force and power over you. How it dragged you underwater and dangled air in front of your face. Only to pull you back up with a breath of a new life.

A taste for more.

Charlie leans over you, the corner of his neck now surrounding you. Too close for your comfort. He groans, “I can’t…”

Your fingers dance over your mound again until they reach your clit. And you work yourself like you never have before. Furiously rubbing over your folds as his cock drilled into you.

Your eyes open at your release. The same moment Charlie pulls from you. Drips all over your bare stomach, and you quickly wipe it off with your dress.

His chest heaves. “Damn,” he lazily smiles, stepping away from you.

You fix your skirt and politely smile. It’s shy, as if you hadn’t just felt the rawest part of him.

You don’t speak to Charlie Maywell again.

He’s there, outside the mechanics shop. Rolling a tire down the street. Fixing a neighbor’s engine. And every time you pass, he looks at you. Nods. You do the same, and that’s all it is. An unspoken agreement.

And it still doesn’t return. No creak in the porch floorboards, no tapping at your window. No voice calling out to you like a starved man with eyes on a feast.

Two days pass, and it becomes a little lonely. Your own hands can’t even satisfy your urges anymore.

Instead, you sleep. Maybe it’s your body’s instinct of replenishing itself from the weeks you spent awake. But anytime a moment turns dull, or your core aches for something you can’t relieve, you shut your eyes.

You don’t dream. It’s nothing but black settled over your surroundings like a cloak of ink. A constant shadow.

It looms.

A heavy fog hangs low above the ground in the morning. Gray like curling smoke. It lines the forest floor outside your window with a thick shield. There’s a veil of condensation over the grass, but you don’t remember it raining.

Strangely, it’s the perfect day. You step one foot outside, stunned to feel the noticeable lack of humidity in the air. Even a gentle breeze.

The middle of July, and the sun doesn’t glare down your neck as you ride into town. Your bike even splashes into a puddle. It’s refreshing against your legs that gently pedal.

The sun never comes out. Not a single piece of the sky peeking from the clouds. It looks like rain again, but you don’t go home.

You go to the market.

Buy the best-looking basket of strawberries. Some sweet cream and honey. The brown paper bag crinkles in your arms back to your bike.

You smile and greet a few neighbors passing by, but the streets are nearly empty. It’s innately peaceful in a way you haven’t felt for a long time.

But still. Something follows.

Branches out around you, twisted with vines and thorns, piercing your skin until it draws blood. You occasionally slow to glance behind you, but there’s nothing. No one.

You take a path down the woods. A paved road that you’ve ridden before. Above you, the trees create a thick canopy. Small droplets filter through the leaves and land lightly on your skin.

The moment is sweet again. But you still can’t shake the haunting feeling of a breath down your neck.

The only way you ground yourself is to the quiet flow of the stream nearby. A flow that soon turned into a gentle rush. The river. You hear the sound of your mother’s voice in your head. It’s a pleasant surprise from the ghostly one that’d been haunting you.

She sings to you.

Oh, brothers, let’s go down. Let’s go down, come on down. Come on, brothers, let’s go down, Down in the river to pray.

Running your small hands inside hers through the water. The riverside, a sandy, muddy space between the water and forest. It gleams in the sun.

You approach the bridge and stop to turn back around on the path. Glance down at the river to see maybe a sliver of sun. But now, it only reflects the murky sky.

And your mother’s voice suddenly stops.

Replaced by another one.

A rough one. Coughing and gasping.

“H-Hey,” it calls out, hoarse but wet. A real voice. Not from a memory or a nightmare.

You peer over the edge of the road. The land gently slopes down. At the bottom, where the bridge meets that patch of sand by the river, something rustles in the leaves.

Slow, careful steps guide you down. The hem of your dress becomes wet from the low-lying fauna.

A figure lays against the brick of the bridge. Below its feet is a trail of burrowed-out, disrupted sand. Like it’d been running and flailing in it.

You’re careful not to slip on the leaves when you hear a soft gargle.

“P-please,” it chokes out, and your feet now rush to the bottom.

Once they touch the sand, they stop. Your body goes cold. Your own heart is motionless in your chest from an overwhelming shock. You don’t hear the river anymore. Your lungs have suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

Blood—an excessive amount—drapes over the sand. It runs down the brick wall, where the body leans.

Charlie Maywell.

He’s nearly unrecognizable from the red coated over his face. His work shirt damp with it, the ends of his hair at his chin crusted. And right underneath, his throat gleamed. Fresh.

Raw.

An open wound gushed blood onto his chest. The same one you had your head against two days ago.

“Oh, God,” his jaw shakes when he sees it’s you. The flesh of his throat bobs with his cry. “P-please. You gotta help me.”

You don’t say anything. Not you as you can’t even take a breath.

There’s too much red. And the stench of it hangs heavy in the air. It even follows the trail in the sand to the river. You’re suffocating.

“Hey, hey,” he coughs out. Somehow, his words are still gentle. “It’s okay. You just gotta—” Charlie sputters. “C-cover it.” He takes his own palm and places it over the wound.

His lips—the ones you’d kissed—shake. “Like this.”

But through the cracks between his fingers, the bleed seeps. It stains the fabric of his sleeve, and you watch the faintest remnant of hope fade from his eyes.

“Please,” he cries.

He’s begging you. He’s listening to his own heartbeat slow.

Charlie shakes his head the best he can with a mangled neck. “N-no, please.” The blood coats his teeth and tongue. It drips down to his chin. “Don’t leave, p-please!”

His voice grows weaker. And you back away. Just a step. You watch his chest rise and fall, and then…nothing. His mouth parts open like a ghoul, eyes wide and lifeless.

You scramble on both hands and feet back up the hill. The leaves slide under your palms.

You reach for the side of the road like it’s an anchor. Pulling you back for air, gasping and clutching onto the asphalt.

The bag of groceries falls to the side when you pull your bike up and swing your leg over the side. The basket of strawberries breaks open, and they tumble down the slope. Red running against the dirt.

Blood seeping into the sand. It’s still there, in your mind, pooling around Charlie’s body like a sadistic grave.

It’s darker now, the clouds now a deep, threatening, angry gray. And the far distance, in the wall of the trees that surrounds the road, two specks of red glow. They don’t move.

They blink.

Your feet move faster than your mind. You follow the path the way you came, wind whistling through your hair. It forces the tears welling up in your eyes to fall. The severity of it all threatens to hit you then.

But you don’t let it. Not until you stumble into your bedroom, your bike left by the front door.

You collapse onto the bed. The scent of fresh honeysuckle and sin is still strong. But even in the quiet of your house, Charlie’s voice rattles in your head.

“Please.”

“Oh, God, no.”

It stays, even after your eyes drift shut.

You wake in the afternoon once the shock dissipates from your system. It’s odd that your father hadn’t shaken you awake for breakfast, but when you saunter into the living room, it’s empty.

He must’ve left for a good day’s work.

Something lingers in the air. It follows you like a ghost. Reeks of death and everything wrong.

You can still smell the blood as you splash your face with cold water. It does little to refresh your mind, because nothing could ever make you forget Charlie’s body by the river.

His voice, begging. His eyes, pleading. His mouth, sputtering blood.

You see it in your own reflection. For a split second, he’s there. Standing behind you, in a crack in the bathroom mirror.

You don't scream or gasp. If he’s there to take your soul, you won’t fight.

There isn’t much to take anymore.

The next second, he’s gone. A blink of an eye, and you’re alone again.

You try to remember what that voice told you:

You’re not alone.

And where was it now? Had you upset it? Had you scared it away? As the day before comes back to you in fragments, you remember the glow of red in the forest.

Watching you like eyes. A predator stalking its prey. You wish it would just attack already.

You walk into town. It takes twice as long, but you can’t stand to look at your bicycle. The dirt road crunches under your boots. Most noticeably, yesterday’s unusual weather hasn’t disappeared.

No beam of hot sun on the back of your neck. No sweat dripping down your cheek.

Just the strangely still air and the weight of fog.

Although it feels like morning for you, the rest of the town continues about their day. The wives sort through the peaches and berries at the market. A clerk signs something off for a truck driver. Children play hopscotch and jump rope on the sidewalk.

Everything is right.

Until something cuts through the air.

A wail—sharp and ear-piercing like it could shatter the windows—comes from outside the police station. All the eyes on the street turn towards it. You stop in your steps.

Because just outside the station, parked on the side of the road, is an ambulance.

You don’t miss a beat. You know what—who—is inside of it. An ambulance is a way of hope, like there’s still a chance for poor Charlie Maywell. But you see it for what it is.

A hearse.

Your lower lip trembles. People on the street begin to murmur.

A woman, with dark hair pinned up into a bun, runs from the station to the ambulance. She sobs as she tries to pull the doors open. She bangs on the windows with her fists.

“Give me my son!” She shouts. A man wraps his arms around her. Pulls her back to the station.

The story lives on to be a legend in the town. How Mrs. Maywell cried for her son in the street that strange gray afternoon. How her husband couldn’t hold her back. How they fell to their knees when they dragged poor Charlie’s body out.

Covered with nothing but a sheet. The slope of his nose piques under it, and below his head, is a horrific splotch of red.

Your eyes dart around you—maybe your guilt is so strong that everyone knows. But the people don’t look at you.

They watch, for a long time, as Mrs. Maywell cries.

“They had to drag her back home.” Mr. Kline says at the bank the next day. Sorting the bills in his hand like he wasn’t holding a thousand dollars.

Eventually, it comes out quick enough for the whole town to know. Charlie Maywell was ripped apart, mangled and mauled. A blood-soaked mess by the time the cops found him. Had his body rotted a few days more, he would’ve been unrecognizable.

Your father only speaks of it once. Hunched over his radio, a beer in his hand. “No more walks. Or bike rides.”

You blink once. Guilt gleams over your eyes, but he can’t bring himself to look at you. You don’t know which one of you failed the other.

“Yes, daddy.”

You kiss the top of his forehead before bed.

Charlie Maywell is buried the following week.

His casket—a big, dark-oak thing—is closed. Covered with white roses and wildflowers. The preacher stumbles over his words, cut off by quick sniffles and long breaths.

At the front, near the altar, and closest to Charlie, sat his father. Alone in the pews with the whole town behind him. Eyes wide, stricken with horror at the floorboards like he’d just seen war.

And perhaps he had.

Perhaps, in some way, you could’ve stopped it. Saved not only Charlie from his fate but his father from this grief.

The choir girls sing. You can’t look at them.

You can’t look at anything other than your hands in your lap. Even if they never had been dirtied, the blood was still on them. A stain of a nightmare come true.

“Please!”

Charlie’s voice still speaks to you like he’s just over your shoulder. His breath still fans against your skin. Then, it comes back to bite.

“Please. You gotta help me.”

The nave shudders, and so do you.

Mr. Maywell leads the walk to the cemetery, a full congregation behind him. Every townsperson gathered to mourn.

Apart from you, who slipped out the back door when the rest crowded at the front. You hid by the side of the church as their footsteps dragged against the sidewalk.

Home is all there is. You walk down the path you know like the back of your hand. The town is tainted now. All of its buildings and people, veiled by a shadow. Forever corrupted by the death of poor Charlie Maywell.

When you reach the porch steps, he is hardly at the back of your mind.

“Don’t leave, please!”

Your palms fly to your ears; you’re drowning in his screams. You rush across the threshold, the screen door hissing behind you. Down the hall, past the kitchen to your room.

It does little to offer comfort now. Your pristine white linens drip red until your mind stops deceiving you.

With the door shut behind you, your back slides down against it until you crouch on the floor. You hug your knees to your chest. In it, your heart races and stammers. No amount of deep breaths or mind games can steady it.

You trade your black cotton dress for your nightgown. The lace lining is something of purity and innocence. It’s wrong to wear it now.

You don’t sleep. You hardly ever close your eyes. The hours pass, and you lie awake with a heavy soul. You imagine them lowering the casket into the earth as Mr. Maywell weeps.

Blood in the sand. Crusted over his skin and hair. His tears leaving two clean streaks through it.

And you walked away.

The memory is pressed into your soul now.

Outside your window, the clouds still blanket the sun and sky. You only realize the evening approaches when it all goes blue. The kind of blue that runs a shiver up your spine.

You didn’t kill Charlie.

You simply left him for dead.

And you don’t try to decide which one is worse. In the end, a young man is dead, and you’re coated in his blood. No matter how many times you’ve scrubbed yourself clean.

Eventually, you’ve sunken into the mattress so far you can feel the wooden beams underneath it. You rise and swing your feet over the side.

There’s dried tears lining your face. You don’t remember crying. You stay there, sitting on the edge of your bed

And then—the whistle in the wind.

Distorted and hushed. But direct, like it was only meant for you.

Sweet lamb.

Your eyes widen.

It’s been weeks since it left you. You’d told yourself it was gone for good. Bid farewell and never looked back.

Yet here it was.

Don’t be afraid. Won’t you come outside?

It possesses you, or some dark corner of your mind that wants to give in. Your feet carry you down the hall and back to the screen door.

You almost gasp.

In the distance, far off across the dirt road where the trees loom over you, a figure stands. You can hardly make out his face through the mesh. The door hisses open as your bare feet step onto the porch.

Slowly. Steadily. Watching him watch you. He’s still too far away, but you’ve never seen this man in town.

The ground is dry and soft beneath your feet as you wander further from your house. Every bone in your body screams at you to go back, but his gaze hasn’t left your body since you appeared in the door.

You approach him close enough that you can see the faintest blue in his eyes. His hair is dark and tousled, falling in uneven strands like he carries the night with him.

The sight of you is something else—hair ruffled from bed, faint bags under your eyes, and a grayer complexion that only came with remorse.

“You poor thing,” he says, a tilted smile on his face.

The sound of his voice floods you with clarity. Your knees almost buckle and your stomach twists because this man—whom you’ve never seen before—is more than familiar.

He emanates an ambiance of warmth, one that you’ve felt before. The very one you ached for when it was gone.

“It’s you.”

The words fall from your lips with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He doesn’t answer you. He doesn’t need to—you feel it in your bones that this man is your ghost. He simply turns on his heel and enters the forest.

You wait for a moment. Frozen like you’re petrified, but strangely, you’re not afraid.

He glances over his shoulder at your figure near the road. Furrows his brows and calls out, “Come on, now. Ain’t nothin’ in the dark besides me.”

And so you follow him. A generous space between the two of you. He doesn’t urge you to hurry. You don’t ask him to stop. The bottom of your nightgown, brown with dirt, brushes against your ankles. You step over fallen branches and roots. They threaten to scratch and pierce your soles, but you never flinch.

You watch him. Treading through these woods like he knew them. And since you do know them, you know where he’s leading you.

The riverside pokes through the gaps between the leaves. The ground turns into a steep decline, and you grasp onto nearby branches for support.

He hears your steps slow and extends his hand to you, “Careful here.”

When you take his hand, the cold of skin runs through your own, spiking your blood and tracing your spine. He smiles at your surprise.

You step over a fallen log and feel soft sand under your feet. Twilight now hangs over you, filtering the forest and the river in a deep blue. The water laps at the shore in small waves.

You saunter towards it. He stays among the tree line, his eyes fixated on you. He waits for you to move.

But you don’t. You stand there, watching how the rising moonlight illuminates the water.

In your gown, you seem like the ghost now.

He silently steps towards you until his hand can reach your sleeve, settling on your shoulder. “You almost look pure in this, dove,” he plays with the lace. “But I didn’t bring you here to be pure.”

Carefully, he bunches the gown and lifts it up to your hips. You instinctively raise your arms so he slides it off of you. The humid air melts against your skin.

His fingers grace the side of your arm. They trail up the skin until they brush your jaw.

“Christ,” he whispers when your eyes meet his.

Your lips part gently, but the words don’t come right away. “What are you?”

He smiles at that. A hint of awe as his eyes drag down your figure. His other hand places itself lightly upon your waist.

“What do you think?” He asks, his eyes quickly meeting yours before taking in your body again. “I thought I was just ‘n your fuckin’ head’.”

He mocks your ambitious words from that night weeks ago.

You swallow thickly, unable to speak.

He leans in closer and audibly inhales through his nose. He smells you. “Do I look like I’m in your head right now, sweetheart?”

Your eyes flutter shut for only a moment. The fabric of his shirt brushed against your bare chest.

“Do I feel like I’m in your head?”

“No,” you breathe. You glance back at him to see his eyes fixated on your neck. He’s nearly caged you in his hold now, and you don’t fight it.

“That’s right.” He nods once.

His cheek touches yours when he smells you again. The grip on your waist grows tighter before his fingers grab your chin.

“You do as I say, yeah?”

You nod. Slipping into obedience like a dog.

His hands shift your body towards the river, resting heavily on your shoulders. The water reaches your toes, cold and fresh. But when you look down at it, you can still see Charlie’s blood flowing along.

“Walk in there, now,” his voice flows gently to your ear. “Don’t look back until you feel me there with ya.”

You don’t move right away. Not even with a gentle nudge of his hands. Hypnotized by the rippling glow of the water, you can feel him waiting. For you.

“You said that no one can save me,” your voice is stronger now, nearly as solid as the rocks lining the river. “No one but you.”

You turn only slightly. He stands in the corner of your eye.

“Save me from what?”

He gently smirks. Not mockingly or even hungrily, but with adoration. A hint of excitement for what’s to come soon.

“You’ll see.”

His hands on your shoulders prompt you towards the river again, and this time, you obey. The sand turns coarse as the water runs deeper. It bites at your skin with every step you take, but you don’t stop.

Not when it chills your inner thighs. Not even when the surface of it reaches the curve of your breast.

Behind you, back on the shore, you can hear something like a shuffling. Metal clinks. Quiet steps track through the sand for only a moment until a splash.

And the entire river shifts. Afraid.

The water is warmer now that you’re acclimated. You run your hands through it and feel it pulse between your fingers.

Then, a breath.

Hot but comforting at your neck. A warmth envelopes you again.

And he chuckles. “Look at me.”

You turn.

His skin is pale under the moonlight. It catches every sharp line of his torso, casting soft shadows in the dips between lean muscle. There’s a faint sheet of sweat over his collarbones that highlights the curve. His chest and broad shoulders are noticeably still, and you realize he isn’t breathing.

Nor is his heart beating.

“What are you?” You whisper like the Lord can hear you. Like it isn’t already too late for your soul.

He cups water in his calloused hands and pours it over your exposed skin. You shiver, and he smiles. “Is that how you speak to strangers?”

One hand settles on your lower back.

“You’re not a stranger.”

“You’re right,” he hums, amused. The hand runs down to the curve of your ass, taking as much of it as he can into his palm. “I’m not. A stranger wouldn’t know to do this.”

His other hand suddenly appeared at the roots of your hair. He clenched his fingers and pulled, tilting your head up at him. Baring your neck to the moon.

You steady yourself with your hands on his chest, holding back a moan from slipping past your lips.

“Easy, now,” he grins. “I won’t do nothing ya don’t like. I know that Maywell boy couldn’t please you, but I ain’t like him.”

A tear runs down your cheek. Your eyes widen in horror, but not shock.

“You killed him,” your voice shakes. From both fear and from the weight of the truth you already knew. “Didn’t you?”

His eyes gaze into yours so softly it’s almost impossible to believe he could do such a thing.

“I had to.”

“Why?”

He breathily chuckles like your naïveté like it’s adorable. “For you.”

Your brows furrow. “What?” Your lip curls in confusion. You begin to back away for air, but he’s caged you in now.

“You let me in that night. Remember it, sweet girl?” His lips are dangerously close to your skin. “Let me inside of you. Felt every inch of your soul. That’s a bond you can’t break. Couldn’t just let ya go after that, darlin’.”

Words don’t seem to come to you. You can hardly process a thought. His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “What?” You tremble.

“You still don’t get it,” he chuckles. “I saved you.”

There’s a pause before you speak, but you don’t hesitate. “You didn’t save me,” you spit.

His amused smile falters.

And his clutch on your hair tightens as he pulls you down past the surface of the water. Cold rushes in past your lips and nose. It gasps around your skin. You breath is caught in something between heat, want, and fear.

Fear that he could take your life.

Want for him to take more.

Because there’s something about him—ancient and unspoken—that unfurls the thought of an element beyond life and death.

And whatever it is, it brings you relief. Solace for the darkness you’ve been carrying. Cleansed.

When he pulls you up, you break the surface with a shattering gasp. Your hair, now soaked, sticks to your body like a mold. His face is inches away from yours, and there’s a red gleam to his eyes.

There’s no reason to fight. Not when you can feel your soul succumbing to him.

But you do. Your hands on his chest push him from you, startling him to release the grip on your hair. With your heart thumping faster than it ever has, you try to swim through the flow of the river.

Something at the bottom scrapes your ankle. Despite the sting, you rush to the shore, where he laid out your white nightgown upon a smooth, flat rock.

You’re close. Close enough that if you extend your arm, you can reach it.

Until a force much stronger than you grabs at your leg. A grip that’ll surely bruise the skin. And then, another settled on your hips.

His chest is warm pressed against your back. He locks you in his hold again, lips just barely brushing your ear. The sound of his sneer is something both evil and intimate.

“Even the iron still fears the rot.”

It falls from his lips like poetry as he lets the smell of your blood absorb into his soul. His fingers latch themselves softly into your flesh. Behind you, something hard and heavy presses against your flesh.

He holds you steady, but your breath shakes. “I don’t fear you.”

The corner of his lips curl. You feel it on your shoulder. Then, a swift, clicking sound like blade against blade. His chest vibrates with his words.

“You should.”

Two rows of unnaturally sharp teeth break past your skin. Slicing clean and deep. A jolt tears through your body, a confusing mixture of slight pain and intense pleasure.

You instantly gasp, hands grabbing at his arms—but not for him to stop.

You pull him closer.

“Christ, that’s good,” he says almost drunkenly when he pulls from you for just a moment. He recognizes a moan come from you. “Of course, you like that. You know why?”

His tongue licks at the wound where blood flows. Digs his blunt nails into your side.

“Because you’re mine. I made sure of it that first night.”

He groans low in his throat, starved yet restrained. His hold on your body grows tighter, hands splayed over your ribs. He drinks reverently. For the slightest taste of something sacred.

He doesn’t make a mess. Only two small streaks of blood run down the space between your breasts. When he pulls away again, now for the last time, he sighs like a madman.

Your strength is practically nothing against his. And you don’t even try to fight him as he walks you to the riverside where the large rock sits.

The water now rests just at your hips, leaving your skin to gleam under the moonlight

“I won’t drain you—not yet,” he says like a prayer into your neck, pressing kisses against your blood-stained skin. “Not until I fill up every inch of ya, just to leave you empty and beggin’ for more.”

A breath hitches in your throat.

With secure arms, he turns you to him, his blood-covered lips trailing across your jaw. The rock slopes perfectly to align your back against it. It’s smooth and cold and wet as he slides you up.

Once you feel the lace of your nightgown underneath you, you clutch onto it like it’ll save you.

He lurches towards you, grabbing you by the thighs and dragging you back to him.

You’re pinned down by the hips, the nightgown being the only barrier between you and stone. But before he lowers himself, he grabs your bleeding ankle.

A deep inhale through his nose, first. Then, he licks with his tongue flat against your skin. There’s hardly even a faint trace of blood left by the time he’s done.

The night air is cool against you, but the warmth returns when you feel his breath against your slick.

A single string of drool runs from the corner of his mouth.

His chin is still lathered in red—the same red that slowly runs down your body, curving around your breasts.

“You been dreaming of me, sweetness?” He asks while leaving graceful kisses along your thighs. Trailing closer and closer. He doesn’t let you respond before he acts.

He licks. One bold stripe through your folds.

His eyes burn into yours as he watches them lull into the back of your head.

You cry into the dead of night when he seals his lips to your bundle of nerves, his tongue still working to lap at you. Without thinking, your hand flies to his hair, digging into the roots.

But you loosen your grip quickly. Afraid that you’d somehow hurt him.

“Go ahead, dove. Show me how you want it.” Hesitantly, you use his dark curls to guide his head. He chuckles only once into you. “Fuckin’ filthy girl, usin’ my tongue to feel good.”

A moan croaks from you as you grip your nightgown beneath you.

“You don’t know how good you taste, honey.” The noises—slurps and licks and open-mouthed kisses—are obscene in the night air.

You feel a fingertip, rough and wide, prod at your hole, circling the rim before plunging past your entrance.

“Fuck, Remmick!”

He nods, pumping his finger quicker every second. “Could stay here all day tasting this sweet cunt.”

Another digit threatens to stretch your opening, and you roll your hips into his hand, pulling his head closer so the pressure on your clit blooms. Your thighs violently shake and squeeze around him when he adds a second finger.

He growls, “Keep ‘em open, girl.” The roughness of his tone matches the pace of his fingers. “Eyes, too. Want you to watch me when I make you come all over my face.”

“Oh, God,” you whine when your eyes meet his.

Because they now glow. Red.

“He can’t hear you now, darlin’,” he smirks and pulls his mouth and fingers away from you. He takes them in his mouth and hums at the taste. “Not when you’re sinnin’ with me.”

Remmick rises. The blood on his face is nearly completely wiped away by something else that glistens in the moonlight–you.

His brows furrow at the sight of you, lips pursing like he’s looking at his own masterpiece. Red smears the inside of your thighs, the curve of your ass, even your mound.

“Just absolutely filthy…” he whispers to himself.

The skin of his knees digging into the rock under your nightgown. He lifts you like it’s nothing and drags your hips to where his cock hangs heavy and wide between his legs.

Your jaw trembles as you stare at it. The tip is red and leaking as if he’s about to burst. He chuckles at your gaze.

His hands, much larger than yours, just barely wrap around it. “Come here, pretty girl,” he says as he begins to stroke it with his palm.

Something tight forms in your chest when you look down at the small space between you two—where he slides the tip through your glistening folds. He hisses and rubs it against your swollen clit. His head tilts back.

“I’m gon’ ruin you,” he says towards the sky before looking back down at you. “And I’m gon’ be so gentle, you won’t even realize ‘til it’s done.”

The head of his cock pushes past your entrance once, and his hips retract. Only to push himself deeper. Then, again. And again. A tortuous cycle–taking every inch of his length until you feel the base of him flat against your clit.

He groans when he’s fully inside. “Can feel you openin’ around me, angel. Slowly, but surely.”

You don’t make a sound. It’s almost impossible when you can barely take a breath. Your jaw hangs open, eyes fixated on where the two of you connect only to flutter closed when he begins to thrust. Tears collect and threaten to spill.

“Go ahead.” Remmick fills up every space inside of you in a way you’d never felt before. Not even that first night. “Cry, darlin’. Cry all you want, let the river wash it away.”

His hips buck for a moment like broken restraint. He bends down closer to your face to kiss a tear that slips down your cheek. His hands are firmly planted on your hips, and he uses the grip to lift you up just a little, opening your insides in a new angle.

You shiver when he reaches a new depth. It doesn’t seem possible for him to go any deeper.

“There we go,” he smiles. He begins to move faster. Sharper. With more precision and vigor like he’s trying to find every spot inside of you.

“I–” you try to say before he forces a moan from you.

The pace quickens. With every thrust, Remmick draws himself from you nearly completely before shoving himself back inside.

Your body is completely limp as he ruts into you, skin slapping to a delicious rhythm.

“Miss me when I was away?” Remmick chuckles as he pants. Not once do his movements slow or falter.

“Oh, I know, darlin’,” Remmick half coos.

His hand grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. Suddenly, his eyes turn dark. “Now, you see me, don’t you girl?”

You see him.

You feel him. It’s more than just a ghostly warmth leaving its trace in the night–he’s making his claim on you now.

“Saw that poor boy by the bridge all bloodied up…” His hand drifts down to your neck, his fingers squeezing just enough to leave you searching for air. “Got you wonderin’ what kinda monster would do such a thing…”

With his hand around your throat, Remmick pulls you up closer to him.

“...What he could do to you.”

Your brows knit. That familiar burning starts in your thighs before pooling around your center.

The tip of him surely leaves bruises against your cervix. He licks at your neck again, right at the spot where he’d drank from you. Every thrust into you pulls another strangled sound from your lips.

You look up at him, not in fear or anger–but desperation. You want more. The trees seem to breathe as they listen.

“P-please,” you manage to choke out.

A chuckle rumbles deep from his chest. “Well, look at you,” he rolls his hips against yours. “Pleadin’ for me to give you more, yeah? You close, ain’t you?”

You nod.

“Bet you didn’t think anyone could make you feel so good bein’ split open,” he rests his forehead against yours. Your bodies sway along with the rapid pace he sets. “That boy sure as hell couldn’t.”

Your eyes go wide and, despite the waves of pleasure coursing through you and pulling you closer to the edge, you’re confused.

But Remmick smiles knowingly.

“Oh, I seen it all, darlin’. He didn’t fuck you like this, did he. He didn’t have you writhin’ and beggin’ all over him.” Remmick’s eyes drift down at his cock spearing into you. “Hurts my heart to know you wasn’t enjoyin’ yourself. He didn’t deserve to see you like this–”

A beat.

“—In all your glory.”

His grip around your throat tightens. His eyes glow red.

“Only I get you like this, ain’t that right, dove?” You nod and try to muster out a yes, but it comes out like an incoherent babble. His lips hover at your ear. “Say it.”

Your back arches from the rock. Something inside you twists and pulls and threatens to snap.

“Y-you’re the o-only one…” Your senses are too heightened to control yourself anymore. And the way you look up at him with glassy, pleading eyes is enough.

The pad of his thumb presses over your swollen clit for just a moment, and you burst.

Your vision goes out as you see only black. You convulse against him like the only thing keeping you awake is the rhythm of your heart.

He stays buried inside of you, furiously rubbing over your bundle of nerves. “That’s it. That’s a good girl,” he praises you as if he wants more.

And he takes it from you anyway.

You hear him faintly whisper “Christ” to himself as he shoots his load into you.

His hips suddenly still while his release rushes through him. The grip on your throat loosens, and with the sudden surge of a full breath of air, you open your heavy eyes.

Only to see how his abs glisten and shine with something other than water. Some droplets even soak your lower stomach.

You’d gushed all over him.

“That’s right, angel,” he says with a breath. “That’s all you.”

Remmick runs two fingers through it, collecting as much as he can before guiding your mouth to them. You take them without hesitation. Wrap your lips around them, swirling your tongue to taste your own release.

“Ain’t that sweet.” He chuckles.

His touch is different now.

It’s still marked with something ancient and violent, but with you, he’s gentle. He carefully sits you up on the rock, but he doesn't pull himself from you.

He stays buried almost as deep as possible, leaving a weight inside you. But is isn't a burden.

“There’s just one more thing to do, angel.”

You cock your head. “What do you mean?”

His fingers brush over the puncture wound on your neck. It’s beginning to bruise now. His gaze at it this time isn't with hunger or even lust.

There's a hint of awe. Some kind of longing like he'd truly been waiting for this moment.

“I fucked all the good outta you, and you still don’t understand," he hums a chuckle. His lips are only inches away from your throat, his hands splayed at your back to keep you up against him.

You involuntarily tilt your head to the other side, baring your neck at him. He brushes your hair off your shoulder. His breath is warm on your skin with every word he speaks.

“You’re mine, darlin’. Always have been.” He wipes away any remaining tears. “Always will be.”

Your gasp echoes through the forest. It shakes the flowing river. His teeth pierce you again, this time with an excruciating, burning heat that leaves fire in your veins. It spreads through you like a promise.

Sealing your fate.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, clawing at the skin. Not for him to stop, but merely to ground yourself as he drains you of nearly all sustenance.

He growls and groans into you. The weight of his body pins you down to the rock. You’ve nowhere to run. You don’t try to, anyway.

Your skin is ablaze. Every cell in your body seems to ignite. For a moment, in your agony-ridden state, you question if it will ever end. But eventually, the color fades from you.

And soon, so does the pain.

“R-Remm…” you begin to say. It fades into a breath.

A last one.

You wake to the gentle stream of the river. The stars seem to be watching you amidst the dark void of the sky. Waiting. Anticipating to see a girl as sweet as you born into something new.

The breeze doesn’t blow against bare skin anymore. The sheer lace of your nightgown tickles your neck again—but when you look down, you notice that the hem is stained a marvelous red. Your stomach growls at the sight of it, and you realize then, you’ve never felt so hungry.

Nearly starved.

It isn’t solid rock beneath you anymore, either. Instead, you lay upon the soft, lush grass, the sandy riverside only inches from your feet.

He stands at the shore. Dressed neatly as if nothing even happened.

You walk to him with gentle steps. The sand collects in between your toes.

Once beside him, the water laps at your feet. He doesn’t immediately look at you. His gaze is fixated on the water, though you wonder if his mind is somewhere else.

The river runs gently. The moon whispers to the stars. Your own audience in the sky. You’ve become something of the night yourself. You can feel it in your bones.

He’s unusually quiet.

“I see you, now.” You say plainly.

He’s silent for a moment. Letting the words hang in the night air.

“You could see me since you watched that Maywell boy die,” he finally says. It’s soft, but he somewhat scoffs, low and heavy like the words are meant to be against himself.

“No…” You shake your head, still trying to grasp what you were trying to say.

It isn’t just Remmick standing beside you. And now, he isn’t the demon that’d haunted you and lured you in. It’s far more than that.

It’s the picture of war flashing before your eyes. Canons and blood and fire. Men begging for their lives with screams. It’s the image of disease, something twisted and cruel running rampant through its victims, their coughs echoing through your mind. Ballrooms, pubs, cities, and farmland. In all of them, one variable stays the same–him. With more lives lived than you can count.

It’s the sight of him–the same as he is now–running through a field of tall grass. His eyes are wide in horror. The only thing running through his veins is fear. The sound of his screams bleeding into the night until he becomes the very monster he feared.

Drifting through the centuries as a ghost. Alone and forced to the darkness, never to be seen by the sun. Never to be seen by anyone, for that matter.

Until you.

You turn to him then. You picture that face–chiseled and aged not by nature, but by heartache–in the memories that now take up your mind.

“I see you now.”

taglist: @theabhartachsbride @jimmys-tiara @leftoversl1ce @radiorunner99 @polaris-daydreams

#also i listened to the song while reading :D #was easy to spot the references hehe #remmick #remmick x reader

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